Bad Boy Barry

Everyone has a touch of the eccentric - more so when it comes to people who work in my line. Even I have my occasional psychotic breaks that resurfaces every once in a blue moon. Seriously I don't know where my uncharacteristic streaks of insanity comes from but it pops out every once in a while, making me do something totally unthinkable that freaks everyone I know. Even poor Big Bicep Barry turns out to be not immune to my odd proclivities as he got a taste of that just a day back when he gave me a call.

Barry : What's all this? You're moving? When were you going to tell me?
Paul : Just told you, didn't I?
Barry : Oh.
Paul : You know. Can't talk to you right now, my heart is too broken to continue.
Barry : What! What did you -

Non-plussed by my sudden melodramatic pause, the man scrambled for something to say, rambling on in stuttering mumbles for a few seconds before I stopped him.

Paul : Seriously I was kidding.
Barry : What?!
Paul : Don't know what made me do it.
Barry : Gggrrr...


WTF...
What made me suddenly blurt that out? I really wouldn't know since it's possibly something utterly Freudian. Or else just an insane moon phase I'm going through - especially since I wickedly recalled the astonished look on his face as I asked for the bill in the middle of his earnest pronouncement. Since he clearly expected a far more dramatic exit rather than a cool bill transaction with the waiter, I decided to grant him that pleasure. Poor guy never saw it coming. Seriously though, I think if Barry was the kinda man who swore bloody murder, a string of perfectly nasty expletives would have come streaming out, enough to make a sailor blush. Or possibly he was wishing that I was close enough to be throttled. :)

I apologized thoroughly for giving him that minor heart attack though, even offered to send him money for lunch ( or else to help him recoup the 200k shortfall in his half yearly sales estimates ). So don't hate the poor guy. Certainly blameless since it wasn't his fault that things didn't turn out all rosy the way I wanted. Despite the all-too-apparent rejection, he's still one of the nicest guys I know :)

Tough Shopper

Bones aching, nose dribbling and with the other minor irritating symptoms of a cold ( curses on all virulent bacteria and virus! ), I knew there could be only one form of panacea for me. For me, the only good way to beat the damned illness during the initial budding stages is to sweat it out thoroughly.


Mournful over my bloody flu...
No, it's not what you're thinking! The freaking gym with all the monstrous machines and the relentless grunt-groans of the obsessed musclemen at work? Tried that the last time when I had a flu coming on and I almost keeled over in a clumsy, disgraceful faint. Lifting weights and aching bones certainly don't mix.

Nah, my preferred regime for the occasional sweat is the nonstop mall workout. Wouldn't recommend my particular form of retail therapy to everyone but it certainly works for me. Somehow or rather, my ailing immune system gets a special kickstart once I enter the hallowed halls of a department store and I find myself remarkably, mystically energized - ala Scarlett O'Hara as she touches the grounds of Tara. Big Bicep Barry calls it the mystical industrical air-conditioned effect. Add some adrenaline-pumping speedwalking to it - with three malls in close succession - and it's easy enough to work up a sweat. Even dragged poor Charming Calvin into my nefarious shopping plans last night which left him a little indisposed today. Maybe my alternative treatment of naked hot showers should work :P

Work starts again soon but I have a short spell of two days to recuperate - and I certainly don't intend to spend it languishing like a sickly debutante on a divan groping desperately for my vinaigrette of smelling salts. So it's actually a true adage. When the going gets tough, the tough really do go shopping.

But as a sop to my illness, I'm taking wimpy orange juice by the gallons instead of my regular caffe mocha at Starbucks ( the call to blog is irresistible, I'm afraid ). Sigh. How the mighty have fallen.

Assessing priorities

Certainly lots of changes in my life these past few days. Not only because of the recent shocking pronouncement but also because in the course of the next few days I'll be embarking on my second year of the course I once mentioned with professional exams lurking just around the corner.

Since I'd been given an earlier rejection, getting accepted into the course itself was a last-minute shocker itself - but that certainly didn't prepare me for the horrible changes in my life. As most of you would know, taking up exams as a full-time student is already stressful enough - so imagine if you can, putting in a full grueling day at work and still having to hit the books at night while balancing some hopeless semblance of a social life. Something certainly has to give and since I'm not all that dedicated a student, I certainly haven't been cracking the textbooks as much as I should lately. Desperate late-night muggings have become a damned chore to me and I practically have to drag myself to the study table every once so often just to catch up.

The fact that I'm suddenly not terribly sure this is the career path I should take is even more jarring. Do I have the dedication and perseverance that it needs to finish this particular rat-race? Ask me that years back in medical school and I'd have answered with a zealous yes. Right now, I'm not too sure. Starting work and earning your own way lulls a person into lazy complacency and it's just not as easy picking up the threads of a student's life again.

Privy to some of my recent whines, My ISO asked me what I wanted in my life and it started me thinking.

Priorities in life? Somehow my career has never been at the top of my list. It has always been my family, then my loved ones ( still an empty spot obviously especially with recent developments :P ) and then perhaps my career. Unlike most of my ambitious high-achieving peers like the inimitable Shameless Shalom, aiming for that top position in my area of work has never been one of my goals. I'm a regular fella with simple needs. Good husband. Nice home. Serviceable car. A trip once a year. Sigh. Well, three out of four is alright. Certainly no need to have bling bling Tiffany cufflinks or Prada leather bags like some I could name. :)

Uncharacteristically grim thoughts as I stand at the crossroads.

God, I think I need a drink.

Fastball Special

Certainly been an eventful few days for me - apart from the crazy door ringing salesman mentioned yesterday. Fortunately for him, I was much too sedated to contemplate violently wringing his neck and hanging him half naked from the lamppole as a stern warning to other hopeful travelling salesmen. Anyway, he was cute - and sad to say, in our shallow visuals are everything world, being cute does solve a lot of problems. :)

Of the three episodes the X-men trilogy, I would count The Last Stand as the weakest of the trio. With the sad loss of Bryan Singer - well known as an X-Men fan boy - as the director of the franchise, this particular episode has veered the farthest from comics continuity.

Though the action sequences rocked, it still came as a little disappointment to the comic fanboy in me. Too much plotlines have been packed into little more than an hour at the expense of the quieter moments that the X-men are famous for - excepting that little precious bit where Bobby shows Kitty that there's still a bit of home in Westchester.

Somewhere along the line, the Powers that Be have forgotten that the core of the franchise is the team ensemble, more of a family actually. Sure, we love Wolverine - and who doesn't love the mean, straight-talking bastard? - and the shirtless scenes of Hugh Jackman are always welcome but what about the rest of the team? The only other adult male on the team, Cyclops, is taken out of the picture early on and the rest of the cast seem to be one-dimensional supporting cutouts for Wolverine. What about Bobby? What about Pete? What about Kitty? Even Ororo, seemingly an important character, barely serves any purpose except to flash lightning from her fingertips and provide a convenient sounding board. Would any of the audience even know who I'm talking about?

Precisely my point. :)


Are you planning something?
And judging by the cavalier manner Jean displays as she literally shakes Scott off, the seemingly inviolate relationship between Scott and Jean seems to have vanished in the dust. Surely an unwelcome shocker for someone like me who has been following the turbulent relationship for years. Like Lois and Clark, the premier mutant couple has been practically woven into the fabric of comic legend and to have it just snuffed away like it never existed was quite a disappointment.

All that however doesn't make it any less than a damned good action movie that everyone who isn't a dedicated X-freak like me should be raring to watch! :) My gripes were pretty obvious though which is why Big Bicep Barry just had to lean over and ask...

Barry : What's wrong?
Paul : Grrr...
Barry : Not like the comics, huh?
Paul : Grrr...

Unfortunately the fact that the movie had degenerated into another episode of Logan and his Super Friends wasn't the only shock waiting for me that night since Barry had a fastball special just waiting for me. Just as we were finishing a late supper - a half hour of me was grumbling over the death of my loved one while he was raving over the admittedly fabulous fight scenes - just when we were about to tip the waiter, he suddenly stopped me and told me we had to talk.

Let's face it. No good can come from a talk. Any guy who says that in just that deadly quiet tone just wants to prepare you for something unpleasant. There was this sudden urge to just jet off running down the street screaming inanities but with his longer legs and his bigger bulk, I'm sure he would have me tackled and face-down in minutes.

Barry : We need to talk.
Paul : OMG.
Barry : Huh?
Paul : It's nothing. Speak.
Barry : Lately I have this feeling that you seem to want more than I'm capable of giving. I care very much for you. You are a wonderful person and I'll cherish this friendship but I'm not sure I can give you what you need.
Paul : Oh. Alright. Bill please.

Okay. That bill comment wasn't meant for him of course but for the desperate waiter since it was getting real late, the doors were literally closing on us - and at the last minute he had to surprise me with that shocking pronouncement ( which I actually hastily summarized since it was actually much longer and I hated myself for not having a recorder! ). He was just lucky I didn't hyperventilate and fall headfirst into my bowl of soup.

Bloodhound Knocks

On my off days - when I'm not tracking down the rest of my Blue List like a soulless bloodhound - I usually spend it lounging on my Balinese teak daybed scrounging through the internet for news of interest - and occasionally numerous *ahem* bodies of interest. Despite the titillating reports, sometimes the sheer ennui does get to me and I do find myself nodding off.

Of course till the past few days I've never actually known what life in blissfully contented suburbia would mean - and exactly what the desperate housewives have to contend with in the lazy afternoons. Just as I was about to fall into the blessed arms of Somnus, I heard a shrill cry that jolted me half awake. The sheer din of my ringing doorbell was only outdone by the volume of his voice as the man at my door literally yelled down the rafters. You'd be forgiven for thinking that my handsome prince had finally arrived to whisk me off to his fabulously appointed apartment in Bangsar ( filled with lovely antiques and knick knacks from all around the world ).

It was a fucking door-to-door salesman. And before you gay boys can ask, yeah, yeah, incredibly dark ( like he'd fallen headfirst into a freaking tanning pool! ) due to the endless sun exposure and somewhat good-looking - the kind you'd take home for tomorrow's breakfast if the pickings weren't all that good that night. Just before I could ward him off with a nasty threatening scowl, he was already off and running with his cheap smarmy spiel.

Still, the boy was heavily enthusiastic with such wild, manic energy vibrating in his brown eyes that I felt like smacking him around and dragging him to the hospital for a blood checkup. Hell, he looked as if he was on an ecstasy high, stammering away desperately about his products in rapidfire Mandarin - which obviously left me straggling desperately in the dust. Obviously taking me for a naive rube - instead of the bitter cynic that I am, he started enthusing about the miracles of his product and all the special deals he's about to offer me since I'm so special.

Still I was kinda sedated myself so I allowed him to ramble on about his stupendous products that was guaranteed to turn me into studly heartmelting Chris Evans while I checked out his sweaty chest. Or was he talking about an electrical appliance?

After the spittle had dried on his sweat-dripping face ( and on mine ), I told him to go down on me before I'd buy anything. Well, of course I didn't do any such thing - especially since I'm aiming for a cleaner, more PG-rated Paul - though I actually wish I had. Perhaps it would deter the rest of the hot young salesmen from haunting my gates and waking me up with meaningless babble. Trust me, only good way to be woken up in the morning is with a French kiss from a hot guy. Anything else is a poor second best.

Instead I gave him a soft drink, patted him on the head like a good little boy and told him to bug my crazed karaoke freak of a neighbour. Let her try to drown him out.

Revenge is best served cold.

Charmed Ones

Very few drama series actually manage to finish with a memorable swansong to remember ... one of the few greats that I've seen is Sex and the City which had all the loose ends beautifully tied up in pink Prada ribbons with all the girls getting the delicious happy-ever-afters they deserved - while the comedy FRIENDS unfortunately botched it up a little close to the finale.

Lots of slips and misses in their final season but the Charmed Ones finally managed to make magic in the end with what comes close to a perfect finale. There's magic in every family but just that little extra in the Halliwell family that makes them special. Believe it or not, I actually faithfully followed the fanciful tales of the Halliwell sisters till the end although the last few episodes dealing with a particular naive, bimbotic blond-sorority-witch really stretched my patience thin. There were times I really felt like reaching into the screen and smacking the blond bimbo ( shades of Business Bitch / Bountiful Betty ) around for being such a nitwit.

Despite the occasionally mind-numbingly stupid plotlines and the sillier villains, the series based on the three very different witches fed my thirst for the fey, the fanciful and the supernatural. The fact that the accompanying side dishes were all serious male eye-candy certainly only added to the charm.

A belief in the supernatural? Certainly unusual for a man supposedly dedicated to the pursuit of science but like many other Scorpios, I've always believed in the supernatural. Hard to dismiss such fanciful notions especially in an Asian country where tradition and superstition are inextricably linked - where Koranic verses are recited in the intensive care to cleanse the area and various little amulets and charms line the bed of a dying patient. Unlike the cynical, patently disbelieving scientist Dana Scully, I do actually believe that some things just can't be explained away by sheer logic and science.

Come on. Hasn't anyone else ever wished for that little bit of magic? A spell to make your unkempt hair look fabulous and that extra kilo of fat just melt away? A potion to make certain big-biceped men fall desperately in love? A brew to have that bland, boring blind date fall inexplicably unconscious into his bowl of soup? A curse to have your competitor babbling absolute rubbish while pole-dancing during an interview?

Or was that just me?

Despite the fact that gay men seem to know the mysterious inexplicable secrets of turning freak to fabulous ( surely a magic of its own! ), gay practitioners of the arts seem to be a rare breed indeed - unless you count the skanky homoerotic tales of the Brotherhood and Dante's Cove. Still I've managed to find a handful of stories. Just check out Kelley Armstrong's online fiction which tells the story of a budding sorcerer named Sean Nast. And of course my own humble self-penned bit of fiction entitled Practical Magic! :)

Good ol Boys

Although I already have tickets to the X-Men The Last Stand for tomorrow night ( after bugging the poor gals at the box office for days threatening them with leery stares ), I have this irrational urge to rush over for the midnight screening tonight despite the fact that it might be detrimental to my work the next morning. After all it's hard to resist the tempting lures of the audacious X-Hunks.

From the skanky way I write, you'll be forgiven for thinking that I actually drool all over the big bad boys like the irresistible Hugh Jackman baring his excellent biceps as the rambunctious Wolverine but the truth is, like the long lamented Jean Grey, I usually go crazy for the good ol' boys like Scott Summers. Surely the original goody-two-shoes of the mutants - of course that was way before the Powers That Be at Marvel Comics decided to morph him into an unfaithful, indecisive bastard who sleeps around.

But that's a personal gripe.


What do ya mean, you don't like me? Is it my hair?
Perhaps it's Mother Nature's way of striking a delicate balance, a symbolical yin-yang of sorts since with my wicked streak of evil, it would be horrifying to meet a romantic match in someone equally malevolent. That would be like Maleficent doing the dirty horizontal tango with Dr Evil - and we all know nothing good would come of it.

Don't get me wrong. No one knows better than I the delicious charm of a smirking, leather-jacketed bad boy astride his battered motorcycle but that's just not what I'm aiming for in the long run. Believe me, those bad boys tend to sneak out in the wee hours of the morning, leaving everyone else biting their dust as they move on to their next conquest. No way are they hanging around to help with the cleaning up and the morning pancakes when they could be out there spreading hell, heartbreak and mayhem.

So the big bad boys can cast their siren lures with their heavy-hooded dark eyes promising wicked delights to no avail. I'm the kinda guy who gets all revved up over the good ol' boys - the sweet mama boys, the upright, responsible goody-two-shoe guys who work hard the required 9 to 5 to bring home the butter and the bacon. The guys who say please and thank you, the guys who step aside for the ladies and give up their seats for the octogenarian tottering by. The guys who'd do their own ironing without asking, who'd wash the dishes after dinner before being told. The guys who step up to the plate quietly without making a fuss to defend all that's good.

Of course, being good certainly doesn't mean being whining, overly sensitive-James-Blunt-wimpy. Been told recently by well-meaning friends that I actually go for the square-jawed, macho, silently stolid hunks and I guess it could be true. Just gimme an earnest working salaryman in a suit - and I'd be all over him in seconds. Add a tie and some thick glasses hiding his superman blues and I'd drag him down under his workdesk for some sweet lovin.

Well, I never said I wanted to be a freaking saint :)

***

In other news, Big Bicep Barry has finally purchased a spanking new cellphone ( one that is way more impressive than my dinky phone, dammit! ) which signals his imminent return to the digitally connected world. Well-meaning advice to baptize the newborn cell with holy water was received with shocked silence from him.

Wicked

Since I've been pretty much a freaking saint for quite a while - in the regular meaning in the word ( including the much-cursed vow of celibacy ), it's obvious that all that desperately bottled-up wickedness has to surface somewhere sometime.

Like the proverbial Pandora's box, my wicked little sins and all the other nasty habits of mine have been kept locked-up tight for the sake of the greater good but every once in a while, little bits of maleficence just ooze out of the inevitable cracks, hence the occasional malignant thought. Rarely an act these days though ( termed my uncanny psychotic breaks where I wreak havoc and mayhem on the civilized world as we know it ) ever since I cried repentance, reigned in my wicked impulses and turned to medicine for a guiding light.

But all it needs is sufficient trigger for the minuscule creaking locks to fly open on that uneasy latch, allowing all my private demons to fly free. This time, a big-biceped victim and a 500 metre swimming pool acted in tandem as the catalyst.

Just a stone's throw away from my house, there is a certain private poolhouse belonging to the estate's clubhouse which has been lying unused for a few months due to the lack of manpower and administration. Simply such a waste of resources - and the avid swimmer, Big Bicep Barry totally agreed.


Are you planning something?
Of course the man didn't know that little clubhouse rules and regulations have never stopped me - well, some would say that silly rules actually spur me on to break them. Juvenile rebel that I used to be, the chains of authority frequently goaded me to revolt. Still Barry certainly never knew exactly what he was stirring up when he made a mention a few days after he came back from his island expedition. Little did he know the mischief he would cause.

Barry : Would be nice if the pool was open. Could take a swim.
Paul : Who says it has to be open? The pool is filled and there are lights.
Barry : You have an evil look on your face.
Paul : Hmmm... see, the guard doesn't sit there all night, it's dark enough on the other side of the fence...
Barry : Uhh... What's going on?

Since the usually courageous Barry ( despite his irrational fear of flying SUVs and dancing fried chicken ) balked at such an intrepid plan, I simmered down and kept my possibly illegal thoughts to myself. Certainly no need to have the poor guy serve as my unwilling cellmate - although delicious visions of jailhouse mansex come to mind. My repeated assurances that I wasn't planning anything wild and woolly only served to make him more suspicious.

He was right.

It did take some time for my plan to gather fruition, needing just the right ingredients and the perfect timing, but it was such delicious fun being wicked. Nothing like a midnight swim, is there?

Charmless

Walk into a nightclub somewhere and you'll be sure to see that special guy. That lucky man who has that certain look, that certain attitude that draws people to him, that indefinable something that charms and beguiles everyone around with a snap of his fingers. Charisma, we call it.

So what is it about a place that draws gay boyz and their playmates like the proverbial rainbow moths to the flamer? One of the malls I actually frequent quite often is the Curve in the snooty Damansara wing of the Klang Valley Mall ( isn't it all a huge department store after all? ) since it's not only close by and accessible to me, it's also relatively secluded and almost suburban serene despite being minutes away from its more boisterous, flashy sista. Add that to the presence of the supreme Borders Bookstores ( though still a poor second in comparison to my darling Kinokuniya ), Starbucks and the incomparable Metrojaya - and I'm definitely sold. Certainly could plant recommendations for the other little stores around that I frequent but then I'd have to start charging for ad space. :)


Gay mall! Wherefore art thou?
However, nothing about the sedate, suburban mall even remotely suggests seedy makeout area behind the shadowy bushes or even glitzy pink disco with prerequisite crystal ball - which was why it came with a tinge of shock when I was told that it's practically a state designated gay hangout. WTF! Could it be the sinuous, delectable curve shape of the building that drew the attention of the aesthetically inclined gay boyz? The presence of a reputable gym - with the obvious lure of hot, virile, gym-toned hunks trolling the corridors? The obvious gay-oriented home decor stores such as Barang Barang and the firm fan favourite IKEA?

Or perhaps it was always meant to be gay - and my permanently fritzed gay-dar was actually telling me something, a psychic premonition of some kind way before it even turned homo. Of course, now after viewing the visual delights of sweaty bronzed manhunks haunting the area - especially when viewed from the relative safety of Starbucks - seems like I'll be frequenting the place even more often.

Unfortunately with the advent of the gay men wave, does that mean that I'll have to actually dress up to cruise the malls? Would I have to actually comb my spiky, untameable mop into the gay clone hairstyle? Squeeze myself into a sleeveless tee one size too small? Would they bar me from entering if I didn't fulfil the exacting gay men criteria?!

Pointless

Actually sometimes it's rather nice to watch something absolutely pointless for once. After the intricate Machiavellian schemes and diabolical plots of the papacy to hide the ultimate secret, it's just fun to watch a family of furry forest animals zip around the outskirts of suburbia in search of potato chips driving everyone else Over The Hedge.

Usually the surprisingly philosophical Big Bicep Barry prefers high-brow intellectual dramas but he allowed himself to be entertained by the common fare for once :) And it was certainly a rollicking good time watching Big Business Bitch ( hmm.. a new name for Bountiful Betty? ) and the Verminator chase down the little adorable creatures with weedwhackers and assorted torture instruments.

Not sure Barry thoroughly approved of the animals' frenetic obsession with potato chips and soft drinks though, which was certainly a far cry from his own ascetic diet. For me, I found it far more entertaining to watch Barry nibble squirrel-like on his staple diet of leaves and nuts.

Barry : What are you looking at?
Paul : Nothing.
Barry : You've been staring at my plate.
Paul : So?
Barry : You hungry? Want some?
Paul : For leaves? And dressing? Uhh... No.
Barry : Pathetic, huh.
Paul : If I waved some FKC in front of you, would you cry?
Barry : When I sleep, I dream of dancing fried chicken.

Watched Barry nibble a bit closer this time though. This past weekend I found myself drooling over the occasional gym-built hunk as I cruised the malls in Klang Valley ( is it really true that the Curve is full of gay men?! Since freaking when and why wasn't I told! ) and found myself with a sudden inexplicable urge to starve myself, live off calorieless berries and mineral water and hit the various gyms on a daily basis. Surely all the smooth-faced, slender hunks haunting the gyms must abase themselves before the awe-inspiring God of Diets to achieve the near zero-fat quotient that would allow their obliques and six-pack abs to appear in sharp relief.


Yum. My Lunch and dinner!
Seriously, how in the world do they find the strength to deny themselves of chocolate and fried chicken? Sure, I know the results are amazing - and drool-inducing in tank tops and shorts - but don't they find bland tasting protein drinks and lifting 100 pound weights while grunting unintelligible mutterings utterly boring? Somehow Barry's earnest reply that it makes him feel good ( imaginary hallucinations brought on by testosterone overload? ) sounds false somehow :)

Wifi-less

There has to be something quite tragic about a late twenties ( yes, I'm in the twilight of my twenties!! ) walking aimlessly about shopping malls searching for invisible waves of wireless fidelity. Taking Charming Calvin out for a bit of retail therapy proved to be a literal quest for Wifi bubbles as I lugged my laptop around in search of my virtual treasure.

Unfortunately when I'm off shopping in the city, I find myself literally disconnected from the virtual world and it leaves me surprisingly despondent ( yes, I am a blogger addict ). Turns out that it isn't all that easy searching for my nirvana actually and the literal clues left around turned out be dead-ends as I trolled around hotspots and cafes. Hot virile guys in shorts were literally left in the dust as I blindly followed the trail of my disappearing wifi connections. It came as a surprise to me that the bubbles of wireless waves literally fades and returns according to their own magical moods. Sometimes it seems to me that technology literally has a life of its own and it's a screaming bitch.

Fortunately at the end of a fruitless search, I finally found the mermaid beckoning to me with her irresistible mug of mocha and the magical bubble surrounding her. By that time Calvin was already fast fading - especially since he seems to be a perpetual sandman - and I was quite tempted to jab him with some intravenous caffeine.

Is it weird that I find more satisfaction with an internet connection than a hottie? :)

Fearless

Rare enough that a movie actually supersedes the book it as based on. Only a handful of movies from what I can recall have actually surpassed the novels they were based on such as Ben Hur, Gone with the Wind, the Godfather Novels and the excellent Lord of the Rings Trilogy - to name a rare few.

Sadly that didn't hold true for the movie I saw last night. Although it differs only slightly in the movie, I have to say that the print version of the Da Vinci Code is by far superior. In the movie - as in the pages of the book, the surprisingly fearless Robert Langdon, a conservative American professor, utilizes his knowledge of art history, mythology and the annals of Christianity to search for clues to the murder of a renowned Louvre curator.


Bringing church fashion into vogue!
Only recently inducted into the Dan Brown Book Club, Big Bicep Barry found himself utterly engrossed with the movie - and like the typical Archer, full of enigmatic questions that not even Robert Langdon could fathom. Like how does a giant Albino dressed in monkish robes pop in and out of the crowded streets of London and Paris unnoticed? Like what exactly drives the villains to pursue the fumbling Langdon endlessly? After a while, I was confused myself!

Still Barry had braved the maniacally driven crowds for the precious tickets the day before so I had no decent cause to complain. Not even when he was five minutes late although I have to admit that his hastily fumbled excuse of going back to change into spectacularly tight jeans helped soothe my savage temper somewhat. Hard to get angry with guys who look good in jeans.

Although the beautiful computer-generated cut scenes of the historical events does justice to the printed page, the frequent history lectures by Langdon and later Teabing would inevitably bore the average corn-popping movie viewer - especially if they haven't had a prior acquiantance with the book. Unfortunately the exhaustive lessons about etymology, early Christian theology and historical minutiae that fascinate me in the book doesn't translate as well onto the screen. Even the spectacularly rendered effects detailing the rise of early Christianity failed to revive a few uninformed audience members who were snoring in the back.

With all the controversy surrounding the recent release of The Da Vinci Code, by now the movie itself is almost beside the point. Despite the fact that I've sadly lapsed into an occasional reader of the Bible, it's hard to believe that anyone could think that the secrets revealed in this book could topple the Christian faith. Revealing the possibly maligned Mary Magdalene as the chosen leader of the Church and the companion of Jesus Christ could hardly be the secret that could rock the very foundations of the faith. Seriously, those who find their faith that easily shaken should take a closer look at their foundations - which are obviously not as strong as they imagined.

But overall, I still couldn't appreciate the occasional plodding pace of the movie ( far different from the breathless, breakneck speed chase in the page-turning novel ) and the intolerable casting of Tom Hanks as Robert Langdon. Prematurely balding yet with an unusually poufy coif, aging and possibly pudgy, his portrayal of the symbologist protagonist is as far from my imagined ideal as possible - and it's difficult to root for him as the intellectual hero dreamt up by Dan Brown. After the unforgivable character assasination, half the time I found it quite understandable that everyone else wishes to throw him behind bars.

Paul : Good God. Why Tom Hanks?
Barry : Why not?
Paul : Well, look at him! I imagined Robert Langdon as someone far better-looking! At least with a tight ass.
Barry : And looks are that important to you?
Paul : Uhh... it isn't?
Barry : What about intelligence? Personality?
Paul : Ehhh... that doesn't come off that well onscreen, does it?

By God, I do hope I am somewhat intelligent.

***
There is some good news about the endless battle over the forces of evil however. Barry finally gave up trying to rescue his demonically possessed phone from the clutches of supreme evil and is getting a tamer Sony Ericson phone. Hopefully blessed with some holy water this time.

Selfless

Gifts are absolutely precious. We see them being given away every day. From one friend to another. From a sibling to another. From a child to his parent. Whether a silk tie from a loved one or a vial of cologne from a sister, we all cherish the gifts that we receive. And yet it's a rare occasion indeed that we find someone willing to give selflessly to a stranger.

Although the nascent organ donation campaign in our country still has the occasional minor hiccups ( usually due to a lack of manpower and resources ), there is no doubt that it has done a world of good, bringing hope and a better life to all those desperately ill and in need. In the few years I've been in the medical service, I've been lucky enough to be at hand at two of such selfless acts.

And selfless it certainly is. To give up parts of ourselves so that others can continue is certainly a humanitarian feat that we can all applaud wholeheartedly. What more when most of the suitable organ donors are vital, promising youths who have been literally robbed at their prime due to unforeseen circumstances. Generally it falls to our lot as the caretakers of the intensive care unit to do the counselling for the recently bereaved. Speaking to the family about organ donations at the time when they're still largely shell-shocked with grief always strikes me as a trifle abrupt ( and always leaves me with a significant tickle in my throat ) - and yet there is very little precious time left before the entire body shuts down after the soul has departed and the selfless act itself becomes largely futile.

Just a week back, a 19 year old student diagnosed with a debilitating brain tumour passed away tragically - but not before he donated pieces of himself to help at least 35 other people live on. Teoh Chit Hwa. Hopefully his gifts are well utilized by those who are well deserving since they're the ones entrusted with carrying his well wishes into the future.

"It is a far, far better thing that I do now, than I have ever done before;
it is a far, far better rest that I go to, than I have ever known before."

Dauntless

Even in the face of nigh impossible odds, some determined heroes soldier on undaunted, raging hundred foot rogues waves and spiralling pillars of fire proving no obstacle to them. Then there are the normal guys who have to fight against the more mundane stuff like mountains of paperwork and certifiably insane PMSing cellphones that have been possessed.

This past weekend I've been having heaps of trouble trying to contact Big Bicep Barry. Got so difficult I was tempted to call a PI to trace his whereabouts.

Since his embarassingly ancient cellphone has been groaning its death throes lately, SMSes seem to have disappeared into thin air - if not morphed into cryptic coptic clues - and the few times he's managed to get through to me has turned into seemingly Da Vinci coded missives that turn confusingly garbled at the most interesting moments, punctuated by fizzles and crossed lines. Messaged invitations to a power lunch are replied at suppertime and previously planned schedules are getting mixed up with the mysteriously missing information.

Sometimes technology can be simply frustrating.

Since some of the bloggers who dropped by have been intrigued by my frequent mention of the guy, we actually made plans to meet. Unfortunately the mountains of paperwork I mentioned have been threatening to topple over on the guy - and to add to his mounting problems, he hasn't been able to contact me for the sudden change in plans. Although I'd guessed the source of his satanic woes, it still left me a tad disgruntled and I couldn't help mouthing malignant curses - which probably made it worse.

Hence the sudden unexpected appearance of Barry at my doorstep tonight with demonic cellphone in hand, looking slightly the worse for wear - possibly after wrestling with his conscience and the fiendishly evil cellphone. Although unbuttoned, his shirt wasn't torn enough for me to see more of his bare chest.

Barry : See. It's going crazy.
Paul : Can I smash it into the ground? Crush it into little pieces?
Barry : It's the only one I have.
Paul : Buy a new one, dammit.
Barry : I am poor. Spent all my money on my cameras.
Paul : You know my moneymaking suggestion. The Kayu Jatis Male Burlesque remember.
Barry : Very funny.

It was true however. Shockingly enough, SMSes sent to the unholy object only disappear into the hellish pits of darkness where all but the most reckless angels would dare to tread.

Perhaps an exorcism is in order.

Clueless

Somehow for me the idea of a gaggle of gay men brought together for fun and sun in a tropical paradise always means sex romp galore. Shockingly that hasn't come true at all - seriously there were no odd couplings in the closets ( that I know of ), no kinky nipple pinching or crotch groping ( that I heard of ) and certainly no inappropriate disrobing followed by the passionate oohs and aahs of impending orgies. Could it be possible that gay men simply aren't the morally loose, sexually depraved monsters that the heterosexual world is terrified of? Could it be possible that gay men are simply regular everyday joes who just have fabulous hair ( not with my spiky hair currently unfortunately ) and an alarming penchant for interior decoration and dinner parties?

After these two days however, the latter seems quite possible actually - which would mean the disposal of a barrel of lube and a freightload of condoms. It could actually be true that I might be watching too much gay porn :)

Still meeting some of the regular bloggers that I find online does give me some pause - and it recalls one of the things I've somehow failed to mention previously. Possibly I was too mind-numbingly stunned at the time to register the event properly in my mind.

As my blog has gained some little notoriety ( prompting some of my colleagues to confront me on it :) ), some of the little players in my comedy of acts have similarly gained a life of their own. With my odd penchant for assigning unusual nicknames to the people I know in real life ( have always done that in fact! ), it has left some of my friends wondering exactly who's whom.

Which is why a certain Dashing Dan spent a certain worthwhile evening sometime ago accosting various well-built, big-biceped specimens at a local gym demanding their identities, at the same time interrogating them for their intimate knowledge of a certain odd duck called Dr Paul. Shades of the intrepid Inspector Clouseau? :)

Shocking but true :) Since I found Dan seemingly hearty and well after the unfortunate episode ( without any signs of serious manhandling by his appropriately beefy victims ), I assume most of the protein-shake-guzzling, vegetable-munching muscle marys in question remained utterly clueless as to Dan's true intentions.

Although it does seem like a possibly good pick-up line. So big boy, do you know of a Tom, Dick and Harry? And if not, would you like to know me? :)

Witless

This evening I'll be having visitors - which unfortunately might preclude my precious blogging time - though I shall still try to sneak off for a line or two. Marcus, possibly the sole blogger on that lonesome rock in the sea called Jersey, has made plans to come by my place this evening. Ordinarily, this wouldn't come as a surprise since I do like meeting new people and its always interesting to talk to someone you've actually written letters too. Certainly would be interesting to see the man I've called my Father Confessor. Very Daddy Long Legs actually.

But when he told me that he was bringing an accompanying entourage of gay men, I was stunned. In my fantasy life, a posse of virile ( possibly morally loose ) gay men flocking to my home sounds like a wet dream come true but it's far from being ideal in reality.

Skanky reputation notwithstanding, I am actually a terribly shy, modest creature who gets hopelessly tongue-tied in real life. There's a serious secret identity issue here - the brash, confident blogger you see online on one side and the mild-mannered, bashful Clark Kent physician in real life on the other. I hear you guys laughing out there - so stop it :) It's true actually. Meeting a large group of possibly hostile total strangers makes my knees waver, my heart quail in fear and my usually flexible tongue getting all tangled up in unintelligible knots.

My first approach would be to babble witlessly, more so if the stranger closely resembles the heartbreakingly sexy Chris Evans. Trying to fill the oddly painful silences, I'll be busy mumbling nonsensical blather about the weather, the road signs, the cars, the people who pass by, the varying political system in Iraq etc. Chattering mindlessly in breakneck speed without stopping for breath like a cow auctioneer - so sadly no one else manages to get a word in edge-wise. Unless the guy in question reaches out to spank me - or to kiss me. Both methods work by the way.

Since it occurs to me being silent might be preferable to appearing the blathering fool, my second approach is to remain chillingly aloof - terribly snootily so, I'm afraid. Like an arrogant aristocratic bastard who refuses to mix with the tawdry hoi polloi, nose up in the air and stiff upper lip which as you might be able to guess obviously doesn't go down that well as first impressions go.

Heedless

There it is.

Just that little sound.

That sharp chirp chip beep beep that strikes fear in the heart of every working physician. God knows that small beep has plagued my life for the past few years, working to get my adrenaline rushing, sending my heart rate from baseline to F1 arrythmia-like palpitations and my blood pressure rocketing to a sky high spike. Not exactly the healthiest way to be woken up.

And just before a damned profanity can even leave the lips, the damned pager beeps yet again.

By the way, you can slam down on the screaming alarm clock to shut it off but God help those who heedlessly try to shut this particular noise off. Unfortunately that horrible manipulative little black box runs the life of every doctor in the world and remains one of the most sacrosanct objects in medical divinity. For the majority of my superiors, its imminent destruction would be counted as near sacrilege ( despite many residents occasionally wishing to viciously smash the pager to little unrecognisable bits with a hammer ) and getting shunned with immediate excommunication from the parish would probably be just the tip of the iceberg. Wouldn't surprise me if the Rack wasn't brought out to punish heedless members of the fraternity.

One of the downsides of actually watching medical dramas such as Grey's Anatomy and House is inevitably hearing that hated pager ringing - and yet it fills me with almost unholy glee to see some other unlucky sucker getting the call. Nothing like watching another doctor rushing heedlessly towards their next emergency call - especially when you're watching from the cushioned comfort of the couch at home with chips in hand - and occasionally with my tv buddy Big Bicep Barry watching perplexed as I cackle maleficently over every medical mishap. People ask why I enjoy watching medical dramas when I've probably had my fill at work and all I can do is smile and shake my head in a shy non-committal way.

Honestly though, I secretly love watching some other bastard get the back-breaking work :) There's nothing as satisfying as seeing a patient go home well knowing that you've done your level best but it's even more fun watching someone else - preferably your colleague - sweat and swear over every little complication.

BTW none of the doctors here wear briefs like the leopard print ones above - well, none that I know, unless Handsome Hui my friend of the disreputable shack fame would like to enlighten us on this :)

Mindless

An overworked grump I've always been - and possibly always will be. That is unless I finally get my own little House of Dreams complete with sexy workaholic husband and two orphaned Third-World kids - whereupon as you all know by now, I shall quit my low-paying job to morph into a desperately content housefrau who DIY reupholsters the living room sofa, paints the fences and bakes the perfect chocolate chip cookies to the green-eyed envy of his frustrated neighbours.

Till that fateful day when I finally trade in my scrubs, I still have my little pet peeves that number in the hundreds. Tardiness remains at the top of that chart and it's one of the things I find absolutely unforgivable. An unwavering respect for punctuality has been resolutely ingrained in me by my strict mama - hammered into my skull is more like it - and despite the occasional slip-ups ( sometimes due to no fault of mine since critically ill patients never seem to keep to a regular schedule! ), I've always tried my level best to keep my appointments. With all the clocks at home obsessively adjusted to five minutes earlier than the norm, coming late has become as rare an occurrence for me as a midnight fire-sale in Louis Vuitton. Always strikes me as ironic that those who stay the closest frequently arrive last, mouthing inane excuses that only makes me grit my teeth to stop myself from delivering a Five Fingered Fist of Death.

Although I shouldn't judge everyone by the same hellacious depths of anal-retentiveness, impatience has always been one of my besetting sins and the devil in me tends to sprout horns when tardiness makes an appearance. Fortunately for the continued existence of mankind as we know it, the devil's horns are balanced out by my patent inability to speak especially when I'm in a mindless rage. Articulation and speech flees my mind when naked fury possesses me and it's all I can do to string a couple of words together into a complete sentence since my mind's filled to the brim with maniacal Mephistophelian plots for the tardy perpetrator. Quite a relief since otherwise, the world would be full of unwitting victims slashed to ribbons by my careless tongue.


Planning world domination!
Even seemingly invincible Big Bicep Barry wasn't spared from my garbled, unintelligible fury today. Since his aging cellphone was apparently throwing the technological equivalent of a hissy fit ( most likely post menopausal ), he found himself unable to reply to the urgent trio of SMSes that I shot at him when he was unaccountably delayed.

Barry ( breathless ) : Hey, sorry I'm late.
Paul : Grrrr...
Barr : Hope you don't mind but I got caught up with a client and I had to finish up my...
Paul : Grrrr...
Barry : Hey, you okay? I'm terribly sorry.
Paul : I am okay. No worries.
Barry : Well, you look a bit pissed.
Paul : I AM NOT ANGRY. And the smoke rising from my head is just CGI.

I could have sworn I almost bit off my tongue ( and obviously I never said that last line out loud though I could have sworn I mumbled it out ). Fortunately even as I felt the irreversible change descending upon me like some evil malignant cloud, I realized that Barry certainly didn't deserve the wrath of my dark side descending upon him and managed to restrain myself from committing any unforgivable deeds. Still, I really was this close to leaping at him with fangs bared - not sure whether it was to viciously rip out his throat or to gnaw gently on his boner however. Perhaps it was a little bit of both.

Peerless

Not often that I actually managed to catch my breath while I'm at work - especially so when I'm going through a 24 hour shift. Last night however proved to be a surprising respite from my usually hectic calls and I actually managed to steal a half hour break. Since my schedule's pretty tight nowadays, I usually find myself too busy in the evenings to tune in to the regular Chinese drama serials that play around primetime but last night's fortunate circumstance had me sipping my restorative java just in time to catch a glimpse of one of my favourite childhood stories brought to reel life.

The wuxia genre has been gaining some prominence lately especially with the success of martial arts movies such as Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon and House of Flying Daggers. Of course that only means an introduction to the Hollywood studios since such martial arts films have always been a staple in this part of the world.

Surely one of the great fictional romances in the Chinese medium, the Return of the Condor Heroes ( or otherwise 神雕侠侣 ) tells the story of the budding martial arts hero Yang Guo and his youthful mentor, Xiao Long Nu. Since a relationship between a student and a teacher is forbidden and frowned upon in ancient Chinese feudal society, the couple had to undergo a host of trials and tribulations for several decades ( just imagine waiting patiently for sixteen years! ) before finally coming together. Disenfranchised and neglected as a young boy due to his father's treachery, Yang Guo finds a special bond with his innocent, naive mentor, Xiao Long Nu, who has literally lived in seclusion in the Ancient Tomb to practice her martial arts.

The original James Dean rebel without a cause, Yang Guo remains one of Jin Yong's best loved fictional characters. Despite being literally entombed for part of his young life, Yang Guo himself turns out to be crafty, brash, unconventional and most of all unpredictable - and yet an utterly charming fellow who manages to bewitch the heart of every maiden who comes his way. Somehow though despite being separated from Xiao Long Nu due to unfortunate circumstances ( and obviously the machinations of those who wish them apart ), the impossibly loyal Yang Guo remains hopelessly and steadfastly in love with his chosen one despite the lures of other lesser females. I'm more than a little in love myself.

Despite the corny summary that I've just subjected you guys to, the story itself is far more complex and intricate than the paltry bits I've just outlined. So intriguing is this story that after the short span of a few years, there is always a new version of the story being filmed somewhere in the Chinese diaspora. Apart from the host of contrasting personalities populating the book and the intrigues that bind them, there is of course the stunning high-flying martial arts sequences that have always remained a highlight of the wuxia genre.


Come try my Jade Maiden Heart's Swordsplay!
Oddly enough when I first met Big Bicep Barry, he mentioned a particular fondness for Jin Yong's novels. Perhaps it really is my imagination but I think Barry's right in saying that every guy who's been in a chinese medium school ( well the ones I know! ) seems to have read one of Jin Yong's martial arts novels. Amazing but true! In this part of the world, it seems almost like a rite of passage in a young chinese boy's life to go through the acrobatic stylings of his wuxia characters. Although fictional in nature of course, his books are often said to be a window into Chinese customs and culture - with references ranging from traditional Chinese medicine, acupuncture, music, calligraphy, philosophical thoughts and even hints at the the unfolding history of imperial China.

And of course the martial arts I mentioned before. Haven't read it of course but Barry assures me that the books are filled to the brim with extremely detailed though improbable feats of martial arts prowess by harnessing some sort of inner strength. Easy enough to understand the fascination since who hasn't actually thought about slamming a Five Fingered Fist of Death at a leering enemy. Or testing out the Jade Dragon Neck Twisting Technique on a Bountiful Betty ( okay, that's just me of course! ).

Unfortunately, I never had the opportunity to read any of his books. My comprehension of Chinese words has become dismally rusty after years of disuse - and it wouldn't surprise me if a mere primary student ( and a sadly stupid one at that ) could easily surpass me. Maybe Barry could read me some bedtime stories :) If not I shall have to threaten the use of the Paralyzing Thumb of Death!

Jin Yong Reading Room
Divine Eagle, Gallant Knight

Reckless

Coming out of the closet is an everyday process for a gay man.

For a heterosexual guy, this doesn't seem to be a problem since everyone else expects his sexual orientation to veer towards the accepted norm. But for a homosexual man, it gets to be quite a pickle since there is always an all-too-ready assumption that all men are slobbering hound dogs with a yen for scoping out the hot chicks. It would be wonderful if who I fuck doesn't actually matter at all but that never seems to be the case. Once you're out to your friends, it seems that you're tagged and labelled as the token gay guy with your sexual orientation stamped like the proverbial scarlet letter on your forehead. Suddenly everything you do seems to be irrevocably tied to your sexual orientation.

Which is why I'm taking my time telling the news. The past year has recorded some of the teeny baby steps I've made coming out of the closet. Although I've confided in a few of my friends, a few more perspicacious ones have inadvertently stumbled upon it - no thanks to the mild notoriety of my blog. A little disconcerting, I have to admit but I guess it does help ease the way sometimes. Makes me wonder who else I know actually reads this :)

Not everyone in my family is privy to this which is why I still frequently get the Question. For those who assume that I lead a charmed life without much discord, this would come as a startling surprise I'm sure.

Been a while since I had my little whine but this seems to be the time. Not only am I wrestling with questions on the future of my career ( and my sudden wavering interest in pursuing further education and the insane desire to turn into a househusband / shopkeeper of some sort ), I'm suddenly bombarded on all angles by the loaded Question. Surely most of us unmarried singletons have gone through some variation on the similar dull theme of 'Why aren't you seeing anyone? No nice girls around meh? When are you going to get married?'

Usually I'm able to brush off those questions but lately however that particular broken record has been getting rather heavy radio play on Dr Paul's FM. As we all know, Asian cultures place a heavy emphasis on familial ties and there's nothing quite as important as perpetuating the family name - which I'm obviously failing to do - hence the parental pressure to go forth and multiply. One-sided debates on my state of bachelorhood have been raging around me for the past year, more so especially after a few of my ungrateful younger cousins have gotten themselves hitched.

There are times I actually feel like being absolutely reckless - just sitting down to a family dinner and impulsively blurting out 'I'm gay' but then once I pick up my fork and spoon, I start to lose my nerve. Not only because of the endless barrage of probing questions ( possibly even an MCQ with essays included! ) but also because of the very real possibility of choking amongst my captive audience ( and I'd certainly not be in the mood for a Heimlich just about then ) . Surely there'll also be the inevitable question of whether I'm sure of my choice - especially since I'm still single.

Dammit.

Things would be that much simpler if I could just club and drag some eligible looking fella back to my cave to parade around. Just a nice regular kinda guy who'd be able to charm the socks off my parents - and of course me. :)

Tactless

Youth and idealism certainly comes hand in hand. Just fresh out of school, we're usually full of rose-tinted dreams and towering ambitions, filled with righteous fire and zeal all ready to make our mark and conquer the world. And yet even with the most hardened, cynical teenager, there's always this certain innocence and naivete that lends itself to the most surprising ( and ultimately refreshing ) comments.

Surprisingly even with the patent charms of his disreputable shack, Handsome Hui has somehow managed to lure two unsuspecting tenants into his shadowy lair - no doubt enticed by the alluring sight of his barely clad lean physique ( oh wait, that's me! ). Like the bewitched, bothered and bewildered victims of horror flicks, the two innocents marched blindly to their doom as they unwittingly set up camp in Handsome Hui's House of Horrors.

As I tried my best to save the stumbling duo, I managed to whisk the younger partner away for lunch... hereby called Junior Jesse. The surprisingly charming, youthful barista certainly didn't find anything amiss in the House of Horrors despite the eeriely swinging porch, the flickering neon lights and the dangling cobwebs. Obviously the ubiquitous Amityville Mansion interior design style seems to have found an ardent fan in him. All my attempts to draw him away from certain doom turned out a sad failure as Jesse seemed patently oblivious to it all. Hui just watched me balefully over his lunch, possibly promising painful tortures with whips, leather and hot oils... ( wait, that's me again! )

Still the lunch didn't turn out to be a waste of my effort since Jesse's foot-in-the-mouth disease turned out to be quite painfully hilarious.

Jesse : So that's how you got to know Hui. You work with him?
Paul : Yeah, I do. See him quite often at work actually.
Jesse : Do you guys eat each other often?

As you can believe, I practically choked on a wantan. Word for word, that's what he said. And since Handsome Hui has actually found his way to my humble blog, he can certainly confirm what was said. Thankfully, what Junior Jesse actually meant was did we take lunch together - and not some purported attempt at cannibalism. Innocent mistake, I'm sure, and I was quick to point out that I have never actually had the chance to eat, lick or bite on any portion of Handsome Hui.

Still, it did give me some deliciously wicked ideas. :)

Feckless

Surprisingly, it didn't take much to persuade my movie posse to catch the latest Tom Cruise vehicle, Mission Impossible 3 today - especially since it turned out that Preity Posh is a true-blue Katie Holmes wannabe. However, true to the ads, the little Napoleon has practically taken over the entire franchise, turning the other team members into merely bit-part supporting players for his lead - and practically making the entire IMF merely ornamental to his character's mission. This certainly isn't the teamwork of the Mission Impossible teams of yore since it's pretty obvious who's running the show.


Big Big Explosions!
Let's face it, Tom Cruise certainly isn't going to win awards for drama anytime soon but his mask-like face seems to suit him in this movie as the enigmatic Ethan Hunt - apart from the nearly torturous scenes as he tries his best to convey his feelings to his amore, only to end up looking quite pitifully constipated instead. Still there's action aplenty over here - and if you like trailers and helicopters exploding with little victimized pedestrians being scattered like mindless ants, you'd love this.

Unsurprisingly Big Bicep Barry refused to join the posse in this impossible mission which left Handsome Hui, Shameless Shalom and the ever-enthusiastic Preity Posh to round up the team. Suggested to Big Bicep Barry that he might enjoy watching Tom Cruise flash his trademark million dollar grin before he blasts his way through an impossible array of bullets that miss him only by a hair's breadth but Barry declined, citing work commitments, rising fuel costs and a surprising yen for non-violence. Certainly explains why we haven't seen any action films together.

Admittedly kinda odd for any friend of mine since I'm quite well known in these parts for my bizarre ( near homicidal and possibly psychotic ) fantasies of viciously throttling anyone who gets in my way - and wishing ill karma on those who are too far away for my eager hands. Every once my dark side rears up again and I find myself dreaming up the most deliciously wicked schemes. Which might explain how I always end up rooting for the villains.

A few hot men abound, littering the screen, but none last long enough on the screen to outshine Tom of course. You'll have to watch to find out who exactly I rooted for but it's certainly not the prissy Capote whining over his rabbit's foot ( the impossibly evil Phillip Seymour Hoffman ). Please, I have good taste in men. Still, I should have known better than to trust the sleek, sexy types in suits. Sigh. Somehow the pretty ones always betray you in the end.

Then again, I wouldn't have shot him. I'd have tortured him slowly - perhaps played with him a little before the end. Revenge always tastes better when it's dragged on a little, don't you think?

Speechless

Turns out that it's particularly fitting to talk about different voices especially since I'm glued to American Idol - and also because I've had a slight tickle in my throat for the past few days.

Voices always come as a surprise actually. While occasionally stereotypes do actually ring true - that perky blond cheerleader really could have the squealy, high-pitched ever-enthusiastic voice that makes you wanna wring her neck and the husky, smoky siren's voice could actually belong to the exotic goddess beckoning you over at the end of the bar, it is also quite possible that the sexy, masculine baritone that practices pure seduction over the airwaves belongs to an old, arthritic granny knitting crochet on her rocking chair. Even the underachieving finalist on American Idol, Elliott Yamin with his plain, average man kinda looks has an indescribably beautiful voice that sounds almost sublime on stage. Over at work, I've seen it often enough to believe that the old jokes actually holds true.

Unlike the obsessive karaoke idol wannabes - like my woefully untalented neighbour who wails unthinkingly all evening long in tune with the mewling cats, not everyone has the guts to go live impromptu - certainly not me despite my seemingly all-confident persona online. My astounding vocal talents, whatever they might be, are forever confined to the four small walls of my shower I'm afraid. Big Bicep Barry, for one, doesn't seem to have any qualms over wielding the all-powerful microphone in public. Certainly not short of confidence, that one. Though I haven't heard him belt out some tunes, even Charming Calvin has mentioned an odd predilection ( fetish? ) for karaoke bars.

Just yesterday while Barry was humming a tune under his breath - shall I tell you that he secretly sings My Hips Don't Lie? - he confided in me that he secretly wishes that his voice was different. For a guy who maneuvres his hulking vehicle in town with those big arms, it always surprises me that his singing voice is far from what one would expect. Think more of a high tenor... which is why he wishes for a robust baritone which I assume would be more in keeping with his brawn.

Oddly enough, my voice deepens, smoothens and becomes almost irresistibly husky when I'm actually painfully aching in my throat - kinda like I am right now though it's getting better. Normally a horribly nasal baritenor that practically mimics Nanny Fine in the early hours of the morning ( and fortunately becomes more recognisably human as the day goes by ), my tone drops several octaves when I fall miserably ill - and suddenly I'm mumbling in the lower bass tones like Michael Buble / Jack Johnson.

Which is why tonight I'm gonna jive with the jazz musicians and challenge the screeching diva several doors down. Time for some sweet revenge.

Breathless

For some reason, this seems to be my week for perpetuating the erroneous myth that gay men are sadly undeniably shallow in their mindless pursuit of youth and beauty. For those who actually doubt that good looks actually matter in the real world, look no further.

Those who have read my blog incessantly would notice a brief mention I made weeks back about a fresh-faced young patient of mine. Well, not that juvenile after all since the Breathless Brat's already a virile eighteen but still, the kid's practically a younger brother to me now since he seems to have an unusual ( I would all it uncanny! ) predilection for falling desperately breathless during my calls. Though we have made astounding leaps in medical technology, bronchial asthma still remains as one of the tougher diseases to beat - and every once in a while, the occasional non-compliant asthmatic still finds himself landed in the intensive care.

Just to prove my point, Breathless Brat has been in here more times than I've gotten laid in the past year. Either stress or some other precipitating factor - that I have been unable to elicit - seems to be tipping him off every few months. To add to his woes, the Brat occasionally misses his treatments.

It was just at the tip of my tongue to ream him out for being such a foolish idiot but once he turns those doe-eyed brown eyes to me with that piteous look, I found myself melting. Sigh. It's never easy ranting over the importance of being compliant to his medications and generally scaring the living daylights out of the kid when you're too busy being distracted by the sight of his nicely cut abs.


Come get me...
For those who are wondering, I don't usually go for smooth-faced twinks barely out of school. The jailbait I mentioned looks yummy but rosy-cheeked, barely-adult boys just don't do it for me. No offense meant but I like my men to look and feel like MEN after all :) Some men look better clean shaven but that doesn't hold true for all guys. The scruffy look has its advantages. After all, there's nothing quite like the feel of a scruffy man's chin, chockful of bristles, as he rubs it across my neck just enough for a light burn.

Eye of the Beholder

They say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder - but every once in a while you find a lucky guy that almost everyone beholds as beautiful. Sure, I usually decry the fatal obsession that gay men have over good looks but every once in a while I realize I'm not exactly immune myself.


The Eye of the Beholder!
Certainly not anyone I know personally of course - since associating with such magnificent gods would have poor average me surely dying a slow, painful death. That doesn't seem to be a problem for my infamous ISO though. During one of our irregular meets, I dragged him out to a certain shopping mall and as we were entering the mall, we bumped into one of his gym acquiantances ( I just realized I don't even know what gym he goes to! :O I assume it's Fitness First! ).

Believe me when I say this guy looked amazing. Not sure where I've seen him before but Mr Cover Boy had one of those familiar faces that could have appeared in some hair or shampoo ads ( or perhaps in my wet dreams! ). Sure, my ISO is no slouch when it comes to the looks department but Mr Cover Boy was absolutely breath-taking. Not only did he have the prerequisite gym freak bod with all the attending muscular lumps and bumps but he also had the most amazingly smooth skin I've ever seen in a man, seemingly as smooth and poreless as alabaster and surely his toothy megawatt smile would have made an orthodontist weep in gratitude. God, you just had to hate him but the boy turned out to be charmingly bashful - and only in his early twenties, damn him!

After the brief introductions were made - that actually passed in a hormonal blur since I was literally transfixed by the boy's well-built chest - we made some small chat. Well, my ISO said everything that was proper while I gaped in a disconcerting way over the poor Cover Boy like a dumb, drooling Quasimodo.

Cover Boy : Oh and you're ISO's older brother?
Paul : No, I'm his father.
Cover Boy : Uhh.. I'm sorry. I just meant that...
My ISO : Not a problem. He's off his medications today so he's a little grumpy.
Paul : Grrr...

Of course I was mostly silent since any attempt to drag me into the conversation would have had me falling lips first onto the boy's perky nipples. After Cover Boy left - and I drooled mightily over his tight behind, my ISO saw fit to give me a light whack on my head to help me regain some coherence.

My ISO : What was up with that? You didn't say a single word back there.
Paul : Couldn't speak. My tongue was on the floor.
My ISO : He does look good, doesn't he?
Paul : Damn, wouldn't I give anything to walk in his shoes.
My ISO : Your wickedness in such a body? That would seriously wreak havoc in the civilized world as we know it. Anyway, nothing that good genes, a proper diet, regular facials and gym work wouldn't cure.
Paul : Yeah. Yeah. Like that ever worked. You dated him?
My ISO : No. Contrary to what you think, I don't sleep with everyone.
Paul : That's not what they're saying in the locker rooms.

If this post seems charmingly incoherent, it probably is. Seriously though, say what you will about the shallowness of pretty packaging but still it must be great to look that good. What must it be like to walk into a store, pick out the most outrageous pile of gunny sack and still come out looking absolutely fabulous? Hell, if I looked like him I'd be modelling underwear. It's good to share after all.

And no, this doesn't count as skanky since it's all in my head and I didn't say or do anything remotely kinky at all!