Don't I Look Pretty?

Good God.

With the holiday season at hand - and the accompanying prerequisite festive sales, I'm seriously morphing into that stereotypical shopping queen. Swear this blog isn't gonna turn into the Home Shopping Network but honestly, barely a day has gone by since my previous shopping post that I haven't been steadily wandering the halls with my eyes wide awake searching for marked down prices and my arms decked with paperbags.

Still. I've found just the right excuse! Just wanted an extra little something to add to my mom's Christmas gift package - see what a perfect son I am! - and I figured decadent jewellery always hits the spot. Perfumed scents are far too common nowadays after all, and I seriously doubt she'd consider trying out some of the more risque bohemian dresses I'd get for her.

There's this quaint little shop I know that sells handcrafted jewellery with inlaid precious gemstones, amber and seashells - amongst other glittery shiny stuff :) By the time I got there, my shopping posse comprising of the Lord of Perpetual Yawn, Charming Calvin and his accompanying retinue had already been left behind biting the mall dust being wholly unable to keep up the slapping pace of the true shopaholic. Thankfully though since I think bartering over glittery earrings and shiny chokers would probably have them screaming in a last attempt to safeguard their apparent testosterone-fueled machismo.

Still as I returned to the store, my discerning eye kept going back to a particularly fine piece of amber earrings - seriously the precious natural amber dangles like twin golden mirrors embraced by pure argent blossoms. Took me a while to haggle the price with the tough pareo party salesgals though - especially when that crazy impulsive devil inside me leaps out for an impromptu prank.

Salesgal : You like the earrings, sir?
Paul : Quite lovely actually.
Salesgal : You thinking of buying a gift for your wife?
Paul : My wife? Not married.
Salesgal : Your mother?
Paul : Think again. I'm getting it for myself. See? Don't I look pretty? So how much is it?

Quite frankly the pareo twins were stunned at the novel idea that Mr Average in his obviously heterosexual shirt and slacks could possibly be entertaining unconventional thoughts of parading about in a pair of fabulous amber bobs. Even held the dangling blings to my ear and preened in front of the mirror with diva-ish moves learned from the wannabe models at Tyra Banks.


Don't I look pretty?
Still cost quite a pretty penny but fortunately that momentary distraction was just enough for me to slash the price by at least 35%. Hell, I could have sashayed out of the store with earrings attached - without either of them blinking an eye since they were too busy picking up their astonished ( amused? ) jaws from the polished wooden floor.

Sometimes I seriously wonder at the outrageous things that just pop out of my mouth. Bet Freud would have lots to say about it.

But of course I'd only dare pull such a trick with Charming Calvin ( that honest little man ) safely out of earshot.

All about Philosophy

Stereotypes are difficult to run from sometimes. Although we do have the occasional odd ducks who proudly march to their own eccentric beat, the rest of us average folk usually tend to fit into the roles that people - and society - expect of us. Since by definition being homosexual is already a queer aberration from the sociocultural norm, quite a number of us try to blend seamlessly into the crowd by living up to the other expectations. That perfect son. That perfect brother. That perfect employee.

Honestly though I sometimes dream about doing something totally mind-blowingly unexpected, eventhough I rarely veer from what's expected of me.

Everyone has this fixed idea of what a doctor looks like - serious, stern, humorless, dedicated to the job ( most times sacrificing any hint of a social life for the hospital fast track )... well, I'm good for most of that but I doubt serious and stern could ever be used in any description of me, unless it's from one of the poor unfortunate interns I've inadvertently barked at. This lofty expectation from the patients also extends to the outwardly appearance of a physician. Pandering to what society expects of a well-groomed professional, we're stuck seemingly in perpetuity with the usual pristine white coat, shirt and tie ( hell, the rules of dressing is written into the fine print of the work contract! ) since I doubt the patients would appreciate coming to the clinic only to find their doctor all glammed up in outlandish pink sequins, frilly feather boa and flirty mascara.

Fortunately I've always been a fan of the average shirt and tie combo.

Which is why you'll rarely see me frequenting stores such as Philosophy and William Liew. :) Don't get me wrong. If I had the means and the opportunity - and certainly the super-lean zero-fat build required by the unforgiving cut of the clothes - I'd certainly be gallivanting in risque black leather vests, sheer pink tank tops and scandalously short denim cutoffs.


You mean I can't wear a hoody to work?
But what about a broadcasting student? Or perhaps someone in the arts? Somehow there's always this prevalent idea that the rules are a bit more lax when it comes to the creative folk. Doubt anyone would blink an eye if a male artiste were to waltz by in an outre haute couture Dolce & Gabbana confection of leather and silk with face all made up to perfection by M.A.C. Or the chic interior designer sweeping in the latest provocative eye-popping Versace.

Seems like that's not the case however since most of the guys that I do know aren't all that different from the rest of us boring shirt-and-tie sheep. Haven't seen Strapping Shane sashay by in a chi chi avant-garde ensemble as yet ( no matter how much Charming Calvin and I begged and offered obscene sexual favours for barter ) and I do know my ISO would rather be caught dead in a Geylang brothel than to wear squeaky leather pants.

What a letdown :P

Maybe I should go pierce my nipples to show them.

Food of Love

Music certainly stirs the emotions - it evokes certain feelings, certain tastes and sensations, certain memories. Like the immortal bard once mentioned in the Twelfth Night, if music be the food of love, play on.

And sometimes it actually makes us think of the most peculiar events at the most inopportune hours.

Imagine this. It's raining cats and dogs outside with thunder splitting the air sending city folks scurrying for cover and inside the operating theatre there's sheer pandemonium with the unfortunate destabilizing patient bleeding out a torrential river of scarlet, playing havoc with his vital stats, and there's me, running about all on my own trying to salvage whatever is possible - and fortunately I manage to do so after an hour of mindless panic ( tempered by the fact that I have an obligation to remain at least outwardly perfectly, icily calm in the storm ).

And then just when I manage to catch a breath in the midst of insanity, the most improbable song plays on the radio and impossibly, I start giggling like a crazed inmate. Easy enough to imagine the guy that I love ( that sing-song karaoke fool :) ) doing his little soft, shoop devil sway in his apartment to the retro disco tunes of Scissor Sisters, maybe even in spiked heels with the feather boa trailing behind, and it makes me smile.

What can I say? I'm a weird creature. Blood and adrenaline makes me sentimental.


Don't you feel like dancing?
BTW fear not, gentle reader, the patient's okay too. Doubt he's gonna feel like dancing anytime soon though.

Curse of the Black Nokia

The loathsome techie curse is over! Seems like I'm not the most jinxed guy on the planet after all when it comes to electronic gadgets. There was a time years back when I had a supernatural succession of demonically possessed cellphones that inevitably committed harakiri after three months of usage. Nothing as drastic as an exploding laptop though - mostly death by drowning.

Fortunately it seems like that particular curse has mysteriously transferred itself to Big Bicep Barry via magical osmosis. Two years back, Barry almost bankrupted himself in a desperate bid to get the camera of his dreams ( and the matching underwater casing ) just to snap pictures of little fishies.

Unfortunately during one of his intrepid expeditions into the deep, the ill-fated ensorcelled camera sans underwater casing decided to drown itself in the colourful reefs of the South China Sea. By the time he managed to retrieve the drowning camera and attempt immediate resuscitation, it was already on its last legs.


Fuckin hell... what's gonna happen to the next camera? Go into the washing machine?
Undaunted, Barry sold his remaining kidney - and probably his firstborn - to barter for a new camera at those good folks at Olympus. That last time he had to spin some heartwrenching tales worthy of Oprah while shedding some manly tears to coerce them into driving down the price of the camera.

Unfortunately despite taking lengthy notes on dispelling curses from the local witchdoctors, the centuries-old curse still held strong. Which led to this...

Barry : Think I need a new camera.
Paul : Good God. Not again! What happened now? Drowning again?
Barry : Hey the old Olympus ver 1.0 committed suicide in April, this one is the new one which was shanghaied.
Paul : Abducted by revolutionary Nepalese? Did they send a ransom note in Parbatiya?
Barry : Not sure, maybe by indigent Vietnamese refugees.
Paul : It's a curse, I tell ya! Step away from the cameras!

The alfalfa-sprout-munching, super-zen dude was seriously bummed. Since the fatal abduction though, Barry has been scouring the ends of the earth for a similar camera - since the underwater casing already cost a bomb! - before finding it from two excellent sources, the mysterious corporation of Ebay and those familiar folks at Olympus. Peculiarly, the seller on Ebay shied away from Barry's multiple quotations which led us to think that he might have been the mysterious kidnapper of the Olympus ver 2.0.

Not sure if he'd be able to repeat the ordeal but obviously I underestimated Barry's charming manly charms since he managed to swindle the camera service centre into offering their last camera for ( what he assures me is ) a steal! Right now he's thinking of setting up a Help Barry Fund to drum up enough cash for the camera purchase price :)

Pinchable Pecs

Has been a while since I've had dinner with my ex-colleagues so I called up Shameless Shalom - who surprisingly arranged a rendezvous ( a mild surprise since I think it's the first time she's initiated a get together ) with my regular drinking buddies.

Catching up with the latest news is certainly great - but I never expected the scandalous expose to come out from the aptly named Silent Sally :) Amazed that this hot little tale came from her, guess I'll have to call her Mustang Sally now. Practically agog with the sizzling news, she blurted out the fact that she'd managed to catch inappropriate man-on-man behaviour in public. GASP. Obviously she hoped to catch both Shalom and me unawares and possibly shock our rigidly conservative Puritan mores. Alas for her I doubt anything less than a six-way bestial / necrophiliac orgy in leather would shock either of us jaded folks.

Seriously though. What constitutes unacceptable physical interaction between members of the same gender? For the ladies, I think almost anything goes since I've seen them go from innocent schoolgirl hand-holding to full-on passionate saliva swapping - and hardly anyone bats an eye. Seems like the raunchier the better for drooling teenage adolescent boys.

As usual, it's always different for the guys since the fearful stigma of homosexuality hangs like a perpetual shadow over every seemingly innocent sign of physical affection. Judging by its popularity, seems like a quick crushing handshake between two manly men ( the more fingers broken the better! ) is more than acceptable, so's a hearty pat on the back and that hasty cursory hug ( allowed only in the vicinity of airports, reunions or family gatherings ). Of course a platonic hug that lasts any longer than five seconds with adventurous hands wandering south of the border would lean dangerously towards unacceptably gay territory. And let's face it unless you're an overly enthused Italian mafioso, even affectionate pecks on the cheek could be miscontrued in this part of the world.

So where does pec pinching fall into?


Oh baby come pinch me...
So what happens when two innocent gals spy a cute droolsome friend of mine unashamedly feeling up another ( much much less lickable ) man's chest in public? Since I wasn't present at the shocking event of pawing pecs - nor was it posted on the ubiquitous youtube courtesy of the daring duo, I can't really comment on it but there could be lots of simple reasons behind the seemingly inappropriate action of course. Maybe it was an impromptu demonstration of secret Thai massage techniques. Or perhaps even a comparison of pectoral girth since both guys seem to be inexplicable gym fans. Or maybe he had an irresistible itch on his pecs that he somehow couldn't scratch :)

Or of course it could be a case of you pinch mine and I'll pinch yours later. :P

Not sure how but I spent a small part of dinner wickedly wondering how everyone else would react if I suddenly reached out to pinch Handsome Hui's undeniably pinchable pecs.

Glam and Glitter

Come on, which gay old queen doesn't love glam and glitter?

With all the department stores aggressively touting the coming festive season ( barely milliseconds after the last two - and you guys know what they are ), I seriously doubt that anyone apart from some reclusive, technologically-inept hermit in the darkest depths of the Himalayas wouldn't realize that Christmas is fast approaching. Just look around the malls and you'll see the ever-present commercial panderings to blatant con$umeri$m with jazzy reindeers and tubby Santa Clauses sharing space with a reluctant Mother Mary in her shiny Lladro porcelain manger.


Christmas is coming... let me count the days...
Who am I to argue? Easy enough to get sucked into all that after being irresistibly hypnotized by the shiny crystal baubles and twinkling lights. As Charming Calvin would cheerfully attest to the fact, I just might have gotten a little carried away with the Christmas shopping this year. :)

The fact that I just got served with a staggering credit card bill ( seriously lots and lots of seasonal alcohol to get over I'm sure ) might have helped with that realization.

Still. I'm not feeling anything at all. Hardly guilty at all as I'm sitting here literally surrounded with glittery red and gold baubles, seriously looks like I was attacked by some overenthusiastic executive from Martha Stewart's Christmas Decorating Committee. Just short of Rudolph and his unsupportive horned brethren dancing blithely on the rooftop without fear of open season or voracious chinese with a penchant for venison. Apart from being unforgivably homosexual, I'm sorta traditional and the brilliant red / gold theme blends well with the turkish rugs, chinese antiques and the moroccan lamps. :)

Tree is all up in the living room, all aglitter in deep maroons and scarlet while the rest of the cabinets and hall tables have been festooned with subtly matching Christmas cheer. Working on the banisters soon.

Dammit! What am I gonna do with the rest of the month till Christmas? Someone hire me to redecorate!

Desperate Socialites

Oddly enough when I start the occasional whine about the insane pressures on the job, my mother will start her usual droning lecture about finding job satisfaction by facing serious challenges in the workplace. Really, is that what most of us are looking for in our careers?

Obviously not everyone needs that daily challenge. Every once in a while when I get the opportunity to saunter leisurely around malls in the early mornings - such as I did today, I try to see how the other more fortunate half lives.

Seriously? Forget about being a desperate housewife, if only I had my life to life again, honestly I would love to be the wife of an expat. :P Hopefully one with the delicious looks of Chris Evans / Brandon Routh, the unbelievable stamina of an Eveready Rabbit and the inexhaustible credit of Bill Gates. Heard people whispering about being financially independent and making your own way? Hell, there's such a thing as naughty solicitors and criminal divorce settlements if things go bad.


Nerve wracking waiting for the maid to arrive...
Really. I would like to spend my early mornings making toast and pancakes as a hearty breakfast for my diligently working gainfully employed husband - and then when he leaves for work, leave it all for the indigent foreign maid to clean up afterwards as I leave for my late morning facial, pedicure and manicure. After my exhausting facial ( darling, we need to keep the hubby interested! ), I shall toddle off for a light civilized brunch with my other similarly fortunate fashionista sisters in some frou frou, desperately expensive restaurant where the food looks and tastes heavenly but the minute portion's only enough to leave me wanting more - and possibly helping keep me impossibly stick-thin.

My cronies, the leisurely ladies who lunch, will then pick apart the latest suburban gossip - especially amongst the local community - before launching on our next worthy charity cause, whether it's breast cancer, the local art scene or maybe something more mundane like some unfortunate orphan in some unbeknownst third world nation.

Then for the evenings, I shall be off for stimulating lessons to improve my mind such as pottery, modern dance or tantric yoga. In between these sessions of course, I'll find the time to whine and moan about the serious lack of attention from my disappearing workaholic husband while flashing my Tiffany bling blings and my latest season Prada handbag in their envious faces.

When I'm done twisting into several abnormal positions - while batting heavy lashes at the undeniably sexy virile instructor, I shall rush home in my luxurious Lexus to prepare dinner. Or should I say, more like pointing at a random page on my cookbook and ordering the maid to prepare the meal while I catch up with the latest episode of Desperate Housewives.

Now, seriously don't you wanna be a desperate socialite?

Dream Buys The Sequel

Although I lean towards frou frou romantic Bohemian ( just imagine crazy gypsy with a penchant for collecting junk ), that certainly doesn't mean I don't appreciate design. Every once in a while, I do dream about that futuristic minimalistic look for my home - all sleek steel and shiny glass - but I doubt metallic avant garde design would go down very well with my hand-woven persian rugs and crumbling chinese antiques. It would look positively schizophrenic.

And I'm sorry but for now, I'm still much too attached to my ornate, delicately painted cabinets, no doubt courtesy of blindly dedicated, sight-challenged Tibetan monks slavishly carving inside secret complexes hidden deep in the Himalayas.


Househusband to be...
Monastic monks aside, that still doesn't stop me from drooling over these spectacularly expensive designer objects - as Strapping Shane would know. Dragged the poor guy through the horrific lengths of the kitchen appliances department and I'm sure he's still staggering from the excruciating experience. Footloose single guys and avant garde electric blenders just don't mix.

Went into one of those super upmarket stores - which I find thoroughly amusing since I am not sure who exactly buys such sinfully expensive kitchen products apart from ambitious interior designers trying to impress ( since we all know that fabulously wealthy datins and tai tais spend all their time doing their manicures and facials which precludes regular cooking sessions ). Even the harassed - though beautifully coiffed - storekeeper had her doubts as I could hear her muttering away 'Let's hope somebody buys this'.

Well, she wasn't all that wrong since I had half of a mind to purchase these designer babies myself but knew that with my lousy hours, I wouldn't have the time to use them. Sigh. Anyone in need of a desperate wannabe househusband? With the inadvertent help of Martha Stewart, swear I'll bake, cook and clean without much complaint! I'll even wear a frilly apron with the prerequisite Kiss The Cook tagline! Just no scraping dirty woks in the sinks please.


Seriously. Cost a whole freaking fortune for an alien juicer from Starck - that you gotta use manually and sweat all over probably while cursing and swearing for one pitifully small cup of lemon juice.

But look. How pretty!


Whistling Bird stainless steel teakettle, with sugar bowl and creamer. I know it's so 1980s but I love the design from Alessi. Not sure whether it really whistles like a bird but hell, imagine placing it on the gleaming kitchen table to the envy of the suburban desperate housewives. Certainly worth killing for!


Or even the Pito Kettle by Frank Gehry. Look. Fish!


Mamma mia! Look at the luscious Anna G all dressed in sheer black! Doesn't it make you wanna do wicked decadent things like corkscrew her away? Alessandro Mendini sure knows his women.


Armadillos are pretty ugly critters but they sure do make pretty bread bins. Come on, imagine serving breakfast with this as the centrepiece. How is the handsome working hubby not gonna be inspired to eat a toast or two?! Or to toss you on the hardy pine kitchen table and ravish you like freshly baked bread.

Charming Calvin, look closely. Christmas is coming. Maybe we can get them for the kitchen.

Coming out

Isn't it weird that the oddest coincidences can trigger sudden epiphanies? Just as I watched Brooke Davis pack up her bags to move while chattering mindlessly ( bet most of you didn't know I'm a closet fan of One Tree Hill ) I realized that I've been blogging almost for two years now.

And Good God, judging by the sheer volume of posts I've written, seems like it's been a pretty eventful two years. Not only have I gotten a place of my own ( and still in the midst of redecorating! ), I've also embarked on a life-changing course in my career and also somehow or rather amazingly fumbled my way through several relationship mishaps to having a charming ( though peculiarly sleepaholic ) boyfriend.

Along the way I've also bought out Kinokuniya but that's something else entirely :P


Something to think about...
Seems like it's about time I announced to everyone I know that I'm a happy homosexual - and true enough, that's happening albeit in slow stages coming out to my friends and colleagues. Moving up in increasingly painful steps to my close family - despite the resounding nays from Charming Calvin who frequently insists that blissful ignorance can be preferable. Since he's had his own terribly horrific, near-nightmarish experiences to recount, no doubt he is fully qualified to speak on the painful subject of coming out of the asian closet.

With the bulldog persistence of my parents in getting me uncomfortably hitched to the nearest vestal virgin possibly poached from neighbouring Vietnam, I am not sure how long I'll be able to withstand frequent diatribes on the state of my bachelorhood. Bad enough that my mother currently assumes that I have a strict though incomprehensible aversion to the institution of marriage - an erroneous conclusion since it's actually the opposite! :)

Everyone has their own experiences in coming out after all. Most of mine have been relatively benign so far with very few raising arms to protest against the sheer blasphemy of idol-worshipping homosexuals. Shalom did raise her hand but I think it probably was to signal the waiter. Hell, it has actually made me freer to gossip about deliciously hot men with Shameless Shalom - though I'm still not sure if I'd be able to talk her into a deliberate Swan makeover :)

Doubt any coming out has invited so much scrutiny online as the one currently experienced by poor Strapping Shane. Not only do his doting parents patronize his erstwhile blog, his pesky siblings have also been known to take a peek or two at his hard disk too. Seriously? Not sure if there's any closet left to come out of after all that :) Certainly triggers a surprising amount of family togetherness though.

Not entirely surprised that his concerned parents have their reservations about the path their son has chosen since I certainly wouldn't recommend it to anyone. Come on, it's certainly no easy path strewn with sweet-smelling roses and shiny discoballs - quite the grim opposite in fact. Possibly alone. Probably childless ( puppies and kittens don't count dammit ). Maybe friendless and mercilessly hounded by society at large.

Why in hell would anyone choose this?

But then again, we've all always known that it wasn't really much of a choice.

Those Little Things

Hell, isn't it amazing what brilliant engineers can come up with these days? Sure I know you strapping young folks out there would be shaking your heads at the sheer stupidity of clumsy, technologically-challenged idiots like me but it's true. Even the futuristic concept of wi-fi still boggles the mind. I mean, sending data and images literally through thin air into the computer!?

Even my cell still gives me the chills. Certainly light years from the clunky workhorse I once carried around in my bag as a student. These days, my trusty little cell can actually take pictures, play tinny music and even minute music videos.

Fucking amazing.


In the future they probably throw in hots guys as perks...
Since I've achieved some impossible shopping grade - with the help of my melting credit cards, the banks have seen fit to toss a high-tech, impossible-to-manipulate cellphone at a technohimbo like me. Nothing like credit points. Have carried the cell for a couple of months now feeling like a complete imbecile since I haven't even figured out half the complicated functions. Thankfully I think I've started to get the hang of sending messages.

Since I've had a few days off from work - after battling the aforementioned mother of all evils, I have only just gotten about to fiddling with the cell today. Reading the manual from cover to cover. Seriously. My brother - and my technophile boyfriend - would be pleased.

...***...

Off-days also gives me the chance to start the most peculiar obsessions. Have always had my eye on those weird little Japanese toy vending machines, Gashapon they call them - that literally cost a toe and a finger for a turn. Not sure how kids these days can afford them but obviously they can ( pampered lil buggers! ) since I've seen more than a few emptying their pockets for their turn.

Well, been eyeing the vending machines for quite a while and tried it out just the other day. What you get is a little capsule with a tiny figurine inside that stands at around two inches high. Charming Calvin thinks I've gone off the edge but hell... since I'm an obsessive completist, I just need to get the whole set!

Resident Evil

All of us have our own distinctive blogrolls to go through in a day, representing different facets of our own busy lives - so obviously some of the blogs that I do frequent are blogs written by medical students / interns who have just started on their difficult journey. Certainly does bring back some bittersweet memories and some horrible nightmares of exhausting 24-hour calls that never seem to end - with one bad case leading to another even more horrific one.

Sometimes when I read blogs written by newly minted interns / house officers - relatively fresh neonates in this challenging medical world going through their rotations - I find that I do recognize myself in their colourful descriptions. Talk of insanely hectic morning ward rounds, uncooperative colleagues with the internal backbiting, certain nasty nurses and the inevitable maniacal resident / medical officer. These days, I'm not sure whether I'd be accepted into the kind, helpful resident category or be sent down to the deepest bowels of hells specially populated by entirely diabolical, mephistophelian resident evils. :P

From certain events last night that I recounted to the ever patient Charming Calvin ( with frequent sighs and admonitions from him ), I think I am certainly on my way to being resident evil. :) According to trusted field reports, after that fateful stroke of midnight sweet Dr Paul turns into a vicious resident evil who supposedly barks at menial incompetents, snaps at banal colleagues and eats up gullible interns for breakfast.

Monstrous, I know.


Ooh. What did I do?
Like this poor stammering intern who had the ill fortune to call me up in the wee hours of the morning - after my inevitable metamorphosis to the abovementioned resident evil - to present a supposedly case to me in garbled monosyllables. Not only was I grumpy / groggy from coming in after a complicated caesarean section that bled a literal river of hemoglobin, I then had to contend with a Mumbling Mary who didn't even know her patient's clinical stats.

Paul : And what's the name of the patient?
Mary : Uhh.... let me check.
*frantic rifling of notes*
Paul : Yes?
Mary : Uhh.. I.. uhh.. Madonna Lourdes.
Paul : And what do you want to do with her this morning?
Mary : Uhhh.. she came in yesterday with a complain of pain in the right breast and...
Paul : Sure took your time putting her up but you can skip that. What do you want to do for her?
Mary : Huh? Uhh.. I ... there's a breast abscess and ..
Paul : I & D. Incision and drainage!
Mary : Uhh.. yes.
Paul : Right or left?
Mary : Uhh..
*ever more frantic rifling of notes*
Paul : Never mind that. When was her last meal? Does she have any pertinent medical illnesses? What are her blood investigations?
Mary : Last meal?
Paul : Grrrr....

You can imagine the wanton indiscriminate bloodshed after that seemingly innocent remark. Was I right to give the poor gel a thorough reaming?

BTW of course there's no such patient with that name. Anonymity and all that.

Tits and Cleavage

Let's all agree that a man's chest - especially a marvellously fit, toned and sculptured one, courtesy of countless mindless reps at the infamous gym - is certainly a thing of beauty guaranteed to have the city traffic coming to a shocking standstill, and possibly a few cars ( driven by insanely speeding gay men ) swerving dangerously into a precipitous ditch.

Or maybe that's only me?


Ooh, don't pinch them
But sometimes there can be a little too much of a good thing. Due to Strapping Shane's insistence, I just had to reveal this scandalous exposé - or should I say Mr Mantits' inadvertent expose has finally been revealed. Let's face it, we've all seen those infamously unforgiving supremely tight V-neck tees that gym-loving homosexual men seem to favour - but just the other day I had the opportunity to witness *deep breath here* cleavage on a man!

Seriously. How low can that collar go?

Come on, I know you worked hard to develop those awesome mountainous man-tits - and God bless you for wanting to exhibit them for my critical review - but please, a v-neck low enough to almost expose both perky nipples? I like that hard shelf of muscle as much as the next red-blooded fag but do you seriously think you're babelicious Latina J-Lo in a green Versace? Doubt it was a wardrobe malfunction so don't tease, just take it off dammit.

And somehow I always have this insane peculiar ( occasionally suicidal - since have you seen the size of these guys usually? ) urge to pinch them.

Still, the revealing exposé certainly inspired one of the gifts on my Christmas shopping list since I had no idea what to get Big Bicep Barry. Barbell with a festive pink bow?

Paul : You are difficult to shop for but at least I can combine your birthday and Christmas gift. Maybe I should get you a low-cut tee.
Barry : My nipples will get cold.
Paul : That's the point.

Obviously he didn't appreciate that comment. Odd. Some guys just can't take compliments well.

Together Time

One of the oddest things I've found about people in new relationships is the fact that they practically immerse themselves totally into that novel bewitching experience. Bonding is wonderful but super-seal-glue bonding? They wake up together, they eat together, they go to movies together, they sleep together, they go shopping together... short of breathing the same oxygen and sharing blood supply ( and I bet they've tried ), they practically do everything together. Just short of the infamously inseparable duo Richandamy from the syndicated comic strip Zits.

Frequently guys who are seeing each other start getting the funniest comments from their friends - kinda like the one I just received from Strapping Shane.

Paul : Sure you can come along! Calvin won't mind.
Shane : Really? Sure you guys won't prefer some together time ah?
Paul : Together time?

Seriously. Not the first time I've heard that and it always makes me wonder. What does it mean actually? Does becoming a couple mean automatically merging into a single indistinguishable unit? Sharing the same thoughts, saying the same things, doing the same things. Practically becoming pastel-coloured Stepford clones of each other - only joined at the proverbial hip?

God, that would simply drive me insane :) And besotted couples who amalgamate into a single being - somehow losing their innate ability to think as separate sentient individuals - actually are one of my original pet peeves.


Kevin and Scotty
Fortunately I doubt Charming Calvin and I could ever morph into one of those freakishly peculiar Siamese Twins who are permanently wrapped up in each other. In spite of my occasionally antisocial behaviour, our together time definitely doesn't mean to the exclusion of everyone else ( no fear of the proverbial 'lamp-post' ). Although I'm no Little Mr Independent, I'm far from being a clingy spineless limpet either.

Despite the fact that I enjoy sharing his time and space ( boy, do I take up his personal space! ), that doesn't mean that I'll begrudge him his time with his adoring fan-girls, the screaming Calvinettes or even time with his beloved sing song karaoke sessions ( bleh! ) - and I'm sure he doesn't get hissy fits over the fact that I spend a great deal of my time getting lost in Kinokuniya ( actually my sweet Lord of Perpetual Yawn usually nods asleep waiting on the comfortable benches - though he may protest the sly insinuation ) or getting serious payback lunches from my ISO.

And let's face it, every once in a while, I bet the poor guy needs a break from me, the Lord of Unholy Fury. :) All my frequent rants and rages must be quite exhausting for the usually placid guy.

So yeah, Shane, we can be available separately. :) It's not a prepackaged 2-in-1 sale.

Breaking Up is Hard to Do

No! It's not me so you can all relax. Unless Charming Calvin wants to quibble over the fact that I kept him up till some pretty unseasonable hours tonight. :)

The imminent threat of the dissolution of one of my favourite fictional relationships - my beloved Scotty and Kevin - led me to thinking, breakups are never all that simple, are they? After all, there's always bound to be a certain amount of repressed emotion and baggage just waiting to erupt under the seemingly placid surface especially after the end of a committed relationship.

Certainly no Oprah-wannabe expert in budding relationships but I've had my small share of breakups - or maybe I shouldn't mention that in plural since I only had the one. No doubt there was a moving suspenseful scene at the first realization of betrayal but what followed couldn't have been more sweetly cordial than a civilized English afternoon tea with the ladies who lunch - since for me, the subtle chill factor rises the angrier I get.


Ggrrrrrr.....
One of my friends used to tell me that a relationship should always end, not with a whimper, but with a bang. Apparently judging from what she said ( hope she didn't mean a bang with a pistol or a farewell fuck ) - and the various breathtaking histrionics portrayed by desperate afternoon serials, I should have been a little more wild and hotblooded like the typical big-haired ( amongst other bountiful assets ) Venezuelan soap opera ingenue. Perhaps rattled off a screaming vulgar tirade at the top of my lungs while doing my best to shatter his mother's precious Limoges. Sometimes I actually wish I'd had a dramatic breakup tossing his skimpy CKs out the window, wailing away unreservedly at the balcony while calling him filthy names, brazenly showing up at his workplace and dealing him impassioned backhanded slaps followed by the prerequisite humiliating splash of water ....but fortunately for my ex, I was much too timid, way too reserved and sadly much too adult for such frivolous diva-like antics.

And certainly too proud.

But not foolish enough to see what I'd be losing if I really had gone through the scripted tragicomedy farce. Engage in a literal War of the Roses that could effectively traumatize the simple friendship that we once had? One of my closest allies since childhood? Someone I'd cared for deeply?

Seriously, does love actually go out the door during a breakup? One unusual though outdated term I learned recently is the conservation of energy which states that the total amount of energy in an isolated system remains constant. All that love that was once there couldn't have just disappeared in that potent tempest of anger, treachery and broken china. Surely - if not purely driven by blind stupid lust and those ever persistent, pesky hormones - surely there has to be some residual feeling left behind even after the foulest of betrayals. Certainly something wonderful worth falling for in that special someone.

Or are we all fools who are doomed to blindness when it comes to love?

News from the Frontline

A mere two days into the skirmish and I'm already dead tired. Nearly fell asleep as I was climbing out of the all-terrain vehicle amazingly enough.

Feel like my miserable brain with its meager knowledge has been left in a wringer which isn't much of a surprise seeing that the vicious, mind-bending enemy has been sending frequent volleys of mentally-scarring explosives. Just five hours of battling the mother of all evil ( that is exams ) left me feeling exhausted - just like I'd run through a lengthy triathlon through the inhospitable Himalayas or worse, one of the monstrous gym routines drawn up by Big Bicep Barry. Can't imagine how I lasted for two whole weeks wrestling it out with STPM and SPM way back when... but then again, I was younger.

Back then I was a tad more high-strung ( bet that doesn't come as much of a surprise ) and I'd get so freaking stressed over exams, practically pulling hairs, screaming mindless rants all through the night and developing instant peptic ulcers as I raved through the whole insane ordeal. Quite like the infamous Mrs Rochester wailing away from the attic windows during one of her episodes. Not sure why my parents didn't see fit to have me clapped up in an asylum then.

Fortunately I've learnt to take it cool these days... well, somewhat. :)


Hit me with your best shot
Unfortunately during the recent skirmish I found that I'm armed only with a primitive makeshift slingshot - certainly an improvement over the neanderthal sticks and stones before but even biblical hero, courageous David didn't have to take up arms against a mean, husky Goliath in a tank. Is it any wonder that I'll possibly be found unconscious with disfiguring tank tracks all over me?

Makes me wonder why I stupidly chose this when I could have taken the path of least resistance and make for a hasty retreat ( open that little joint-venture antique store, anyone? ). But hell, I'm a scrappy sort after all. :) Hopefully my little well-aimed stones manage to hit the right sore spots to take the evil down, at least long enough so that it doesn't darken my door for the next little while.

That Momma's Boy

Sometimes we tend to forget the little things that matter.

And that's really sad actually. That specially prepared piping hot cup of cereal for breakfast. That warm cup of honey for that tickle in the throat. The umbrella set aside by the door for those rainy days. The porch lights left on when we're out late - with the frequent minatory reminders to return before curfew ( not that I ever had one ). Back when we were hormonally charged, self-absorbed teenagers - far too preoccupied with minor schooling disasters that seemed to grow in monstrous proportion before our naive eyes, we didn't notice all these caring little details that doting mothers seem to come by ( amazingly enough! ) naturally. No matter how much we quarrelled or fought, there was always this all-too-confident, almost cocksure sense that the cereal would still be there on the kitchen table in the morning.

Sure enough that sometimes we tend to take it almost for granted.


That morning coffee
Only felt the loss quite acutely when I took my first baby steps out of the nest, moving out into my own place and living by myself. In their teenage years, most guys ( and girls too I'm sure ) tend to wish for that swinging, carefree bachelor pad away from their restrictive parents - and to be honest, so did I.

Well, after that first initial rush of pleasure ( at finally being supposedly financially independent and able to afford a place of my own ) has simmered down, that sense of loneliness starts to creep in. Seriously, watching drama serial reruns alone in the late evenings while I eat my cold dinner for one can get old real fast. Made me miss even the once-reviled notes that my mom used to leave for us detailing our various chores for the day. Leaving excessively long-winded messages for us on the kitchen table ( forcefully criss-crossed occasionally as she changed her mind, a woman's prerogative I hear ) has always been one of my mother's sweet, peculiar habits. :)

Been a while since I've lived with my parents - and only recently moved back so I haven't been seeing those notes in a quite a while. So for once, it surprised me to find one beside my coffee cup this morning before I left for work. No paying bills. No bringing the car to the workshop. Just a shred of Post-It and that familiar handwriting in black ink wishing me luck for my momentous week, and yet it left a smile on my face all day.

Yeah, I can be a sentimental sod sometimes. In that way, proud to say that I actually take after my mother :)

Much Ado about Jensen

What do you look for in a hero?

A sense of integrity? A sense of humour? A shelf of hard pecs? Well, it's obvious enough that everyone looks for something different in their main fictional protagonists - and this man's meat can certainly turn out to be someone else's poison. Every once in a while, you actually do find that there are some personality quirks / idiosyncrasies that are an anathema to readers out there. For those who doubt that homophobia's largely rampant in the world, you can go take a look at this latest brouhaha in the romance publishing world.
Of Mice and men

Romance novelist Anne Stuart ( never actually heard of her but I'm gonna buy just to support the poor embattled lady ) wrote about this ice-cold, beautiful superspy hero, Peter Jensen, who apparently danced the horizontal tango with another man during one of his hush hush undercover episodes - and it has let loose a relentless hailstorm of vitriolic comments in the publishing quarters from disappointed matronly sighs to violent homophobic rants from what I assume are gun-toting God-fearing mommas from the red states. Last time that happened was when our unfortunate gay FBI agent Jules Cassidy took the stage.

As a matter of fact, the hero, a spy who slept with a man in Black Ice, has total control over his body, which allows him to have sex with men or women, whatever the job entails, without any emotional feelings whatsoever. At one point in the upcoming release, the hero informs the heroine that he kissed her to distract her in order to knock her out. When she asks what he would do if he needed to distract a man, he answers, 'I would do the same thing.'

Seriously. Would the hero after having indulged in some peculiarly slashy behaviour in the past be forbidden from appearing in serial mainstream romances ever again? What would be a strict no-no in the hero of a novel?

Let me count the ways. For me, nonconsensual rape would be a definite taboo in the traditional sense of a hero ( not to mention weepy, whiny heroines who are way too stupid to live ). Even a sense of infidelity if not written correctly would leave me with a bitter taste in my mouth. But consensual sex - now that, I wouldn't mind whether it's between man/woman, man/man, woman/woman... hell, even in a full-blown Caligula orgy with half the Congress partying away in debauchery.

And for Peter Jensen, superspy, I don't see how that makes him any less of a hero. Being the lover of a Mafia don as part of his cover?


What does it take to be a hero?
Hell, let me repeat. He's a spy. I'm sorry but an undercover agent who's also a shining paragon with sterling moral values just wouldn't make a very good spy, possibly one of the first to be fed to the hungry sharks. Doubt very much they would go around saying thank you please ma'am as they smash in the door to wreak lawless mayhem. After all, by definition spies practically break half the ten commandments already so how could anyone possibly object to one more? They commit murder, the indulge in adultery, they steal, they lie / bear false witness, they covet their neighbours' wives, houses and weapons of mass destruction. Bet they even make wrongful use of the name of the Lord. ... and you're all gonna nitpick over the lousy fact that he kissed another man?

Please, it's easier if he did only that. At least someone's bound to be happy - and though I've never read it, I'm sure cold, beautiful Peter would have satisfied. Now that's definitely a prerequisite for a romance novel hero.

Mr Kiss Kiss Bang Bang

Holly Goodhead!

Since Daniel Craig's gonna be up for the role of Mr Superspy himself by the end of this year in the much-anticipated Casino Royale, the cable tv's seen fit to televise a James Bond marathon with a different movie each night. While Xander Cage might have been touted as this new millennium's brash tough guy, I'm sorry but for me it's always been the polished, understated Bond with the License to Kill.

And since my doting couch potato parents and I are dedicated fans of that cool Brit fella that's hardly shaken and rarely stirred, we've been catching it every once so often as he thunderballs through the screen with his usual savoir faire. Perhaps even a touch of nostalgia watching the hero power his way with the aid of supposedly futuristic gadgetry that seems a tragic neanderthal throwback to the stone age these days. Still, misogynist or not, Cold war dinosaur or not ( or whatever foul epithets the ice-cold, pseudo-tough biatch M might throw at him ), James Bond always entertains.

Surely most budding young heterosexual boys must have had some desperately wet dreams about taking the role of the slick, suave superspy, driving that awesome pimped ride, waving that fantastic weapon to nail all the bad guys - and yeah, also nailing some of the bad girls who're trying to get onatopp :P Obviously I've given up on any such prepubescent dreams of getting octopussy. For one thing, I certainly wouldn't have known what to do with the femme fatale likes of Pussy Galore or Kissy Suzuki other than tying them up to keep them quiet - or sending them to the wilds of Russia with love.


Have you been a bad spy? A really really bad spy?
And to be frank - this is for your eyes only of course, living the straight life can get awfully boring especially since I've always had that secret penchant to be the man with the golden gun. I've always had this wicked fantasy of being one of those ubiquitous, oft-silly two-dimensional crime bosses with stereotypical one-liners. Not only would I hire oversized henchmen with decapitating bowler hats, shockingly razor-sharp teeth and brains the size of a peanut, I would dress in the most garish white suits with the prerequisite bling-blings and my ever-present fluffy white Persian.

Since I've always had a malevolent view to a kill, my secondary diversion ( apart from keeping a bevy of gorgeous, subservient Chris Evans / Brandon Routh clones on that clandestine isle of MenmEnmeN ) would be my private menagerie of nastier pets comprising vicious man-eating piranhas or beady-eyed, Jurasssic-inspired velociraptors who'd chomp up spies before they could even think of living twice ( or even recalcitrant cronies who didn't perform ). Forget about dying another day.

Can't just live and let die of course since the ever-dutiful spies ( on her majesty's secret service! ) were planning to foil my maniacal, diabolical and highly improbable plot to take over the civilized world as we know it. Of course before I eagerly fed them to the proverbial sharks, I'd take the time to scare the living daylights out of them by detailing each and every delicious, tantalizing portion of my nefarious murder plan - not to mention spilling the beans on that hush hush top-secret Moonraker base I'm building in my bid to conquer the world. And even the universe since the world is not enough!

Oh. That is unless the aforementioned superspy resembles the ever-luscious Brandon Routh, then I'd hypnotize him with my seductive goldeneyes so that he'd become the spy who loved me. Doesn't mean I wouldn't torture him a little with some goldfingering first to make sure he's shaken and stirred :)

God, when did I become Dr No, that Master of Evil?

Goodbye Boys

Anyone of you who has ever been a scout - no matter how nominally - would appreciate Bernard Chauly's Goodbye Boys. Even the poster of the movie itself had me stopping for a second look since it featured a bunch of fresh-faced boys clad in the immediately recognizable scouts uniform - not because I'm a drooling child / scout perv ( though some of the thankfully legal actors looked particularly yummy ) but because it brought back funny little memories.

Not gonna reveal the whole plot over here but it tells the simple, uncomplicated story of a gang of pimply, testosteroney boy scouts out to fulfil a King Scout requirement, all with different contrasting personalities and races - possibly as written in the Federal Constitution :P - making a grueling 5 day journey through the dusty tin-mine deserts of Kinta Valley. Just like one of the protagonists says, when you're a kid that age, everything seems larger than life after all.

Unsurprisingly - especially for anyone who has ever been on a trek such as this - all sorts of hilarious misadventures ensue. Made my own pilgrimage ten years back ( OMG has it actually been that long! ) and even now, I can almost recall the bitter squabbles as we lost the way despite the reputable map, the incessant complaints from the stragglers about the blistering heat and the sheer boredom. Even my tie-scarf was drooping at the end of the day.


It's getting hot in here - and not in a good way...
By now I know half of you must have fainted from sheer disbelief over the fact that I was actually a dyed-in-the-wool, bonafide scout - but it's undeniably true. Right now in luxurious air-conditioned comfort, I swear I wouldn't dream of repeating that particular episode of my life ever again - especially since during that period of time, not only was I permanently sunbaked to a dark brown, I was also covered in freaking leeches and mud half the time. Damn medicinal purposes and all, but I'd still gladly toast those slimy suckers. Oddly enough, endless marching and camping out in the dirt definitely didn't count as my favourite activities. Even now the thought of barely sanitary makeshift latrines / dugouts and the ever-miserable kitchen duty ( imagine growing teenage boys ravaging their dinner plates ) makes me cringe. And through it all, I never could understand exactly why the boys were all so desperately gung-ho about getting campfire dances with the Convent guides. :)

But there were some memorable times... singing mindless repetitive lyrics ( Ging Gang Gooli anyone? ), eating burnt charcoal / food that we cooked ourselves over a primitive fire, late nights talking with friends over UNO and cards( yeah, my ISO was part of the crowd ), abseiling down a ravine seemingly without a care ( though I held on dearly for life ), leisurely kayaking a canoe out into the Straits ( without fear of stinging jellyfish, capsizing or marauding pirates! )- and having my own insane misadventure with a floating tent.

And no, unfortunately there wasn't any nubile bicurious young scout beside me in that dark tent. Honestly? Back then little innocent me wouldn't even have known what to do with the bicurious dude! Think of being barely 16, brought into the woods at midnight, then left panicked and alone with some canned food, matches and tent equipment. Anyone who's aching to repeat such a jungle adventure, just take my advice and remember the position of the river before you pitch that tent.

And just remember when it rains, the river swells.

Oh BTW out of eight aspiring scouts in the movie, you know there has to be that one cute guy who leans our way, right? :) Small subtle hints ( the better to escape the overzealous censors ) but if you look closely, it's quite obvious.

Preoccupied

Far too preoccupied with my dreadfully dull textbooks - and occasional breaks for Brothers and Sisters - to write anything substantial :) Despite the fact that the exams are already peeking over the window, I do still find the time to catch up with my latest obsession.


Taking a break...
Telling the tale of a Californian family that comes together after suffering a significant loss, Brothers and Sisters is an understated family drama, one of those serious slow-moving shows ( since it borrows a lot from fave shows of yesteryear such as Picket Fences and Thirtysomething ) that takes quite a while to get warmed up. Certainly not everyone's cup of tea but seriously, there are touching little vignettes on the show that simply bring back some wonderful memories. Far from being perfect paragons, the featured Walker siblings all have their own flaws, frequently sniping and squabbling - with the occasional family gossip thrown in since as we all know, the walls have ears in big families.

Hard not to remember the past when... hell, not only does Kevin carry familiar shades of myself ( definitely wealthier, better dressed but hell, we both squire our moms everywhere ) but Tommy strongly reminds me of my older brother. Serious, stolid, grouchy, grumpy, always ready to get in your face... yeah, that's my brother. :)

And did I mention the kissing men?

Excuse me sir, are you a shopper?

Seriously. I know I'm a desperate shopaholic but even I never quite guessed the grave severity of my debilitating mental addiction till today. Perhaps the effects must have crept up subtly - just like the folded stacks of paperbags and collections of pricetags from various stores that have started to mushroom all over my bedroom - with me barely noticing, since surely I don't haunt department stores on a daily basis like an indigent immigrant ogling the tempting goods.

Well, maybe on an alternate day basis at the most. Certainly not enough that the salespersons at British India can wave to me with obvious delight at my imminent return.

Obviously Gay Salesperson : Hey, how are you doing? We told you about the sale, right? By sms?

Golly. I was at point-non-plus for once. Even Charming Calvin was agog - whether from speechless astonishment at my undeniably spendthrift ways or my far-from-obvious infamy, I couldn't tell.

Maybe I do frequent sales once too often since I found that I easily recognized more than a few pieces of apparel - not to mention the pricetags before with their previous sales cuts. Hell, I practically have an indelible mental picture of the whole store even before I walked in. Yeah, I admit I have bought more than my share of linen and home decor from British India - and bargained part of my soul surely knowing the prices there - but then again, I don't actually live there. As you all know I live with Kinokuniya, IKEA and Metrojaya - though for some reason all three don't get along and live as far apart from each other as possible ( and I'm not counting Metrojaya's supposedly hip but sadly unendowed sister MJ ). Seriously. If they need a junior buyer, I am so there - even with minimal wages. There's such a thing as staff discount right?

Even the salesperson's intimidating - and oddly familiar - camaraderie didn't deter me from my main plan. Contemplated getting a fine linen shirt for my brother but thought better of it since somehow my stern, stolid sibling just doesn't look right in sheer see-through linen with frilly epaulettes. He's more the basic lumberjack checks and stripes.

Still, it did mark the beginning of my annual Christmas shopping. I know, I start early since I have to get the tree done all by myself - not to mention the various little seasonal decorations.

Already have the gift for my homebound bookworm dad. Two graphic novels, Pyongyang and Shenzhen by the quietly humorous Guy Delisle. Even my niece has already gotten her stuff wrapped up a week back - since I think it'd be a delight for her to have a visit from Eloise at the Plaza. Can't decide between the delectable Nigella Lawson or the lispy Jamie Oliver for my budding homemaker sister-in-law but I've already got my eye on a piece of jewellery for mom. And maybe even an additional gift of Martha Stewart's Homekeeping Handbook ( certainly a must-have for every apprentice domestic goddess ) which she's been eyeing.


Poor Calvin after a day's shopping with me...
Checked out the record store for other gifts but couldn't find anything I wanted at present - though I do have a rough idea on what to get for Charming Calvin ( who by that time was practically dead on his feet ). Saddened by their lack of a sale, the wicked store people tried to tempt me with Brandon Routh's taut virile body but when I tried to get my covetous hands on him, they told me that the DVD version isn't on sale yet. Dammit.

So I had to settle for seriously underaged meat instead ( fortunately the actors aren't jailbait though since it'd be too gross to perv over kids ). Decided to give local film industry a hand so Bernard Chauly, hope your coming-of-age drama Goodbye Boys was worth forking my money over.

You know. I really do shop a lot.

Late Night Confessions

People these days seem to be peculiarly averse to taking responsibility for their own actions, whether it's blaming their irresponsible parents for some innocuous action in their childhood to arguing that their strained circumstances led to their antisocial behaviour. Talk shows are full of problematic souls seeking salvation. Demonic children go on a killing spree in schools and blame is placed squarely on teen peer pressure, parental negligence and so on and so forth. In time who knows... they might even go all the way back and point the accusing finger at the blameless obstetrician for botching the delivery - therefore condemning the little monster to a life of crime.

Good God, get some freaking balls and take some responsibility dammit. Blame yourself. You did the crime, now do the time.


Take responsibility and let us help you...
Obviously such snivelling cowardly behaviour extends to a certain group of patients who simply refuse to admit culpability. Finding excuses for their foolish misdemeanours, a dramatic few even start spinning fanciful fables that even Neil Gaiman would be impressed with. What did they think during their tearful confession? That we'd drag them off kicking and screaming to the police station?

The I'm a Virgin Scam

Sure, it's easy enough to claim such pure innocence since it'd be pretty hard to prove otherwise - but when you're heavily swollen with child at 36 weeks?! Seriously doubt divine angelic hosts came down from upon high to spread the good news so please don't claim to be the newly minted Madonna with the Immaculate Conception. At least go find Joseph first.

Some claim that they didn't even know that there was a baby in there - some wind or indigestion perhaps. Seriously, that little fetus kicking, twirling and enacting the limbo rock in there didn't give a clue? What was that again, maybe your intestines had a heartbeat?

And they sometimes claim they didn't know how they'd gotten pregnant? Were they conducting their own experiments about the birds and the bees behind the boys' toilets while the desperately inept Biology teacher was stammering through the vague sex education classes we had? True, then again the aliens might have abducted the whole blameless lot and conducted secret experiments - ala Taken. You just never know, maybe some overly virile stud coughed dangerously in the vicinity and they all became infected with child :O If only it were that easy to get pregnant.

Amazingly enough the suitably horrified mothers of such sainted children sometimes claim not to have noticed that their anointed daughters were gaining weight in an alarming fashion. Seriously. Were they born yesterday?

The I'm not an Illegal Racer Scam

It's a schoolnight and it's 3 in the morning. You simply can't be buying supper or whatever ( Nin Jiom Pei Pa Koa anyone? ) for your ailing parents at home. And why are you buying supper with a platoon of similarly dressed grungy looking punks with helmets? Surely they can't all have sickly - yet curiously hungry - folk at home in need of that early morning snack?

Be out. Be proud. You were out trying to score a deal for a skanky chick and a quick buck on an excellent ride. Then the concrete wall came up to meet ya.

Say it. I'll believe ya.

The I'm a Good Girl Scam

Seriously. Get a new scriptwriter. I fervently believe in the right to say no but don't take it to ridiculous lengths please. Reasonably good girls ( with a modicum of common sense ) do not chat up four virile strangers at bus stands and then cheerfully agree to accompany them to God Knows Where Plantation. Come on, a gang of leering uncouth guys who pick up women by the roadside? Do you seriously believe they are marriage material - that one day they're gonna bring ya home to their sainted mama and give you that precious heirloom ring? Do you really think they're only extending an invitation to a convivial platonic game of yahtzee in that isolated lonely plantation?

Please. Seriously, we're not your parents. We might judge but we won't ground you. Just tell the truth. You were plain stupid. Don't make us the dupe.

...***...

Not a gripe but a reminder. Remember the earlier post I did about the sheer idiocy of book banning. Well, a few other bloggers decided to write about it :)

Holy Matrimony!

There was a hilarious incident starring the ill-teamed definitely not star-crossed duo of Fanny Flake and Big Bicep Barry just last night.

Since I was going out for a belated celebratory dinner with Big Bicep Barry, I assumed I'd be left out of my parents' dinner plans, whatever they may be. But while driving halfway to dinner, I received a message from my mother asking us both to join her. Come join us, we have some friends over for dinner. Didn't strike me as odd - nor was it unprecedented - since it wouldn't be the first time she'd asked one of my friends over for an impromptu dinner parties. Even Charming Calvin has come along more than once, though he remained stolidly silent :P

It was only when I bumped into Barry that it hit me - or more like my mom's message hit me. Some friends. Oddly curious since she'd usually mention the other dinner guests unless there was something particularly fishy going on. There was this sudden crazy urge to give poor Barry a friendly warning about his impending nuptials - possibly moments before making a run for it ala Thelma and Louise but there was this wicked little devil inside who quite delighted in the situational farce to come. Still I felt quite like a deceitful Judas as he waved cheerfully across the parking lot, wholly oblivious to his sad fate.

Barry : Hey, long time.
Paul : I'm so sorry.
Barry : Why?
Paul : You'll see.

And he certainly did see, since he was practically inundated by an army of strangers the minute he walked in. Certainly not hostile but definitely an army, and definitely incredibly strange.

Not giving the man enough credit though - since Barry fortunately managed to rise to the occasion by turning on that urbane charm without missing a beat. Obviously unlike antisocial me, his interpersonal skills are well honed from shoving his products on unsuspecting customers :) That smile didn't waver even a bit when the unsinkable Fanny Flake - his future intended if my mom had her evil matchmaking way - sat beside him complaining about the events of the day while flip-flopping her straight jet-black waterfall of hair - very Ju-On / The Ring ( insert name of any recent Asian horror flick ). Although she started out on a bad note by raging helplessly against the injustice of being cloistered in a small town ( hey, Malacca is fabulous and now recognized as one of the most sustainable cities in the country ), she managed to curb her terrifyingly revolutionary stance in time and sobered as the night went on.

Fortunately since I was this close to jabbing her with a fork.


Big Bold Black Barry...:)
Still, the girl needs an Oprah makeover so desperately. While Barry was looking particularly dashing in black that day - or suitably pumped up since he'd just popped by after gym, Fanny looked like she'd been thrust into an ancient washing machine, run into a spin and left to dry. I know there are zealous feminists out there who wish to eschew any artifical affectation only to depend on their raving natural God-given beauty but trust me, unless you're the divine Angelina who'd look good in a burlap sack, a touch of M.A.C. wouldn't go amiss. You know the saying what God didn't provide...?

Since Barry's charming affability didn't fade even a little, I didn't quite guess that he was miserably discomfited until later that night when we managed to steal away to check out the riverside.

Barry : Okay. What was that all about?
Paul : You know and I know.
Barry : OMG. Seriously? That's Fanny Flake?
Paul : Yeah, you're on my mom's hitlist too.
Barry : Tell her I'm married.
Paul : Too late. She knows you're not. You admitted as much at New Year's.
Barry : I have a slutty Vietnamese mistress and a lusty lovechild.
Paul : Unlikely.
Barry : Well, she wouldn't know that.

Still, fortunately the big guy had a sense of humour and he managed to laugh it off. Otherwise I'm sure I'd probably be lying somewhere in the murky depths of the river after he'd vengefully tossed me in. :) Not sure how he's planning to deal out his payback though.

Grocery Shopping II

You guys already know what I have in my woefully unequipped larder - though I've managed to fill it up some since checking to find it nearly empty. Certainly no divalicious domestic goddess like my friend Snowie ( not forgetting her ever-capable culinary companion Spot ) who can craft fanciful frog princes from sugarpaste and gummy sweets but I know enough to make a hearty little breakfast of maple-syrup laden pancakes this morning. And my wonderful God given cup of coffee.

Which is more than I can say for Charming Calvin :) Both of us went for a bit of grocery shopping the other day - yeah, terribly domestic, I know - searching for fresh goods to stock up in his spanking new fridge ( finally! ). After all a man simply can't live on Mamee and Pringles Potato Chips forever - despite what Calvin might say.

You know what, I think all gay men should go grocery shopping on their first dates - it certainly tells a lot about a person since unsurprisingly both of us have vastly differing ideas on what essential food items we should have in the fridge. Although I'm certainly no alfalfa-bean-sprout swallowing health freak like a certain friend of mine, I do have my standards - and when Calvin drew out that grocery list, it had me slack-jawed in astonishment. Talk about living up to the oft-repeated maxim about the typical bachelor slob's grocery list. :)

1) Sausages - which isn't all that abnormal actually but the man intends to boil them since he doesn't want to stink up his new apartment with billowing clouds of smoke and oil. But to add boiled sausages to instant noodles?!

Paul : Boiled sausages in noodles? Seriously?
Calvin : Yum.
Paul : Are you in some severely deprived wartorn country?
Calvin : No?
Paul : Why not buy some meat and vegetables - and just slice it up?
Calvin : Too lazy.
Paul : You are already making two-minute noodles.

Well, Jamie Oliver, he isn't. Guess he can do the cleaning up after my culinary disasters :P

2) Soy milk - estrogen anyone? Not sure why he suddenly had a soya compulsion but I like them too so I won't argue.
3) Milk - the man does love his milk.
4) Breakfast cereal - coerced Calvin into getting the cute little child-friendly disposable boxes since I know for sure he's gonna leave the large carton lying around on the kitchen counter otherwise.
5) Ngan Yin groundnuts - not sure whether he intends to have a football marathon or play mahjong but it nonetheless surprised me. What a typically Chinaman buy! Maybe he's gonna get a white singlet and khaki shorts next :P
6) Instant noodles - my boy is definitely Chinese.
7) Creamy butter - not sure what he intends to do with the butter since he didn't buy any bread. And get your thoughts out of the gutter, we don't use butter for that :)

No rice shockingly enough. I can already see Asian mothers everywhere wailing over the woefully empty rice bin. And no bread as I mentioned. No oil, no salt, no sugar. Obviously he isn't going to be making me a home-cooked meal anytime soon :P

I know. It's sadly even more spartan than my empty larder. Calvin also had his eye on some ice-cream but somehow or rather, we both forgot all about it during our relentless search for the breakfast of champions. It wasn't intentional, I swear!

Family portraits

Family portraits.

Most of us have them hanging in that special place down the hallway - even I have several professionally framed ones up on my dining room wall in special pride of place. Different generations of a single bloodline sitting together laughing and talking, there'll be that ubiquitous graduation photo with cap and gown, the crucial wedding shot where the bridebites her rouged lips looking nervous while the groom beams blissfully with eyes bloodshot from last night's hangover. Sometimes looking at the rows of photos, I feel that little pang in my heart.

Don't get me wrong, I haven't recently been orphaned and deprived of the singular pleasure of having a family around who loves me. I do have that at the moment with my almost uncomfortably large brood of aunts and uncles, cousins and relatives. Uncomfortable would be a severe understatement for them since come Chinese New Year or any other festive celebration, there's always a rowdy, boisterous army of kith and kin ready to wreak havoc back home in Penang.

But when it comes to the smaller, more intimate occasions, Christmases and birthdays, it's always left to my brother and me. Although he has started a small tribe of his own, it certainly doesn't match those of my parents. Doubt there are all that many in this reproductively challenged generation of singles and doubles that could possibly match up to having a football team full of siblings ( and that's with a few backbenchers too ) ... but sometimes I do wonder what it's life to have more than a handful of brothers and sisters bickering and quarrelling over the most trivial matters. You see them on serial familiy dramas all the time... barbaric hordes of family members diving for that final piece of chicken wing, squabbling sisters pulling hairs over that first place in the shower come New Year morning, brothers brawling over control of the all-powerful remote.

In her more pensive moods, my mother would confide that she wished she could have more children and I've never disagreed. Reason enough for me to keep in close contact with my plethora of unruly cousins - who unfortunately enough now live in all farflung corners of the Asia-Pacific region :) Always wondered what it's like to have a big sister giving unsolicited advice and possibly tossing the large hair brush at me when I don't listen. Or a little brat of a brother who's gonna sneer and complain that my secret porn stash has been clogging up the hard disk. Or that little sister who's gonna steal my MP3 player and not return it. Ever.


Me, my brother and my sister-in-law...:)
Say what you will but trust me, it certainly beats having the same regular partner for Monopoly and Uno month after month :) Is it any wonder that after being involuntarily thrown together on a daily basis for twenty years, my dissimilar brother and I started developing in wholly opposite directions? Even my sister-in-law wonders that we could have come up from the same womb with the same upbringing - and sometimes even I start to think that one of us just might have been switched at birth.

Every once in a while my sweet little niece ( well, that's when she's not throwing one of her hissy fits ) comes over and asks me when she'll ever have cousins of her own ( possibly instigated by her subtly matchmaking mother ) and I find myself unsurprisingly at a loss for an answer. What do I tell her? How do I tell her? Do I lie by telling that her bachelor uncle's vehemently opposed to the institution of marriage and the act of childbearing? Or do I tell her the sadder, convoluted truth - that this country certainly isn't ready to face the chilling spectre of a gay man adopting?

Yeah. Family portraits. They do make you think.

...***...

Not gonna leave everyone feeling depressed and down in the dumps of course, especially since news of my nomination has put a queer smile on my face :) After all, it's certainly not my style to wail and moan over things we can't change... and hey, it's not all doom and gloom in the queer world since every once in a while, if you're lucky enough you do meet the one guy who becomes your family.



Just ask Kevin Walker.

And the nomination goes to....

Well, we all know that fabulous gay boys love sashaying down red carpets in their Vera Wangs and their sassy feather boas so how better to showcase such style than to have an award ceremony :) If you'd recall the earlier nomination I had and cherished, you'd be pleased to know ( as am I! ) that I've been nominated for some other bloggies. Hell, just makes me wanna run out and grab that sparkling Swarovski tiara ( since I doubt I could afford real diamonds at the moment ).

Just wonderful ( and amazing! ) to have readers out there nominating me! Almost makes me wanna do a Sally Field. Nominated for Best Writing of Blog and Best Asian Blog on the GayBloggies and Best GLBT Blog Writing and Best GLBT Asian Blog on Verve.

So get on down to the sites below and vote for your favourites. At the same time, you can also check out some excellent ( and often sexy ) gay blogs - just like I'm doing right now. Some are so sinfully good that pretty soon, I'm sure my blogroll's gonna start expanding. :P

Masculine Rituals

No, I'm not gonna talk about the peculiar butt-slapping, crotch-grabbing ( vaguely homoerotic ) behaviour practised by hearty, virile heterosexual men of sport.

It's all about the secret little narcissistic ( banal? ) rituals that most men have to endure when they mature. For a boy anxiously taking his first steps into puberty, several things start to evolve, change and grow. No, I'm not gonna talk about that growth, you wicked pervs. :) In a matter of months - sometimes days, that innocent smooth-cheeked Bel Ami boy of youth starts shooting up into gangly limbs, drops two octaves and starts developing facial hair.

It's my secret theory that when Adam and Eve got evicted from that celestial nudist paradise Casa Eden, not only was he punished with an apple involuntarily stuck in his manly throat, poor Adam also received accelerated hair growth around his square jaw that necessitates regular attempts to slice and dice himself with a sharp implement. Or what we would call shaving. Talk about cutthroat punishment.

While poor Eve got stuck in the red tent with her monthfly flows. An even worse fate from what I hear from my woeful female cousins but let's not go there. Not sure exactly what happened to the bewildered Steve since God only knows.

Of course modern man has evolved from the days when we used to scrape sharpened stones and broken seashells across our cheeks just to get intimate with the ones we love ( without resorting to giving them stubble rash ).


Hmm... definitely no nicks on that smooth skin.,,
Let's face it, we've all seen those lovely little hallmark presentations where the sexy half-naked dad teaches his son to shave, prompting hilarious laughter when the shaving foam starts to fly? Well, that glorious male traditon was never that saccharine sweet, I believe. Can't recall how I managed to shave myself in the beginning but I believe my father tossed me a disposable blade and just ordered me to get on with it. Is it any wonder that once violent, bloodthirsty little me wielded the almighty razorblade, I ended up with little nicks and scratches all over?

These days, frou frou metrosexual teachings advocate a whole plethora of sophisticated implements and essential accessories for that perfect shave, turning it into an elaborate artistic showcase of masculine ritual - almost akin to Japanese tea drinking ceremonies. Shaving creams and soaps, aftershave and balms, razors and brushes, even shaving bowls and mugs.

Far from being the purported new metrosexual, I'm a simple ( though some might say bad ) gay man. My needs are relatively simple and all I require ( since I don't actually have the wild tough whiskers of a Wolverine ) is the blade and water - especially when I'm voluntarily thrown into the pathetically spartan gaol at work. Even the bloody mirror is a relative bonus sometimes.

However when I'm not at work for a few days, my now superior shaving skills go into semi hibernation and my trusty razor starts to accumulate rust. Although some career paths practically exult the unkempt, unshaven look such as the mad scientist labs and the deranged starving artiste commune, the stringent medical hierarchy tends to frown upon such unconventional shaving habits. Though there are small exceptions. Since he somehow managed to cultivate a revolutionary mini-stubble of his own, not sure how Handsome Hui managed to charm his way out of such scrutiny.

Sure it's a banal chore but I'm starting to resemble an indigent hobo without a shaving brush. Doubt any of my patients would be able to take advice from someone who looks like just crawled out from living in a cardboard box under the subway station.

Obviously it's time to learn some grooming secrets that separates the men from the boys...
How to get that perfect shave

This Devil wears Prada

Somewhere deep inside their wallets - or for our more fabulous brothers, their Prada manpurses, most dedicated shopaholics have hidden that supersecret semi-orgasmic wish list. Certain gloriously to-die-for sinful pleasures that are either far too exorbitant costing the annual GDP of a small African nation or possibly far too outrageous to be worn anyplace other than a sinfully decadent French 19th Century soiree. And that's before the violent anti-fashionista revolutionaries came aboard to lop their pretty lil heads off.

Secret wish lists came about when my sister-in-law asked me what I wanted for my birthday / Christmas since they were sadly AWOL during the past week. Since Brandon Routh didn't seem to be an appropriate present - how would we transport such a large gift and how would we gift wrap? Man of Steel with a bow and a smile would work but without wrap that would be tacky - I had to settle for some far less titillating and far more achievable dreams. Things I would love to have but wouldn't be able to justify to my nail-biting nerve-wracked accountant near tax time. Who knows, maybe Santa might see this when he's online during his break time.

Although I might toss on the occasional irregular shirt making me look like a desperately unkempt middle-aged hobo on the make, like any red-blooded gay man worth his salt I can certainly appreciate couture.

The ubiquitous wool / leather trenchcoat

Certainly one of the things that would make me halt in my tracks at the windows of a clothing store. Like Holly Golightly ogling and drooling over the sparklies at Tiffany's, I spend my time doing much the same over trenchcoats. Oohing and aahing like a hopeful indigent immigrant with my greasy hands pressed against the windows while the snooty salespersons watch me with quiet disdain.

Not sure why I like them but perhaps some shades of the card-tossing mutant Remy Lebeau? Many's the time I've dragged poor Charming Calvin ( the man buys nothing! ) into a store just to try on some coats though I'm not sure when I'd ever find the opportunity to wear such a coat - especially with the hideously sultry weather here but hell, the rivers of perspiration and the ever-present risk of sunstroke would be well worth it.

Kenneth Cole boots

Mmmmm.... leather.... boots.... mmm..... sometimes I think the fratifying feel of buttery soft leather that melts as your feet sink in ( down with the cows! ) is almost as good as a gorgeous man feeling you up in a public taxi. Notice I said almost, I'm not crazy nor dead. Ever since Nancy Sinatra first sang about it - and then Jessica Simpson had to vamp it up with her sadly slutty take on the classic, I've always wanted some boots that were made for walking. Again, not sure what I'd do with them since work usually means hideous uncomfortable crocs - no matter what the enthusiastic touts claim. Still. They are sexy boots. And certainly made for kicking in the changing room to make out with the reluctant yet oh-so-irresistible salesman hunk, then to imprint the heel on that naked manly chest as he...

Is it getting hot in here? Ah. Boots.

Woven shirt two sizes too small


Too sexy for my shirt
Well for that to happen, I'd need to stop eating carbs for at least half a year and frequent the gym for something other than drooling mindlessly over eyecandy so that's definitely an impossible dream - but it's still nice to have some dreams :) Don't get me wrong, already have a whole closetful of shirts in a myriad of rainbow colours - courtesy of selling bits of my soul and bank account to Raoul - but most are comfortably semicasual at best, with none of the breath-holding-tight, torso-hugging contours favoured by super-slim zero-fat beaus these days.

Platinum cufflinks

Admittedly, just started on this overly dandified affectation but... they are so very cute and pretty! And shiny! And did I mention pretty? Definitely a bloody bore to get onto the cuffs ( practically have to twist your fingers into knots sometimes ) but they look so... polished at the end.

Unlimited credit

No worries. I'm not gonna go crazy... just unlimited credit at Kinokuniya / Borders or failing that, Amazon :)

...***...

Of course with my hideous homely features, none of the clothes are gonna work as well as it would on Chris Evans and the rest of the droolsome Abercrombie modelicious boys but I'd at least be able to feel somewhat fabulous with such accoutrements :)

As much as I'd love that avant-garde Philippe Starck lamp, I wouldn't place home decor items on my wish list since I doubt many would be able to appreciate my particular tastes, Persian rugs and all... :) Other than my lamp bringer of course.

You might notice the sad lack of boyish technogadgets on my wish list... well, as much as I'd love that Ipod Nano, I wouldn't dare purchase it coz I'm pretty much the sad technohimbo who hasn't even managed to figure out how to manipulate his overly sophisticated cell. Sadly I've only pretty much mastered the abacus at best.