New year greetings

The secret is finally out - and for an incessant snoop like me, it makes a far better gift than anything material ever could.

Right now as I cackle with wicked satisfaction and rub my hands with glee, there is a lovely new year plant perched on the window sill in front of my desk. Not sure what you'd call the cheery plant with light magenta flowers but it's a thoughtful gift from someone who obviously thinks I'm the nurturing, green-fingered sort - with time enough to water it. :)

Actually that someone was Big Bicep Barry and he came over to spread cheer, mandarin oranges and his perky pecs this New Year. Not forgetting the plant of course. Seriously, doesn't the man know that I'd prefer playing with a different sort of bush? :)

Didn't tell him so of course since he'd probably faint from the shock - and anyway he was as usual filled with such joie de vivre that I didn't have the heart to spice up the conversation with skanky sexual innuendo guaranteed to give him nervous palpitations. As I forced some seasonal tidbits on him ( and blatantly lied to him about the caloric value ), I told him about my latest DVD acquisitions. As he raved about the awards the movie had gotten, he expressed a wish to watch Brokeback Mountain and wondered whether I'd mind watching a repeat. Hell, come on! Is it possible that I'd ever raise an objection over watching naked cowboys? If I had my way, all gorgeous men of a certain age should be required to walk about half naked!

Well, you know what they say about the best laid plans. My heinous plans to ply him with drink ( and possibly dangerous drugs ) while we scootched together on the couch for some love in the mountain ranges were thwarted by the return of my overly loud extended family. As tolerant as they might be, I doubt they'd like very much the scandalous spectacle of me drooling all over Barry's muscled arms as onscreen, Heath and Jake roll about half naked in the mountains.

So we finally ended up watching I Do I Do, a hilarious Singaporean comedy about mismatched love in the thirties - with the prerequisite male eye candy in the form of Allan Wu. I have to admit it was kinda tame in comparison to the illegal, X-rated fantasies I had in mind but it wasn't all a total loss though since somehow during the time Barry was lulled into a semi-hypnotic vulnerable state by a propitious melange of homemade arrowroot chips, Mongolian vodka and my oh-so-comfortable silk pillows, he finally let slip his age!

The rat! :)

Something's Gotta Give

Unlike my lewd and unusually tawdry annual sexcapades during Christmas, my Chinese New Year celebrations are practically monastic in comparison. Familial gatherings, mandarin oranges, dvd movies and nary an open condom wrapper in sight. Like any other time of the year, my particularly hideous homely features tends to be overlooked by perpetually horny men in search of a good time.

I know... sometimes, I gotta say I prefer Christmas too. :)

Still it gives me time to reflect and catch up with some of the movies I've missed - and obviously some of the movies I loved in the past few years. Not to mention some of the good friends from my childhood who have joined me in my mission to finish an extended Lord of the Rings marathon tonight - along with a generous helping of yee sang and alcohol. Ever since my revelation last year, some of these friends are already privy to the fact that I'm a raging homo so I can lust quite openly ( within the narrow borders of proper conduct of course ) over the charms of a certain blond elf called Legolas :)


Come take my cherry, sir?
Before the whole gang descended upon my place, I spent the early part of the day sighing over Keanu Reeves in Something's Gotta Give where he plays a charming, intelligent doctor who falls for the older woman played by a particularly luminous Diane Keaton. The ending never fails to amaze me as it seems almost incredible that someone would choose the surly aging playboy ( played by Jack Nicholson ) over the sweet doctor. If the doctor had only been a pretty face, it would have been an obvious choice. But dammit, he had looks, he had charm, he had brains... the lucky bastard had the whole package and yet he was overlooked for Jack Nicholson, of all people!

Certainly no accounting for taste!

Timeless Love

As much as we're supposed to abhor piracy, there are days that we have to thank our local bootleggers for their heroic efforts in bringing certain controversial movies that would be otherwise banned from our innocent, child-like, easily-led eyes. But I promised myself this wouldn't be a screaming rant against mindless censorship so I shall resist the temptation to leap onto my own private soapbox. Instead, all I have to say is a huge thank you to all you blond-highlighted DVD pirates ( especially the sexy, semi-shirtless ones ) for bringing movies and series that would otherwise only be seen by rigidly conservative, holier-than-thou censors.

Hmm... was that a rant?

Thanks to their efforts, I finally managed to get my hands on Brokeback Mountain. Sorry, Heath and Jake ( and the adorable Ang Lee ), but I had to resort to blatant piracy.


Why can't we make this work?
Since I've already read the incredibly short novella of Brokeback Mountain a while back, the bittersweet ending of the story didn't hold any surprises for me. The love between the taciturn Ennis del Mar and the charming Jack Twist spans almost two decades - and it's heartbreaking to see the two men seeming unable to quite grasp the sweet promise held by their first passionate meeting at Brokeback Mountain.

Surely everyone has heard about the controversial romance between two cowboys but there is more to the movie than that as it brings to life the tragedy of two men who simply can't have what they want - as year after year, they try to rekindle their clandestine romance through awkwardly termed fishing trips only to have their seemingly normal everyday lives slowly crumble into inconsequential dust. Although the more open Jack is all in favour of setting up permanent camp, fear of societal prejudice forces the repressed Ennis into denying his own feelings leaving his poor unrequited lover twisting in the wind.

Didn't feel like watching alone so I called up a friend. Since he did make an odd comment once about wanting to watch Brokeback, Big Bicep Barry would have been the obvious choice to call but the man's stuck entertaining his migrant workers - who are obviously bored to tears during this long holiday. So I called up the one guy I knew I knew would be utterly bored ( if not rabidly murderous ) with mandarin oranges and family reunions by now. Surprisingly my cynical ISO thoroughly enjoyed the movie - although I have to admit he wasn't as taken by my enthusiasm for the movie.

Paul : I want my own Brokeback!
My ISO : Yeah, right. You'd rather be caught dead before climbing up that mountain.
Paul : You're wrong there! I'd wash clothes by the river. I'd catch fish and roast them over an open fire while I waited for my husband to ride home to camp.
My ISO : The last time you camped was back in school - and as I recall you actually hated it. Do I have to take out that picture of you covered in mud and leeches again?
Paul : Damn. But I'll do it for Jake Gyllenhaal.
My ISO : Sure. I'll believe it when I see it.

The man knows me too well. Alright, so I'd prefer my men just a tad more citified. Uncivilized is fine by me but I simply cannot rough it out for days on end. Just imagine being in the mountains without broadband!

Creeping civilization

I've learnt never to underestimate the long arm of technology. Not only has the old coffeeshop upgraded itself ( yeah, I recalled that it does have an internet connection ), it also has broadband now! Fucking amazing. I was stunned when my cousin revealed to me that her spanking new computer not only has broadband - it has that fabulous wi-fi thingy - the mechanism which still eludes my techno-himbo brain. The idea that we have all these waves or whatcammacallit floating in the air gives me the heebie-jeebies.

So right now as I'm munching through seemingly neverending mandarin oranges and kumquats - and listening to my cousins deal with a thousand orders for black coffee with sugar, I have the bliss of knowing that an internet connection lies not too far away. Sure, the computer is squashed between a huge jar of sugar and multiple tottering trays of soft drink bottles but at least I can send e-mail.

Hmmm.. is it me or is it my oversexed imagination but are the guys in Penang looking more lusciously lovely than ever? I swear last night I almost leapt over and planted a big wet one on the sexy DVD seller - especially after he gave me a saucy wink as he planted my bootlegged discs into the package. Although I wasn't too sure whether my sudden lust was due to the hot salesman - or the hotter DVDs I scored.

Must be the spicy curry mee I ate!

Red packets and loaded questions

It is the time of the year again when Chinese all around the world start going into a anal-retentive housecleaning frenzy - followed by a rabid shopping extravaganza that delights vendors and raises prices for every consumable item available ( and for the Chinese, that's actually anything and everything edible ). The Chinese New Year - or the Spring Festival as it's known in the mainland - is celebrated around the end of January / beginning of February and for all of us, it's a time to get together, get drunk, gamble and be merry as the year of the Rooster comes to an end - and the year of the Dog is ushered in.

Well, I don't gamble all that much but I'm good for the rest.

The evening before the real deal, it begins with the highlight of the festival which is the family reunion dinner and for single folks like me, it's a dangerous sprint through a gauntlet of red packets, sweet oranges and deceptively loaded questions. Beloved aunts and uncles turn into rabid Gestapo activists who fire interrogative missiles every few seconds on the state of your semi-permanent bachelorhood and all we can do is smile nervously as we try to dodge as much as we can. Some of our less agile cousins are thrown into the fray to be sacrificed under their persistent interrogation as we leap to safety over their fallen carcasses.

This year it's made worse by the fact that I'm not only older, I also have most of the prerequisites for marriage such as a steady job, a house and a car...( yes, this is a blatant hint so send naughty propositions! ) which makes me even more of a target than usual. The fact that a handful of my younger cousins have already gotten hitched ( with a baby in tow! ) only makes it worse. Is it any wonder that I'm usually the sponsor for the late midnight movies and Mamak that occurs later during the night? For me, that's the one and only escape I can get.

I mentioned this fact the other day to Big Bicep Barry and he just laughed.

Barry : Hey, don't complain, okay. I've been doing it longer than you.
Paul : How much longer exactly?
Barry : ( silence ) You're never finding out my age.
Paul : Fine. Be secretive. See if I care. I was gonna give you feng shui tips based on your astrology sign. Year of the Ox, you said?
Barry : Very funny.
Paul : So any tips on avoiding questions?
Barry : Get really drunk.

Well, that seems like a mighty good suggestion.

So this weekend, if you find my blog surprisingly not updated for a day or two, it's probably because I'm unable to find a serviceable computer with an internet connection ( quite entirely possible in my grandfather's ancient coffeeshop ) or I'm far too busy getting wasted on oranges and vodka ( what an oddly lethal combination ) to write anything barely coherent.

To all the Chinese celebrating, a happy Chinese New Year. And please don't forget my red packet. :) Hell, I'm still single. Sympathize and throw money.

The Memoirs

Surely I am one of the last men in Malaysia to watch the movie all of us have been waiting for. Well, one of the last gay men around anyway - since I believe very few red-blooded heterosexual men could be persuaded to sit through a two-hour chick flick. What isn't there for a gay man to love? Bitchy catfights, devious intrigues, lavish costumes, amazing cinematography.... everything that attracted me to Rome and now to the shady, oil-lamp lit alleys of the hanamachi in pre-war Japan.

Just like any other chick flick, the cinema was filled with gaggles of schoolgirls and schoolmarms, along with a handful of overly devoted couples ( with the male half looking oddly discomfited! ). It was with some trepidation that I walked in alone - it's actually been some time since I've gone to the movies alone - since Big Bicep Barry gave a sad rigmarole about being late after getting caught up with urgent paperwork. For some indescribable reason, a single man strolling into the cinema apparently draws even more attention than I imagined - so it was with some relief that I slipped out later to hand Barry the ticket, shove him into the darkened cinema and proceeded to give him a lecture on tardiness as he innocently munched his way through his dinner of popcorn and mineral water.


Let's have some civilized tea before we go out for some hair-pulling, knee-biting catfights wth Hatsumomo...
What can I say? Despite the oddly jarring accents and the occasional oversentimentality, I actually found myself loving the movie, even far more than the book that I read almost a decade back. The movie tells the bittersweet rags-to-riches tale of a village girl who finds an inner strength to claw her way up the proverbial geisha career ladder. A dubious honour at best but we all live with our own dreams. The recent Pride and Prejudice might have shown a far more passionate love ( and a far superior hero in Delicious Darcy ) but I doubt anyone could possibly compare with the three main actresses in Memoirs of Geisha who played their roles to the hilt. Especially the incomparable Gong Li who shot her deadly poisonous glares with a delicious wickedness surely unseen since Lady Macbeth.

Still, rather than delighting in the brashly muscular Koichi or the unfortunately stiff, two-dimensional cardboard Chairman, isn't it odd that I found myself transfixed by the scarred yet oddly touching character of Nobu played by Koji Yakusho - a far more endearing character surely! Don't recall feeling so much for the character in the book but I found myself reluctantly admiring Nobu for his ideals by the end of the movie. It is really true though that love is in the eye of the beholder after all.

Barry : You liked that scarred man? Nobu?
Paul : Yeah. Daft Sayuri should have gone for him.
Barry : Not the charming Chairman? Not that half-naked Koichi you were ogling?
Paul : Is that weird?
Barry : ( with a shrug ) Never expected it of you, that's all.

Was it actually that weird? Good God. Have I been typecast! :O

Appreciating life

Once in a while - just like yesterday at work - I do get the question on how I appear so peppy and lighthearted when I'm practically dealing with depressing death situations on a daily basis. Of course I laughingly replied that I'm actually on a cocktail of mildly hallucinatory drugs.

Truthfully though, seeing death on a daily basis actually makes me appreciate lfe even more. They say seeing your first death as an intern changes you and it's really true. It has taught me several things actually - seriously patients do teach us quite a lot in fact.

For one, I do appreciate family more - and I do treasure the time I spend with my family. My future boyfriend had better be prepared for this but family actually does come first for me - career takes a seriously sad second or perhaps third place. Simply put, I've never had a dying patient who actually thought of spending time in his office with his books at his deathbed. :) At the end, almost everyone wishes to have more time with their loved ones - and surely no one wants to die alone and friendless in an icy cold intensive care room as the medical staff rush about with their defibrillators.

It also gives you an appreciation of the time that we have on our hands. We do rush through the hours sometimes, struggling so hard to achieve our goals that we sometimes miss the little things. Most of us work in the hectic ratrace hoping to save enough for some far flung future of tropical islands and sexy cabana boys - never actually knowing that those rosy dreams could be dashed away by a runaway schoolbus with a faulty brake as we cross the street - or as recent events show, a homicidal shrapnel from a pipe bomb. So really, it's actually okay to stop and smell the roses every once in a while. One of the reasons I do take the occasional break to do absolutely nothing except stare at the sky just happy to be alive.


Me perfect?! Do you see that tiny pimple on my perfect drum-tight ass?
Despite how shallow and superficial I might appear on certain posts :) I do know that looks aren't necessarily all that important. Even for myself. After seeing someone struggle with an atrophied limb dangling like a useless appendage, you realize that it's actually okay to be hideous homely. I'm certainly no Chris Evans ( hell. I'm not even in the same subspecies ) but at least I am somewhat hale and hearty, barring the occasional debilitating laryngitis... which is certainly not as bad as losing a limb after having a hungry machine munch unhesitatingly on your wriggling hands or having your skull crushed like so much cheap melon by a runaway lorry.

Good grief. I just realized that this has turned out to be a remarkably gory post.

Workmates and friends

Seriously, watching movies on cable certainly isn't what it used to be. I've been sitting - perhaps stunned by the sheer inanity would be a better description - through the silliest movie ever made about two guys on an insane road trip. Harold & Kumar Go to White Castle must have been made after a slacker director ( no doubt an immigrant child ) got heavily stoned on tons of drugged hamburgers.

Still watching two guys on a road trip actually described what Handsome Hui and I were doing after work today. It was on a sponsor search actually for an upcoming conference and I drove the boy around town since he isn't all too familiar with the place. And before any of you get absolutely funny ( and inappropriate ) ideas about our relationship, let me clarify that he's practically like my kid brother. Well, perhaps a younger gym-freak brother who's kinda hot with pretty defined pecs. He hasn't forgiven me for the nipple tug yet though. :)

For a guy who seems to have busloads of bosom buddies, Hui turned out to be quite the loner and he actually bemoaned the fact that he didn't have anyone in town. It stunned me for a moment as I stared back at him. Isn't it odd how we all have preconceived notions about someone we know that might not be true at all? Although I try to include him in most of the social excursions held by my colleagues, all of us usually assume ( the wrong assumption obviously ) that he has plans of his own.

Since he is quite the looker, I've always imagined his social schedule to be enviously filled to the brim with hopeful debutantes ( or would that be hoping-to-score studs?! ) but it seems that he actually spends most of his evenings staring mindlessly at the boob tube in his bachelor pad, crying over stale coffee, pirated DVDS and sheer boredom. Unbelievable but true!

Despite my pathetic and practically nonexistent social life, I actually sound like a freaking social butterfly in comparison to him.

Mixed signals

There are times when I feel my gay-dar has gone on a permanent fritz - and it's perfectly evident when it comes to someone like Big Bicep Barry. Perhaps blind-sided by his eminently mountainous pectorals, I've simply become a really bad judge of his gayness factor.

But every now and then, I get just the right mix of gay signals from a passing stranger and my gay-dar runs amok.... A late tutorial yesterday had me flabbergasted as I found myself overwhelmed by the twenty foot tsunami-waves of fabulousness coming from the speaker. Perfect cheekbones and shiny smile. Perfectly coiffed ( with a hundred dollar haircut, I'm sure ) and perfectly attired in a ribs-hugging snazzy shirt and tie with to-die-for cufflinks. Naughty Nurse was just the perfect gay clone from the tips of his softly highlighted hair to his spit-shined shoes.

I hated his gay perfection on principle - although I was wearing the most amazing cream-coloured tie that none of his shiny cufflinks could possibly beat.

Obviously my gay-dar was up and running - and it didn't take long for me to send messages to Handsome Hui who was listening to the same dull lecture. Not only did he totally disregard my warning, he gave me a saucy wink before drawing the Naughty Nurse aside after the talk for a word.

Sending me a taunt only serves to make my wicked self come to life. Just as the skanky, shamelessly flirting duo were about to exchange their numbers, I made my move. No one to give up that easily, I walked up to Hui and practically outed myself to everyone - and the Naughty Nurse - by placing my arm around his waist ( even gave a quick pinch to his nipple ) and whispering, "We've got to go, darlin."

Naughty Nurse jumped a mile as I gave him a frozen stare worthy of the incomparable Gong Li herself. What the hell possessed me?

Still it was kinda fun seeing Handsome Hui's jaw drop straight to the floor. Doubt he'll ever double dare me again.

Riled up

Every time I think I'm actually a wilting wallflower, I do something absolutely unpredictable that makes me realize that I'm actually... far removed from the wallflower of my imagination. There were persistent rumours that my superiors had the intention of making changes in my department that would have been detrimental to my health - and especially my social life ( it's already pathetic enough! ). They were talking of extending our working hours and curtailing some of our perks ( not that we actually have all that many! ).

Well, nothing gets me more riled up than someone stepping on my foot on purpose. And when I get riled up, I don't fearfully retreat inside my shell and wail helplessly at the heavens searching for answers while wringing my hands - I actually tend to go more than a little crazy. Somehow or rather, when I get a hit, I don't stay down... I tend to get up running mad. Not only did I march straight up to the office for a confrontation, I also prepared several militant letters of complaint ( ready to be mailed to the Director, the Medical Association and even the newspaper ) and prepared a whole long list of gripes to bring forward to my colleagues - hoping to incite a bloody riot at work.

There were even a few wild homicidal ideas like the ones I'd once planned for the hapless Bountiful Betty but I didn't dwell too long on them since I only reserve slow, painful deaths for my erstwhile rivals. Agonizing, balls-twisting torture is quite enough for some of the more deserving ones at work, followed by an early morning bayoneting.

Fortunately for my sake ( and my poor boss ) it turned out to be only a rumour. My overzealous, placard-waving side remains hidden in the closet for another day. But I made sure that I kept the letters safely in my files for future ammunition.

Still, I needed some juicy red meat for dinner to work off my pent-up frustration. Thought of calling him out for the gory bloodfest but I figured Big Bicep Barry wouldn't have approved of my carnivorous habits :)

Hot Target

The past few days were my lazy days - spent shopping, lazing about and reading neglected novels ( added a few more to my stash expecially after blowing out the whole year's tax rebate on books in two days ). And of course meeting some of the bloggers online. Isn't it amazing how we somehow associate certain looks and features to certain blogger writers online - only to find that they might not actually conform to what we imagine!

Obviously one of the first things they asked about was my so-called relationship with Big Bicep Barry. Nothing much I could tell them unfortunately since it's practically at a standstill. Not moving forward ( if it's even moving, it's going at the horrifying speed of a glacier ), not moving backward but just static, I guess. A friend of mine offered to help investigate the mystery and to my horror, I came to realize that I was actually afraid to know the truth. As much as I'm dead curious to find out, I'm also quite happy with the stagnating pool we're standing in right now. It isn't that easy finding a friend with similar tastes and interests after all - and I don't have the guts to rock the still waters to uncover what's hidden beneath ( such as finding out that he's actually into heavy leather and S&M with Bountiful Betty! ).

Isn't it interesting how something you're reading somehow oddly parallels life? Or at least shades of the truth? After all, I'm having problems of my own finding the main protagonist in my life.

Jules would certainly understand what I'm going through.

Mainstream romances certainly aren't known for placing gay characters into the forefront as the gay men are usually relegated to the occasional witty quip as the helpful token homo friend. However one of the books I'm reading now, Hot Target, actually has a secondary subplot detailing the story of a tough, handsome FBI agent - Jules Cassidy - who's torn between a faithless ex-lover and a bitterly confused gay-vague actor, the luscious Robin. Oh yeah, Jules also happens to be gay.

Calling it a subplot diminishes the role Jules plays in the story since he's essentially a main character and his flawed love story stumbles along side by side with the main romance ( and occasionally overshadows the main story ). I love the witty Jules - his unflagging strength, his self-deprecating sense of humour and his courage as he deals with an extremely painful situation. Take a look at the excerpt here.

Sound familiar?

Techno-HImbos IV The Den of the Techies

I don't get up late all that often since I'm usually required to be at work by 8 at the latest. It's a drag but I've gotten used to getting up early in the morning - and I actually work best in the morning ( after my usual java/caffeine infusion that I miss desperately but I'm trying to cut down ).

So to find me sitting in a coffee shop - drinking a caffe mocha, no less! - at this hour is nothing short of a miracle. Not to mention I'm actually typing this amongst some of the frou frou pretentious computer whiz guys seriously pondering their own laptops. The WAVE lan thingamajig still boggles my mind ( all these information just floating around in the air!? Like bubble-bytes? ) but I'm glad to note that it works beautifully.

Today, I'm actually on an enforced leave since there are extra recruits in the department and I'm happy enough to laze around doing absolutely nothing. The computer whiz guys around me are meticulously studying their screens, no doubt thinking of their next techno miracle while I'm sitting there literally flabbergasted by the fact that we can actually get email through the air like magic. Truthfully I actually blend in with the techno-geeks - although I know absolutely zilch about anything and everything. I already have the prerequisite bad hair and the nondescript looks. The only thing that actually makes me stand out is my shocking pink shirt and tie :) Nothing screams flaming fag quite like a pink shirt.

And of course my shocking non-knowledge when it comes to computers. Damn, I need a hot techie boyfriend.

The Dark Side

All of us have our dark sides. Especially me. Perhaps in a past life I was a manipulative Roman matron scheming and plotting my way to power. I might even have been a Venetian noble planning the death of a promising rival.You all would love to see my evil side at work - and surprisingly it showed itself this evening at a convivial dinner.

Just three days ago, Big Bicep Barry asked for my help with one of his friends. Certainly not the first time I'd gotten medical referrals from a friend - and certainly not the last. :) Seems that the poor unfortunate had developed a skin reaction to a certain make up substance she was using. Although I'm no budding dermatologist and my knowledge of skin ailments are only based on vague memories of some long forgotten class in medical school, I managed to prescribe a proper salve that seemed to work. The girl hereby christened Bountiful Betty, was more than overjoyed that she hadn't turned into a disfigured monster of legend and despite my protests, only too glad to buy me dinner.

Still a free meal is always welcome for a starving, impoverished physician - and even more welcome when it comes as an invitation from the elusive Barry. However, the oblivious man certainly didn't give me time to prepare myself for Bountiful Betty.

When I saw him escort her into the restaurant, I was tempted to smack him aside his head for not giving me prior warning. Surely they were made for each other, an asian Barbie and Ken - now known as Betty and Barry - and I was this close to twisting their pretty toy heads off. The murderous intent showed clearly in my eyes - and the poor guy, no doubt reading my intent, stepped in front of Betty to save her from a thorough catwhipping. As close as I was to handing her torn off head to Barry on a silver platter ( hell I could take her! ), I knew I wouldn't be able to wrestle a musclebound Barry successfully so I refrained.

Hmm... naked wrestling. This needs a moment.

Of course dinner though went beautifully. I'm no uncouth savage - I can be as suave and personable as the next Don Juan if need be. After all, keep your friends close - but your enemies closer. :) Bountiful Betty couldn't be more charmed by the delightful doctor as her entire life story was revealed through a series of probing questions worthy of the Spanish Inquisition.

The whole time, Barry watched me closely, no doubt expecting me to leap over with a ferocious roar to bite her head off since it was obvious that he wasn't fooled by my seemingly harmless good nature. He should have been watching my knife instead since I was this close to butchering her in a gruesome bloodbath drenching the rest of the horrified restaurant patrons ( and a stunned Barry still reeling from the spatter with a slow drip of blood oozing down his forehead ) while laughing maniacally and then slicing her into small bite size pieces to forcefeed Barry. I'm kind and he needs to eat more meat.


Psycho Paul's coming after me next!
Cooking up numerous fatal eventualities for the poor innocent took up a significant part of my time as I delighted in her slow but terribly painful demise. There was a particularly wicked punishment that involved racks, electricity and... hell, I should stop talking about this since it makes me sound more than a little borderline psychotic. The one thing that stopped me from dreaming up even more delicious torture techniques was an unprovoked late night mesage from Barry. Terribly short but succinct.

Barry : She's only a friend.

I was partly mollified - and yet horrified that I'd given in to my baser instincts.

So evil enough for you?

.....

Just a short note totally unrelated to the maleficence above. I'm sending this post through some wireless network in a prominent coffee chain store. Surely another triumph for a technohimbo. Does the information just fly magically through the air into my computer? :O Isn't technology simply amazing? Soon they'll be sending virtual hunky boyfriends to me! :)

Hair-ific

Although I've always imagined myself to be pretty gay - God, I can say the nelliest stuff in the operating theatre - but it's clear that I haven't exactly fulfilled all the requirements for my pink passport yet. It has come to my attention that I don't have fabulous gay hair ( well, I don't have the prerequisite tight muscle mary bod either but that's another thing entirely ) which obviously makes it hard for other members of the pink posse to pick me out amongst the overwhelming crowd of other nondescript hideous homely heterosexual men.

Seriously. Gay hair. Just when I was thinking of having my hair cut, I was told that I should get the prerequisite gay haircut. Somehow or rather, I seriously doubt that my friendly neighbourhood Indian barber would have frou frou gay curls in his possibly limited repertoire. Surely this information would have some of my trendier sisters swooning in their towering Manolos but I actually drop by the local Indian barber when I'm in a hurry.

And I'm usually in a hurry for some reason.

For those not from around these parts, Indian barbershops are the fading icons of haircare in these parts with their swivelling electric chairs, their flashing barber poles and the horrible slap of the wet soap at the end followed by the unusual neck massage/abuse. The one that I frequent used to be located close to the hospital where I work, a lowly makeshift shack scrunched up beside a leafy banyan tree - a far cry from the glittery, oh-so-posh palaces of hairtylists where a simple snip costs more than I would make in a day.

Still, as I glanced at my rearview and caught a glimpse of my hideous homely face with the unruly black locks, I made a quick U-turn instead. How un-fabulous could I possibly look? Perhaps a gay clone haircut would actually net me a hot boyfriend :)

Wishful thinking I'm sure but what the hell, I can always hope.

A regular day at work

Recently we've had our slew of medical dramas - giving a tantalizing hint of the life most of us doctors lead. It does bear a slight resemblance to real life though it's not half as interesting or as exciting as it's shown in real life. There are times when it can be dead boring - but we all love that since it gives us the time to relax. And honestly, very few of us actually resemble the spectacularly winsome leads shown in reel life ( hell if we looked so good, we'd be peddling our wares on television too ).

Most medical dramas focus on the more conventional roles that medicine plays ( such as the surgeons and the physicians ) with very little insight into the other essential departments - more than a handful actually - that actually help a hospital function. It just came to me today that some of my friends don't actually know what I do as an anaesthestist resident at work.

Honestly. Even my ISO himself is a little confused occasionally.

So I've decided to give a quick summary, guys. It's simple enough. Like most other working plebeians, I reach work just before 8 in the morning. Once I change into my scrubs, I usually search for my appointed room in the operating theatre to have a quick look at my instruments - usually the ventilator machines and the various drugs that we use for anaesthesia. Once the patient comes through the airlock into the operating theatre ( we have a list of four or five patients on our daily roster ), I usually escort them into the room where I engage them in some light chit-chat to allay their fears. Occasionally if the patient is sufficiently personable, I might even add a charming wink or two :)

Due to something called work ethics, I try not to ask for their numbers however. However, I will make the exception for Chris Evans. Surely even Hippocrates himself would have forgiven me :)

Then after a quick check of the intravenous catheter to ascertain its function, I start my business of knocking people out by giving them the required drugs. Occasionally I do tell the patient to start a brief countdown as they fall blissfully into the twilight. And then we prep the patient for the surgeon while I monitor the patient's vital signs and prepare myself for any untoward incident. Untoward incidents during the operative procedure numbers in the hundreds and it'd be impossible to name them all.

Suffice to say as the surgeon hacks off whatever is deemed unsuitable, I make sure that the patient remains pain-free and safe during the procedure - and hopefully remains unaware throughout. At the same time, I juggle a few roles - engaging in teasing banter with the surgeon ( morbid, derogatory humour usually ), gossiping with the fellow staff nurses and my colleagues, endlessly messaging my friends, shuffling along to the latest hits streaming in from the radio and.. oh yeah, monitoring the patients :)

And that's only a regular day in the operating theatre. Let's not start with the mess in the Intensive Care Unit.

Getting desperate

Obviously all of you do know I'm a tv addict - and I've made it clear that I'm hopelessly obsessed with hunky gardeners and shirtless plumbers in the suburbs - which is why I've been spending my time catching up with what's happening on Wisteria Lane - aided by my new friend, that torrent thingamajig. Still not sure how the hell it works - not that I'd want to know the gory details - but it's definitely a sweet, sweet blessing.

***Spoilers ahead***

I've said before that one of the wicked characters, Andrew van Der Kamp, has become a prime favourite - and in the later episodes he hasn't changed for the better at all. Far from it thankfully. Yeah, I am evil that way. There's no gay man on television who plays wickedly sadistic with a sweet, beatific choir-boy smile like Shawn Pyfrom can. Not only does he try to blackmail his abnormally perfect Stepford mother, he's doing his best to scandalize the conservative neighbourhood by making out with his hottie lab partner.


I've been a very bad boy. Spank me, please!

Unsurprisingly, there are those out there who have raised alarms over the fact that the gay character in Desperate Housewives is negatively portrayed as a borderline psychotic man-boy but I find it... rather refreshing actually. Time enough we had a devious, manipulative gay predator around rather than the wimpy, limp-wristed stereotypes we've seen before.

And after all, isn't the devious manipulative type far more common amongst gay men? :)

Still despite my gay genes urging me to take Machiavellian action, I've succeeded in curbing my instincts to push Big Bicep Barry's buttons. In an email a few days back, a wonderfully wise friend of mine reminded me that good friends aren't that easy to come by - and he is right after all. Perpetually needling him seems like a sure-fire way to push such a reticent man away. Surely it is obvious by now that he doesn't want to rush things between us ( not like there's anything much between us at the moment! ) so I've actually resolved to let it progress as it may and let him make up his mind what to do with a pest like me. While he's getting his issues resolved, I shall keep my eyes peeled for any other possibilities - such as a hottie Chris Evans lookalike moving in next door.

Anyway hell, I'm too sick these days to do much about anything :)

Techno-Himbos III The Revenge of the AVIs

For those who regularly follow my delusional rantings, my reputation as a techno-himbo obviously preceeds me. Wrestling with my antiquated cellphone with all its snazzy functions is already a feat all by itself.

But last night I managed ( well, with the help of my darling Lanky Legolas and the inimitable Wingedman Will ) to succeed in something approaching a miracle! Surely no big deal for the more technologically savvy bloggers out there but for a techno-himbo yokel like me, surely a scientific feat not seen since famed Archimedes broke the laws of social decency and streaked the town yelling Eureka.

Yes, I finally managed to download a movie online - and watch it. All by my little self.

Some applause is in order surely. Believe me, it amazed me that such a thing is even possible. How could a movie be compressed into such digital mumbojumbo... well, let's not even go into that since it would only show how woefully ignorant I can be regarding the various technological advances we have made in the past century. I could relate all the frustrating times I've spent trying to even watch the downloaded movies ( first there was no movie, then no sound, then no image, then no... ) but I won't since it's too horrible to contemplate.

Gleefully triumphant, I immediately sent frantic messages to some of my friends expecting rapturous replies. That was obviously quite delusional of me since here are some of the less-than-enthusiastic replies.

Big Bicep Barry : Omigod. You never knew? :O
Preity Posh : You mean you didn't know before this?
My ISO : I am still amazed that you can even manage a toaster. :)

Hmm.. Obviously I need to find some better friends.

Flushed with my seeming success, I sat myself down last night after a harried emergency call in one of the darker hospital rooms to watch the new series I mentioned a while back, Supernatural. That was a huge mistake on my part. Nothing adds to the eerieness of the moment like watching a horror/suspense series in a dark, gloomy hospital room - tucked into a lonely, silent corridor - with the cold monsoon winds rattling the windows. Every little screech down the corridor had my heart pounding and my hands reaching out for my syringe - loaded with muscle relaxants surely enough to stop a rampaging monster.


Come pick us up, please!

For those who haven't seen the excellent series, go take a look. It has two droolingly sexy male leads ( come on, what more do you want! ) playing the intrepid Winchester brothers who drive around the country in an amazing vintage Chevy confronting ghosts, evil forces, and unexplained phenomena as they seek their missing father and try to uncover the malevolent force that killed their mother. Think a seriously creepy cross between X Files and Route 66.

Just try not to watch alone in the dark.

No karaoke please

Although we have all heard that the Apocalypse will come sometime in the future, I am here to tell you that it has actually arrived and it's already here, hiding not so silently in the midst of all of us unwitting fools going about our daily business.


What do you want me to do?! But... but that's illegal!
Just this morning I was having sweaty obscene dreams of Chris Evans ( doing something anatomically impossible and possibly illegal but surely delightful to imagine ) when I was unpleasantly awakened at an unreasonable hour by an otherworldly caterwauling that must have signaled the end of the world as we know it - a terrible din not heard ever since thousands of cackling chickens were summarily strangled in tandem during the bird flu. It was the high-pitched screech/whine of a failing Madonna wannabe who was preaching to the world about trying to get all hung up.

I was all for hanging her up from the nearest street lamp pole, hopefully with the mike stuffed down her throat.

Don't get me wrong. From my unhealthy ( and bank-breaking ) obsession with music, it's pretty obvious that I love to sing but I tend to confine my inferior talents within the walls of my shower - and even then I doubt I could reach the ear-splitting Mariah Carey decibels that she did. Since I have far too many issues with self esteem flying all over the place, sticking a microphone under my nose is one simple way to have me running for the hills so obviously karaoke is a major no-no in my book.

Although I was aghast at that time - and I was all prepared to throw myself bodily to stop him from making an imprudent vocal judgement, Big Bicep Barry has shown that he can reasonably carry a tune - which precludes him from being barred from the mike. To my horror, the man claims to be quite the karaoke junkie but so far, I have meticulously avoided any mention of visiting such joints.

The proliferation of karaoke machines and bars frequently baffle me. Surely some of the patrons do know how absolutely horrible they sound to the rest of the world. If you have the voice - and some modicum of God-given talent, I will gladly applaud if you were to serenade me in the morning. Hell, I'd send over a basket of congratulatory muffins. By all means, sing if you can.

But for the rest of us untalented plebeians, please stick to the safety of the sound-proofed showers.

Pestilent messages

As I'm supposed to remain impartial to the man, I promised myself that I wouldn't talk about Big Bicep Barry... but obviously I can't. Perhaps in a month I'll be cursing his name to the heavens - right after he announces to me that he actually has a winsome Vietnamese wife and seven lusty love-children stashed away in Bahau or something - but right now I'm enjoying myself in his company and that counts.

Dammit, it has to count. I know. Deeply in denial.

Since my weekends are inundated with rowdy relatives - and that wonderful, thoroughly unappreciated thing called sleep, I usually confine my precious Barry time to the weekdays, squeezed in after the late hours of his work and before my timed-as-clockwork sleep at midnight. Obviously those few hours hasn't given us a distaste for each other yet.

In the weekends though, I still manage to be quite a pest to the poor man by sending him irritatingly mind-boggling messages at work. When we first met - or should I say shoved myself brazenly into his notice, Barry divulged his age but somehow while pointedly ogling his mountainous pecs, there simply wasn't time to concentrate on what he was telling me so that important fact slipped my lustful mind.

Don't be shocked. I do know his blood type, his birthdate ( Sagittarius to my Scorpio! ) and I do know he's older than me by a handful of years but I'm just not sure how many fingers are in that hand. Let's face it, I'm a bloody snoop after all. I could dress it in fine linen and lace by calling it a particular inquisitiveness but hell, it's being a bloody snoop. And mysteries always drive me crazy insane.


Fuck. Is Paul bugging me with messages again?!

He's been playing coy since then about telling me his secret so my weekend messages are usually ongoing probing questions dealing with his age.

Paul : What do you think about people born in the year of the Ox? Are they stronger and more patient than most?
Barry : ( silence ) Is this about my age again?
Paul : Tell me.
Barry : It's a secret I'll carry to my grave. You'll never get it from my lips.
Paul : Grrr...
Barry : And I know how you dig a mystery.
Paul : By ye Gods, I shall find out!
Barry : Certainly wouldn't want you to think I'm too old!
Paul : Bloody hell, you look younger - and you're a damned sight fitter than me. I have the effort tolerance of an ailing man in his seventies.
Barry : Anyway I told you before.
Paul : I'll wrestle you and steal your wallet for a peek.
Barry : Just try it!

See how inane our messages can get sometimes? I can be such a sophomoric bimbo when occasion calls for it.

Bourne Man

Since the nurses held a protest march to send me home after my French mime act failed to deliver enthusiastic applause, I readily packed my bags and came home. Barking out orders across a patient with cue cards and charades isn't exactly the style they're used to - and after pelting me with jugs of assam jawa and lozenges, the nurses decided that it was time I went home. Possibly the one time my occasional bouts of laryngitis actually brought something good in my life. So for the first time in quite a while, I managed to shlep on home before 3. Quite an achievement for me, I tell ya. Usually I get tied down with other commitments at work such as meetings, tutorials and presentations that never seem to end.

And since I have cable, I ended up watching movie re-runs while hacking out half my lung. Nothing like a reasonably interesting movie, a hot cup of tea and some lozenges to while away the time. Halfway through my movie marathon, I did receive a call from Big Bicep Barry ( who is tramping through some God-forsaken ulu village where he's peddling his well-endowed wares ) asking about my condition but all I could give him was a few rasps and coughs that were far from wickedly alluring, I'm sure. Still he took my monosyllabic grunts in good stead and reminded me to be a good boy and take care of myself.

Didn't the man know that the perfect panacea would be a proposition to give him a soapy scrub in the shower?

Hmmm. So. After going through a four hour long Bourne marathon, I've decided that here's the perfect man for me. Jason Bourne :) Not traffic-stoppingly gorgeous ( boy, I'd be crazy possessive with a man like that and it'll be exhausting! ) but just boyishly cute enough. And yet underneath that serious, staid demeanour, he can actually kill a man with a chopstick. How cool is that! Lots of odious characters I wouldn't mind having gralloched and it would be great to have a boyfriend who could do that without breaking a sweat.

Struck speechless

Once a year, I find myself just a little speechless. For someone as naturally garrulous as me ( except with strangers... I'm absolutely chilly with unknowns ), it can be absolutely torturous. Add that to a career that revolves around a flapping yap mouthing medical advice and being silent does present quite a problem especially when certain uncontrollable forces conspire to turn me into a fumbling French mime. Some of my heartless colleagues find it absolutely hilarious though. Just imagine explaining a heart symptom to an elderly patient in charades and cue cards - and you'll get the point. It has them in stiches. :)

It certainly isn't on a bet or some inexplicable curse placed on me. Unfortunately I am terribly susceptible to having a sore throat. No jokes about doctors falling sick :) At least once a year, I'm struck down with laryngitis especially when the weather's ever-changing.

Unsurprisingly doctors do make the worst patients. We obviously hate being patients. We don't take orders from anyone, we grumble and gripe over every little ache and generally make quite an intolerable nuisance of ourselves. I'm no different :) And what makes it worse is knowing that there's no one steaming hot like Chris Evans heating up nourishing chicken soup in the kitchen!


Heating things up!

Okay. No griping over the fact that Chris Evans still hasn't come over to domestically potter about in my kitchen. Nor over the fact that I might be falling hopelessly ( online for the perusal of the voyeuristic public, no less! ) for a straight gay-vague man who seems to be blowing hot-cold like the weather over here.

There is cause for some celebration since I've just realized that this marks almost a year that I've been blogging. Surely an achievement of sorts. Initially writing my blog was for myself - a personal log, an extension of the diary I once kept years ago, to remind me of everything I've done in my life and what I plan to do. Gradually however the blog becomes a friend and a companion even - especially when great guys like you all ( you know who you are! ) drop by to offer comments like the sensible sort you are :) Unfortunately still haven't gotten any dirty propositions yet.

Wait. That was the mild fever stirring up my hormones.

Dammit. Isn't it about time some enterprising gentleman discovered the cure-all for colds?

Soundtracks

Had a pleasant evening with some of my friends, Shameless Shalom and Preity Posh, dining on cakes, calzone and cocktails while we tore various spotless reputations to shreds. There were moments of sobriety though as we talked about our floundering relationships ( if any! we're still all relatively single though )... Somehow the subject crept on to what we did for New Year and an embarassing flush crept up my neck as I mumbled through some hefty calzone ( with my sore throat ) on what I did for the New Year's. Obviously they missed what I said since they continued on - utterly oblivious - to my relief.

Not sure why I haven't confided in my friends here about some of my more troubling affairs - other than Handsome Hui who stumbled upon it - althogh I have called up some of my schoolmates like Eye Eddie. Despite blogging online for apparently all the world to see, it would surprise you guys that I'm actually a reticent, conservative guy. No sniggering over there! :) Current events notwithstanding, leaping into the occasional two-night-stand isn't something usual that I do on an everyday basis - although that would certainly perk up my life some. Unfortunately though, eligible gentlemen hanging out lures are few and far between since I'm a hideous homely creature with no portion to recommend me. Surely, even the matchmaking Mrs Bennet would have despaired.

Darien sent me a meme. Since I'm ever the obliging guy - and I occasional love memes I've decided to list some of the songs that played a particular moment in my life last year. Not that long a list I'm afraid. Since I know ru is gonna ask - and I wouldn't want to be accused of being reticent, one of the songs is the song I heard Big Bicep Barry perform weeks ago.

Stickwitu - Pussycat Dolls
Sway - Pussycat Dolls
Ai Hen Jian Dan - David Tao
Banana Pancakes - Jack Johnson
A Love That Will Last - Renee Olstead
Get Your Way - Jamie Cullum

My Mr Darcy

Isn't it funny how we've gotten so desperately attached to our technological gadgets? Seriously, I couldn't imagine living without my cellphone... as pathetic as that might sound. Doubt I'd even know how to operate a payphone now - especially since I can't recall anyone's number.

For the past few days, I've maintained my strict moratorium on Big Bicep Barry avoidance. Struggling to repress all my manipulative instincts, I pledged to do absolutely nothing unless he makes a move of any sort. Trust me, making a decision to avoid a man is simply useless if he isn't around to avoid in the first place. It didn't help much that I didn't receive a single message or call from him for days - actually it grated me like hell and I spent a day or two busy cursing and wailing his name to the heavens, tearing his spotless reputation to shreds and swearing over jugs of alcohol like a drunken sailor.

The poor blameless guy.

Just yesterday afternoon however, I suddenly received a frenetic flurry of messages from an unknown number - and a desperate, breathless call that I'd have attributed to a raging sex offender if I hadn't recognized Barry's voice. Then again, it might have been a significant improvement if he'd turned out to be a sexual deviant! Due to some odd technical fault, his cellphone turned out to be out of commission for several days and he had to take the time to track down my number ( my number was listed in his telephone bill btw ) to call me from work.

A thousand apologies was called for - though I know it wasn't due to any fault of his - and to mollify me, he agreed to accompany me to see one of my favourite books adapted to film ( despite not knowing what the hell the movie was all about ). Like a death row prisoner trudging to his execution, he tagged along to Pride and Prejudice. Definitely a chick flick. I have to admit it was a little odd to have two single guys ( one big guy with broad shoulders in a sleeveless Abercrombie tee and a much slighter guy in a fetching green shirt ) walk into a cinema full of henna-dyed matrons/schoolmarms and adoring couples more interested in undoing their buttons than the film. Still, with Keira Knightley's luminous Elizabeth Bennet lighting up the screen, I doubt they had much time to stare at the odd couple sitting in the centre row.

Despite feeling a little under the weather - and a little woozy from the meds, the beautifully scripted movie managed to keep me wide awake. Although I spent countless minutes ogling the heroic looking Matthew MacFadyen who played the plum role of Mr Darcy ( who doesn't fall for the serious, passionate suitor? ), I did take the time to admire Barry's cute profile in the flickering light. Although the man claimed to have loved the movie, I did notice him almost nodding off at some of the slower moments - to have me nudge him in the ribs at opportune moments.

Inspired by the movie, this is for Barry if he ever reads this...
“You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still what they were last October, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on this subject for ever.”

Damn. Fitzwilliam Darcy was smooth.