Saturday, December 07, 2013
I've heard of misheard song lyrics - come on, we've all messed up some songs only to realize the unfortunate mistake later at karaoke - but certainly not a song that's not only mangled, garbled and crushed... and then co-opted for an entirely new term.
Over dinner after a long day at work, I learned that the nurses here can be endlessly inventive with their native lingo as well. Especially when it comes to discreetly ogling the boys.
Nurse : Oh all the cute boys. So curry kitkat!
Paul : Sorry what?
Nurse : Curry kitkat!
Paul : Kitkat what?
Nurse : It's what we term well-muscled boys. Curry kitkat?
Paul : Because they like curry? Or kitkat?
Nurse : No, it's from the song. You know... 'curry kit kat boom boom pow'?
Paul : Oh good God. You mean 'gotta g-get g-get' from the Black Eyed Peas song?
Nurse : Yeah, curry kitkat!
Supposedly the boom boom pow
bit emphasizes the ubiquitous pec twerk. But rather than focus on the boom
, the nurses decided to dub it the curry kitkat
. So the more manly buff a dude gets, the more curry kitkat
|So do I pass muster? |
Don't ask me where they ever get such novel ideas.
Talking to these nurses turned out to be an experience all in itself - almost like travelling to a foreign land to converse with enigmatic hand signs. Needed a bilingual dictionary just to decipher what they meant by their surprisingly canny observations.
Just in case you have no idea what song I actually mean. Yeah, it took me a while as well.
So new word of the day for me.
Posted by savante at 11:17 PM
Monday, December 02, 2013
That Gay Cousin
Quite obvious that I'm an advocate of the 'Born This Way' genetic
theory to explain budding homosexuality. Simply put, short of someone with severe sadistic tendencies, why would anyone bother choosing this burdensome problematic path?
Which made me wonder today as I was sifting through my extensive family mail. With more than fifty first cousins at last count - and that's not adding the next generation, wouldn't it be fair to conclude that there would be more than one homosexual in the family? Other than fabulous me I mean. Since most of my fellow peers have dutifully done their familial duty by wedding, bedding and breeding hopefully in that order, I assume the majority would be relentlessly heterosexual.
Thankfully straight but not narrow
Well all except for one.
Who might not be straight at all. Something I came to realize just today. Younger kid brother of Macho Mike
... let's call him Meek Mason. Well he's no longer a kid now, should be all of thirty at last count.
|Now you see me, now you don't.|
But for some reason I am beginning to think he might be gay. Mason has always been kinda reclusive, keeps to himself and his usually unseen friends. Even seated at the dining table where it turns to din and chaos with my loud, hyperactive relatives squabbling over food, our covert little fellow hardly speaks a word beyond an unassuming grunt. That goes for the Chinese New Year reunion dinner as well where he makes a momentary appearance and then - just blink
- and he's gone.
Supposedly out all night with that pack of mystery pals.
Quite a feat to remain undetected in that small town - especially one that includes my passel of frightfully nosy cousins the likes of Lispy Lori
and Lanky Lacey. Never been any fair maiden attached to his name as far as they know. Not even the faintest whisper of scandal has ever reached their notice.
Hell, like I said we have a family newsletter / forum on Facebook with everyone included - from my nonagenarian granny to latest infant in the family - and yet he's not a part of it. Or barely makes a peep which is why I don't even recall his existence.
There must be something hiding in his closet. Could be his deviant sexuality. Could be a secret fetish for cross-stitch. Or a real -life corpse.
Either way it has made me maddeningly curious.
Labels: Family, Issues
Posted by savante at 5:50 PM
Thursday, November 28, 2013
I guess I do have a little cantankerous Scrooge in me.
Will : They are celebrating their anniversary.
Paul : After one month?
Will : Yeah! Great news right?
Paul : That's not much to celebrate!
Will : Aww.
Paul : A month is not that long! I've had butter that lasts longer.
Undoubtedly it makes me feel like a grumpy Grinch picking over such inconsequential issues since we should celebrate the small things that matter, even the smallest milestones.
But really... celebrating a one month anniversary? I understand if it's a private matter between two lovers but announcing the date for all to hear expecting hearty congratulations? Would they expect flaming fireworks followed by a balloon parade? While everyone's wishing them the best, all I could come up with was a nod of acknowledgement at best.
Maybe a light supportive pat on the back.
It's only a month, for chrissakes.
|One month? Really?|
Sigh. Certainly a tragic testament to how long gay relationships actually last that we prematurely rejoice over flimsy flings that last slightly longer than a week. Deliciously syrupy romance flicks would have us believe that true eternal love can miraculously happen in a matter of days - though we know that's largely unfounded in reality - but is it even possible to even know everything there is to know about someone in a short span of four weeks? With only one month struck off, the relationship hasn't even reached the longevity of a paper anniversary which signifies a whole year.
After that handful of dates, I would still be unsure whether I like the fellow, much less commit to an anniversary celebration.
Bah humbug much?
Posted by savante at 2:59 PM
Monday, November 25, 2013
The Boy With The Bread
Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents.
Many Christmases ago - almost twenty five to be exact - I picked up a tattered old hardcover titled Little Women
( spoilers ahead but if you haven't read the beautiful classic by Louisa M. Alcott, shame on you ). Until now the initial paragraph still rings as clearly and plaintively as it did when I first read it that rainy evening in December.
Of course then we had the original Little Women love triangle
- a controversial subject that still draws impassioned rhetoric till now. In that first flush of impetuous youth, I never could quite understand why the main protagonist, our raging proto-feminist Jo March refused point-blank to commit herself to the handsome, passionate rich-boy-next-door, Laurie. Instead she seemingly settled with the far less personable, more sober and methodical Friedrich Bhaer. Seemed like an unreasonable cop-out by the author back then.
For the impressionable kids born this heavily computerized centurywho would probably eschew paperbound books, the relevant example would be Katniss Everdeen of Hunger Games fame picking stolid baker boy Peeta over fiery revolutionary-miner Gale.
|The Boy With The Bread|
To pick someone completely different rather than someone of like mind and thought?
Took me years to understand the reasons why but with reasonable hindsight coupled with both age and some minuscule measure of maturity, I can finally nod my assent. With my ex-boyfriend
, I've had all the intense raging fire I could handle. Just like me, I picture my ISO as a spirited ball of flame, all energy, fire and life blazing through the many obstacles ahead - certainly sparked each other off plenty - but when we clashed as we often did despite sharing so many similarities, it seemed as if all that was left was bitterly scorched earth.
Simply exhausting I'll admit.
Whereas when I think of Charming Calvin, I do feel a steady sense of calm. Sure our stolid fellow does teeter and wobble at times with his incomprehensible botherations ( body image
issues much? ) but I have high hopes that he'll be rock steady enough for me when my flame threatens to sputter out.
So that's why, despite vastly differing personalities, I've grown to understand the choice of the German professor.
And the boy with the bread.
Labels: Calvin, Entertainment, My ISO, Relationships
Posted by savante at 2:49 PM
Tuesday, November 19, 2013
His Desk My Desk
After countless years of interminable stagnation in his characterless cubicle, Charming Calvin recently made two unexpected leaps from one company to the next. At the mind-boggling rate he's changing companies in the past year, I can hardly keep track of his latest head office. Wouldn't surprise me that Calvin would one day haltingly surface from the dark bowels of the underground only to find himself at the wrong office tower.
That of course hardly leaves him time to decorate his spartan office cubicle. Apart from the leafy plant which I practically forced him to purchase at gunpoint, all he has on the table are the usual office accoutrements provided by the company; basically a chair, a desk and the computer. Which I find undoubtedly tragic.
And mind-numbingly anonymous.
This time the cubicle walls are so low you could even throw spitballs at the unfortunate opposite.
Paul : Some wallpaper, some photos, some little knick knacks, ye olde plant... all those would do wonders.
Calvin : All great ideas but I think people will be shocked to see the plant even.
Paul : Even the plant!?
Calvin : Maybe a mug.
Paul : Good God.
s! The Dilberts
of the World!
Gotta love them. Would hate to be in their office though. Drive me insane wanting to paint all the dull greige cubicles neon pink or something.
|Not even a wall hanging? Seriously?|
Fortunately... even though medicine has a well-earned reputation for being such a creaky, old-fashioned establishment, there has always been a serious soft spot for eccentrics.
In fact when I actually had an office
, there were three leafy plants - one of which had practically grown monstrously into a thriving ecosystem of its own, possibly generating its own weather patterns. The sadly plain notice board had been wallpapered with pastel green chinoiserie patterns with forest green pins to match. Pictures of my travels along with Chinese opera postcards were littered all over. Medical textbooks - arranged according to colour - were clapped in between two busts of acupuncture heads. As a nod to the exotic frontier
I had been posted to, an ornate Iban pua kumbu
had been suspended on wooden beams behind my chair, along with the woven rattan bag I brought to work.
And that's not counting the couch with the pastel cushions.
And my own lamp that I painted with happy chic designs.
So gay, I know.
Maybe I should introduce Calvin to Jonathan Adler.
Labels: Calvin, Work
Posted by savante at 3:47 PM