Why the world needs a Clark Kent

Who doesn't love a muscular macho man in blue form-fitting tights and a red cape who runs around saving lives and upholding truth and justice? No? How about a guy who's just as American as Ma Kent's apple pie, never tells lies and is the original comic book Boy Scout - who saves helpless kittens from trees and helps little old ladies cross the road? Also no? Damn, you're a hard customer.

How about something a little more shallow then? If that amazingly toned Kryptonian physique doesn't catch the eye, surely those devilish blue eyes and that devastating smile is enough to melt hearts of stone.

For those who weren't there when it first opened in the cinemas decades back ( as many of us weren't ) Superman Returns opens with a great homage to the previous installments. Right from the beginning, there is the pulsing signature John Williams theme with a slightly retro version of the credits flashing forwards onto the screen. Hard not to feel those goosebumps of excitement stream down your forearm just listening to the thrumming melody.

The overall feel of the movie is an obvious comic fanboy's dedication to the films that came before from the updated 1950s feel of the set and costumes to the slightly remixed versions of the original melodies ( including the terribly saccharine sweet romantic Lois and Clark refrain ). Retaining the spirit of the comic book, there is a larger-than-life hero, a deliciously wicked villain and a charming heroine who manages not to whine too much. Well at least this time around, Lois Lane doesn't whine too much or PMS rant over her little rages. Seriously, what's there to continually bitch about with a man of steel by your side?

Seems like our intrepid girl reporter shouldn't be the one bitching. Just look at poor ignored Clark Kent, our innocent farmboy from Kansas, who surely feels the added pressure. How could he possibly charm Lois Lane with his sweet schoolboy manners and his fumbling antics when his sleeker alter-ego literally swoops in to steal the scene - and the girl? Forever making him the desperate also-ran who never quite catches the eye of the girl he loves.

Which sucks majorly for me. Seriously. For a dedicated fanboy like me, the Clark Kent of the comicbook world has evolved far beyond the bumbling clodhead regularly pictured in the movies. Sure, the man's still old-fashioned and bashful as hell but he's also a published author and a Pulitzer Prize winner. Give the man some credit, willya! Let's not forget, he's always been Clark Kent first and foremost with Superman as his alterego - and never the other way around.

Look, let's not lie. The big biceps, the megawatt smile and the skintight spandex are all awfully distracting but there's always something about big, awkward colts who knock over the stationery files as he stumbles by. Somehow or rather for all of Superman's bright technicolour flash, I'm still more than a little attracted to the glimmer of Clark's bashful smile.

Odd Tidings

While I'm at work, I occasionally get the most interesting messages - which was fortunate today since I'm still recovering from my awful on-call the day before. The day or two after a really bad call day can be likened to a massive 24 hour hangover where your head aches painfully with a dull lassitude and your eyelids feel weighted down with rocks.

Nature obviously abhors a vacuum. Since my recent transfer, there has been a severe lack of maleficence in my old workplace - though according to the latest rumours, that space has been sufficiently filled up by a buffed up, bitchy Handsome Hui. Or so the man claims. Thankfully, he seems to have learnt quite a bit during my tenure there and he continues to uphold the inherently wicked reputation of bitchdoctors by biting the heads of unwary colleagues.

Still my evil deeds has certainly lent me a certain cachet. My inexplicable ( and obviously well known ) fear of crowds led to an unusual call an hour ago from an old friend of mine Fearful Fran who's purportedly planning another wild reunion. Tremulously he reported to me that there would be a scheduled .... 13 guests appearing at the Last Supper. Why that should turn me into a raging crazed monster is beyond me.

Wonder who's gonna be the hottie Judas.

Clark Kents

In the light of day, sanity returns and it's appalling to note that I actually lean towards the borderline psychotic during the night with vague recollections of my maniacal Mr Hyde behaviour the evening before. Fortunately for my sanity my mind has developed a defence mechanism whereby all recalled memories of the night before flash by in patchy, incoherent MTV video-like clips especially when it comes to the more unsavoury bits. Certainly helps especially when I've disemboweled more than a few of my bountiful enemies in the night - though I swear I don't remember.

A few hours of sleep is usually what I need to regain some semblance of sanity which has me hiking to a certain undisclosed location to avail myself of their wifi connection. Slut that I am - and with my inhibitions lowered since I'm blissfully groggy with half-conscious dreams, I purposely picked the cutest hunk in a tie and glasses ( can I say that I love a man in a tie? ) and forcibly jammed myself on the same rickety table with him. One of those sweet, bashful Clark Kent types you wanna get down and dirty with in a public phone booth hoping to find a bird or a plane. Fumbling for an answer, the poor adorably straight guy was visibly stunned to find his personal space literally violated. Or perhaps his eyes were dilating over the fact that I was surfing gay porn in public.


Uhh.. you talking to me?
Who knows. I'm barely conscious this morning and couldn't give a damn. Still Khaki Ken as I've dubbed him makes some nice eye candy as I go through a meme sent by a Defiant gay man. Had some serious thoughts of accidentally spilling some hot mocha on his khakis so that I could cheerfully help him mop up. Revised that particular salacious plan since I didn't have the time, he seemed a tad too straight-laced - and I'm actually growing up into a partially responsible adult, dammit.

Still , I needed some points for him to fulfil the requests of the meme. He wasn't all too forward with answers though.

Paul : 8 Different Points About Your Perfect Lover... hmmm... so much to choose, so little time.
Ken : Uhh... you talking to me?
Paul : Yeah, why not. Any ideas?
Ken : The perfect lover?

Poor guy looked like a trapped rabbit under headlights and I took pity on him so here's my take on that particular meme.

1. Must adore me and cherish me completely without any qualifications. What can I say? I'm an all-or-nothing kinda guy.
2. Has to have some semblance of a sense of humour. Dismally dour dullards, get out of my way. The guy I like has to be able to laugh at himself, occasionally at and with me - and possibly be able to keep up with my quips. Asking me exactly what I meant can slowly grate on my nerves since I don't do reruns. :P
3. A generous soul. Splitting the bill is quite alright ( unless I'm dating some Richie Rich type whereupon I shall expect to be wined and dined like a queen ) but slice it down to exact dollars and cents - and I'm outta there. Certainly don't mind offering a treat once in a while so why nitpick over a few cents?
4. Intelligence. Certainly no need to have a genius-level Stephen Hawking but at least some scraps of gray and white matter should be present in the cranium. Having air in the head is not a pretty sight.
5. Should be tolerant over the little details and let some things slide - since no one's perfect ( least of all flawed me! ). Don't pick things over time and again with a relentless fine comb and bitch endlessly about it - since I'll be sure to morph into a revengeful Mr Hyde.
6. Enjoys sex without the puritanical hang-ups of a starched-up Victorian schoolmarm. Seriously, this if far more important than I can say :P Even better if a tad oversexed. Anytime. Anywhere. Ready for action. Yummy.
7. Tall. Not a prerequisite but since I'm already a freaking midget, my guy should at least be my height or taller lah.
8. Big gym toned arms. Also not a prerequisite but I just had to say it since I just saw a bunch of fit hawt gym boys ( who don't work! ) walk by. Good to cuddle, good to show off in sleeveless tees and good to carry my hefty shopping bags and unscrew metal bolts.

Anyone who fulfils the criteria above is certainly welcome to send in an application. Being a technowhiz with mechanical skills would be a plus! Sorry but I can't offer much apart from a lifetime of caffe mochas, endless subservience and some crappy overused jokes. :)

Dulled at 4

Yes. Look at the freaking time. It's really 4 in the morning. While everyone's floating in the arms of Somnus, I just had a patient with a bleeding aneurysm on my table. I'm chilled to the bone and semi-hypoglycaemic, my hair's in a permanent tornado fritz and my brain's practically mush after working from 8 yesterday morning.

Took a break from doing cases for five minutes to get away from it all - had to do so before I went literally insane and started smashing my own head repeatedly against the white walls just to watch it smear brilliantly scarlet. God, I really do sound maniacally Arkham Asylum suicidal at 4 in the morning. No wonder my loyal nurses steer clear of me in the early hours. :P

Worry not for my mental health though since my regular breaks ( and my shopping expeditions... thank the Lord ) keep me relatively sane in the general sense. Regular sweaty mansex would be the best release of course but that's certainly few and far in between.

Still... inspired by the dullest blog in the world - and memed by the ever lovin' Wingedman Will, I've decided to say something extremely dull.

I worked. I worked and I worked some more. The morning never comes.

Damn, maybe I should have done that in haiku.

Going Transamerica

One of the common misapprehensions the general Malaysian public has about gay men are that we're all somehow innately obsessed with turning into women - hence the prevalence of the ever present campy drag queens and the seeming tolerance in Asian societies.

Although that certainly does seem to be the case for some special gay boys - notice how terribly ice queeny some can be when provoked, it doesn't hold true for everyone. A significant number actually find it terrifying to teeter about in precarious four-inch stilettos with feather boas slung rakishly about their shoulders. Perhaps that stereotypical image is an easier one for the general public to swallow rather than the idea that a typically macho John Wayne type could possibly fall for someone of his own gender - ala Brokeback Mountain.

Still, I am sure Bree would have her own points to make for that. Yeah, boys and girls, I've finally taken the time to watch Transamerica ( since I wrongly assumed before this that it would be a God-damned preachy Hallmark infomercial ) and by golly, I am glad I finally did!

Played by the fabulous Felicity Huffman, the perfectly adjusted, exceedingly conservative transsexual Stanley is about to that final step to becoming Bree, the woman he always wanted to be - until he finds out just before his sexual reassignment surgery that he is the parent of a long-lost son, Toby. Playing the role of an uptight Christian missionary to the hilt, Bree bails the brooding Toby from prison. Afraid to tell the rebellious teenager the truth, the mismatched duo embarks on a roadtrip that will challenge and change both their lives. Deadly serious dramatic scenes like the scene where Toby encounters his abusive stepfather are interspersed with the occasional bit of light-hearted whimsy that keeps the movie from turning into the preachy sermon I mentioned above.

Seriously, go drop by your friendly dvd pirates for a peek since the movie seems to have finally reached our shores. Don't hold your breath waiting for it to appear in our regular cinemas though. A movie about a raging transsexual who finds a long lost son who happens to be a gay hustler? Somehow I think our ultraconservative uptight censors would all have a communal apoplexy.


Let me do what I do best...
Certainly the delicious shots of the incredibly hot Kevin Zegers who plays the boy hustler Toby would no doubt have caused some serious brain fritz in some of them.

Maths Phobia

Hands up for all those who hate Mathematics.

Yeah, I hope I'm seeing a sizeable number since I simply can't be a minority in this. Ever since my first 1 2 3 in kindergarten, I've developed an unaccountable dislike of numbers, mathematical formulas and the like. Perhaps it was the monotonous study of mathematics with all the memorizing inscrutable formulas and neverending tables that simply drove me insane. Perhaps it was the dull, didactic way of teaching with the teacher droning on at the front of the class about the Pythagoras theorem. Or perhaps ( most likely ) it was the endlessly towering math homework skyscraper that loomed impossibly on the study table every evening demanding exacting servitude.


Solve this puzzle!
So, what do you get when you add and integrate two good friends who have swapped spit and bodily fluids previously with an inordinately expensive bottle of sangria? Not only do you get the villification of certain enemies who shall remain unnamed - together with a thorough examination of what exactly it would take to successfully erase them from the face of this earth - but you also get the odd vastly disconnected subject such as a shared hatred of Mathematics, the charms of a certain Calvin ( which prompted an odd message that must have puzzled the man ) and the merits of snogging the cute waiter.

My ISO and I have a shared enmity of the hated subject that has lasted for decades since we were both little devils in blue primary shorts. Perhaps that was what drew us together in the beginning since at a time when every other exemplary student was busy tattooing the multiplication tables in their brains, we were both wondering how to successfully avoid being called to the dreaded blackboard to recite the sums with the teachers spouting unintelligible rubbish about the jobs of calculation. Till now, the solution to 6 times 7 remains an absolute mystery. Thank God we have calculators for that now.

Almost impossible to forget the evenings I spent cursing the demonic slave teachers for inflicting the torture of endless mathematical sums on us. Come to think about it, fantasizing highly improbable deaths for them all must have been the trigger for my highly creative imagination. Once I finished school, I swore to never touch another Maths book and never have until now. Damned statistics and fucking calculus. Literally danced over my mathematic textbooks and workbooks as I gathered them up in a blazing bonfire at the end of the semester and lit them up with glee.

BTW all this talk about Mathematics is how Charming Calvin actually came into the picture since the man offers the occasional maths tutorial apart from actually enjoying the occasional mathematical puzzle - and even the bleeding Sudoku but that's another thing entirely. Both my artistically inclined ISO and I found such deliberately mind-bending hobbies absolutely unfathomable. Attempting mathematical monstrosities for fun?! What comes next is possibly running about the streets mildly deranged, half-naked and soaking wet from a bathtub while joyfully yelling Eureka!

Calvin is not the only certifiable mathsfreak obviously. Just last week my little niece ( hereby dubbed ExtraEnergetic Emma ) surprised me by bringing out a Maths for Toddlers workbook from her magical bottomless minipouch leaving me utterly flabbergasted. OMIGOD. They are actually torturing kids now? Oddly enough, the lil tyke / genius likes it. Not sure where she gets the gene from but I do recall my brother leaving Maths lessons with a differentiated smile.

Chill Pill

Distraught over the idea that I might be morphing into some melodramatic diva termagant - judging by my mild display yesterday ( well, for mild-mannered me, it's a display! ), I knew that I'd have to find solace in something other than a chill pill. Already dangerous enough to be in my situation practically surrounded by bags of chill pills waiting, I knew there had to be a better solution.

Who else but the guy I've known almost half my life. It was hard enough to get through to him today and he finally replied to my messages pretty late in the evening when I was already hiking halfway to dreamland ( since it's been a literal hard day's work for the whole damned week ). Then again, I should have known better than to expect my ISO to offer soothing panacea. Usually the bugger prefers the guerilla tactics of a quick splash of freezing ice cold water to knock me out of my complaisance.

Paul : I was damned pissed off yesterday.
My ISO : Man, when are you ever not?
Paul : What?!
My ISO : Forget I said anything.
Paul : I'm shy, timid and gentle, dammit.
My ISO : *snort* Don't try to pull that on me, you dominatrix!
Paul : What?

Dominatrix? Seriously, where does the man get his expressions? :O Of course then he came out with some tangled explanation of how we were both intense, partly psychotic type A personalities and described some Jung-Myers-Briggs thing ( possibly some extracurricular rubbish he picked up in university ) saying that we should take it easy sometimes. Took me a while to absorb his certifiably insane yammerings since I was too shellshocked by the earlier dominatrix comment - and wondering suspiciously whether I should take umbrage.

Still, he made me curious enough to google it! :)

You Have A Type A+ Personality

You're driven to succeed every single second of the day And you don't let up on your goals, no matter how tired you are You've already achieved a lot in your life... but it's not enough for you Always on the go, you tend to get things done quickly and effectively You have the personality to be a successful enterpreneur Just remember to play a little too, even if play is the most difficult thing for you!

Do You Have a Type A Personality?

What fucking entrepreneur?! Good God. Don't they know about my ambitions to be the perfect Stepford Househusband?

Call the Doctor Stat

Probably said this before ( actualyl pretty sure about it snice it's a common gripe for doctors and their spouses ) but I gotta say that it's almost impossible to make plans with someone like me.

Although my schedule is neatly printed out on paper as conforming to the regular office hours maintained by every other average salaryman, that never seems to be the case. Once in a while, we do manage to finish our work early but that's extremely rare - almost as rare as sighting a Pussycat Dolls CD in Big Bicep Barry's car. Usually it's work till the sun literally sets which justifies the reason why doctors are all preternaturally pale from a severe lack of sunlight exposure.

On the rare days that we actually do finish early ( by some mysterious magical voodoo trick ), it's quite common to be interrupted just as we're leaving with our coats and trusty stethoscopes stashed in our travelling backpacks ( certainly explains why we all scurry like rats the minute work is over ). I call it that naughty twist of fate. Just as we manage to stuff our things into the trunk, our pager or our phone inevitably rings.

Just the horrible beep is enough to set my heart tripping. And I know someone's in trouble. Although it would be great to dump all the work on someone else, I usually find it almost impossible to start running on reflex.

******
4 hours later

Good God. Is that what I sound like? Damn. It's like some frustrated, insane alter-ego Mr Hyde speaking. I think I really need a chill pill! :) Then again, could I possibly blame it on sexual frustration?

Baiting the Bull

In the beginning, friendships are fragile and need lots of precious time and tender loving care to grow. Or at least that's what my buddy Big Bicep Barry claims.

After getting over the initial awkwardness of being summarily rejected ( well, the man claims it wasn't a rejection but let's take it as it is, alright ), there is always a quiet interminable silence before a gradual resumption of diplomatic ties. Fortunately Big Bicep Barry skipped all that melodrama when he asked me out the other night. Since the friendnaissance, things have changed between us and although I still get the occasional nervous palpitation when I see his big biceps, now I get to tease him about them too.

Which is infinitely more fun. Not as exhilarating as naked, sweaty romps in the bedroom but we'll take what we can get.

Paul : Ooh. Tight white tee really shows off your bronzed arms.
Barry : Stop it.
Paul : Maybe if you tugged the shirt out a little and showed off your abs.
Barry : Not gonna happen. Eat your popcorn.

Let's say you've got to be there. When he complained bitterly about working late and finding it nigh impossible to achieve his sales targets ( apart from hocking his kidney on the black market ), I told him a secret.

Paul : Hot guys actually work awkward hours.
Barry : Huh? Why are you telling me this?

Took a while for me to explain my theory to a visibly confused Barry. Don't ask me why but it's seemingly true. During normal afterhours, I find the guys wandering about just plain average joes with a minimal sprinkling of blazing hotties. Then every once in a rare while when I manage to take off early to hang around at all hours, I find desperately drop-dead gorgeous studs appearing at the oddest hours. That amazingly built hunk drinking chai at Starbucks. The devastatingly handsome stud shopping for groceries at ten in the morning.

Somehow I've come to believe that sexy guys simply don't work ( perhaps paired off with certain aging but mega-wealthy sugar daddies ) since they all seem to have mysterious source of funds - or perhaps they all work graveyard shifts for no apparent reason. Maybe there's a hush-hush top-secret underground lab / dungeon that locks up all the hot Malaysian hunks ( for their safety, you hear ) to be time-released to roam free at certain inaccessible hours.

Barry's disbelieving grunt of reply obviously signalled that he wasn't terribly impressed with my hypothesis.

A-holes with Opinions

Opinions. As the oft-repeated wisecrack says, we all have them. Only sometimes some of us just aren't brave enough to speak up.

Despite what everyone thinks of me right know - as the loud-mouthed bugger in the department who complains at the drop of a hat, it certainly hasn't come easy to me either. With my inexplicable fear of the spotlight, it has taken me a while to find the strength to stand up and speak. Certainly an inherited trait since I got it naturally. My Amazonian mother ( despite her deceptively diminutive size ) has never found it difficult to find her voice and despite his quieter, more taciturn demeanour, my father isn't short on opinions either. Not to be left behind, my brother tends to state his opinions trenchantly - much to the dismay of certain unfortunate bank officers and pesky salespersons.

Family dinners for me has always been a literal battlefield of opinions with each of us ranged on vastly different sides preparing our salvos - while my sister-in-law in the guise of neutral Switzerland watches on in bemusement. Unsurprisingly my little niece occasionally pipes in with her own decided opinion - although it'll take a while to translate her childish babble to a for or against. Fiery speaker, that one. Topics range from the yawningly mundane like petty electric bills to the leading front page news detailing news of the latest scandals.

Despite my sheer bashfulness in youth, I've always had this irrresistible urge to speak up. The smallest injustice fills my head with smoke and fire - and my ISO always kids me that he can literally see tendrils of gray rising from the top of my head. Sometimes it does actually feel that way. My ISO is one to talk though since he peppers his loud opinions with derogatory expletives that would make a hardened sailor blush. :)


Break free! Share some of those pent-up opinions!
Opinions matter after all and it changes things, sometimes even makes things better. Surely aeons ago if the first caveman hadn't complained bitterly about eating raw mastodon meat cold, there would be no discovery of fire I'm sure. Although not everyone listens willingly to the opinions of others, it still matters since begrudging silence literally signals assent.

During departmental meetings, when the rest of my colleagues just nod meekly - whilst grumbling sotto voce beneath their breaths in a passive-aggressive manner - to the latest imperious edict from their superiors, I actually feel like strangling them for their silence ( apart from some of my more homicidal thoughts ). Surely our careers aren't desperately teetering on the tightrope that we find ourselves unable to speak up.

So for God's sake, speak up.

Put Your Record On

Believe it or not, I believe that our tastes in music actually reflect part of our personality. Sometimes inadvertently we let slip parts that we aren't that willing to reveal yet - and it's always surprising when it happens in the relative safety of a CD store.

Paul : Picked the CDs!
Barry : Seriously you gotta be kidding. Pussycat Dolls the other day, and now Sugababes?
Paul : What can I say? My gay diva is showing.
Barry : Sigh.
Paul : Sigh all you want, Mariah lover.
Barry : Hey!

Well, Big Bicep Barry was stunned but at least he wouldn't sneer at it as my ISO probably would. :)

If you don't believe it, just take a look at what's getting frequent airplay in my friend's collections. Exploring his inner pop diva, sweet Charming Calvin finds his bursting MP3 player chockful of teenage boy bands and aspiring teen queens. Get into my ISO's car and you'll be plugged into heavy rock with the occasional segue into dance club music which honestly mystifies me with the oft-repeated choruses and meaningless verses. True to type, Big Bicep Barry's monster truck hums along to the soothing island strains of Jack Johnson, the meaningful lyrics of the Geeks in the Pink and as I've mentioned, the occasional disturbing foray into Mariah's Butterfly world.

Not sure what it means though when a recent discussion in a blogger's chatbox - and even during Lanky Lex's gay gala - revealed the shocking fact that most of the gay bloggers around these parts listen to classical music. Surely an astonishing revelation to me since I've always assumed that gay boiz lean towards the dazzling disco divas with their skimpy sequinned dresses, their booty-shaking thumpa-thumpa music and their unforgiving attitudes to apologies.

Classical music? I'm sure some of the dangerously temperamental divas are tearing out their fake blonde tipped hairs at the blasphemous thought. Seriously, even I find it hard to imagine half-naked gay men clad in low-waist jeans bumping groins and waving their arms along to the sedate concertos of Mozart and Schubert while the musicians strum their violins beneath the flashing strobe lights and the prerequisite swivelling disco ball.


Mozart simply doesn't fit!
Not that I'm a crazed fan of disco divas myself course although I'll admit to the occasional dip into Kylie and Madonna. Hell, I am gay after all :) Take a look at my record collection and you'll see a far more eclectic mix. On the late evenings when I get to relax with my favourite novel, I'm more a fan of classic jazz like evergreen crooners, Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald... and of course not forgetting some of the more contemporary artists like Jamie Cullum and Jane Monheit.

That's as slow as it goes for me though since classical music, dull instrumentals and Enya literally lull me into a mindless coma - certainly not conducive when I'm hitting the bloody dull textbooks. Believe me, the potent combination of baroque music and mind-numbing blather about cerebral blood flow is sure to sedate even the most recalcitrant personality. Learnt that the hard way when during my freshmen year, my roommate used to torture me with Muzak on a daily basis before I threatened him with bodily injury. So when I'm busy cramming with the midnight oil burning, I desperately need Sean Paul mumbling Latino unintelligibles about soaring temperatures and three Brit Sugababes talking about pushing their buttons in red dresses.

Sometimes Vivaldi simply won't do.

Beauty and the Geek

It's a worthwhile question and one I'm sure we'll be asking ourselves till far into the next century - whereupon with genetically modified babies in a Gattaca type utopian paradise, we'd have such impossibly perfect superhumans that such questions wouldn't arise. Sure, the world would be a far more boring place populated by cookie-cutter Stepford models but hey, at least it would be perfect.

So? Beauty or brains?

Seriously, somehow the question came up today after I came out from the cinema, courtesy of Lanky Lex. Although the latest installment to the Scary Movie franchise was a sick laugh a dozen, I was certainly relieved that my brain cells still seemed to be functioning after the movie. Don't even ask me what I was doing dumbing down my IQ by subjecting myself to such blatant idiocy but I wasn't the one who picked the movie. Big Bicep Barry did, though I'm not sure why he did so myself. Cited conflicting schedules but I suspect that he just enjoys the occasional mindless acts of mayhem.

Somehow or rather, my mention of Barry's name triggered a series of messages to Lex that came up with the timeless question of beauty or brains. I'm afraid choosing a little bit of both isn't on the list - and defeats the purpose of the question, Lex :)

Paul : Beauty or brains?
Barry : Tough question. Why did you suddenly think of such a question? Brains, I think.
Paul : Seriously?
Barry : Yeah, definitely brains.
Paul : You know you'd have the brains of Einstein but look like the Hunchback?
Barry : A difficult trade-off but I'll still take brains.
Paul : I prefer beauty actually.
Barry : You're joking. My God, you're not.

Though I have to admit that I'd take beauty anytime. Sure, I'd be a brainless himbo with zero intelligence *hyuk hyuk* but hell, I'd be too stupid to know the difference. Imagine resembling a hunkier Brandon Routh strutting down the street with people risking whiplash just to watch you... Try it the other way around with brains instead of beauty and you'd be forever tortured by the inalienable fact that the Hunchback of Notredame would win more points in a beauty pageant. Not a happy thought.


All-American beefcake
Obviously the brilliant Kryptonians got it right when they sent their perfect specimen Kal-El here as a last act of perpetuation. Not sure why everyone else on this uncivilized mudball would even think the poor man's gay though, judging by the latest news furore. Would be a wet dream fantasy to have the delicious muscular square-jawed All-American hero with the raven spitcurl ( and the allegedly supercrotch ) leap out of the closet into my bed in a single bound but somehow neither Clark Kent nor his prettier spandex-clad alter-ego Superman ever struck me as a raging queer.

Hell, if Clark was gay - he'd be in deep shit. Any self-respecting homosexual Lucas Lane could see through his cheap store-bought glasses and frumpy pinstripe suits to that award-winning beefcake physique in a second. Even without the much vaunted X-ray vision.

Now if you're talking about Batman, that's a whole other story.

The Beautiful Game

Sometimes, my friends wonder how I could possibly be such a Chatty Cathy that I can compose a post every other day. Don't know how it is myself but certain issues just spontaneously trigger a response in me that sets off my writing.

Just for an example, this morning after dragging myself out of the hospital, feeling all cranky, crusty and generally crabby, I made my way to a quick breakfast with Charming Calvin - just a spot of hash browns and mcmuffins to tide me over before I fall into my usual post-call coma. Being the shy sort, Calvin declined my rashly issued invitation to make out in the family restaurant, therefore hopefully scandalizing the conservatives. What can I say? Oddly enough, not only do I enjoy shocking the hell out of the old fogeys but somehow being post-call inevitably kicks my hormones into overdrive.

Luckily I didn't have to depend on the caffeine to wake me up however as I noted an interesting article in a football clip about an exclusive club that I'd love to be a part of. Since I've never been a particular fan, the recent World Cup Fever hasn't made an impact on me but watching the WAGs at work certainly piqued my interest.

Meet the WAGs, otherwise known as the stick-thin, devilishly skanky Wives and Girlfriends of the hot footballers. Who could possibly blame anyone for joining the match ladies?

FYI, the elite members of the club are all ultra-glam designer-friendly fashionistas who spend their mornings blissfully perfecting their fake tans before going for leisurely lunches followed by a bit of shopping ( make that a heap ). Then after that, it's a quick change of clothing for the obligatory photo shoot at the football games before sitting down to watch twenty athletic men run around chasing a ball through absolutely fabulous shades. As the boys battle it out on the field, the ladies slug it out in the aisles with their lower than low halter tops matched with their ostentatious blings, their towering spike heels and sun-streaked bottle blonde hair. And then after the game, when the obligatory footie man-toy ( a prerequisite to join ) traipses off to the locker rooms, it's off for a quick round of drinking and dancing at the nightclubs till the wee hours of the morning.

Am I condemning them? Hell, no! I wanna join them! Wouldn't you? All play and no work certainly seems to make the life decidedly posh. Sure the downside is having each and every little fashion faux pas be torn apart and criticized by the vicious press queens but hell, everything comes with a price. Seems like it's certainly worth it though coming home at night to a hot footie man the likes of David Beckham and Michael Owen.


Husbands and Boyfriends
Unfortunately for us gay men, it's gonna be plain wishful thinking for quite a while since there's no way we'll be invited to join the WAGs - not unless someone's prepared to sacrifice their manhood to be literally gelded and metamorphosed into a freaking mangina. Sorry but my dick's far too precious to be played around with.

Hell, maybe there's a secret Husbands and Boyfriends club I can join. Any hot footballer need a boyfriend?

Mr Liquid

Most people I know have seen me desperately multitasking - since I usually find the hours of the day simply too short for all the activities that I have planned. So it isn't something unusual to find me watching the monitors at work while reading a screamingly dull textbook while sending messages to cure me of my ennui.

Just today when I was sending skanky messages to my friends from the hospital, it occurred to me that I was actually missing a singularly important event in gay social life. Nothing like having Disillusioned Dan around to enlighten me on such subjects :O Well, honestly it wouldn't have occurred to me to even be there but it would have been nice to have a choice - rather than being stuck at work with twelve grumpy men ( make that three grumpy surgeons and assorted harried nurses! ), a monotonously beeping monitor and a snoring patient.

Paul : Don't you just hate being at work on fridays?
Dan : It's Mr Liquid finals nite, you know.
Paul : What?!

Makes sense though. Obviously I'll be the one roughing it out in the confines of the hospital while twelve half-naked virile hunks duke it out in a club downtown for the dubious honour of being crowned Mr Liquid, Lord of the Clubs - while hundreds of other available almost naked men scream and shout in sheer adoration. Unsurprisingly since the contestants are in pretty sheer briefs themselves. Regardless of the reasons behind their disrobing, it's always nice to have some bared male torsoes to ogle.

Half naked men are certainly worth a cheer or two in my opinion. Hell, I should be there getting hopelessly drunk while scandalously tossing my shirt in the air and joining in the sweaty bump and grind.

Sigh. The sacrifices I do for the job.

Toying with Twinks

One of the regular heinous sexual misdeeds , amongst many other despicable notions, laid at the gay man's door is that we're all actually crazily drooling paedophiles trailing after the underaged jailbait boys.

Well, I'm glad to tell you that it certainly isn't true for the majority of us - and definitely isn't true for me. Come to think about it, most of us are seemingly well-adjusted adults who only drool crazily after other well-adjusted, well-built male adults who are well above the age of consent.

This came to my attention just yesterday when during the second gathering of Lanky Lex's gay gala, we had the opportunity to view for ourselves some barely legal boys playing as waiters at a certain chain restaurant. And no, it isn't a sleazy back-door joint with paying clients groping up the dishes but a reputable family restaurant. Tall, lanky twinks all of the waiters, squeezed into tight slacks and black aprons, ready to serve. The junior members of the crowd were obviously enthralled by the merchandise on display but I found myself utterly blase about the experience.

Sorry, boys. Only men for me. Those little kids with barely any stubble do absolutely nothing for me :) Perhaps the homo-jury is right, I do have a type after all.

Chicken or Beef

Is it true that all of us actually gravitate to certain types? Just like an impossibly vicious cycle where the hapless moth gets drawn to the alluring flame, are we similarly irrevocably drawn to certain types of men despite the far too obvious dangers attached to them?

In spite of my more lurid fantasies, a gathering of gay men ( a gaggle? a giggle? a google? ) simply doesn't translate to lustful moans and sweaty naked torsoes lining the floor as gay porn would have it. Instead, it's usually witty entertainment, delicious hors'doevres and a stunningly large bill to match. Just yesterday at the impromptu gay gala organized by Lanky Lex ( reputedly the pink pony of the bunch ), there was a passing mention that I seem to have a certain type. Certainly left me gobsmacked! I do?!

I have a certain type?!


Wouldn't you like some beef?
The purported claim made by the judgemental homo-jury was that when it comes to man cuisine, I usually lean towards certain dishes, mainly the big ...*ahem* bigger-boned... well hell, let's call them the big, brawny, beefy specials! According to them, the leftover limp shrimps, the tough old turkeys and the youthful spring chickens on the virtual kaiten belt are blissfully ignored in favour of the meaty main course. I'll have to admit that being carnivorous - leaning towards the bovine and the porcine which explains some of the pigs I've dated - has always been second nature to me. Although the former would certainly be true for Big Bicep Barry - and somewhat true for my ISO, does that actually typecast me as an indiscriminatory beefeater ( otherwise known as gorgeous gym guy groupie )?

ISO : Actually you do have a type.
Paul : What!
ISO : Gorgeous manly studs.
Paul : Asshole. Yeah, go ahead and fuc ... flatter yourself.
ISO : Never met the guy but I bet Barry's one of those big, brawny bruisers, right?
Paul : Uhh...
ISO : And so am I.
Paul : Bloody hell! In your dreams! You're more a beefed-up chicken.
ISO : So gonna get you for that.

Well, let me tell ya steroid-pumped poultry don't scare me.

Oddly enough I've always imagined that when it comes to men, I don't actually have a preference for height, weight, hair color, race or any of those seemingly inconsequential stuff. Surely the easily-fulfilled criteria I made a while back isn't all that discriminatory. After all, it's not like I'm the reigning belle of the county with dozens of eligible bachelors literally banging down my door to declare their unwavering adoration, so being far too picky certainly wouldn't be healthy - not to mention that it would certainly doom me to lifelong spinsterhood.

Surely it isn't too much to expect that my imagined boyfriend be reasonably healthy, intelligent and gainfully employed with a full head of hair and teeth? Are those precious ingredients that hard to find in the market these days? Big muscles and macho cojones isn't exactly an essential ingredient in the mix - although it's certainly spicy wasabi on the sashimi to have big arms to lean on! - but certain other qualities make the man for me. A touch of intelligence, a dollop of integrity and two spoonfuls of humour would certainly be preferable to a dash of biceps.

Seriously, why stick to beef when sometimes some chicken would go down easier?

The Simple Life

No worries. This isn't going to be a post about the trials and tribulations of spoiled rich blond princesses with minute frou frou poodles that can fit into their Tiffany diamond encrusted Prada handbags. Instead, this post is gonna be about the simple things in life - courtesy of the ever charming Studly Shiong. Since I reputedly wailed outside his door like a screaming schoolgirl the last time he left me out of a meme, he has personally tagged me this time.

Top 10 Life's Simplest Pleasures
( in no particular order actually )

10. Swaying in the late evenings to the cool sax of a jazz musician. Preferably with someone special but a solo act is acceptable.

9. Lazing away a Sunday afternoon on my daybed doing absolutely nothing flipping through the tv channels and dreaming impossible dreams - and the occasional wet one.

8. Having the plane touch down safely ( thanks to the efficient and sexy pilots :P ) on the grounds of a new, exciting destination. Not only are you whole, hearty and in one piece ( instead of burning into a cinder as the plane rushes to meet the ground or failing which, you're stranded LOST on a desert island with sexy Matthew Fox... which come to think about it, is quite alright actually ), your heart is beating beating double-time and your palms are sweating as you wonder just what awaits! The people! The sights! The tastes! The sales! :)

7. The sweet thrill of holding a new book in my hands. The sheer indescribable scent of freshly minted pages and the anticipation of opening new unimaginable vistas.

6. Taking a slow drive with someone you love - having your hands inadvertently touch and link together.

5. Realizing that you're off from work at a surprisingly early hour! Nothing like receiving sudden unlooked-for blessings. Imagine what experiences you can have as you sneak your way out of the office! The people! The sights! The tastes! The sales! :) Yeah, I am single-minded.

4. Finding that perfect purchase for a bargain basement price. The perfect fit of the perfect jeans. The beautiful cut of that Raoul shirt. The impossibly suitable addition to your home decor whether it's that maximalist bling bling chandelier or that Turkish rug.

3. Late night chats with a best friend, whether dissing the latest heartthrobs or discussing the latest scandalous on-dit at work.

2. Manwatching.

1. Waking up early in the morning to watch the man I love sleeping next to me.

Reading this, I just realized that I am kinda a sap :) A somewhat skanky sap but still, pretty much a sap.

Certainly a day for memes though since I just realized one of the sexy pilots mentioned above, Wingedman Willa, actually tagged me for one. Not sure how I could be classified as a potty-mouth though.

FOUR MOVIES YOU COULD WATCH OVER AND OVER:
How can I possibly decide!! Only four!
1. Any of the Lord of the Rings franchise for sure
2. Emma
3. My Fair Lady
4. Sound of Music

FOUR PLACES YOU'VE LIVED:
1. Malacca
2. Penang
3. Kuala Lumpur
4. Melbourne

FOUR TV SHOWS YOU LOVE TO WATCH:
1. FRIENDS
2. Any of the CSI series
3. Desperate Housewives - like someone mentioned, most gay boys dream f emulating houseproud Bree van Der Kamp
4. Sex and the City - I know it's gone but I still love it so much!

FOUR PLACES YOU'VE BEEN ON HOLIDAY:
1. Bangkok
2. London
3. Paris
4. Shanghai

FOUR WEBSITES YOU VISIT DAILY:
1. Towleroad
2. Nifty Stories
3. Adwoff Messageboard
4. Hotmail for my email of course.

FOUR OF YOUR FAVORITE FOODS:
1. KFC for obvious reasons surely. Nothing like fat and cholesterol for temptation.
2. Peanut butter ice-cream. Sounds weird but it's delicious.
3. Hash browns
4. Dim sum - mostly of the steamed variety

FOUR PLACES YOU'D RATHER BE:
1. Charing Cross Rd, London
2. Penang
3. Back home in Malacca
4. Bangkok

Not sure who I should tag but I guess everyone's welcome to join in the fourplay - since surely nothing is as enjoyable as a gay crowd enjoying some fourplay. Coincidentally, I am actually joining up with a gay crowd tonight though I seriously doubt that fourplay would be involved.

The Initiation

Suffice to say, just one week in the new work environment has left me exhausted, drained and ultimately resigned to the fact that this certainly ain't Kansas anymore. Work here is certainly far more challenging, more taxing on the brains and definitely straining my patience to the utmost ( wouldn't be surprised if I found myself strangling a fellow colleague for informing absolute rubbish in the dead of night ). Fortunately putting some significant weight on the other end of the scale, there's shopping, Charming Calvin and more shopping. Still haven't planted more than a few innocent gropes on the bashful man but let's give it some time, shall we. :) After all those lovely grape eating lips are looking far more tempting by the day.

The lack of a trustworthy broadband connection is still extremely jarring but I'm reasonably sure that this untenable situation shouldn't last longer than two weeks at the most. Certainly fairly distracting when I find myself disconnected. Shocking to find that something as seemingly trivial as a broadband connection can cause such a tremendous impact in one's life - especially when one is as hopelessly addicted as a certain Dr Paul. However feeding my internet addiction at the nearby cafes is severely affecting my diminishing wallet - and also enabling my other addictions to caffeine and shopping. Detrimental to my mental and fiscal health, I'm sure.


Exhausted, drained and resigned after a week... just wanna lay back and sleep...
Happily though, the proximity of the wifi enabled cafes to certain large chain bookstores have led me to discover several new authors to while away my hours. One of which is Poppy Z. Brite. Odd name, I'm sure but her latest fiction on the crime-busting chefs extraodinaire reads like the perfect Creme Brulee. Light, sweet, frothy and yet surprisingly substantial with just the perfect bite. In between running an award-running restaurant based on liquor-drenched entrees in the Big Easy, G-man and Rickey spend their time balancing a committed relationship, their contrasting personalities and the various criminal elements that seem to gravitate invariably towards them. Gonna have to start the hunt for the rest of her books.

He's certainly not going to be pleased with the comparison but can I say that the bad-tempered, intense protagonist Rickey reminds me oddly enough of my ISO? Granted, I'm far from the laid-back G-man of course.

********

Last night was of course spent rushing about the hospital trying to keep my patients alive, shaking my head over some of the sillier antics of the students and intimidating junior doctors with my seemingly stern mien. Of course challenging work aside, I still managed to find the time to send naughty messages to my nearest cronies.

Several late night messages to Handsome Hui - as he was returning from his various money-making activities - confirmed the fact that he needs the extra dough not to outrun his zealous creditors with an urge to dismember his pretty limbs but to purchase various forms of entertainment. Still waters certainly run deep in my experience so what that actually means, I shudder to know. Entertainment in the form of chains, whips and melted candles on naked torsos perhaps?

And wonder of wonders, Big Bicep Barry has made his way home to Malaysia at last since I received a call late from him as he exited the gym. Perhaps worried that the hedonistic delicacies of Hong Kong have crept up his trim waist and disturbed the perfection of his abs, Barry found it imperative to worship the demanding God of Gymnasiums the very day he returned before resuming any semblance of daily activities. Even while battling a chesty cough that's clearly audible hundreds of miles away, the man still finds the energy to lift his sacred thousand pound weights. Don't know where he finds the singleminded dedication. Whether he returned successfully with a pair of ceramic lions remains to be seen.

Working Owls

It's official.

As of today, I've officially joined the crazy ratrace in the big old city, adding myself to the workaholic ranks of those who rise early in the ungodly hours of the morning to set off to work only to return home late in the evenings long after everyone else is back enjoying their dinner. As my eyes scanned the clock in the operating theatre all evening long, I found my heart sinking as I realized that work has suddenly turned into an indelible part of my life, erasing far more negligible items like sleep and regular meals. Even as the friendly surgeon promised another five minutes left, there was this sick suspicion that my working life had definitely taken a turn, possibly for the worst.

So to console myself, I had a fattening dinner with Charming Calvin... an utterly sinful Italian pasta with a stroke-inducing thousand calorie cream sauce slathered on little bits of heavenly chicken. Which explains why my brain ( after being taxed all day at work ) has suddenly stopped functioning - the misfiring neurons possibly clogged by all that oily wickedness. Surprises me that my limbs can even move since I can practically feel the heavy lipids percolating lazily in my suddenly stagnant veins.

I'm sure my dieting buddy, Big Bicep Barry would have gotten an apoplexy for sure if he'd been here to witness my blatant hedonism. :)

The Bling Bling of Locum Tenens

Unsurprisingly, most laypeople come with the ready assumption that doctors earn the megabucks. Easy enough to make such a hypothesis counting the number of luxury cars stacked up in rows in front of a medical center but judging by the paltry number of digits on my income slip, I can assure you that's surely an erroneous notion. Apart from the elite few making money hand over fist in the private sector, the rest of the struggling medical fraternity is just barely making it by, living on plain rice, soya sauce and cheap tofu on a daily basis ( about the only stuff we can afford with the pittance of dough we're paid for the grueling hours of work ).

So it doesn't come as a surprise that most doctors supplement their meagre income with far more shady activities in the nights and the occasional weekends. When everyone else has gone home late in the evenings, some of the more adventuresome boys ( and a few girls ) make their way onto the streets to earn their living. It's a painful disease that's prevalent in certain needy sections of the medical brotherhood and ever since clients have made their way in search of their services, the boys have been all too ready to deliver. And since it's been recently legalized - with some clauses attached - I feel no shame in revealing that some of my closest friends are actually involved in such nefarious activities.


Come work with us!
How about poor me? Not only do I find myself utterly unqualified to offer such services, I honestly haven't tried it myself since the sheer time and energy it would take to please my exacting clients would be far too taxing. Every man has his price of course and I'm not saying I wouldn't do it if I had the right offer waiting :) Especially now when I'm having so many workplace woes.

Paul : OMG. You are involved in it?
Hui : Yes. I have been doing it regularly for a while now. Most nights when I'm not oncall actually.
Paul : You! Don't you feel tired after all that strenuous activity?
Hui : Locum lah.
Paul : What do you need with all that extra money?
Hui : You think I'm earning RM 500 an hour or what? It's not a fortune!

As much as I would like to believe it, Handsome Hui doesn't spend his time pandering to salacious men's naked lusts - though I certainly wouldn't mind that. For those who don't know what locum is... it comes from the Latin word Locum tenens and literally means temporarily filling in for someone, or in our case manning an outpatient clinic for a certain sum.

Although I barely manage to maintain a sustainable lifestyle on my minimal wage, it still makes me curious what these guys do with all that extra dough lying around. As far as I know, Handsome Hui doesn't strut around in devilish Armani with glittering Tiffany bling blings adorning his broad chest. Then again, I wouldn't know exactly what he wears - or doesn't wear - when he parties with his convivial circuit-party cronies. Judging by his unfortunate taste in Gothic garden furniture, the man certainly doesn't spend on frou frou interior design - and there's no spanking new Lexus in front of his hovel either.

Guess I'll be spending some time interrogating again :)

That Slow Evening Drive

Certainly never been a wild child but I've always been one with restless feet that needs to move, hence my relentless speedwalking that leaves everyone else choking in the dust. When I was a kid, I remember one of the things my dad used to do to calm me down was to take me for a quick drive around town. One of my fondest memories actually, of my dad drumming his fingers at the wheel to a crooning Elvis and me cheerfully riding at the back with my nose eagerly pressed to the windows watching the world go by in lazy evenings.

Nowadays of course, it's usually me at the wheel with Buble wailing away about kissing fools and occasionally my dad at the side peppering me with well-meaning but unsolicited advice on life, love and my lousy driving. Of course since I'm usually recklessly flying at warp speed while zig-zagging dangerously along the five-lane highway, I figure the driving advice is certainly warranted - as is his yelling away desperately while clinging helplessly to the buckle as I attempt miraculous Fast N Furious 90 degree turns at top speed.

What can I say? I cut my eyeteeth driving with the need for speed on the rough, reckless city streets - although I've got to say that my sad parking skills and my lack of knowledge about the inner workings of an automobile ( hell, I'll marry a sexy mechanic dammit! ) still has sufficient room for improvement. Don't even get me started on my dad's neverending complaints when I try my poor best at parallel parking. Seems like he isn't the only one to doubt my sanity when I'm driving though since an ashen-faced Big Bicep Barry has questioned it himself.


Wanna ride with me?
Driving can be a chore to some but it has never been a problem for me ( reckless driving aside ). Oddly enough, it's about the only time that I have solely to myself during the day - totally alone with my random thoughts - and I'm actually concentrating on one thing without desperately multitasking a thousand other activities. At work, I have a number of patients to see to at the same time while juggling various requests from colleagues and nurses on the other. And usually by the time I get home in the evening, I have a dozen mundane chores to attend to with another handy dozen left waiting on my plate which leaves me doing the multitasking like a thousand-armed demigod.

But all that gets shoved onto the backburner while I'm driving. During that hour when I'm driving alone on the highway with jazz and Jack Johnson playing in the background, I resolve interpersonal issues, work gripes and various financial woes. Those quiet solitary moments also lend me the time and space for my creative juices to flow and my imagination starts to soar, painting various images and montages for the bedtime stories that I write.

Of course then a killer maniac in a sports car zips to the front of me, barely missing my fender and all that zen creativity flies out the window as I let loose with a plethora of nasty curses. :)

Caffe, Tea or Me

Acclimatizing to a new workplace and environment is taking some time - almost as slow as my pending broadband application. Certainly gonna be a few more days or so before I'll get my regular internet fix, and that's leaving the net whore / addict in me with the nervous jitters and tics.

Fortunately that particular addiction is easily fed as all three connecting roads that lead out of my new home lead invariably to a Starbucks store ( cynical persons could say that all roads actually lead to the ubiquitous coffee chain ) which has left me spoilt for choice. Every which way I turn, I see the bewitching mermaid waving to me with her wifi bubble and a cup of caffe mocha. Unfortunately my caffeine embargo has forced me to limit my intake to a single cup of caffe mocha per day. Certainly no need to add to my occasional sleepless in the city woes by getting all revved up at night.

Since I only manage to make my way to a cup of java in the late evenings after work ( thwarted by miserable surgeons and slowpoke commuters, despite my relentless maniacal driving ), that leaves me bereft and unbearably grumpy in the mornings. Imagine if you will, my early hours in the morning seemingly spent staring at my coffee mug - sadly filled to the brim with weak, impotent tea, mealy milk or even plain jane aqua. Sad to say, certainly no match for their more robust, virile brother, coffee.

That should explain to the astonished black-garbed baristas manning the counter why I frequently gulp down the caffeine like a cachexic starved sailor stranded on a desert island. So please excuse the foam splashing up my cheeks and the fact that a river of black coffee has dripped halfway down my soaked shirt. That however doesn't fully explain the odd, irrespresible impulse just half an hour ago to slurp down the tall, sexy drink of water ( aka Foamy Fazley, the flirty dark-eyed barista who served me coffee while working up plenty of steam ) in one big gulp - before throwing him down amongst the comfortable looking sacks of coffee beans for an overnighter. Nothing like a good set of pecs to make me overlook that overly cheery greeting.


Not even milk will do!

Hmmm... see what a lack of caffeine does to me?

Literally bewitched by that irresistible sensory blend of the light jazz, the sizzling baristas and the freshly brewed, coffee afficianados can achieve near religious levels of devotion to a particular brand. That particular zealousness can't be held true for everyone of course since a crazed addiction to caffeine simply cannot be attributed to all.

More than a few of the visitors don't even have coffee mugs - which simply defies explanation. With all the seemingly affordable broadband packages around, the sheer number of pathetic nomads left without a connection still amazes me. Each time I lug my trusty laptop into a wifi spot, I'm usually left facing down dozens of similarly destitute creatures who lurk noiselessly in the dark in search of that internet shangri-la, jealously guarding their rickety table ( one table to rule them all? ) due to some misplaced sense of entitlement. Surely not all of them have been left waiting by the wayside by their broadband providers? What could possibly explain them sitting at all hours in the coffeehouse without budging an inch from their precious little corners of cyberspace? Don't they actually have a home somewhere?

But till my prince charming comes knocking on my door with broadband attached, I'll be here with my caffe mocha.

Funk Shui

Let's face it, breakups are meant to be violent.

With such an uncontrollable whirlwind of sheer emotions tossing everything about, hearts and the occasional chinaware are bound to be broken in the turmoil. When truly deep feelings are involved, diplomacy, tact and maturity are flung out the proverbial window as previous grievances and dirty laundry are aired out in the open for the gawking public.

So what happens when a relationship never actually takes off - but instead segues into a friendship of sorts? Well, it seems what you get is a surprising message from Macau.

Barry : Got you a token chip from Hotel Lisboa.
Paul : Cool. Enjoy yourself, big spender. Eat lotsa seafood.
Barry : You trying to make me fat?
Paul : Funny. Get me some cute guard lions if you see them cheap.
Barry : You? You believe in that?

Since he deigned to make the first move, obviously Big Bicep Barry has chosen to forgive me for my Freudian slip the other day - or he's possibly withholding the punishment till I'm close enough to throttle properly. Hard to tell with the big quiet guys.

Still not sure why Barry sounded so surprised though when he's actually seen the state of my house / antique junk store. Quite often those who venture into my blog come away with the erroneous idea that I'm a dedicated flag-waving Anglophile deep in the civilized portions of the Western world. Far be it for me to debunk such myths of course but I'm certainly far from the stereotype :)


Not only is my house a literal treasure trove of knick knacks ( aka my cheap junk ) from my oft-mentioned travels in Europe, it's also chockful of Oriental thingamajigs arranged faithfully according to the tenets of Feng Shui - or at least as I see fit to interpret the rules. Serene Buddhas gaze down gently from my walls while framed sacred mantras march up the stairs along with my infamous Balinese teak door. Paired mandarin ducks are placed hopefully in the romance corner ( obviously needs a little something more in that direction! ), windchimes are hung at auspicious places to chime in the fortune coming my way and my study table is angled just so for my best position.

Certainly not an obsessive believer though since I probably wouldn't break down a wall just because my door is facing the wrong direction or shift to a different state just because the toilet is affecting my marriage. It would certainly strike some people as odd that a man supposedly of science is advocating such an esoteric way of life but from my way of thinking, I always figured we always need a little bit of help - since as every gambler would say, life's a game of chances.

Definitely more mystical forces working in this world than even brainy Einstein himself can explain so a little feng shui here and there to lend that helping hand never hurts.

Gungho Janes and Workplace Woes

Late one day of blog posts and I've been chided by no less than three concerned fellas - who are inexpertly hiding the fact that they are obviously wickedly working hand in glove together. Still, it's a good reminder indeed that there are people out there who actually enjoy reading the occasional musing and rant from me. :)

Been a little busy settling down to the new environs, the new workplace and of course, the sudden shift in paradigm knowing that exams are looming dangerously up ahead while I'm still careering carelessly down that imaginary highway of life. In reality of course, the highway I take on a daily basis seems fraught with unforeseen roadblocks, maniacal motorcyclists and painfully slow drivers clearly placed on this earth to teach me sheer patience while driving me slowly insane. To add to my problems, my unfortunate broadband provider is taking a while to set up leaving me at the tender mercies of bartenders at Starbucks as I scurry suspiciously around with my laptop and caffe mocha.


A door to all sorts of possibilities...
There are some perks along the way of course. Working in a new place has given me the chance to renew old ties of friendship with medical school compatriots such as Eagle Eye Eddie and also to observe unusual new personalities such as GungHo Ginny. Classified in an exclusive subset of the intense, overachieving, peptic-ulcer-developing student species - also known as Medicaschoola Bitchiora, medical physicians who huddle together in overly familiar, prison-like working environments ( also known to everyone else as the hospital ) tend to develop odd little quirks that distinguish them from the general population.

Unsurprisingly, GungHo Ginny displays all these abnormal quirks that mark an overambitious, desperately kiasu medical student but these are also the same unfortunate irritating quirks that would have one possibly branded as a deranged madman to be confined to an institution for her own safety. Always barging her way to be first in line, always the first to put up her overeager puppy waving hand to volunteer and always the first to blindly dash through an open door - hopefully one day falling inadvertently into a pool of starving alligators.

Don't get me wrong. I don't hate her. Yet. But that twitching clairvoyant eye of mine clearly foresees my wicked hands nudging her off a cliff sometime in the future for some unknown wrong. Then again, that would probably land me in deep trouble with the long arm of the law - which obviously frowns on doctors taking assisted precipitous leaps off sheer cliffs. Possibly they wouldn't blame me if she tottered off the edge and I was too frail to hold on, rite?

For those who are tut-tutting right about now for my nefarious plans, let's just say that finding someone to bitch about actually does count as a perk! Certainly takes my mind away from whining over the curiously alien workplace where everything familiar has taken a decidedly sinister cast. There's so little cause to celebrate after all...

Well oh yeah, perhaps only one - certainly not forgetting the added perk of being close enough to call up Charming Calvin for a regular meeting of wet tongues and Haagen Dazs. :)