All about Ken and Raoul

Just another creepy thought on coming this perilously close to the big terrifying 3-0 precipice.

Even the clothes you wear starts to change. Seriously. Progressively expanding waistline aside ( dammit think positive, think of lipo! ), the old stuff that used to be a staple during university life just doesn't cut it anymore. Never imagined that I'd actually give up my plain comfortable tees and loose battered jeans - surely regular everyday joe kinda wear - but come on, how would that look on someone you're supposed to respect and trust? Someone you're supposed to entrust your life to for even a moment?

Even with the semi-sloppy casual wear doctrine slowly conquering offices everywhere, the ultra-conservative medical bastion has remained staunchly unmoving on this sartorial matter. Hell, even loosening the tie knot when the weather gets sultry can raise more than a few conservative eyebrows. Shirts and ties have remained the norm, some daring, unconventional few even coming out with the snazzy bow ties - though oddly enough most of them are psychiatrists. After all, not even the redoubtable Dr Gregory House can pull off that brash, slovenly look all the time.

And who could blame them? We do have a clothing allowance of sorts so it wouldn't be fair schlepping around the hospital in crumpled leftovers from the nearest pseudo-Goth garage sale - although more than a few doctors could be charged with such murderous fashion felony.

So nowadays, a walk at the mall has me overlooking the usual shiny sequins, dazzling technicolour baby tees and crotch-enhancing denim that the gym-built circuit party boys adore ( and I envy! ) and heading straight to the near heavenly Raoul and Kenneth Cole - despite the fact that I'd have to sell the shirt off my back ( and possibly my first born too ) just to purchase one of theirs.

Has anyone seen their desperately dear - yet wonderfully wearable - menswear? Hell, a decent Raoul shirt can successfully salvage even a hideous homely wreck like me.

And the delicious cufflinks! Yeah, I do wear them, cumbersome as they may be at the job - and no, they haven't fallen into a patient's open abdomen yet. Haven't found one that truly matched my wacky personality yet so I'm dealing with some plain run-of-the-mill silver cufflinks for now.

Don't even get me going on the shoes... :)

This ain't Kansas anymore

Before I transferred to my new hunting ground, I'd been forewarned that it certainly isn't going to be the same.

Back in my old workplace, sure we had our share of work gripes and general dissatisfaction with the draconian authority ( but here's guessing that happens everywhere else too! ) but in general, we also made up for it with our little shared intimacies, our coffee-break rants in the pantry and our regular dinner gatherings. Although we are all a pretty diverse bunch ( from the admittedly Shameless Shalom to the undeniably Handsome Hui to some others yet unnamed ), there was a general sense of camaraderie amongst the beleaguered residents at work - and in a mushy sense, yeah we were a dysfunctional family of sorts.

With the countless numbers of physicians in my new workplace, it isn't very long before we start feeling like a tiny anonymous cog in the monstrous medical machinery. Easy enough to disappear in the midst of hundreds - just imagine Dilbert lost amongst the nameless office drones in the neverending cubicles. In a place where rotations shift faster than Madonna's hair colour, it isn't easy trying to maintain regular contact with anyone long enough to start any kind of friendship. Unfortunately there is no deep sense of kinship and belonging that you find in other smaller hospitals since everyone just comes in to work on time, does their job efficiently and then leaves for home. Hardly any scandalous pantry gossip or friendly after-hours java at the coffeehouse.

Which is a pity since it was that indefinable sense of fellowship that kept me going sometimes. Medical life would have been quite intolerable otherwise :)


Come talk to me!
So here are some updates on my wicked cronies for those who are wondering...

Helped in part by his relentless pursuit of locum tenens, Handsome Hui has finally gotten his act together ( perhaps stung by my cutting comments on his unlivable squalor :) ) and has made the monumental move to a swankier place. Or so he says. Watch out for updates as I have been invited to Hui's Homely Heaven for an assessment. I hear the man has fishies in a tank! Would prefer him in a tank top and tight speedos but I guess some goldfish would do.

A fellow advocate, Shameless Shalom has been possessed by the shopping goddess and has gotten her greedy little hands on a divine black top that showcases her best assets. Farewell to the shapeless blue scrubs. Handsome and eligible heterosexual interns and residents, take note! Homosexual ones, call me instead.

Sacrificing her weekly spa treatments and hair salons visits, Preity Posh has given herself wholly to the wicked sadism of her professional examinations.

Silent Sally remains as ever silent - albeit about five hundred miles away.

The Fast and the Furious

Some would say that my biological clock is ticking away but turning out to be a raging homosexual hasn't dampened my growing enthusiasm for fatherhood even a little. Certainly has made it a bit more problematic - since fertile uteruses aren't exactly a dime a dozen - but resourcefulness has always been my middle name ( and not skank as most people would wrongly assume ).

Sometimes I watch my friends, mostly my peers actually - some of whom are starting young families of their own right now - and I wonder what sort of father I'd make if I had that chance. Although I'd hope that I'd be the kind, loving, good-natured papa who'd allow his teenage kids free rein to do what they chose, I seriously doubt that ever happening. Chances are I'll probably turn out to be a stern, unfeeling Victorian-minded draconian monster who'd lock up his eligible sons and daughters after midnight.

Had my suspicions confirmed early this morning when I crawled out of my bunk at some ungodly hour to admit a 17 yo semi-hunky jailbait with a crushed leg. Turns out the little mat rempit suffered a devastating motor vehicle accident at 2 in the morning after a mindless motorcycle joyride with his cronies. Doctors are trained to be somewhat detached from their patients but I could already feel the smoke rising from my head. Surely every other sane physician would be running about offering pain meds but the first thought in my head was 'what the fuck is a schoolkid doing out at 2 in the morning on a school night?!'

Surely good samaritans would decry such an unfeeling prejudiced statement by hastily babbling all sorts of suitably Lifetime Channel excuses for the kid. Seriously. Trust me, he didn't look like he'd been out doing charitable work at 2 in the morning. He wasn't out earning a living to support his desperate orphaned siblings. He wasn't even out purchasing herbal tonics for a terminally ill grandmother.


Come ride with me!
Let's face it, there is a distinct urban breed of teenage motorcyclists in Malaysia with near-psychotic suicidal tendencies who transform the city at night into a literal showcase of traffic anarchy - possibly in the faint hopes of emulating the unthinking speed demons on the Fast and the Furious.

These juvenile teenage boys and their illegal motorcycle races. What exactly are they thinking of in the early hours of the morning? What are they searching for? That brief shining moment of deluded glory? The indiscriminate hand of the nearest slutty fluffheaded bohsia? That sheer, indescribable adrenaline-laced thrill moments before that wild ride runs smack into a stationary brick wall and 17 years of dubious education ends up in a bloody splatter on the cold, uncaring cement?

Seriously.

If I were the father, I'd probably have given him a hard spanking. And not in a good way.

Rainy mornings

Rainy sunday mornings are the worst.

When you have to go to work, that is. All I can think of is snuggling in bed, warm and preferably naked under the thick blankets with my sweet Charming Calvin. Instead I'm braving the howling rain, the rousing thunder and the slippery skids for the hospital this Sunday morning - muttering curses under my breath all the while.

Lousy work hours. The unforeseen perils of dating a physician.

The heavy iron shackles of duty and responsibility are factors that drive me to work but I'm not sure how much ambition there is in that volatile mix. Not much, I gather since I still find myself a bit lackadaisical when it comes to my professional exams. I'm sure the ambitious sort - such as the overenthusiastic, desperately kiasu interns in Grey's Anatomy - would have found some ingenious way to smuggle in some textbooks during their tiring on-call but all I wanna do is get some shut-eye when I catch a break. Like my other unfortunate compatriots facing exams, I'm starting to be a bit unsure about the road taken.


The road not taken
Perhaps a last-minute detour to take the one less traveled by would be a better idea. After all like Robert Frost, everyone wonders about the road not taken. And I do have some semi-serious ambitions when it comes to interior decorating ( and my lovely curio shop! ). :) Anyone care to give me a paying job?

Hanya Kawan

Just friends.

How does that actually work? Seriously. How do you go from secretly fantasizing about getting a hunk hot, naked and wet in a shower to having platonic coffee with him over at the local Starbucks?


A late night cuppa
Took a while but we're certainly getting there especially when I am scoring like hell when it comes to poking jibes at him. Hilarious actually teasing the big guy who's starting to turn out to be quite a good friend. Just this past week, Big Bicep Barry had a dreadfully demanding client who has been driving him a bit crazy at work. Bad-Ass Brenda was in charge of business acquisitions of some sort - hell, excuse me if I am a bit confused on what exactly happens in big business - and had some dealings with sales. Which is where Barry came in.

Working dinners and sudden late night appointments with prospective clients are par the course for Barry - so it didn't seem unreasonable to get a call at an unseasonable hour from Brenda. Not that unusual especially since she'd been dragging her maneater stiletto heels on some points in the agreement. Nonetheless, there was growing horror in his voice as he explained that Brenda had asked him to meet her at her place.

Paul : So what? You just went up and got the files with the whatever agreement. What's the big deal?
Barry : Yeah, but she wanted more than the files.
Paul : OMG! Are you saying what I'm thinking?
Barry : Yes.
Paul : So why didn't you give her what she wanted?
Barry : Hey!
Paul : Why not?
Barry : What kinda cheap ho do you think I am!
Paul : Uhh...
Barry : Don't even say a word.
Paul : Think of it as going the extra mile for a client!
Barry : Not even going there!

If you didn't get the hidden innuendoes ( a bit difficult since you couldn't see his face! ), unfortunately it seemed that Bad-Ass Brenda seemed to want more than just look at his ample goods. Guess the poor man does get his share of propositions :) Comes with the big biceps.

Physicians, Planets and Polls

Physicians

There is a doctor in Seattle Grace that I'm starting to loathe.

Sure she is pretty ( if you like the vapid girl-next-door with a touch of naughty-nurse look ), sure she is brilliant ( interspersed with painful moments of sheer bimboness ), sure she is wealthy ( I'm assuming since her senile mama handed her the keys to the kingdom ) but all those manifold virtues certainly don't make me envy her. Not even a bit, I swear!

But dammit, how can she not only have a Dr McDreamy... hell, she even has a Dr McSteamy, Dr McIrish and a Dr McVet. That's a whole freaking fast food chain running after her! Some girls do have all the luck especially when they're *ahem* skanky indiscriminate sluts with irresistible pheromones *ahem* named Meredith Grey.

Why can't I have three supremely hot men fighting ( preferably half naked in a tub of mud ) over me? Seriously.

OMIGOD. McSteamy looks like Handsome Hui!

Planets

Seriously. Where do they get off taking away Pluto as a planet! Universally beloved as the cosmic underdog but unilaterally scorned by scholarly astronomers who considered it far too dinky and distant, the little floating rock that could was unceremoniously stripped of its status as a planet just this week. How unjust! How are we gonna recall the nine planets without the acronym - especially if My Very Earnest Mother Just Served Us Nine.... Nine? It has lost all meaning! Hell come to think about it, what's my star sign gonna do without a planet?

Alas, poor Pluto! I knew him well.

Polls

As vunderworld louis alerted us all, there is an Asia Blog Awards Nomination going around and I gotta say I'm damn pleased to be in the running. Awesome to be in such blog-worthy company although the skewed selection of bloggers does beg some scrutiny - isn't it odd that the GLBT blogs are mostly Malaysians? Something in the water perhaps?

Now I gotta go rent my off-shoulder Vera Wang with the pearls and Louboutins for the ceremony as I promised a certain pink pilot - who I assume is getting the sponsored glittery kebaya. Hey, gotta look great on that imaginary red carpet after all.

Hospital Humour

Just came back from handling a particularly fractious patient and it's quite a relief to return to find the computer utterly abandoned, alienated and alone. Gotta take a short break before the next case since it took all my patience and bedside charm to talk the patient out of tearing apart his restraints and making a desperate run for it - a bit difficult especially when I'd have probably done the same in his position. :)

Unwillingly dragged kicking and screaming from home by his concerned relatives, the poor octogenarian found himself practically interred in the ward for days. Finding himself stuffed with needles and medical thingamajigs certainly wasn't on his to-do list. The grumpy geriatric never expected to have such a young, funny doctor ( his words, not mine! ) and it amused me to hear his cantankerous comments - since it isn't the first time I've heard it. Well, the funny part, I mean. The surprisingly youthful comment actually tempted me to call for an urgent opthalmological referral since I've never looked the part of the baby-faced twink, even in my heydays. Then again, for a man his age, everyone's probably a kid.

Somehow it always surprises me to hear that most laypeople expect physicians to be dull, serious-minded wet blankets with no life away from the hospital. It's not too far from the truth since I have to admit that the majority of doctors are boring, tight-assed fuddy-duddies ( since the motley crew's generally composed of overly ambitious nerds with some aptitude for science ) but occasionally we do find a jokesmith Patch Addams or even some of the hilarious folk from Scrubs. Nature needs to find a reasonable balance after all.


These doctors do clean up real good, don't they?
Even I have to admit that the nature of our humour is a tad morbid - and possibly not accepted amongst the general population ( who would be rightfully horrified by the things we say! ) - but it still helps to release some of the tension and stress buildup. Just think of the odd quirky moments in Grey's Anatomy and you'll get the general idea. Light-hearted banter about dead men walking, flying limbs and perforated bowels might be unpalatable to the public but it can bring a smile to even the sternest resident. Otherwise life here in the hospital would be intolerably dull - and it's possible that the rate of job burnout / suicide amongst doctors would rise exponentially.

Blog it forward

Like the mushrooms after a rain, blogs cropping up exponentially all over the web has been something of a recent phenomenon. Doubted anyone could have possibly predicted that a humble web journal could made such an indelible impact on the world today from jumpstarting fashion trends to uncovering government secrets.

Everyone has their own reasons - or hidden agendas - in starting a blog. Mine is simple enough. Secret encrypted journals have always been a passion of mine - one of the trademarks of a Scorpio, I'm sure - and this blog here is just an extension of the one kept locked up in my drawer, albeit with a snazzier template and scandalous shots of lounging half-naked hunks. Oh yeah, and you don't have to deal with my horrible, much-maligned doctor's handwriting that resembles nothing more than the minute illegible scribblings of a inebriated toddler on the wall.

One of the unforeseen side effects of the blog is the fact that more bashful men are taking that quick peek out of the closet. With the relative anonymity of the web, there is some small sense of security - although it's ephemeral at best - but that's certainly encouragement enough for those deeply in the closet to slide a foot out the door. Even that short glance is enough to note that gay men aren't all stereotypically hairdressers, interior decorators and flight attendants - that we do come in all shapes and sizes from engineers to teachers to pilots - hell, even to doctors.

Even going by Kinsey's infamous average, it's quite a community out there and we're not all flawless clones shipped out of gaytown. Not all gay men are spa-going perfectly-coiffed-and-plucked gymbots with fabulous Armani and wasp waists the size of a man's handspan. Shockingly some of us ( gasp! ) are actually grungy, unshaven slobs who don't actually give a shit about dinner parties and window trimmings.

And most importantly ( especially to the conservative fundamentalists around ) that not all of us are genuine sex-crazed perverts who crouch around dark bushes behind public toilets in search of that next virile trick. Most of us are actually serious-minded average joes that you meet right on the street. Of course, I'm a lousy example of sensibility so don't go around judging gay men by degenerate old me :)

Such a change from the times when I first came out and didn't have a fucking clue how to go about it. With all the negative portrayals of gay men in the media and the neverending homophobic jibes in school, there were hardly any homosexual ideals that I could emulate ( apart from a ravishing transgender who sauntered back home in the early dawn behind the school - but I never looked good in heels dammit! ) and it was all my ISO and I could do to fumble through our hormonally-imbalanced adolescent years. Possibly the reason why we both turned out a little off-center :)

So with more positive images of homosexuality in the media nowadays ( well, relatively speaking! ), that's certainly good news indeed to the youthful ingenues who are just dicovering that the handsome old buddy changing in the stall next door is giving them minor palpitations and a dangerous rise. You're certainly not alone :)

Religious Conversion

Sometime late last night - in between prepping a patient for an operative procedure and rushing off for a quick bite in the pantry, Shameless Shalom and I came up with a fullproof way of bringing back the lost sheep to the hallowed halls of the church. Seriously doubt there's actually dwindling church attendance as the hysterical reports say but I don't see how the holy fathers could turn away a few other lost souls to their congregation.

Somehow or rather, innocent talk about conversions and good Catholic boys started straying into baptismal fonts and then into far more dangerous territory - as we started comparing the relative merits of having sexy dark Italian priests serve communion in wet white thongs - instead of the boring cassock. Although daughter of Christ, Shalom faithfully decried such a scandalous notion, I found myself thinking otherwise. Surely handing out white thongs amongst the well-endowed amongst the budding clergy would help increase attendance by a thousand-fold - especially with those wicked unrepenting Sodomites who'd no doubt be scrambling to be admitted into the House of God.


And do not lead us into temptation,
But deliver us from evil!
Puerile and dirrrty... I know. The blasphemous thoughts that get into my head when I'm struggling to keep awake at 3 in the morning ( depraved thoughts of a youthful, golden-tanned Father Antonio certainly had me wide awake as I started contemplating the number of indescribable hells I'd be tossed into for such sinful imaginings! ). Certainly idle mind, the Devil's workshop and all that.

Twenty hail Marys as penance!

Tiramisu at Alexis

Certainly not as young as I once was. Just a night's outing with the boys is enough to leave me utterly wasted - even though I didn't even have a sip of alcohol! Obviously some perk-me-up Pharmaton or Tongkat Ali is gonna be next on my shopping list.

Still it was good to meet up with some gay ol' boys - identity withheld for their apparent safety - and catch up on what's going on in their shockingly skanky lives from buff body-attack boys to sexy swinging sailors. Don't have all that many gay friends from work so it's nice to meet up with a few to share horror stories over simmering earl grey ( aging gay boys like me have to be teetotalers after all ) and to laugh raucously over our innate wickedness as we rated every eligible men in the restaurant.

Nice to know that even with increasing moral conservatism in the country, the homosexual boys in the country are still finding their own secret ways to have a gay old time - that even transnational stage buses have been transformed into hotbeds of gay activity :O

Carrie Bradshaw and her other singleton sisters would be pleased that we're carrying on their cosmopolitan tradition over here as four men sat around the cosy, dimly-lit interiors of alexis with their tiramisu and tea gaily dishing out dirt on their lives. Just short of the Manolo Blahniks and the nipple cones.

In between swapping saliva-drooling tales of morally loose men ( not that I had any to share! ), there were the usual gripes about our careers. Glad to know that I'm not the only one with some recurring doubts about my job. Have to admit that it's terribly daunting to see all the other driven, desperately ambitious doctors at work - who have probably dreamt of wielding a stethoscope to save lives since they were in their dirty diapers! And there's silly me - who practically stumbled onto the job not knowing exactly what was in store for me :)

BTW guys who earn close to RM 70 an hour should just shut up about their gripes and just buy the dinner. And dessert too! :P For that amount of money, hell I'd turn tricks!


Rate me... and that gorgeous lamp!Still... such late night shenanigans did prompt a comment from my ISO gave me a wake-up call remind me about a friend's impending nuptials - only to find me barely awake by noon. Told him scant details about my late night but he's a smart boy and quickly got the gist of it.

My ISO : Ratings? No talking about me ah... the perfect ten.
Paul : You wish, bastard. A 6.5 to 7 maybe.
My ISO : That bad ah! Wah, your standards terribly high!
Paul : There's no perfect ten, ya bloody git! Hell, even Brandon Routh and Chris Evans only score an 8 to 9 at the most.
My ISO : What about you?
Paul : Subhuman lah. Maybe 2.5?
My ISO : My God, you are worse than Tyra Banks!
Paul : Gotta be on top.

Okay, so we bitched a little more about America's Next Top Model but you don't need to know that :)

That Spice Girl

Knowing my addiction to that lovely precious item called sleep, is it any wonder that I've been missing out on my semi-regular movie nights? Been more than two weeks since I caught my last screening and for me, that's quite a remarkable feat. Although I do have a regular movie buff / partner nowadays, Charming Calvin usually works pretty late... ( what is it with me and guys who work late? ) so we usually end up taking meals together while giving that movie a miss. Don't actually miss a thing though since Calvin provides enough sugar to keep my mind off the latest movie reviews.

:) Sorry for the uncharacteristically sappy thought but when you're writing your blog from your man's computer ( seriously chockful of techie goodies - not gay porn unfortunately! ), his image does come to mind after all. Here's hoping I managed to strike the proper note between sickly saccharine sweet and bitter(gourd)ly repressed.

Made the time for a movie date tonight since one of the books I once loved had the dubious honour of being turned into a movie - and poor Calvin has been moaning forever that the last movie he saw was in black-and-white Greta Garbo. Methinks he just wants some time with me in the dark secluded confines of the cinema - though the man doth protest so sweetly:P

Chitra Divarakuni brings us the tale of an Indian spice mistress who brings her mystical medicinal skills to a new world only to face dire consequences when despite her monastical vow to remain coolly distanced from her patrons, she falls for one of them. Very few written novels translate well onto the movie screen - this isn't one of them unfortunately. Although the Mistress of Spices certainly had all the cumin, coriander and chillies it needed to spark a veritable inferno, sadly it couldn't lend enough fire to spice up the relationship between the protagonist and her paramour.

Ever the luminous Bollywood icon of beauty, Aishwarya Rai certainly lit up the screen with her presence but her east-meets-west combination with the usually fiery McDermott lacked that special zing that would made the entire movie worthwhile. Even the exotic spices in their myriad colours and textures - which played quite a role in this sometimes overly fantastical tale - shared more of a connection with their mistress.


Bollywood hunk... with spice
Perhaps one of her sexy Indian compatriots - such as our John Abraham here - would have been a better match in providing the proper ingredients to steam up the screen.

Still it was worth while catching just a small vignette of homosexual love flourishing amongst the spices in San Francisco.

Pow-wows, Pirates and Priests

Always nice to have a fun, eventful day especially one where I could cut class yet again :P I know, it's become quite a bad habit!

Pow-wows

Cutting class always means finding something utterly selfish to do for myself since I've always been a serious advocate of 'what's wrong with breaking another commandment?'

And nothing could possibly be more wickedly decadent than meeting up for a desperately expensive luncheon with my fashionista cousin, Lispy Lori, to catch up on scandalous family issues, celebrity gossip and the latest trends. Oddly enough, the country is littered with scores of my relatives and it's pretty hard to keep up which entails regular pow-wows to catch up on the news ( apart from our monthly email newsletter ). Laughed over one of my younger cousin's vain attempts in hiding an older and seemingly ineligible beau from her mama's uncompromising gaze and bitched about another uncle's latest fad in naming his unfortunate child some obscure and unpronounceable name full of zs and ys. Practically screaming to be beaten up during recess, I'm sure.

Oh yeah, not to mention checking out the local male merchandise during our coffee break when we gleefully manwatched from the advantageously-placed glass windows of DOME Cafe - awarding points for style, pizzazz and the best ass. And of course which man's actually available for her. Gay Central - perhaps Do Me Cafe - is certainly right.

Pirates

Saying goodbye to Lispy Lori - who has never gotten over the queer little lisp she had as a child, and which she claims has her adoring paramours swooning in her wake - I headed over to Neverland, or as some would call it, Pirate Central. With the tyrannical authorities making draconian sweeps around the city trying to cull the parasitic pirates, it has made it even more difficult to sniff them out. Fortunately with Charming Calvin's vaguely sinister connections which dredged up a torn-up treasure map, I managed to discover several seedy shacks still delivering pirated booty.

Rather than loud jollifications with kegs of Tiger Beer and karaoke music, the long-suffering pirates weren't all that happy that day since the heavy-handed authorities have clearly made a dent on their once flourishing trading routes. One of the stoic pirates - of the younger, hunkier, tie-dyed blond locks sort - sighed dramatically when approached and sang me a passionate song full of woe and betide till I gave in and crossed his palm with pieces of silver for barter.


Pirate at rest...
Although I'm somewhat a raging zealot when it comes to intellectual rights and senseless plagiarizing, I'm also fervently opposed to most forms of censorship, especially of the pseudo-benevolent Big Brother sort. Please, we are not all naive children who are easily swayed slightest hint of immoral sex, gratuitous violence and undemocratic politics. Lecherous profiteering privateers the pirates may be but they are also offering a tempting slice of heaven without restriction.

Which is why I'm wholeheartedly supporting the unfettered pirates till the inflexible martinets learn to wield their censorship scissors with some glimmer of sense and thought. Help Save the Pirates!

Priests

Seems like these days my wicked perversions can even sway a priest. Witness the dramatic change of Charming Calvin from a virtuous philosophical soul to a degenerate of the second order ( takes time to get to the first! ) who willingly participates in deviant perverted acts in public squares. Soon I'll be able to break out my candles and leather.

Paul's Polluted Presence, I call it.

My Jack

Perhaps a ritual stoning might just be too good for me.

Adultery has always been a punishable offence - and for me, there are almost no valid excuses possible for such a dastardly act, short of Chris Evans / Brandon Routh offering a one night proposition of sweaty superhuman acrobatics. Open relationships aside, I've always found it inexcusable for someone to gleefully cheat on their spouse / partner without their prior knowledge.

Unfortunately, the onus of the adultery is usually placed squarely on the sexy siren out to ruin a relationship when I find it's the person already in a relationship who should carry the lion's share of the blame. Always found such weakness deserving of my contempt especially when someone turns their back on hearth and home just for a taste of the forbidden. More than one heart gets hurt in the process and I think that's certainly deserving of a stone or two, no matter the reason.

Always find it odd that there are certain relationships that can remain with the extramarital affairs. Barring certain extreme circumstances that might make it impossible to leave such a relationship, I don't see how anyone could play the cuckold for long. Where's the pride and self-esteem?!

Then I fell prey to such a detestable sin myself. Just like every other odious fellow adulterer after such a foul betrayal, I have to say that ... it wasn't my fault. Honestly.

Who could have possibly resisted? One look at him and I melted like butter in the hot sun. It wasn't easy turning my back on my newfound loyalties to Charming Calvin but it was almost like I was spellbound, the way he drew me irresistibly like a moth to a flame. Certainly my beau ideal with the puppy-dog eyes, the scruffy chin and the hot-as-hell physique.


Yummy Jack!
Lost and stranded on a desert island with several other survivors of a plane crash, he has been their de-facto leader, medicine man and overall good guy. Sneaking out early on my dates with Calvin on Monday nights, I spend an hour communicating with him through an enchanting conjuration of light and sound that transmits images of his heroic self to me. Believe you guys call it the television. Last I saw of my Jack, he was being cuffed and hooded by the enigmatic Others but I'm sure he'll make his way out of that precarious predicament intact.

Just look at his plastic perfection, and finally available for RM 59.90 from Spawn! Helpful donations are always welcome. Dr Jack Shepard will be in my arms ( I hope! ) by Christmas at least!

Exams be damned!

Pepper and Eggs

Everyone has their own special breakfast favourites.

Mentioned a while back that rushing to work early has left me with a particularly nasty habit of gobbling up breakfast, possibly swallowing it half digested. Not a pretty picture but when it's barely 7 in the morning and I'm half in my loafers and barely knotted tie with bags out the door, there's only so much I can multitask. Usually have to rely on cereal products to give me that fighting oomph I need to get through the day like a champion.

Been having a short course this week however which has given me some leeway in the mornings to have a more leisurely breakfast. The interesting thing about eggs I'm sure is the countless delicious ways we can fiddle with it - and still come up with something edible. Talk of naughty cholesterol and wicked anginas has led to more than a few breakfast buffs to steer away from this good old staple - which is quite a pity considering that the humble egg is far healthier than other alternatives. And let's face it, even the most inept amateur cook can't manage to go wrong with an omelette.


Yummy breakfast!
Almost everyone has their own peculiar preferences when it comes to eggs. My brother used to take steamed eggs for snacks, oddly enough while my dad insists on them being hard boiled. Big Bicep Barry counts his eggs and the calories before he swallows them ( raw?! ) while Charming Calvin likes his sunny side up. For me, it's always the old tried and true kopitiam staple - and this morning, there was just time enough to make my half-boiled eggs the way I like 'em.

One of life's little pleasures is digging into the gooey mix, liberally sprinkled with pepper and soya sauce, and recalling my old schooldays when my grandmother used to make 'em in the kopitiam.

So how was your breakfast?

Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered

Bewitched was what I termed my friend's long-time lover when he explained his recent circumstances to me. Let's call him Stubbly Samson. Seems almost for time immemorial that Samson has been part of an inseparable duo together with the aptly named Delicious Delilo - sharing their smiles and tears as they toiled to build their first humble abode - till just a few weeks back when Delilo received an epiphany. Seriously.

Seems that the Good Shepherd had finally recalled one of his hopelessly wayward sheep to the flock - which led to Delilo repenting his wicked Sodomite ways, renouncing his apparently vile ties of affection with Samson and reaffirming his inner faith by embracing the church.

This sudden 180 degree turnaround for a previously dedicated homosexual surely isn't something unheard of since more than a few cases have cropped up recently. Still it must have been appalling for poor Samson to suddenly realize that the man he's shared his bed and life with has suddenly transformed into a total stranger. Relationship fallouts can be searingly painful but to have a total excommunication of the past must hurt twice as bad. Delilo surely knew which strand of hair to cut.

Which is how I ended up sending the oddest messages to my ISO.

Paul : You recall that lecture on homosexuality we had?
My ISO : Ah, Leviticus 20:13! The wickedness in Sodom and Gomorrah! Repent for all your sins, my brother!
Paul : You lovely, lovely man! You said the exact same thing years back. I'm so glad you didn't change.
My ISO : Have you been drinking?
Paul : No!
My ISO : You want free makan, is it?
Paul : Very funny. Can't I just appreciate you for being such a sweetheart?
My ISO : Do you have a temperature?

Obviously my own epiphany wasn't well appreciated.

Bothered was what I was when I realized that I'd turned into a boring fuddy duddy the other day. Rather than shove Charming Calvin into dark, secluded public corners for a sweaty fuck every opportunity I can get, I find myself doing so only every once in three days.

Hmm... Petty bourgeois conservatism finally catching up with me?

Bewildered was certainly how poor Big Bicep Barry felt when I tagged him with one of my odd inexplicable messages this evening - since circumstances as it were had me utterly bored at work today.


Get a tattoo!
Paul : Hey! You should get a tattoo!
Barry : Huh? What brought this up? Is there some sort of tattoo sale going around?
Paul : No. But how cool would that be? If I weren't terrified of needles, I'd get one!
Barry : Don't think it would go well with my image.
Paul : What kinda image is that?
Barry : The modest, self-effacing salesman.
Paul : Trust me, you aren't gonna pull that off. And it's not some multi-faceted Ah Beng inspired tiger tattoo across the back lah. Just a small tasteful design across the biceps.
Barry : But why?
Paul : It's hot!

He remained unconvinced however.

The McDonald's Connection

While at work, food supplies are usually scarce. Given the choice of unappetizing, tasteless hospital fare - what I term hardly fit for human consumption, sometimes it's preferable to remain hungry rather than take your chances with Unrecognizable Pre-colonial Leftover Lasagna. Unfortunately other than the drab diet doled out to us on sterile metal trays, there's not much in terms of choice when it comes to food - unless we brave ourselves to stomach what's being served in the darkened depths of the cafeteria.

Occasionally due to popular demand ( actually the mournful cries of the starving medical staff at work ), the medical attendants are obliged to go out in search of sustenance on their trusty steeds. Nowadays food delivery's a viable option but even then there's not much variety. Abroad - courtesy of the desperately hungry, hard-working immigrants such as Ah Chin and Ali, we might have the choice of egg foo yong and the ever present tandoori chicken but over here we are only left with the ubiquitous pizzas and burgers since no one else delivers.

The frequency I make that call for a McDonald's delivery was made quite apparent to me when I dropped by for a quick milkshake. Although Mr Alfalfa-Sprout himself, Big Bicep Barry, shook his head in silent condemnation while muttering some platitudes on a healthy diet, he was forced to accompany me to that disreputable den of fast food iniquity since he'd kept some of my CDs hostage for a quite sometime.

When I approached the counter for payment, the unexpectedly friendly chorus of calls that greeted me - by name and designation - had me shrinking to the ground in embarassment. WTF? Calling me DOCTOR in public?! For a crazy moment, I imagined they'd all somehow been patients of mine with some mysterious illness but such a malady affecting the whole lot would certainly have made the national news - if not guaranteeing instant closure of the family restaurant.

McStaff : Has been a long time since you ordered delivery, doctor!
Paul : OMG. I .. I..

Seriously, it's hard to speak coherently when half the patrons of McDonald's have swivelled their heads to appreciate the dramatic scene. Even the usually gregarious Barry seemed a bit stunned by the unwanted atention and had surreptitiously faded silently into the indistinguishable background - quite a feat for a man his size!


With those abs, bet he has never taken a milkshake!
Took a while to detach myself from the unexpected fan club but I managed to convince them that I wasn't into signing autographs on their aprons. Obviously I've been tipping the delivery boys a bit too much. After managing to flee the scene with my fatty grease-laden goods, I circled the restaurant with my order before taking cover in a relatively secluded portion behind a large pillar.

Barry : You order delivery? That often?
Paul : Not that often! Really!
Barry : Lying!
Paul : Maybe once a week? Not sure how they can recall!
Barry : Sigh. You do know how much calories...
Paul : Calories. Cholesterol. Bla bla bla...
Barry : Just so you know! Why McDonalds?
Paul : Because KFC doesn't deliver?

I think he almost choked.

And then he sipped on his lonely cup of orange juice while I supersized myself on my apple pie, nuggets and chocolate milkshake. Kept a surreptitious eye around and prayed really hard that no one there would choke on a chicken bone.

Still I'm obviously lovin' it.

Begin the Beguile

In a desperate bid for some degree of financial freedom, I've decided to take some really drastic measures - such as staying the hell away from malls especially during dangerous periods such as megasales.

Being a passionate devotee of the Goddess of Shopping, just walking in the vicinity of suburban malls places me in a vulnerable trance-like state where I'm summarily possessed by an irresistible demonic urge to flash credit cards at salespeople in exchange for goods. The mystical change is almost eeriely supernatural as it transforms me from a regular sorta joe into a vengeful shopping demon who doesn't hesitate to trip overenthusiastic fellow shoppers into nearby garbage bins just to grab that terribly cheap bargain.

The very fact that I ended up dating a guy who works later than me has turned out to be quite hazardous in its own way since I'm forced to rely on my own wits for several hours. Idle hands certainly are the devil's workshop and it isn't long before the wily Goddess beckons.

Which is how I ended up with a few brilliantly red ( and freakishly cheap! ) vases from IKEA, a carpet from Iran ( a bargain, I swear!! ) and a few lamps from Bangsar just yesterday. All in the name of her Worship. Honestly couldn't help myself! The dudes in advertising - obviously also her fellow devotees - certainly know what they're doing since packaging certainly counts. Nothing screams 'Buy ME' more than slick edgy packaging with an affordable price tag ( apart from being something worth purchasing of course! ). Doubt even Alice could have resisted the tags in shopping Wonderland.


Buy me a song
And whoever said that a pretty face doesn't sell should seriously think again. Just one look at this man's face had me coming to a dead stop in front of the eyecandy *ahem* I meant, CD store. Those beguiling eyes!

Just look at him. Doesn't it make you wanna purchase his CD? Certainly makes you wanna begin the beguine. Matt Dusk is his name - and I certainly wouldn't mind having him after dusk :P What is it about hot guys in suits? Really, sometimes I feel there should be a law curtailing the usage of suits for men since even the homeliest dogs look dangerously shaggable in a suit.

Extremely mortified to be so shallow as to buy something on account of a man's good looks, I had to retain some minimal semblance of dignity by adding a few other quality CDs onto the stack to disguise the shameful lot. Thank God, this budding jazz crooner doesn't sing all that badly since my reputation has evidently been much in question after the Pussycat Dolls debacle.

Even Big Bicep Barry hasn't stopped teasing me about it. Hell, if he playfully sings along to Don'tcha again, I'm gonna leap up and smack him atop his head. :)

Just Like Your Mama

Surely in their tempestuous teenage / tween years, it is every little girl's deepest nightmare to grow up to be exactly like her mother. Although most women would vociferously decry such a unfilial comment, I know that more than a few would consciously balk if told that they resemble their mothers. It takes time, age and experience to appreciate a mother's wise, womanly ways.

So what happens to gay boys? Que Sera, Sera but do we resemble our fathers or our mothers more? Quite hard to tell on my side.

Well you see, my maternal side is full of seriously anal-retentive, tight-assed neatniks. Brooms, dust cloths and vacuum cleaners are never far from hand and immaculate perfection is the essential goal of these squeaky clean scrubwomen :) Quarterly family reunions are spent spring cleaning over serious discussion over what natural ingredients goes into the best furniture polish and which store sells the cheapest dishwasher. Dust, cobwebs and cockroaches run silently screaming at the sight of these cleaning witches. Even the slightest speck of dust would seriously unhinge their sense of self - and since I've seen one of my Siamese cousins throw just such a hissy fit after finding a dust ball in her bedroom, I can confirm that it's hereditary.

Always prayed that the clean gene would skip a generation but I noticed my brother showing the tiniest signs of anal retentiveness years back ( when he alphabetically organized his books, arranged them in perfectly orderly stacks and colour-coded them according to year and subject ) and lost hope knowing it was practically inescapable. Still I imagined that I'd be able to suppress the gene since I'm the more scruffy tolerant sort. After all, I do get back on weekends to find my own home relatively awash with dust and cobwebs and it doesn't drive me to wail absurdly while flapping my hands helplessly from the balcony like Rochester's mad wife.

Well, okay I did it but it was only that first time.


The houseboy taking a break
Can't recall what happened afterward but I resurfaced a few hours later with my bones aching and literally covered in a grimy mixture of sweat, dirt and furniture polish. Unfortunately I didn't have a sexy half-naked houseboy on top of me.

Even when I became a doctor ( obviously the clean gene rearing its previously submissive head! ), I consciously forced myself not to turn into one of those superior obsessive-compulsive creatures with a Mr Monk fetish - a fate most of the nurses have unfortunately fallen prey to. Although I worked hard to remain aseptic when need be, I tried my best not to fuss over the little things like that impossibly minute cobweb dangling on the ceiling fans that would have the matrons and the sister getting their het up. Thankfully I have to say that I successfully ignored the blood spatter, the baby vomit and other secretory bodily fluids I better not name. Life would have been quite impossible otherwise.

Then I came upon Charming Calvin's Cosy Crib. Been a month since he moved in - yet the boxes are unpacked, the television cabinet woefully bereft and the walls scandalously bare naked. All that I could probably live with - despite the eye twitch I'm developing :) Then I came back early to his place today and decided to take a short nap before my hard-working man came back from work. Seriously domestic bliss, I know. Dropped my head on his pillow and looked up to see .... Charming Calvin's Creepy Cobweb Collection.

Bet the neighbours are still talking about the unearthly preternatural shrieks coming from that apartment upstairs.

All about the HongBao

One of the first things I do everyday is purchase my morning paper.

As a kid, the newspaper was delivered every morning without fail by a kindly gentleman on his motorcycle - timed so well that you could almost set your clock by it. Reading had become a passion of mine and there was nothing like flipping through the first few pages of the first copy just before leaving for classes. Even when I left for medical school, it soon became a routine for me to grab a fresh copy from the vendor just before morning lectures. Since then, it has actually become a habit indelibly written in my subconscious that I do it almost without thinking sometimes.


Always find it just a little bit odd to find that there are people out there who actually don't read the papers. Aren't they interested in exactly who's quarrelling in the Middle East these days? Don't they even want to know how delicious Dominic Lau looks in the His section of the Sun today? How do they even find the best deals in town?

While for me a bit of spare change is needed each day to buy the papers, there are certain fortunate people such as Charming Calvin who get a free read at work everyday. Lucky bugger. And others like my ISO who thinks the world - and therefore the news - revolves around him.

Paul : What?! You don't read the paper?
My ISO : Never have.
Paul : You don't read the paper? What's wrong with you?
My ISO : Sometimes I'm forced to at the dentist.
Paul : You don't read the paper?
My ISO : I watch porn.

Really. I don't purport to read it front to back religiously like my mother - who even skims through the obituaries for some oddly morbid reason - but I do try my best to glance through most of the articles. Still, the price of the papers is certainly worth it - especially to while away my time while I'm standing line somewhere paying my boring bills.

And after all if I'm hurting for that little bit extra, I can always start charging my patients that thank you hongbao, can't I? Those who are staring in abject disgust obviously haven't had the chance to read today's paper. Almost makes me wanna uproot to work in Shanghai. Seems that patients in China normally offer a hongbao to thank the doctors after treatment - and astonishingly, the doctors ( who have been getting measly wage all the while like me ) take it all too willingly. At the moment, I'm not sure exactly what to think. Although the ethical goody-two-shoes part of me would rant vociferously against such practices ( that would have Hippocrates turning in his grave ), there is a small desperately needy part that certainly wouldn't mind that little bit extra cash.

After all, there is a sale.

And my minimal salary is barely able to sustain my pathetically spartan lifestyle.

What's in a name?

What's in a name?

A guy named Shakespeare once said that a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet. Unfortunately what might hold true back then in the Elizabethan age ( or would that be during Romeo's time? ) just doesn't ring true now since sometimes a name does tell more about a person than anything else can. Think about it, isn't it odd to find that people do somehow grow into the names they were given ( or unwillingly forced upon... )? Or does it happen the other way around?


A rose by any other name...
This realization came over me as I argued with Charming Calvin over some of the horrific names pinned on some perfectly nice people. An old article mentioning the government's plan to curtail a few names from the registry struck off our conversation the other day.

Seriously some names are simply unfortunately typecast, bringing to mind certain indelible images that have been linked to the name. Frankie Chan? No offence meant but the first thing that comes to mind is a pot-bellied indeterminate-aged lout in a tecnicoloured Hawaiian shirt, stained shorts and flip-flops ( and multiple bling blings ) sitting on a coffeeshop stool belching aloud after a clumsy swig of his Tiger Beer. Probably drives a pimped-up ride too with snazzy colours, blinking blue lights on the undercarriage and an awesome sound system that causes the car to vibrate with each boom.

Plain, classic names like Joan and Grace? Surely the epitome of grace and feminity in a pastel Laura Ashley sun dress checking out mothercare books in the bookshop. Not always true of course since there are certain to be a few Graces who stumble clumsily like the proverbial bull in a china shop - just as I'm sure there are more than a handful of Joan Hookers plying their trade in Chow Kit but I bet the saints still outnumber the sinners there. Far more common to find a larger number of Mimis belting out karaoke tunes in flashy minis onstage this Hungry Ghost Month.

Just stop and think of the name Alexander. Take the short form and you'd find more than one man in the name. Laid back best pal Al? Lanky Lex? Sexy smooth-talker Sandy? Or the quirky, unconventional Xander? The same name and yet each form conjures up a different look and image for the guy. The great Thomas Hardy certainly knew the value of a name and dubbed his characters accordingly - from the steady Gabriel Oak to the headstrong, passionate Bathsheba Everdene.

What about my own name? Blessed Saint Paul aside, I've always imagined Paul as the sweet, wholesome church-going man - in unadorned button-down shirts and plain black slacks - who teaches little children English grammar on the side and helps little old ladies across the road. Quite an impossible feat for a sinner like me to achieve, I know!

Bet the name Paul doesn't strike that same image in Calvin's head but that's pure bias, I'm sure. :) So what does Paul say to you?

Road Rage Rants

Some things are meant to be taken slow. Delving into that deliciously written lyrical Carlos Luis Zafon tale of a book lover's hunt for that elusive copy. Savouring the taste of peanut butter chocolate ice-cream mixed with Bailey's in the heat of a summer's day. Lazily licking up the salt and sweat from a lover's naked back after a heated bout.

However, not all things are meant to be taken slow-mo John Woo style.

When I'm hot, sweaty and frustrated after being caught in a half hour traffic crawl through one of the numerous highways, I'd hate to find a Slowpoke Sammy moving at a serious snails' pace at the head of the funeral march. Seriously. Are they just begging to be strangled and thrown unwillingly into a coffin?

An unexpected car breakdown has all my sympathy. An accident gets a cursory look in case I'm needed ( unlike all the other busybody gawkers! ) - rarely enough though since I usually hear the ambulances wailing several blocks down. But nothing exasperates me more than finding out that the crawl can be attributed to traffic hogs who take up half the road as they waddle their way home at 10 km/h and practically come to a dead halt just to take a simple bend. Haven't they heard of the Tokyo Drift?! Once I've been fed with the same old tired repeats on the radio while chugging slowly down the highway, it's easy enough to transform into Poisonous Parang-Wielding Paul ( with arm chopping action! ).

There's all this het up about irresponsible speed demons but I really think a law prohibiting slow drivers on highways should be instituted here too. Like throwing the abnormally slow tossers onto the usual single lanes reserved for bullock carts, trishaws and the like instead of clogging up the highways. I had this whole other far more bloodthirsty torture reserved for the perps but I've refrained from mentioning it with all the talk about bloggers in Malaysia needing a form of control. :P

Don't even get me started on crazy motorcyclists. That's a whole other can of worms.


.....****......

GASP.

Fortunately my old friends, MTV and Channel V, understand all about my woes since I come back only to find both of my favourite television hunks onscreen at the same time battling for viewer share. Obviously there is a God - and he loves mankind.

If only he'd just toss them both in a ring and splatter some mud on them. What do you say? I'm practically hyperventilating as I flip between Dominic and Colby. Can anyone say threesome?

The Lion and the Scorpion

Nothing earth-shattering this sunday, just a quick rundown of my eventful weekend... further details upon request.

Since my lazy Saturday was spent ruthlessly interrogating my friend's new paramour, Eligible Eloutte ( now obviously ineligible ) with leather whips, chains and electric prods, it left me with very little time for my books. Lengthy S&M always leaves me a little weary. Fortunately I had a heinous huddle of homosexuals to help.

Later filled with large helpings of guilt and remorse, I dedicated the earlier part of my sunday to some desperate mugging, anxiously flipping through the dusty pages of my deadly dull medical tomes in search of an epiphany that never came. Even flogging myself repeatedly as penance didn't help much. It wasn't long before the meaningless words and mindless graphs started blurring together into rosy montages of half naked Bel Ami stars romping riotously on a beach.

Getting utterly bored with my medical textbooks, I decided to take a well-deserved break. Imagining my poor Charming Calvin utterly bored, bothered and bewildered in his empty apartment this weekend, I decided to surprise him with a timely visit. Perhaps an invitation for a hot shower, who knows.

What can I say? Never underestimate gregarious Leos for their inexplicable innate ability in drawing a crowd. When this Scorp knocked hopefully on his door, there was already a mini celebration going on with creamy cakes, gay boys and dirrrrty X-tina Aguilera belting out her latest hits about no other men. It was practically one rotating disco ball short of Liquid. Abashed, Calvin claimed that Techno Taz was there to administer CPR to his ailing wifi which was acting up in its final moments - and Winsome Walter had come along later to provide much needed technical / moral support. A likely story when there was cake around! :)


Someone told me there's a party going on?
Any complaints I had were however silenced by some chocolate, cakes and Calvin. I didn't even raise an eyebrow when my social creature of a man quietly mentioned that he had a dinner gala planned for later - and I was on the invitation list! All that sugar numbed my adrenaline rush.

Still it was a learning experience watching Techno Taz - the master! - at work as he fiddled around the wifi thingie and carefully dissected the connections just moments before tragically pronouncing its imminent death. For a while, it has been Calvin's cherished dream to bring some culture to the unwashed apartment masses by providing free-wifi and cappucino outside his apartment but it seems that his dream just suffered a recent setback with the wifi proving resistant even to multiple DC shocks during resuscitation.

Calvin was left shell-shocked by the shocking verdict as he grieved quietly over his loss. After much discussion amongst the learned jury, it has been assumed that the magical wireless waves has been adversely affected by the inauspicious Hungry Ghost Month and further technical experiments should be confined to later months. So it should come as no surprise that the grand opening of Charming Calvin's Cosy Crib and Cyber Cafe has been postponed till further notice.

Box of Chocolates

Life is like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get.
If that really was a true adage, I certainly wouldn't mind it much :) Unless you're an ailing diabetic with a desperate sweet tooth, I don't see how that could possibly be a problem. With every bite just as sweet and sensual as the one before, how could it possibly fail?

Indeed, one of the best gifts I've ever received was from a dear friend who Fedexed a whole box of precious Godivas all for myself as a surprise. Just like Charming Calvin has his obsession with ice-cream and Big Bicep Barry for guava-cucumber-celery juice, I have my own Achilles Heel. Certainly one of the true wicked pleasures in life, peeling the golden wrapping to find the treasure of sinful chocolates inside.


A cup of chocolate to make you hot inside...
Which is why the sudden surprise of a chocolate bar was enough to put a smile on my face. Eventhough I haven't eaten it and it's resting safely in Calvin's refrigerator.

Yes, I'm a simple man with simple needs. And certainly easy to please.

Something Tobey about Him

Lonely late nights with the telly does give rise to all sorts of crazy speculation. Since I had a day off the next day, I figured staying up late for a while wouldn't kill me. Sleep is still unbearably precious to me but a postponement was in order when I had something riveting on the telly. Not everyone's as dedicated to the wacky wonders of television as I am but I'm one of the drooling couch surfers who watch almost every series during primetime. Perhaps it's the chips, the semi-grogginess or the flickering telly but while I was caught on a late night rerun of one of my favourites Pleasantville, something clicked resoundingly in my head.

And it wasn't the beginnings of an aneurysm. I hope.

As you all would know if you'd seen this deliciously provocative film a while back, Pleasantville tells the tale of two fractious siblings who find themselves permanently stuck in a wholesome squeaky-clean television series in the idealized all American 1950s, a black-and-white world devoid of crime, poverty, sex--even bad weather. The brother and sister duo find themselves finding out that the world certainly doesn't look the way they left it before as they find themselves mired in a fantasy world of apple-pie, cherry coke and empty textbooks.


Trust me, it's much less kooky and out-of-this-world as I make it sound. Certainly far more provocative and definitely worth a watch.

While watching the slow-talking, bashful brother Bud deal with the world where the road only goes round in neverending circles and the weather's always unusually fair and sunny, I suddenly realized that he reminded me quite a bit of Charming Calvin.

Seriously. Those curious few that have been wondering who's this dude Calvin, let me briefly explain.

Not so much the looks - though there's a certain passing resemblance there - but definitely the slow, methodical way of speaking, the perfectly slicked back hair, that serious, reserved look on his face.... the seemingly shy sweet guy you know would freak if you suddenly stroked his thigh with your foot in a public restaurant. What more a sweaty five-minute quickie in a public men's room!

Incidentally the character Bud was played by Tobey Maguire. Yeah, the buffed-up shy guy with the glasses. Never actually found Tobey all that desperately hawt - you know, the kinda desperately sexy guy you'd fuck standing on the wall, but I guess I'd better rethink that. :)

Hmmm... you know, maybe I should get Calvin a Spidey suit.

Funny the things you think about at one in the morning.

News from the Trenches

The enemy approaches. Just barely visible at the end of the horizon, all tall, dark, hulking with a menacing sneer visible several hundreds of miles away, covered from head-to-toe with the latest look from this month's issue of Men At Arms with all the necessary accoutrements - grenades, firearms and all manner of barely legal weapons guaranteed to dismember anyone within a twenty metre radius.

Oh. And not forgetting the various dangerous MCQs and viva questions that flay the flesh with the ease of hot knives through melted butter.

Early this month, my loyal compatriots in Notroh Woods have fired their own salvoes during their brief skirmish with the enemy leaving no reports of casualties as yet. As far as I know, Lanky Lex and Skanky Skot still live amongst the other outcasts in the hidden woods of the North. Now the enemy turns his evil jaundiced eye towards me and I'm left oddly despondent, unable to make the decision whether to make a strategic retreat or courageously stand and fight till the end.

Literally fight or flight.


Exams never looked this good!
With the enemy marching closer each day, the manifold reasons I once had for staying behind seem to dwindle into the dust. Hunkered down in the trenches cold, wet and hungry, it's hard to recall exactly why I chose this intrepid path. Why the hell am I doing this? For fucking fame and glory?! For the good of mankind?! It would be so terribly easy to just abandon my post and run fleeing for the nearest manned fort ( with the shopping malls there! ) without putting up much of a fight. Certainly much less tiring too.

Several bullets zing my way but with a little bit of luck, I manage to dive for cover in time. Several past year questions get slammed onto the wall behind me, sizzling with deadly poison. Talk about far-reaching Weapons of Mass Destruction! Reaching for my trusty backpack, I find myself literally aghast.

Bloody hell, I'm armed only with little sticks and stones!

Green Thumb

Never actually been all that interested in gardening. Unlike a certain Englishman's knack / fetish for growing things, my experience with shovels and shears are limited to ogling hot half-naked teenage gardeners desperately sowing their oats in Wisteria Lane. Hard to keep my eyes off such fine hoes after all.

Can't even recall the last time I had my hands wrist-deep in dirt and soil, all new-age Mother Earth style. Possibly my last fateful encounter with a green leafy object was back in medical school when I cultivated a plant on my window sill to remind me that there was certainly life away from screamingly dull medical textbooks and desperately kiasu med students. On th days when I felt the stress getting to me - and had the crazy urge to dash my head on the wall, oddly enough the monotonous routine of watering the plans managed to help me get through the day.


My Eden!
Since I have a small new room of my own, I have decided to make an effort in transforming my small attached bathroom into sheer Nature's Delight. Only fair since the bathroom has windows with amazing sunlight filtering through that are practically crying out for some green plants to start photosynthesizing. Surely even the nitpicky Poison Ivy would commend my budding efforts in helping the buggers bloom.

Surprisingly without much tending, the plant I nurtured in medical school ( and summarily abandoned in my brother's place ) has turned into a veritable jungle of leaves - and I've placed it in a place of pride by the window. Not only did frickin IKEA manage to supply me with more leafy plants - whose boring scientific names simply escape me, I've also shanghaied Big Bicep Barry's flowering new year plant into my new conservatory-cum-bathroom.

I'll have my own garden of Eden!

Spirit of Solitude

Never be fooled by appearances. That's a really true adage, I find.

Can certainly blame this latest epiphany on Charming Calvin. From all appearances - especially from my blog posts, it would appear that I'd be the friendly, gregarious sort who's always ready with a witty quip, comfortable and perfectly at ease in a crowd of relative strangers. Calvin who usually remains steadily silent amongst people while I chatter away seems strangely bashful in comparison.

Which is far from the truth actually.

Paul : Gosh, look at the time. What should we have for dinner? And don't even suggest Chili's.
Calvin : Not sure. Why don't we ask Ah Lian #2 along?
Paul : Who?
Calvin : Oh, just someone new I met. Thought it would be interesting meeting up.
Paul : Who?
Calvin : It's fun.
Paul : Huh. Meeting up is fun?!

Realized that I'm actually quite the homebody when our closet partyboy Calvin insisted on neverending weekend excursions with a whole gang of like-minded mates ( all on permanent speed dial ) when I'd prefer lazing around at home flipping through the telly watching mindless reruns or slowly going through my endless tower of unread novels. :)


All by my lonesome
Honestly I think I might be more a fan of solitude than he. Not sure exactly why but perhaps my star sign does speak to me that way - and we all know that unsociable singleton Scorpios certainly don't mind living in that dark, lonely lighthouse far out on some stony outcropping lashed by the angry waves of the treacherous sea, partnered only by a hot man, some books and a stable broadband connection. Sometimes when the dark mood strikes, it's actually preferable - for the safety of everyone in the vicinity. Oddly enough, Calvin ( our budding Leo ) on the other hand actually enjoys crowds - certainly the more the merrier as the saying goes. While the thought of meeting someone new gives me the shivers, there is nary a hint of hesitation in him even at the thought of being summarily thrown into a heaving sea of unfamiliar half-naked male flesh at Liquid.

Okay. Bad example. I certainly wouldn't mind being tossed into that particular ocean myself especially if the general meet-and-greet bit is confined to tongues and gropes. Still, you guys get the general idea.

Don't get me wrong. I like people, love new friends after I've gotten accustomed to their faces but the sheer awkwardness of a first meeting always turns me off. Just that I've always been the hopelessly tongue-tied nitwit with strangers - which leaves me extremely uncomfortable and ill-at-ease with meeting someone new. Slowly getting over that particular phobia but it's taking some time coming out of the proverbial shell.

Surprisingly, everyone else I know doesn't seem to have any such problem at all. Come to think about it, even my ISO and Big Bicep Barry practically thrive on crowds. Even partyboy Handsome Hui isn't exactly averse to meeting unknowns!

Hell waddayaknow! Opposites do attract.

...***...

Still, on other news... Calvin finally got a queen sized bed.