Chilli Bites

There are certain quirks about a person that always makes me smile - since all of us have our own borderline psychotic tendencies, I believe. Of course, sudden impulses to dismember innocents would count as somewhat more psychotic than most, if not highly criminal. Still there are the small obsessions such as haunting certain chain restaurants ( such as the seemingly ubiquitous Kim Gary ) in the search of that perfect waiter to grope in the men's room.

And then there is the endearing Charming Calvin's Chili's Craze. Despite his pleas about impending financial insolvency, the man simply can't resist the tempting lure of nachos and fajitas at Chili's. Not sure exactly how this particularly odd predilection came about but he finds himself irresistibly drawn to the doors of the pricey restaurant like a drowning sailor to the call of sultry sirens each time he's within a hundred mile radius of a Chili's. Filing for Chapter 13 and leaky roofs somehow don't deter him from splurging on cholesterol and chips.

Since I had my own royal summons from the nearby Kinokuniya, I found myself willingly shanghaied into his nefarious plans. After all the sales season always find me practically swamped with brochures and catalogues, no thanks to the millions of cards that populate my wallet. Silent witness to the temporary insanity that grips me during this shopping madness, Big Bicep Barry claims that it's time to create the One Card to Rule Them All - and I certainly agree.

So it shouldn't surprise anyone that I'd agree to a date in a shopping mall - although I don't know how I got shockingly conned into Chili's. Slick fella, that Calvin. No doubt he knew that his hastily mumbled offer of a quickie in the nearby men's room would easily sway me.

Which is how I ended up full to the brim with awesome blossoms, bottomless chips and barrels of apple juice. Even the sour-faced strumpet who begrudgingly served us the refills ( possibly spitting in it each time she shoved the mugs at us ) failed to dampen our enthusiasm as we pointed out the oddities of all the patrons from the shrouded arabian princesses with the leopard spots fetish to a gaggle of gay men with their accompanying fag hag entourage... Surprisingly there was even a melting hottie who resembled one of the Eastern Europeans frequently hired by Bel Ami - although he had a tendency to brood disconcertingly over the troubles in the Middle East.

Too much spicealicious chilis for the two of us though which is why we had to doggie bag the rest.

Dead Man's Chest

Certainly been a while since I've been to the movies. What with my recent indisposition - and with Charming Calvin falling soon after with his own bug, it has been a week since either of us has hit the cinemas. And for me - a guy who's been a overzealous regular at the movies since getting his first allowance in primary, that's pretty much a Guinness record :)

No worries though. Won't be asking Jewel Jane or Banker Brenda out yet. Although I have the numbers for two enterprising ladies in my drawer, I haven't suddenly decided to bat for the other team yet.

Made plans to watch just yesterday but poor Calvin had to ask for a raincheck since he'd been held up at work - and there's no one else quite as understanding about the inescapable shackles of the job as me. Since I already had tickets in hand and found myself with hours to spare, I called up the only guy I knew who could be counted on to be practically jobless during lunch. Just as I'd predicted, the man was lazing around in his office, flipping through loads of e-mails and worthless spam. Don't even ask me what my ISO does for a living since most times, I don't actually know myself. Something about graphic design? Accounting? Drawing up accounts?

Gotta say something though, expensive Middle Eastern restaurants taste so much better when I'm not the one paying :)

Swashbuckling pirate movies are always fun for me. Handsome pirates, nefarious villains and hidden treasures... so what's there not to like? Unfortunately in a bid to rival the indisputably successful Star Wars franchise, the Pirates of the Caribbean : Dead Man's Chest has been left to totter helplessly at the end of the gangplank as the protagonists are left in a literal cliffhanger. Just a shockingly sudden fade to black at the end that left us both utterly flabbergasted.

My ISO : Fuck. What kinda ending is this? I want my bloody doubloons back!
Paul : You can say that again! And how could they turn my hero Commodore Norrington into some drunken, washed-up pirate wallowing in pigshit?!
My ISO : Why do you always go for the starched-up supercilious bastards?
Paul : Look who's talking.

He didn't share the popcorn after that :P

Still the action sequences were cool, the villains were appropriately slimy and disgusting ( always excellent for the squeamish kids ), Orlando Bloom looked wonderfully brawny ( especially stripped to the waist for a delicious S&M scene ) and unsurprisingly, it turned out that my favourite character had blackened teeth and pseudo-dreadlocks, spoke in nigh unintelligible Jamaican patois and divined the future with crab claws.

Oddly enough, the fans have been clamouring for the pirates to go gay - which is surprising since I never saw Captain Jack Sparrow exchanging bodily fluids with the upright Will Turner.

Pimp my Pride

Sometimes it strikes me as odd that our parents can be that inherently oblivious about that pink elephant in the room. Although I've always assumed that my inherent homosexuality is as obvious as the nose on my face, it's struck me recently that the improbable notion hasn't really sunk in with my parents yet. The terribly obvious answer to my perpetual bachelorhood and suspicious lack of female companionship seems to have eluded these usually perspicacious folks for some odd reason.

Haven't exactly been all that discreet with my extracurricular activities. If my unusual penchant for interior decorating and Madonna isn't tell-tale sign enough, surely the loads of coffee table books with tastefully nude males should be sufficient proof. Obviously not loud enough though since nothing short of waving a rainbow flag while sashaying in a pink feather boa would do.

That certifiably insane thought did occur to me yesterday when my mom returned from a recent academic course with a veritable stack of numbers, quite enough to fill the sizeable phone book of a populous village. It did strike my curiosity as I wondered why she'd taken down the numbers of so many of the participants - since although my mom's a naturally gregarious sort, collecting strange name cards doesn't seem to be her thing. Obviously she's decided to incorporate corporate matchmaking into her repertoire for my sake.

When she boldly thrust the numbers at me in anxious expectation, she might as well have smacked me across the head with a sledgehammer - that was exactly how flabbergasted I was. Surely the private number of Chris Evans / Brandon Routh would have been far more appropriate - and certainly far more welcome.


Let's pretty you up for the ride.
Instead, now I have the unenviable choice of going out with either Jewel Jane or Banker Brenda - two particularly pretty, enterprising ladies. Rather than try to expand her own social circle, seems to me that my ambitious mother has been going around these social functions with an eye to match her sole unmarried child to the highest bidder. Despite her good intentions, the terrifying thought filled me with such unholy disgust as I painfully recalled the poor unfortunate maidens being offered to me by their expectant mothers, waving their resumes and dowries before my disinterested nose. Trying to imagine my mother pimping me out in a similar fashion in public made me want to sink into the floor in sheer embarassment. Wouldn't have surprised me if she'd slipped a couple of my hideous homely passport photos to hand around during dinner.

So I have two numbers picked at random in hand - after I rejected the rest summarily without even looking from sheer orneriness. Not sure what demon possessed me to go along but hell who knows, they could have cute brothers. :)

Cellphones and The Arabian Knights

Since I was much too groggy to drive around today ( having just finished a really terrible on-call ), my dealer Cellphone Cody came over to take me out for lunch before announcing the delivery of my new baby. Since my old cellphone has been enacting the tragical Madame Butterfly death throes for weeks, I've finally relented and allowed it that final rest that it deserves. The final seppuku for Nokia.

Somehow or rather we made our way for a quick breakfast - since I was rapidly losing consciousness - to a nearby mall. Or at least that's what I thought we did since Cellphone Cody and I felt like we'd somehow stepped into a transdimensional portal that had transported us to 17th Century Marrakesh instead. Surely that was the only logical explanation for the heavily veiled Middle Eastern princesses haunting the area, lightly scented with myrrh, frankincense and Chanel as their preternaturally hairy, heavy-lidded husbands loomed over them jealously. Wouldn't have surprised me at all if a few misplaced desert camels had stumbled their way through the aisles.

Still I was much too engrossed with my new baby to pay much attention to the Arabian Knights and their submissive harem - alhough a few of the dark-eyed knights seemed hot enough to slather on my breakfast bun.


Obviously the Tourism Ministry is doing something right in importing hot men from the Middle East.
Trying desperately to ignore my wandering eyes as I ogled the seemingly oblivious hottie Middle Eastern men, Cellphone Cody handed me the phone with much aplomb. Although Cody tried his best to explain the various fine inner workings to me, I found myself hopelessly bewildered and can't make head or tail of it. Not sure what to make of the new cellphone though since it's way too complicated for a meer technohimbo like me to fathom and I'm having problems even sending messages. Not only is the Liliputian keypad way too small for my admittedly large fingers, the screen is also quite a strain for my rapidly declining vision.

Still it looks rather cooler than the trusty old workhorse I had previously :)

The New Religion

Although there is much talk about the country's official religion these days, I imagine that it's all quite old news really since it's commonly known amongst the savvier local population that there's always been an infamous government-sanctioned religion that counts millions of blindly dedicated zealots as its followers.

Me amongst them.

Which is why I've been sneaking off for private regular worship with my fellow supplicants for the past few days.

After all, when the Goddess demands instant servitude - it's not long before the kow-towing Government comes hurrying desperately to meet her frivolous demands with a whole month long of drunken revelry, almost dirt-cheap Jimmy Choos and mindlessly cheap sales to soothe the easily peeved supreme tai tai of shopaholics.

Certainly not easy getting inducted into the Upper Ranks of her Shopaholiness though since it requires years of intense study of shopping catalogs, endless hours of bargain window contemplation and whole battalions of sugar daddies with well-endowed wallets.

Or you can do it the easy way and sacrifice some offerings on her moneyed altar.

17 broken toes of shopahaholic fashionistas

Admittedly a little dangerous for a boon but easy enough to fulfil the first requirement since during the battle for that perfect MNG sweater or Raoul cufflinks, more than a few toes are bound to be stepped on. The higher the blood gore count, the better pleased the bloodthirsty Goddess will be. Doesn't even matter if you don't wear it! If it's cheap and available, grab it from the next screeching fashionista ( or fashionisto if gay boys abound ). Beware of the scratching nails though. Worshippers of the Goddess come armed to the teeth for sales.

7 shopping paper bags

Irregardless of brand of course but Goddess forbid, you present her with some cheap, low-class Ah Lian of Sua Teng Brand. Immediate banishment from all her areas of worship - the shopping malls - wouldn't be unheard of.

7 bowls of shopping tears

This precious collection obviously comes from the endlessly flowing tears of defeated salespersons who get indiscriminately yelled at by crazed, mindless shopaholics for numerous reasons from out-of-stock merchandise to being overcharged for Holly Golightlys. More than a few are found slumped, semi-conscious and drooling in the changing rooms desperately clinging on to that last pair of Manolos after a horde of rampaging fashionistas have made off with the rest.

5 sliced-up credit cards

Quite self-explanatory actually. Left behind in the trail of the rampaging hordes above, distraught fashionisto tearing his teased-up pseudo-blond locks in rage as his credit rating plummets.

3 mindless spouses

Also left behind in the wake of the rampaging hordes along with the cards above, this clueless specimen is usually found shuffling aimlessly along in the state of perpetual yawn with eyes staring blankly into his watch. Usually bearer of a recently emptied ( and usually hastily! ) wallet.

1 beating heart of a virgin

Shopping virgin, that is. Not as easy to locate nowadays especially with numerous shopping malls sprouting up like mushrooms after the rain all over the country but the virgins are still around. Just have to keep your eyes peeled! Sacrificed a non-shopping bunny the year before to the cause so I'm watching out for my next victim.

Kung Pow Chicken and Fantan Fanny

Dinnertime for my family over here is usually fraught with nervous tension at the table. When my brother and I were much younger, we usually left the important decision making to my father - who assumed the autocratic role of household head through some nefarious politicking and illegal vote-buying. But since we've grown somewhat more savvy with age and experience, these days we like to make our voices heard when the menu is read.

After all, not everyone likes having sweet sour everything on the menu all the time.

Unlike Western restaurants with their formalized beautifully scripted menus, most Asian diners here rely solely on the collective memories of the harassed cook and his equally hapless waiter - who has to memorize at least two dozen fan favourites to recite regularly in a heavily accented, sing-song manner to the clueless patrons. Easy enough to pick out a number from a Chinese takeaway menu in the west ( damn I miss that! ) but over here, it's more of a puzzle wrapped in an enigma as you try to discern exactly what's cooking in the kitchen which judging from the sheer breadth of Chinese cuisine could be anything from pig's trotters to snake flesh.

While the more experienced waiters are able to rattle off an amazing plethora of dishes in an awe-inspiring breath, the newer, ditzier ones ( such as the Fantan Fanny in our neighbourhood diner ) regularly fumble and stammer even over egg foo-yong, surely one of the most basic dishes in Chinese cuisine. Takes a while to even pry out some of the cook's signature dishes, usually some esoteric delicacy such as Szechuan flying chicken braised in golden millseed oil and falling autumn leaves from the mountains of Shenyang - or sometimes in whispered breaths sotto voce, there'll be talk of steamed pandas on fresh bamboo shoots much to the consternation of animal conservationists everywhere. Astonishingly enough, the Chinese really do eat almost everything.

This peculiar habit of ordering dinner has always been part of my dad's milieu and it's only been in recent years that I've actually started making orders of my own. Quite a significant milestone making my own order in a Chinese restaurant since I never actually paid attention to my father's rapid-fire conversations with the waiters previously. Time enough that I made a stand though since my poor dad persists in the deluded fantasy that we all partake of his choices in equal enjoyment.

Which is so not true since there are some dishes that I particularly loathe - and will possibly never touch unless it's slathered on a naked, submissive Brandon Routh. Even then, I'd have to think twice on whether to wipe it off first.

1. Deep-fried fish - not in the delicious English Fish and Chips manner but in the Asian fried till everything's golden crunchy manner. Sorry but YUCK!
2. Anything dipped in sweet and sour, be it pork, chicken, beef, rabbit or whatever else they can toss in it. Why does everyone believe that sweet sour sauce makes everything alright? It doesn't! YUCK!
3. Claypot anything. I despise anything that's left to simmer and boil in a claypot! YUCK!
3. Baked beans. Not particularly Chinese but I still hate it. Bleargh.

Certainly not easy to cater to everyone's tastes of course but aren't my dislikes pretty obvious? Definitely have far more varied tastes now in comparison to my youth when I had an odd predilection for yam and potatoes. Surely there are many other ways to fry a fish which is why my brother and I stared for almost five minutes when Fantan Fanny placed a dish on the table. Deep-fried fish slathered in sweet sour sauce.

Thank God it didn't come in a claypot with baked beans. :)

HomosexOil

Pleased that his mathematical superiority frequently dwarfs my singularly pathetic summation skills, Charming Calvin was able to make a recent conclusion that my recent bout of fever had a direct correlation with the frequency of heated sessions in his Cosy Crib. Let's humour the fella but for myself, I'd blame it on nasty bacteria ( damn them! ), the crappy weather we're facing lately ( damn the depleting ozone!! ) and a lack of sleep ( damn on-calls!!! ).

Then again, it could be my sheer cranky orneriness.

Proving that I'm not quite the unscientific dinosaur incapable of making a statistical hypothesis, I have finally decided to make a stand of sorts. Surely, earth-shattering news if everyone found out, I'm sure. From the title of this post, you'd be forgiven for thinking that I've discovered some miraculous Lorenzo's Oil that could turn straight men irrevocably gay but I haven't ( unfortunately dammit! ).

For some time, it has been a secret postulation of mine that a certain town in East Malaysia has a higher propensity of producing gay males rather than any other region in the entire country. Since it is quite obvious that I'm endangering my life by revealing such a shockingly controversial hypothesis, the name of the town shall be kept anonymous though it's quite as famous for the production of oil as it is for exporting hot men. It is my current belief that the oil seepage contaminates the potable water sources of the people in that doomed region, therefore contaminating and polluting the DNA of the innocent folks there after consumption - which invariably leads certain fabulous sections of the thoroughly bewildered DNA helix to gradually mutate into the gay gene!


Sure this isn't somewhere in East Malaysia?
Which leads to a higher propensity for window decoration, Barbra Streisand fanclubs and sheer fabulousness in that particular town. Slowly put your hands up if you're from the aforementioned town and you'll probably see more than a few other homo hands coming up in unison ( oddly enough more than the gay national average, I'm sure ). Trust me, someone really needs to study this. Perhaps the Scientia Concilium ab Notroh?

BTW, still a bit feverish if you hadn't guessed from the mildly delirious ramblings. As my lovely literary Jo March used to say, genius burns after all. :)

Jumping Jills

A certain winged fairy's recent quest for a guiding fag hag has prompted some serious soul searching of my own. Since Carrie Bradshaw and the unfortunately named Stanford Blatch showed us the ultimate winning combo of fabgay-faghag, it has become almost imperative for every card-carrying homo not to be seen gallivanting around without the prerequisite gal-pal accesory - and vice versa. What else could possibly match that perfectly with the Manolos?


Although I have my own coterie of platonic female friends, I doubt that I could possibly call any of them my members of my personal harem - unless Shameless Shalom has a mind to start something.

Talk of my fag hag does remind me of two other girls that I know. Graceless Grace has been mentioned some time back but I haven't spoken of Jumping Jill before here. Practically a tag team since secondary, we managed to battle our way through the sheer delirium of medical school and out into the working world with minimal scarring ( well, I'm possibly more of a cynic with a touch of the psychotic ). Quite possibly one of my longest compadres to walk that close to me since school.

Since Jill's wedded, bedded and delivered though, it's been a little difficult getting in touch with her - not unless it's with a then foot long pole ( not even I aspire to that!! ) especially as she's regularly surrounded by throngs of in-laws, her hulking husband and her newborn babe. Little hard to wax enthusiastic about the naked male form when she's dealing with baby burp and cranky in-laws. Her transfer to a larger city also prompted some loosening of ties but that seems to have changed these few days since we've started talking again almost as if no time has passed at all - given a huge helping hand by the sheer jaw-dropping monotony of the course that we're both attending.

Reunions are fraught with unforeseen tension - and yet it was as if we hadn't been separated by hundreds of miles and almost two years since we'd last spoken. Felt like just yesterday that I'd called her up to ask about some inconsequential matter about the Krebs Cycle. Quite amazing actually and yet something held my tongue this time when she asked me the all-consuming question.

Jill : Are you seeing anyone?
Paul : Uhh...
Jill : Waitaminute, you didn't say no! Who is it!
Paul : Uhh...
Jill : Tell me!

It was at the tip of my tongue to blurt out a name but I hesitated. Hmm... never actually told her I was a raging homosexual ( though I heavily suspect that she already knows since how else could she possibly explain my obsession with hunky athletes in shorts? ).

So I committed myself to an uncertain double date sometime in the future. With Eye Eddie also getting extremely curious ( since I actually told him about my beau - and my blog horrifyingly enough! ), wonder what Charming Calvin would think of this sudden uncalled for popularity. Hope he's not feeling too bashful lately :)

Smell the Roses

One of the few regrets of my life ( apart from not being born with the looks of Brandon Routh ) is the fact that I didn't actually take the time to stop and smell the roses. It's always been a mindless kiasu rush from place to place - school to tuition, ward to operating theatre, mall to cinema - without having the time to stop and stare.

There were some students who took their own personal time to goof off behind the school walls with cigarettes and cheap porn but like the good kid I was, I never ever played truant in my whole school life. Never actually occurred to me to skip classes unless I was sick like a dog.

Well, it seems like I'm making it up in spades since I missed work today. Felt far too sickly to even stumble down the stairs which is why I slammed the beeping alarm clock, tossed it in the drawer and shut the heavy curtains for another two hours of sweaty, feverish sleep.


Sizzling hot in bed!
Feels odd playing truant today. Well, not exactly truant since I have a valid medical reason not to work today - pretty sure I'd keel over in a disgraceful faint during rounds. On the days when I'm on leave, the free days are usually packed full to the brim with a busload of frenetic activities that doesn't actually leave me time for myself. Been labelled the God of Perpetual Motion before so it's rare enough that I find myself doing absolutely nothing but lie motionless on my sickbed staring at the ceiling for hours counting the sheep.

Not supposed to mention our shameless shenanigans anymore since Calvin is the bashful sort who frowns at skanky public exhibitions. Never imagined I'd be getting involved with a shy guy but I shall acquiesce to his demands. Since his latest theory doesn't raise that many alarms for being unduly skanky, I think I shall be forgiven for telling you all this. Charming Calvin has come up with a hypothesis that attributes my rising fever to our recent heated sessions in his Cosy Crib. Hell, if that's only true, then it's pretty worth it :P

Hot Showers

Felt a little feverish and sniffly this morning - and all through the afternoon, had a bit of aches here and there. Nothing too severe though but I knew that I had to cool off quick. Barrels of water didn't seem to do the trick so after work, I popped over to Charming Calvin's Cosy Crib. Took a while but I managed to talk the man into some degree of economy ( therefore saving the planet's precious supply of fresh potable water ).

Taking a shower is usually cleansing and refreshing...

But sometimes it can also be damned exhausting. No more aching bones but my legs feel like jelly :)

Pirates, Purgatory and Pricks

While Charming Calvin was preoccupied with setting his new place to rights, I still had my old home to settle - since numerous bills to pay meant that I had to at least make an appearance back home. Seriously, my weekend can be successfully summed up in those three words.

Pirates

Ahoy, matey was the call I made to Shameless Shalom the instant I returned - since the likes of Handsome Hui had given himself up to shamelessly selling himself for a bit of gold.

Once I fed her with enough fresh mackerel and stale booze, Shalom started spilling the evil tidings that has befallen the lovable motley crew I left behind. Seems that during my absence, the bubbling disquiet in my old workplace had transformed itself into a literal biblical exodus. While I was there, we managed to temporarily forget our troubles during the tyrannical rule with barrels of ale ( though I made numerous vociferous protests with the management ) but once I took my leave of the torturous voyage, the remaining sailors have been left marooned. Rather than stage a treacherous mutiny, more than a handful of decided to take their chances jumping ship into uncharted waters rather than continue the course. Chained to the sinking ship by an indelible contract, Shalom has resigned herself to certain doom.

Poor gal. I suggest another mug of ale.

Purgatory

All who know me are duly informed of my patent dislike of mindless horror films. Well, all except poor Big Bicep Barry who duly presented me last night - to my utmost horror ( sorry I couldn't resist! ) - with movie tickets to Re-cycle.


I'll trade you a bunch of tickets to Re-Cycle!
Dammit, I'd rather go to hell!
Seriously, such a mind-boggling enigma-wrapped-riddle of a film should be consigned to the deepest levels of purgatory. Serious themes of abortion, abandonment and apathy were weaved into the movie along with the cookie-cutter drooling zombies and spookily long haired Asian women. Other than the hot stud next to me, there was a serious lack of male eye candy. The one saving grace was the fact that the heroine was surprisingly not a brainless bimbo and quite intrepid to boot. Although Barry blanched through a few admittedly gruesome moments with sternly compressed lips, he remained manfully attached to his seat ( rather than run screaming from the cinema due to the sheer stupidity of the movie ) and even managed to puzzle out the incomprehensible twist at the end of the movie.

Good Barry. Only he could discover what exactly the Pang Brothers intended to do with the hapless heroine.

Pricks

You'll be forgiven if you imagined hard erections here but it's the bastard prick that I have in mind here. When I returned to the Big Bad City - hereby known as the Big Mud, I found myself faced with the endless headache of disappearing parking lots but lo and behold, I managed to find one in the nick of time. It wasn't the blessing in disguise I imagined. All Big Mud citizens would be able to explain the amazing Murphy's Law that happens in parking spaces. When I returned after dinner, I found a stationary car parked right behind mine. Bloody hell. The horrifying expletives that shot out of my mouth would have done my foul-mouthed ISO proud and like any victim of road rage, I was just this close to reaching for my spanner to exact some uncivilized retribution.

Fortunately he appeared after three minutes. I counted. You can only double park if there's a freaking medical emergency, dammit. Otherwise, park farther away and fucking walk. Short of your wife giving birth in the car or your femoral artery spurting fresh blood all over the steering wheel, nothing is that terribly urgent.

Bad pricks beware. The day I get a hulking 4WD with large imposing bumper attached, your puny cars are gonna be history.

Part Deux : Leaving Home

I was glad to be there to witness Charming Calvin's first.

Finally moving out of a parent's aegis is certainly a large step in a young adult's life, just as significant as finally signing the lease on a place of his own. Like I mentioned previously, Charming Calvin's dream of a Cosy Crib was finally realized yesterday. Although he certainly bemoaned the fact that he'll be essentially living on charity for the next month ( due to a serious depletion of funds in his account ), I could see the wild anticipation in his usually serious eyes. Having the keys to his own apartment in his hands must have been quite a Kodak moment.

Just like the clever credit card commercials say...
Two months downpayment on the apartment... RM 1500
Real Estate Agent fees... RM 500
Utility downpayment... RM 500
Look on his face as he stares at his empty new apartment... priceless.

The first blush of a new relationship is still present - and the depressing reality of neverending bills and leaky faucets are still several memories away ( and I'm not going to spoil the moment for him ).

Still relatively pleased with himself, Calvin never actually saw my next move. Guess I was just as excited about the move as he was. Suffice to say, Calvin's Cosy Crib is well and truly christened, and we made good use of the blue sofa thoughtfully left behind by the previous owner. :)


There were things I found a little unsavoury in the vicinity but I figure it's most likely due to some latent snobbish prig aspect in me. Never actually knew I was the patronizing bastard sort who still saw appeal in the discriminatory social class system but living right smack in the middle of various notorious ah bengs and indiscriminate ah lians is something I've got to get used to. To say the least! Ditto for the great unwashed screaming their vulgar rants in the open corridors like uncouth fish-wives. At times, it felt like I'd stepped into a recurring Hong Kong drama serial with their neverending anonymous cookie-cutter low-cost apartments.

Blame it on my overly creative imagination but it's not as bleak as I've painted it. Certainly won't recommend walking the corridors without a sharp implement for defence though.

Still, the cosy little apartment had its good points ( other than the lighting which needs a major rethink ). Pristine white walls ( though marked by the previous ah lian who had a predilection for red lanterns, fake cherry blossoms and tacky christmas trees ), relatively unmarked wooden flooring and a lovely kitchen counter in a shade of light tan. Not forgetting the slightly stained sofa I mentioned above.

Light blues and tans! Can already see the decorating possibilities!

Part Une : Coming Home

People say that you can never really go back home and I guess it's true to some extent since as I said things change - and most importantly people change. Unfortunately my parents don't seem to have caught on to that fact yet - though I don't know whether to feel pleased or frustrated by that fact yet. Let's face it, I'm not getting any younger, these days I'm practically staring the big 3-0 in the eye. Can't believe it but it's already four years that I've actually lived by myself - as a swinging bachelor footloose and fancy-free.


Been a little difficult adjusting to a life with my parents, and my brother ( and other assorted relatives ) occasionally intruding again. Living alone, I only had myself to think of without the many responsibilities that comes with having a family. Now, I only have to step out of the house to receive a long barrage of questions aimed at me from my parents. Occasionally makes me feel like a sullen adolescent again actually though I try my best not to reply in the way I used to.

Parent : Who are you going out with?
Teenage Son : A friend.
Parent : Where are you going?
Teenage Son : Somewhere.
Parent : When will you be back?
Teenage Son : Sometime.

Saying little and telling nothing.

Despite being generally competent in every other way, somehow my parents have never gotten out of the way of thinking that I'm the sort of naive, weak-minded idiot who's in imminent danger of falling into the wrong company ( do raging homosexuals count? ). Hell, if I wanted to fall into an unsavoury crowd, wouldn't I have done so back in school rather than hanging out with the goody-two-shoes?

Sneaking out with Hush Puppies in hand during the late hours didn't seem to have worked either since my father seems to have an unfailing radar when it comes to me. Just as I slip noiselessly into the car, I get the usual Dad's Dull and Dreary Duty-list, running the gamut from numerous mundane bills and errands to the regular Magnum 4D. Years before, my brother and I used to flip coins for the boring chores, therefore reducing our duties by half ( usually my brother since he was the elder and actually had a vehicle of some sort ) but now, its all up to me - and by God, I hate waiting in line at the gambling havens rubbing shoulders with the local riff raff.

Even worse when I'm getting ready for an assignation with Charming Calvin, all slicked up in shirt and pants only to receive the third degree from my mum, making me feel like a awkward, gangly teenager with hormones rather than a responsible gainfully employed adult with condoms in the backpocket. Not easy thinking of hot, heavy makeout sessions with Calvin in the car ( and now in his own place dubbed Calvin's Cosy Crib ) when I had my mother making me promise to come home for a dinner of fried chicken and curried brinjals. Even penises and brinjals don't go together nicely when your mother's standing there giving a lecture.

But I won't ever complain. :) Downsides aside, it's nice to have someone leave the lights on waiting for me to come home.

Tempting Templates

Like the old adage goes, everything changes - although there are always a few recalcitrant sorts like me who desperately cling to the old ways. Just like my other fixed Scorpio brethren, I am a dedicated fan of the tried and true with any hint, even the slightest breeze heralding the winds of change giving me the shivers. Trying to shake me from any seeming semblance of complacency is a near impossible task and nothing short of an electric prod - and various other implements of torture - would serve to move me from my place of security. I like ruts. Seriously.

Which is why I hated adjusting to a new job.

Which is why I hated moving to a new place.

Which is why I must have driven the poor Queer Chef to distraction when he so kindly offered to update my tired template. As always, still a work in progress since like any anal-retentive perfectionist, I can never be truly satisfied with anything.

The first idea Chef Chas had was a sleek, professional minimalist-looking ebony-and-ivory template that I felt just didn't mesh with my colourful life. Well, that's actually pushing it since my life's actually all desperately dull beiges and grays. Which is why I felt that I deserved a little colour in my life ( and aren't gay men genetically drawn to bright bold colours, judging by their rainbow banners? ) since I've already dealt with enough black-and-white decisions at work.


A rainbow of colours!
The one you see before you is the second template that I've been fiddling with here and there. Love the colours here since it draws inspiration from my previous template but I am still finding the new banner a little hard to take. Sure the semi-disrobing man candy is certainly eye-catching but isn't it a tad too obvious, even for a disreputable skank?

What do you guys think?

Gonna update a little more after I get back from an early dinner with Charming Calvin. Can assure you that he's certainly no figment of my wildly creative imagination since no fictional character could taste so sweet... and flavourful :) Corrupting him slowly... so maybe this time the bashful boy would agree to reenact a George Michael assignation in a public men's room.

Sinful Apples

Keeping your ears firmly to the ground can certainly be fruitful. This excerpt was overhead in one of the nearby church confessionals this evening...

Forgive me, father, for I have sinned.

How could I not dream of such terribly unchaste thoughts with such devilish temptation! For God to place such a beautiful object of His creation in my presence only to have him ask several leading questions has to be the naughty gay men's version of the delectable apple in Eden.

Soulful dark eyes, perfectly stubbled jaw and a body straight out of Men's Health ( albeit a broken shoulder in a sling ) the budding sportsman begged for directions and I was only to willing to offer several - though more than a few unfit for the general audience. Several wickedly lewd, dexterous positions came to mind and if the surrounding area wasn't crowded with the presence of forty other ailing souls, assorted nurses and the man's comforting wife, it wouldn't have surprised me if I'd have coerced him into one of the above positions in a nearby supply closet ( since it seemed quite possible that his virile athletic body would be able to conform ).


Tempting apples
As it is, the hotter a man turns out to be, the colder I get. Dr Ice was chilling to the marrow and the poor man was terribly daunted to be faced with such cool, polite professionalism. Seemed to be the thing to do after all. If he'd given even an inch, it wouldn't have surprised me if I'd have started a closer, far more intimate examination of his perfectly sculpted pectorals and something tells me his glowering wife wouldn't have been amused to see her husband being molested.

Still due to the grace of God ( for that was the only thing - apart from medical ethics - keeping him safe from groping hands ) the man managed to find his way to the orthopaedics clinic without further mishap - or undue sexual harassment.

Isn't it shocking how naughty some doctors can be? Not sure what kinda penance the sinner will receive but I assume it's twenty Hail Marys and several light lashes of the whip ( that the wicked sinner might possibly enjoy :) )

BTW expect some odd changes here and there as I try my best to update the blog template with the help of a fabulously queer ( and stylish ) chef! If Superman can get a new updated suit, I can certainly try :)

Frickin IKEAs

It would be reasonable to expect a red-blooded swinging single guy to find spartan living quite acceptable - which explains why bachelor pads are rightfully infamous for being just a small step above decrepit, barely salvageable hovels.

Just observe some of the charming cribs invaded by the MTV Room Raiders and you'll know exactly what I mean, which brings back a barely repressed shudder as I recall some of the pigsties dorm rooms I've been in. Potato chips, pizza droppings and unidentified edible items litter the scraped floors, used underwear dangle helplessly from the broken ceiling fan and the cheap bedsheets are stained with various bodily fluids and cheap booze. One good reason why I didn't have much sex back in university.


Dorm food! YUM!
Then again, sometimes it's worth the sacrifice :P Fuck the sheets!

Thinking that I would be staying at my brother's old place only for a short period of time, I eschewed every creature comfort, steeling myself to live like an ascetic monk without style or interior decor. Plain unadorned white walls with the barest minimal accoutrements and my simple black medical textbooks. Terribly zen.

My brother predicted that I wouldn't last long in such a state.

Unfortunately, he was right. The blank slate practically screamed for some colour and I couldn't resist for long. Just today after waking up from what I assume was an extended interior decorating dream, I splurged ( well, call it overextended my credit ) in a desperate attempt to drag my seriously dull room into some semblance of style. Still a Casa Impian in progress - since I'm trying to look for an outstanding feature to highlight - but I'm partly satisfied with the buff-coloured curtains with the maroon tiebacks, the carmine bedcovers with the sassy throw and of course my cherry-red candles. Even a charming Vietnamese lamp by the bedside table.

When I get a little money, I buy books. And if there is any left over, I buy food.

And so there goes my budget for the rest of the month. Unlike Desiderius Rasmus, the theologian who made that quote, I don't even have any left to buy food since I spent it on bedsheets. Wonder whether Charming Calvin can spare some chump change.

Grocery shopping

Work has been unbearably hectic the past week ( a thousand apologies to Charming Calvin ) and it certainly shows since like the oft-mentioned supreme tai tai of the universe, I slept till almost 1 in the afternoon. Definitely a change from leaping out of bed at the call of the muezzins in the early hours of the morning. After being oncall for 24 hours, I rushed home yesterday to run some mundane errands ( paying bills and loans etc ) and by the time I was done with them all, I was dead on my feet and could have gladly fallen unconscious on the closest available flat surface.

Surfaced from my sleep to march down to the kitchen and then realized that my larder as usual was woefully empty and I hastily hied myself to the neighbourhood chain store to stock up. Perhaps in a past life - apart from all that wicked Machiavellian scheming, I must have been quite the dominating housefrau since the very idea of an empty larder actually fills my heart with dread. Somehow my idea of domestic bliss alway revolves around setting up a wholesome homecooked dinner over a bustling hearth - dreams of a 1950s Stepford Housewife, I know. With my hectic erratic schedule, not sure when I shall ever have the time and energy to chop, boil and cook for my dream dinner party but I have always tried my best to keep my stock ready for any such event.


A house is no home unless it contain food and fire for the mind as well as for the body
Shopping for groceries can be quite the eye-opener, and certainly for an enthusiastic people-watcher like me, it can be quite the engrossing pasttime. It's practically a hobby for me to guess what's a person like from the groceries they buy - from the hedonistic football loving bachelor who loads his trolley with mindless booze and endless chips to the dedicated suburban soccer mom with four kids and SUV stocking up on her mountainous weekly supply of groceries - quite enough to feed an army or two during an enemy blockade. Then there's the stick-thin fashionista with her empty basket who jabs her perfectly groomed nails into the pomelos searching for the slightest imperfections while her visibly bored datuk-type friend's gaze start to wander around the merchandise available elsewhere.

Weekends always mark the return of the crazed family shoppers who arrive by the busloads to stock up for the rest of the week. Fortunately I arrived during an unexpected lull in the storm and managed to find a perfect spot. In comparison to the shoppers above, my shopping trolly is generally simple.

1) Rice - not that I'm a crazy rice hoard but every dutiful Asian boy just needs to have some rice in his kitchen jar - and who knows, I just might get the chance to cook it one day.
2) Sugar - since everyone's desperately clamouring for it during this sugar crisis, I need to get my share too.
3) Sausages - More cholesterol heaven!
4) Snacks - my ever wonderful Cheezels. Sure, we don't have Cheetos here for some inexplicable reason but till then, I always have my regular O-Yas ( carbohydrate loeaded orgasms ) to depend on for some cheesy thrills.
5) Instant noodles - could possibly write an ode to this wonderful invention, surely better than sliced bread. Saved my life - and the possible advent of stomach ulcers - more than a few times in the past.
6) Bread - ah, glorious.
7) Peanut butter and jelly - which obviously comes together with the bread. My one respite when everything else is gone.
8) Bananas - unlike Charming Calvin and his odd fetish for grapes, I only enjoy fruits that don't need much preparation before consumption. Instant gratification.

Yeah, literal soul food for the ten year old in me :) Then when I was approaching the checkout counter to pay, I noticed the body in front of me. Big, fit and with large paws - certainly large enough that the basket in hand seemed almost like a mere child's plaything. It could only be one person after all.

After gaining his attention by ramming his butt with my trolley, Big Bicep Barry turned around to thank me profusely for the advice I'd proffered a week back on some mysterious family malady - that's me, fount of medical wisdom. Obviously he doesn't know that I'm a mere medical charlatan, with nary a sensible thought in my head.

During a short break in his packed workday, the man managed to escape the shackles of work and decided to grab some groceries while he was at it. When I peeked into his large basket, I just had to sigh. Surely a basket worth of goodies - a bountiful bouquet of organic vegetables, wafer-thin sugar-free, salt-free, taste-free wheat crackers and numerous mineral water bottles ( which certainly explains his seemingly neverending supply ).

Then I looked into my trolley. Crap. No wonder I'm not losing weight.

Making monsters

Once we're on this path we've chosen, one of the hazy dreams that most of us gay men are obliged to give up is having children of our own. Adoption or surrogacy ( ala the Jolie-Pitts ) is certainly a viable option but I seriously doubt any such solution for gay parenthood would be willingly tolerated in this country for the next century or so. Perhaps never since it's almost impossible to shake the overwhelmingly ultra-conservative perception that homosexuals are depraved soulless perverts with a devil-sent mission to corrupt the saintly masses.

Yet sometimes when I watch the uncontrollable throng of riotous children milling about the malls raising heck on weekends with their bedraggled, bothered and bewildered caretakers, I wonder whether's it's an insane death-wish or an ingrained societal expectation that has embedded itself in my brain ( helped along by the non-to-subtle hints of my biological clock no doubt ). Haven't decided which one it is yet.


Father and son from the Tiffinbox
Not sure what kinda parent I'd make in the future but I have a scary feeling I'll morph into the monstrous no-nonsense displinarian. After all, nowadays we do see monsters in the making. Sometimes I see little children barely knee-high screaming their lungs out in the mall after being denied a treat. Just watching such spoilt, high-spirited brats lording over their hapless parents is enough to make my fingers itch for a cane - since unlike most politically correct folks nowadays, I don't disagree with mild physical punishment. Since I was... well, certainly no poster child myself, I would have to say that time-outs, removal of privileges with a merit system and neverending lectures can only work to a certain extent.

Believe me, any semi-intelligent child can easily find a loophole in such psychological mind games. Sometimes I hear parents ask the question 'Why were you so naughty?' and most times in my head, I know the answer's just as simple as 'Because I can'.

Spare the rod? Certainly a terrifying dilemma for most parents who I'm sure spend sleepless nights worrying. Get a little worried myself each time I watch my little niece grow up as she straddles the terrible twos. In the blink of an eye, she can literally shapeshift from angelic child with halo in place to maniacal devil's spawn. Fortunately her so-called mood swings are still extremely few and far in between and I'm confident her parents would be able to offer a remedy.

Or at least I hope.

Good ol Charm

Rampant rumours abound on the blogosphere that I'm actually seeing someone on the sly. Rather than dealing everyone a blatant credibility gap, I'm actually confirming the rumours ( unlike the virginal Malaysian crooner I mentioned in my last post ). Fear not, I shall not slip into sentimental whimpers but yeah, I have actually been seeing Charming Calvin almost regularly since I made my transfer.

Rare enough that I speak of Calvin since he actually reads my blog in his spare time - horror of horrors, I know! - which actually precludes any sort of skanky comments I might make such as the quiet moments with him that I feel like fucking him hard against a wall after tearing off his conservative shirt. ( Can imagine him falling off his office chair right after reading this pronouncement )

And the quiet moments are legion since he's actually a close-mouthed, taciturn sort - although I have to admit that in comparison to mindlessly babbling chatterbox me, everyone else is practically a Sphinx. Certainly not the typical brash arrogant lion. Riding off into the sunset with marriage cert is definitely not in the cards yet but we're taking the time to appreciate each other - and that's fine by me for the moment. So no fooling around with hunky Chris Evans lookalikes in the changing rooms - unless I give Calvin a heads-up first.


Although sometimes, Calvin finds it hard to appreciate himself and I always find that absolutely puzzling ( despite my own mounting self doubts ). Sure, he's certainly no flawless diamond but that doesn't make him any less precious :) There are days when like any self-conscious gay man, he wishes that he had a tighter butt or bigger pecs, wishes that he was smarter or stronger - and hell, I'm here to tell him that almost every red-blooded guy thinks the same. Just ask anyone. And that goes for the seemingly perfect Chris Evans of the world too.

Nothing's perfect and there's always that tiny pimple on that rock-hard, Carrara marble-smooth bubble butt.

God knows I'm hardly any sort of prize myself but I've actually grown comfortable with myself, not only with my inherent wickedness and flaws but also with my hideous homely skin. Perhaps it's because of the years but I've grown accustomed to my face as the remixed version of the evergreen goes. Especially since I have high hopes that if I collect enough good karma in this lifetime with my samaritanlike deeds, I shall be reincarnated as a lithe, hunky Brandon Routh in the next life. :)

Hell, if not there's always plastic surgery.

Raging Rumours II

Finished work a little late today since there were several emergencies that needed to be handled at the last minute. Brain tumours simply can't wait after all. Still it was relatively easy to juggle around and gave me plenty of time to catch up with some of the latest gossip circulating spreading around the hospital. Despite the staid, boring reputations that science nerd doctors have been saddled with, the opposite is actually true and the hospital's usually rife with salacious rumours. Who's marrying who? Who's sleeping with who? Who's cheating who?

Some of the things we talk about would surprise you all since it doesn't involve medicine at all ( how utterly boring would that be! ) but it ran the gamut from virgin hens served during the confinement period to virginal headliners ( though not for long if the pundits are to be believed ) and straight on to the latest scandal of murderous mommies with a fatal fetish for runaway trains. There was even a brief segue into far more skanky topics such as tantric sex though we were swiftly brought back to more palatable topics by a prudish scrub nurse.


Well, at least all that mindless chatter managed to keep me up. Didn't have my usual instant messaging to rely on ( and my sweet Charming Calvin with his bolstering messages ) since the underground operating theatre was inaccesible to wireless reception. Certainly easy enough to fall slowly into dreamland with the chilly atmosphere, the relative silence, the cushioned seats and the monotonous beep rhythm of the heart rate. My seriously boring physiology textbook certainly didn't help any :)

The More Things Change

Never actually got into drinking alcohol for some reason. Although I do go out for the occasional drink when I'm out with my friends ( the occasional wimpy cocktail in moderation! ), I've never been one to stock beer bottles in my fridge for easy access. Somehow getting high on a drink never struck me as an ambition in life - and I've certainly seen the disastrous effects of one too many impulsive tipples. The fact that I'm usually the designated driver amongst my tipsier pals usually guarantees that alcohol never actually reaches my lips.

Anyway according to the rest of them, I'm already wacky enough without adding spirits to the heady mix. The civilized world as we know it might not be ready for a boozed-up alcoholic Paul.


Getting thirsty?
I've somehow developed an obsession with Heineken lately. It has nothing to do with the infamous Brad Pitt outrunning the paparazzi commercial - and everything to do with a spicy Tom Yum dinner I had with Big Bicep Barry last week. Trying to canvas a wider area for more clients, he called me up for a quick bite and a movie before leaving. Well all I gotta say is the dinner was excellent, the company was entertaining, the movie dreadfully dull but I had to admit that it all left me wanting just a bit more.

Something cool, refreshing and utterly thirst-quenching.

Paul : I just had a Heineken.
Barry : Seriously? You don't drink.
Paul : That was before the epiphany I had with you last week.
Barry : Are you blaming me for turning alcoholic?
Paul : Yeah. That was before I realized that Heineken tastes just as good in the 1800s.
Barry : You're still thinking of that commercial?!
Paul : That guy was hot! I want to marry him.
Barry : Sigh.

Still. I've got another five cans left. Barry wasn't amused when I told him I'd wrap the rest for his impromptu gift.

Aren't advertising commercials insidious?

Dodging medicine

With my frequent gripes about the pitfalls of the job, one of the oft-repeated questions I receive is why I actually chose this thorny career path. Essentially one of the choice viva questions aimed at me when I start on my neverending diatribes - and certainly the first thing I was asked during an introduction yesterday by a hopeful physician-to-be. Somehow or rather Fearful Fran managed to corral enough guys from all ages and walks of life - truthfully varied enough to fulfil the criteria of any exacting population sampling.

Though it's easy enough to shoot off a witty, glib retort in response, honestly I have to say that I am not too sure myself. While most laymen would expect the usual glowing, lofty ambitions on saving humanity and upholding truth, justice and the Malaysian way mouthed by enthusiastic medical personnel wannabes, I find myself ( yeah, wicked me! ) literally unmoved by such selfless samaritans. Certainly the thought of helping others did occur to me but I have to admit that I'm no saintly Mother Teresa.

Chose the path would be far too simple an answer. Stumbling upon it would be more accurate since at that time during my youthful follies, I wasn't terribly sure what I wanted in life. Not too sure of it even now actually ( though I'm actually leaning towards the life of a household engineer ). There were certain paths that didn't appeal to me, engineering being one of them. Since my deep innate loathing of Mathematics is obvious enough, I didn't think a career that dealt with numbers and calculation on a daily basis would suit. Minging looks and a deep-seated fear of protein shakes and gym routines practically eliminated a career as an underwear model. Architecture seemed quite a worthy candidate but I actually preferred the challenging advertising line - which is why I actually signed up for it way back.

But just before I burned all my bridges to pursue advertising, I actually had a heart-to-heart with my parents and like all ultra-conservative Asian parents, they actually counselled me on doing medicine instead. One of the things they actually said ( amongst a thousand other pros with few cons ) has stuck in my mind till then. Getting into a medical school seemed like a chance in a lifetime at the time - and though I could easily afford a course in advertising, a medical course with its accompanying astronomical fees ( never could see why! ) would be nigh impossible.

So that's why I'm in medicine. Oh yeah, not forgetting that the white coat has a definite cool factor too :) The unforgiving shapeless blue scrubs / pyjamas is something else entirely however.

Am I regretting the choice I made? Not really. On the days when I'm not tearing my hair out with frustration over the stresses of the job, I'm actually quite content despite the obvious lack of any form of social life and the pathetically minute monetary rewards - not to mention that it's likely you'll be up fucking early on some unsociable Sunday morning like today and going to work. Most of the benefits of the job are purely intangible - a simple thankyou from a patient and the gift of a smile from the relatives. That you simply can't buy at the the mall :)

So, Aspiring Joshua ( no kitschy monikers for ya yet till I get to know ya better, and that's truly quote, unquote :) ), that's my answer for you. Sad social life, even sadder pay and some glimmer of job satisfaction. Care to join us?