Pho Off

For those who seem to believe that the relationship I have with my ex, the infamous ISO, is absolutely hunky-dory with light and laughter, you'd be thoroughly mistaken.


Who's the villain here!
We do get occasionally fractious - though it's not often that we end up in fisticuffs ( we aren't rambunctious adolescents anymore after all! ) since the last time we indulged, it only ended in a dirty sordid December night far from Holy or Silent.

Even while we're travelling together ( why am I not travelling with my significant other Charming Calvin instead, you say? Long story behind that! ), we end up having the most peculiar conservations, terribly inappropriate filthy talk that no one should even think of having in a polite company. Even the impolite rabble would shudder at the thought, I'm sure. It's a wonder the well-set up police officers ( Yummmy..... ) here haven't decided to toss us in a shared cell for public indecency.

Then again they might fear getting too close to my ISO - who's been going around all day smiling licentiously at every available attractive man.

Paul : I hate you.
My ISO : Not what you said when you had your head down between my thighs.
Paul : That was two years ago. Don't incriminate me. They still have anti-sodomy colonial laws here, I'm sure.
My ISO : So? Was it because I dragged you to that river cruise?
Paul : No, I saw you half naked.
My ISO : Baby, that shouldn't make you angry. You've seen it all.
Paul : Baby this! How did you remain so slim, you bastard! You eat almost the same amount as I do.
My ISO : Note the almost.
Paul : Bitch. And you still have those pecs. You make me look like your Indon maid dammit!
My ISO : Think gym, morning jogs and taking stairs. And blisteringly hawt anonymous sex.
Paul : Bitchslut.
My ISO : You're still sleeping with me tonight.
Paul : Twin beds! Not together!

Now I know why we had several empty tables around us although the lil pho-selling shack by the river was relatively swamped with indigent hungry folk. Probably thought we were depraved capitalists there to corrupt the innocent.

Although some of the more muscle-bound innocents here certainly looked delicious enough to feast upon. Some of them so-called prawns they might be but hell, I'm starting to develop a seafood fetish.

Hell I could fuck them with the lights off. :P

The Magician

Look, I'm not a true believer in questionaires and quizzes but once you're caught with your hair in that steam iron thingie waiting for the dye to set in, there's nothing much to do except pick up the latest edition of Women's Weekly or such. And I gotta admit the girly mags are way more fascinating than Men's Health - and yeah, that's even with the delicious hunk on the cover.

So reading through girly magazines in the hair salon, I usually attempt two or three quizzes over how viciously I tear down others while climbing that career ladder or whether my best friend is trying to undermine me by stealing my boyfriend. Come on, how can you not resist those catchy captions...

Ten Ways to a Better Boyfriend
Get That Promotion, and the Man!

Or even better the sinfully shocking dramas unfolding within! The incestuous girl who slept with her half-brother! The tramp of a mother who seduced her daughter's husband! The naughty gal who crept downstairs to offer special services to her older neighbour while her mama slept soundly nearby! I mean, come on sometimes the overly dramatic family scandals can be better than Jerry Springer at his best - and we're all deeply appreciative voyeurs at heart.

See why those mags are such bestsellers?!

You are The Magician

Skill, wisdom, adaptation. Craft, cunning, depending on dignity.

Eloquent and charismatic both verbally and in writing,
you are clever, witty, inventive and persuasive.

The Magician is the male power of creation, creation by willpower and desire. In that ancient sense, it is the ability to make things so just by speaking them aloud. Reflecting this is the fact that the Magician is represented by Mercury. He represents the gift of tongues, a smooth talker, a salesman. Also clever with the slight of hand and a medicine man - either a real doctor or someone trying to sell you snake oil.

What Tarot Card are You?
Take the Test to Find Out.

I think I'm getting addicted to these quizzes. Isn't it amazing what you can find out with these quizzes? I mean, come on... it might be made for everyone but I gotta admit it hits pretty close!

Meme All About Me

Never thought to write a meme today but since I've virtually been ordered by Strapping Shane to comply to the urgent summons, I see no reason to argue. After all, all I did today was a perfectly mundane 5 km trek around town paying various bills shod in crappy painfully torturous shoes.

For those in a helluva rush to grow up to become an adult, watch and learn. Bills suck. Paying bills in crappy borrowed shoes suck even worse.

PART 1 : ON THE OUTSIDE

name : Paul, Saint Wicked.
date of birth : Easy enough to find since I've blogged about it once or twice, somewhere at the end of October.
current status : Uhh.. single but not exactly available. Resting in my bedroom watching DVDs while sending provocative sms to a select few - and obviously writing this post :P
eye color : Dark brown. Boring. Dull.
hair color : Serious black with tints of brown here and there from my last failed dye job. At least it's better than the brassy Ah Beng blond I once had.
right of left handed : Right handed. Though there are some activities I excel only with my left hand. :P
zodiac : Scorpio. Damn. I really blog lotsa stuff about myself.

PART 2 : ON THE INSIDE

my heritage : Plain Chinese ( mix of Foochow / Teochew ) with a dash of spicy Thai
my fear : Icky things - and the list of that seems to be growing. Maggots and worms and creepy-crawlies.
my weakness : Handsome boys with pretty eyes, preferably blue. Blue eyes and a stubble make me melt.
my perfect pizza : Eh. Not a fan. Can I skip this? Waitaminute, I recall the perfect pizza I once had with apples and cinnamon. Amazing.

PART 3 : YESTERDAY, TODAY AND TOMORROW

your first thought waking up : Fuck. I have bills to pay.
tomorrow : Lunch with my sweet Charming Calvin, hope he's not too grumpy from piling work and my interruptions :P...
your bedtime : God, Chris, you're hot. Oh, Mr Evans, do it again. Oh yeah, do it just like that.
most missed memory : That perfect summer getting my shoes shined in front of the ancient mosque with the taste of sweet Turkish Delight on my lips and the scent of the Marmara in the air.


Finally got the time to sit down and blog!!
Fucking tired from all the running around!
PART 4 : YOUR PICK

pepsi or coke : Is there anything else on the menu?
mcD or burger king : I'm lovin' it.
single or group dates : Both are fine. Depends on the company - and if it's lousy company, depends on the attractiveness quotient. They might be nasty fellas but at least I have something pretty to look at.
adidas or nike : At the moment? Neither. JM Weston.
lipton tea or nestea : Bleh. Plain water then.
chocolate or vanila : Death by Chocolate for me always.
cappuccino or coffee : Coffee strong enough to stand up and give ya that wake-up morning punch.

PART 5 : DO YOU...

smoke : Ten years back, tried it once. Haven't stopped coughing since. Didn't smoke since then either.
curse : In my head, yes. Otherrwise I'm as prim and proper as a convent novitiate.

PART 6 : IN THE PAST MONTH

drank alcohol : Yesterday evening, I did. Not to the point of inebriation though since I didn't have a hunky fella to drive me home. Sigh.
gone to the mall : On a daily basis. Sometimes twice. Sometimes even three times. Note that I'm a leading charter member of Shopaholics Anonymous ( unfortunately not kicking the habit ).
been on stage : Humiliatingly enough, yes.
eaten sushi : Sashimi. Yum. I can eat it raw with my hands like Gollum.

PART 7 : WHAT WERE YOU DOING

1 minute ago : Reading Strapping Shane's summons. I'm a speed typist.
1 hour ago : Had my dinner after a whole day of running errands on foot - since my car was being overhauled. Blegh mechanics but HOT salesmen.
4 1/2 hours ago : Watching my car being overhauled while reading Bet Me by Jenny Crusie. Serious demi-babe gets propositioned by Mr Beautiful. Wish I was her.
1 month ago : Thank God for blogging to jog my failing memory. God, I was actually out with Beercan Boy! You guys would be pleased to know he's single, off beercans and going clean.
1 year ago : Recovering

PART 8 : FINISH THE SENTENCE

i love : beautiful men. Preferably in my bed, naked, submissive, sweating.
i feel : wicked all the time. Only act on it quarter of the time - otherwise I'd have been stoned to death by furious vengeful villagers a long time ago.
i hate : bad drivers, stupid incompetence, lousy superiors, crappy on-calls, bad pay... etc. The list continues ad nauseam.
i hide : my more X-rated indescribably filthy thoughts. Come on, the blog is already semi-banned in certain conservative countries! Not sure how they even got wind of my little blog!
i miss : autumn in London.
i need : Chris Evans.

PART 9 : TAG FIVE PEOPLE

Come on, just do it for the fun of it :P Especially you, Charming Calvin. At least you get an update!

Post-Call Horniness Syndrome

I think perhaps I have to revise my seven seconds theory.

Honestly on mornings that I've just finished my call early in the wee hours, it's quite possible that I think about sex in intervals far shorter than the seven seconds I mentioned. I call it my Post-Call Horniness Syndrome. Makes me sound like a rampaging sex maniac doesn't it? Fortunately for mankind at large, I haven't actually lost my tenuous grasp on sanity ( and concern for my well-being ) to run around pillaging and molesting innocent, virile young villagers everywhere.

Kinda like the stud below.


Musn't think of sex. Musn't think of sex. Musn't think of sex!
In fact you'll find that most of the mornings I've mentioned are quite mundane without untoward incidents of sexual assault - since I actually find myself having leisurely breakfast dim sum with Charming Calvin. Of course my poor quietly smiling victim remains quite oblivious to the fact that he's just a hairsbreadth away from getting forcibly slammed and ravished mindlessly on the dangerously rickety table ( one short disproportioned leg propped up with bits of discarded newspaper ) amongst the steamed dumplings, the glutinous rice and the fragrant tea to the astonishment of the horrified patrons - and some of the more delicious waiters. Fortunately for his easily bruised dignity and the propriety of the respectable establishment, I usually refrain from such wild animalistic urges, usually due to the fact that I'm far too exhausted the morning after to do anything more strenuous than lift my chopstick.

Of course sometimes after being adequately revived by a decent repast, I still manage to drag him back to his cave - even before he finishes his glutinous rice ( a must for the Hakka boys! ) - just to enact my horny caveman routine of the beast with two backs. Grr... Sweaty... Hot... Mate...Now...

Really. Don't worry, I'm not the only guy to mismatch unusual euphemisms for sweaty mind-blowing sex. Seems like ever since Jaunty Jared has met his match, he's been coming up with all sorts of unusual - though surprisingly original - euphemisms for getting jiggy with it.

Paul : So when will you be arriving? Are you with him?
Jared : Yeah, we're taking a brief nap.
Paul : A nap? Huh.

Paul : So what happened then? Did you talk to him about the problem?
Jared : No, I gave him a hug.
Paul : A hug? Huh.
Jared : Really. He was deeply appreciative of the gesture.
Paul : Yeah, I bet he was.

Paul : When is he coming back?
Jared : Maybe this weekend, he has a special personal project to fulfil.
Paul : And you're the satisfied client?

Obviously Jared is getting some.

Occasionally feinting a headache - usually coinciding with public displays of inappropriate affection, our Victorian prude Charming Calvin finds me terrifyingly oversexed ( is three times day unreasonable? ) while I find him quite the opposite. :) Shockingly enough, the man claims not to think of sex at every available moment! Sometimes he even thinks of other mundane personal matters like bills and such. You can imagine that I stared at him in bewildered consternation since half the time even during a movie I can barely concentrate since I'm thinking of shoving him down between the seats for some hasty backseat nookie. Hell, a half-way decent hottie strolls by and it's all I can do not to slam him against the nearest wall and hump him.

Maybe Calvin's right :P I'm a sexaholic. I blame the Post-Call Horniness Syndrome. Now how am I gonna fit in extra sessions between my Shopaholics Anonymous?

Tyra Banks This

Sometimes things occur so providentially that I can't help but write about it - and lately it seems as if Big Bicep Barry's gotten himself involved in all sorts of queer shenanigans. Guess the man just needs something to keep him occupied through the week till our ( admittedly increasingly rare ) weekend movie nights.

Of course since our man's the gregarious sort, he doesn't find himself short of company - though his bunch of good-time cronies just doesn't seem to frequent cinemas possibly because they are too busy peddling pirated DVDs I suspect. Or busy urging tipsy clients to continue plying their karaoke gals with overpriced alcoholic drinks. Well obviously the criminally-inclined bunch do find other legal activities to fill their time during the day since one of their number actually sponsored Big Bicep Barry as an emcee for a fashion show with a walk-on spot on the runway himself.

Barry : So how? Any tips?
Paul : Like I'm a huge Tyra Banks izzit?
Barry : Well I know you're a fan of America's Next Top after all.
Paul : Funny. All I can say is... be fieeeerrrcceee....
Barry : And how would I do that?
Paul : Going in a sleeveless tee, flexing your arms and pouting would do it.
Barry : Contrary to the rumours you're spreading around, I'm not a gigolo.
Paul : Is it modelling for Aussiebum? 2xist? Ginch Gonch?
Barry : Hardly! You think Janice Dickinson would take me in? BTW I'm vaguely disturbed by your knowledge of underwear.

Unfortunately no, we won't be seeing him strut his stuff in skimpy wonderjocks anytime soon.


Watch me on Janice Dickinson's!
Sigh.

But that's not the shocking part of course. What stunned me was the fact that Barry actually turned in to watch America's Next Top Model. Seriously how gay is that! Well only as gay as watching Janice Dickinson's trials with her new ( but unashamedly gorgeous ) models. What next? Watching Queer Eye?

The things you learn when you pay attention. And here I haven't even mentioned that he's actually attending a motivational course this weekend :p

Talking about Grace

Haven't talked about one of my friends, Graceless Grace in quite some time. Still have our regular lunches but it's getting few and far between especially since we've both gotten caught up with other events ( and people! ) in our lives. Fortunately since I'm not sure I can hold up to my side of the wedding pact we made years back - Charming Calvin certainly wouldn't approve of the idea of me getting hitched with someone else :P

Reminiscent of the Wedding Banquet, don'tcha think?

And yet just last evening after another ignominious breakup she came to me with a question in her eyes - and one I found myself unable to provide with a satisfactory reply.

Grace : Another man bites the dust.
Paul : Oh.
Grace : You have this look on your face. What is it? Really, what's wrong with me?
Paul : Hmmm.. you really want to know?
Grace : Tell me. I want to know.
Paul : You can't handle the truth!

Seriously? I honestly didn't reenact A Few Good Men with that last line.


Nah, she can't handle the truth!
But does she really want to know? Not everyone can handle the plain truth and nothing but the truth. I have done that before, I've looked in the mirror often enough to see all my horrible flaws from arrogance to sloth to to self-absorption to indecisiveness. If I'd any doubt, I'm sure she ( and probably Charming Calvin ) would have been all too glad to point them all out to me!

Doubt everyone can accept their own flaws quite as easily though. Don't think she'd take it with any grace for sure. There are times I look at her and I wonder why such an estimable girl can remain single. And then I look back again, recollect on some of the unforgettable events in her life - and I actually see some of the unfortunate reasons.

For one thing, Grace has an unerring precision in picking just the right bastard out of all the lousy scumbags that are attracted to her like stinking moths to a flickering flame. Super-scum-magnet we once called her and sometimes some of them seem to adhere forever till shaken loose by the police force.

From a sneering bastard with a penchant for shockingly unbelievable sex fetishes ( even I shudder at the thought! ) to a nervous wimp who turns tail to run each time the dreadful C-word is mentioned - and yes, even to a closeted gay man desperately in search of his identity. That would be me. Of course at that time with my adolescent hormones out of whack, I would have fucked a letterbox. Not that I've become a whole lot more discerning lately :P

Lousy choice of men apart, secondly there's also her forceful, unbending personality. Although she's a wonderful girl otherwise, sometimes her blunt, straightforward observations can far too easily deflate a man's fragile ego. Overly quick to make erroneous assumptions about people, she holds to these preconceived notions stubbornly buckle and thong.

Grace : How is the soup?
Date #1 : The soup is okay, did you make this?
Grace : You misogynistic pig, you expect me to slave all day, all night to make this and then you tell me it's okay. I know your sort, you are a useless, selfish pig. And look at the way you hold that spoon - it shows weakness in a man!
Date #1 : Hmm... Thanks for the soup. I'll call you.

Discretion seems a purely alien concept to her. A pure Sagittarian, she's all light, lively and yet in between her friendly banter, she can shoot these painfully stinging barbs with shocking accuracy. Friends and foe have fallen alike under her relentless rain of arrows that blot out the sun. Not sure how anyone could possibly live for more than a day with her picking over each and every flaw, mistake and error - placing it under the inescapable light of the microscope and re-examining it again and again. It would take a man of tremendous self-confidence to sit through a rerun of his personality faults on a daily basis. Why wouldn't her ex boyfriends leave willy-nilly especially after being told repeatedly that they are cowardly failures?

Utterly tactless, Grace obviously finds it easy enough to point out all her friends' manifold flaws but yet I find myself biting my tongue to reply in kind. So what do I tell her? Is there a line drawn between friends? Can she handle the truth?

Funny Fellas

Guilty. I admit it. I might already be seeing someone regularly but I still can't help stealing looks at good-looking hunks as they pass me by ( that is if they don't end up violently gay-bashing me in dark corners of course ). Okay, stealing looks might be a serious understatement since ogling shamelessly - what I term a mental stripsearch - would come closer to the real thing.

Not even my close friends are safe from my wicked scrutiny.

Almost Pavlovian really! Hot guys passing by. Cue the endless drooling. It's a simple physiological reflex akin to the extreme whiplash straight boys get when overly-endowed hot hoochie mamas saunter by.


Stop ogling, you naughty perv!
Which is why I'm surprised I wasn't mistaken for a drooling mental patient when I spent my time yesterday watching male models strut their hunky stuff down the runway. Hot guys. Drool. It was all I could do not to yell 'Take it off!' while shoving dollar bills down their pants.

Damn if only I looked half as good! :) Which is where I get to the point of this story. Just the day before Charming Calvin - who comes up with the oddest observations imaginable! - actually told me about the erroneous conclusions people have drawn about me.

Calvin : A lot of people think you must be somewhat good looking because you are humourous.
Paul : You gotta be joking. Handsome men aren't usually funny. They don't have to be.
Calvin : Hmmm...
Paul : Hell come to think of it, funny people usually look funny actually.

Not fishing for praise, I swear :)

Been living in my own skin for three decades now - and paraphrasing that crusty English professor, I gotta admit I'm grown accustomed to my face. Not saying that I wouldn't wish to wake up one morning miraculously transformed into a sinfully handsome Brandon Routh / Chris Evans doppelganger ( whereupon I shall descend into shameless cam-whoring and submit my application to Janice Dickinson's Modeling Agency just to rub shoulders and more with the delicious Sorin ) but if that doesn't happen, I'm not going to ruin my life thinking about it.

But it's true, don'tcha think?

Look around and you'll see that most hysterically funny fellas ( and funny gals as a matter of fact ) aren't all that good-looking - and usually vice versa. After all, really handsome hunks don't have to develop anything remotely resembling a self-deprecating sense of humour to draw people to their sides, especially when they can easily pull a worshipful crowd just by flashing their dazzling charismatic smiles. Why bother cracking a joke when you can just wink to get a screaming fan club?

Whereas the average joes out there have to work at it. Picking up perfect comedic timing takes time and talent which is why most funny fellas end up playing second fiddle or the background sidekick to the BMOC back in college :P

Stereotyping, I know. But I have actually encountered a hunk or two to prove the point I'm making. Like Mr Body Beautiful, this man I dated once or twice after flirting audaciously online in several torrid chat sessions. Talk about a serious lack of humour - though I believe God must have seen fit to balance the score after bestowing him with a whopping amount of good looks, anything more would have been patently unfair! Mr Body Beautiful took himself extremely seriously, couldn't find anything remotely humorous about trivialities and subsequently bored me to tears. Of course shallow me was intent to only stare at his pouty Jolie-like lips and his straining-to-burst-from-his-sleeves biceps while he described his work routine in a didactic monotone.

Hell he could have rattled off the tax manual and I'd still have been deliriously fascinated. :P

Of course there are exceptions to the Freakin' Funny Fellas Rule. Though he has a serious streak a mile wide, Big Bicep Barry does have his rare moments of hilarity while my ISO... well that man can be a serious hoot. Then again Barry claims to be a ugly duckling back in school ( gasp! ) while my ISO only picked up humour as a Chandleresque self-defense mechanism.

Finding the Right Fit

Men, especially those who happily term themselves metrosexuals, are becoming quite as fastidious as the ladies when it comes to their footwear - rather than depend solely on those trusty loafers adaptable to every social occasion imaginable from that exclusive society fete in marbled halls to that twenty minute slog through the muddy streets of Chinatown. Though severely lacking in terms of colour and design ( in comparison to those sinful fuck-me pumps over at the ladies department - practically works of art ), men's shoes have nonetheless developed a small but extremely worshipful coterie of followers.


Men and their shoes!
Including me. Seriously. Came about this shoe fetish honestly since my father actually has dozens of pairs himself. Charming Calvin can attest that I can actually stand and stare for hours at a particularly beautiful pair of handmade J.M. Weston boots. Near orgasmic really.

Obviously I'm not the only one who thinks so. Why else would a late evening discussion between friends drift inevitably to two of our favourite topics? Men ...and shoes.

Nothing like comparing the the relative merits of... ummm.. shoes. Like how the easy fit of a pair of comfortably worn sandals compares to a pair of deliciously sinful - but obviously dangerously painful - pair of leather boots. Most would obviously pick the former but don't you think sometimes it's worth it just slipping your feet into something enticing for once? Might not fit just as well as those reliable sandals but hell, you're not keeping those boots on forever :)

Paul : So you actually can't make up your mind?
Walter : Well it's like settling for an inexpensive Bata shoe when you're in lust with a Prada!
Paul : But the scintillating Prada already has his own comfortable Hush Puppies at home waiting!
Walter : Hence the dilemma.
Paul : Hmmm... you could indulge in the Prada for a brief weekend, work that obsession out of your system and then at least give the worthy Bata a chance. He might surprise you.
Walter : A weekend fling with the Prada? You are the devil!

Mixed metaphors, I know :)

People ( especially an astonished Strapping Shane! ) still find it odd that with all my endless talk of commitment, I'm also one of the first to urge young guys to indulge in decadent one-night-stands if possible. Come on - safe sex notwithstanding, I don't see why a single foot-loose, fancy-free guy shouldn't be able to go around sowing his wild oats in as many fertile fields as possible. Especially if all skanky libidinous parties involved are informed of the no-strings-attached rule prior to the event.

Before you guys all start leaping into the wrong conclusions, you might note that I actually mentioned single and unattached. Adulterers should still be stoned in my book.

But for the rest of the singletons, you're only young ( and hopefully pretty ) once after all. Be safe of course but that doesn't mean you have to cloister yourself in a secluded hillside monastery eschewing all forms of hedonistic debauchery.

There's always time for just a little bit of naughty sin ( and if you're extra lucky a hunky bicurious novitiate cloistered together in that monastery! ). Of course, that's just me. :)

Locker Room Etiquette

Raunchy locker room discussions amongst the guys have become quite as mythical as the ubiquitous hormonally-charged adolescent boy wet dream of sorority slumber parties - where dreamy nubile beauties frolic together in sheer lingerie while tossing lacy pillows at each other. Sorry to disappoint boys but I have rarely seen anything remotely resembling a luscious Bel Ami production happening in the men's locker room either, where introductory neanderthal grunts translate into steamy uncensored action in heated seconds.

Notice that I said rarely, not never. :P


Come into the locker room!
Regular guys just don't hang around locker rooms exchanging spit, dirty talk and bragging rights - at least not for long. Perhaps there's an unspoken locker room etiquette followed by the patrons but like a hasty two-dollar-fuck, there's plenty of slam-wham-and-bam of the locker doors with intelligible speech kept to a laconic minimum. Change, scrub up and leave.

Unfortunately not everyone attended the same Mr Manners class.

Donned my scrubs this evening to get ready for a brief procedure only to get accosted by a colleague, a friendly, hail-fellow-well-met sort who guffaws loudly at his own jokes and tends to enjoy discussing his impossible exploits. An estimable sort really and one I wouldn't mind sharing a drink and a conversation with.

Of course that's when he's wearing pants.

It was all I could do to stare in incredulity as he stood there discussing internal work politics and medical paraphernalia while clad only in his underpants. Oh my EYES! Seriously. There shouldn't be talk at all in the locker room.

Especially if you're half-naked in your holey stained briefs.

Ever tried to talking to a man ( that you're not thinking of shagging repeatedly ) in his underwear? It's very hard to tell exactly where to look. Whether to stare obliviously at his shiny bald pate or down at his bushy mustache with basmati rice hanging off the edges. Or run over his quivering jowls as he jawed endlessly about the latest stupendous surgical procedures. Of course it would be disastrous ( though I couldn't help it honestly! ) to even peek below that thick neck. His sagging man breasts? The bristly forest sprouting from his hairy back? Or worse that heavy bulging paunch overshadowing his briefs!

Really. Short of possessing an enviable physique straight out of abs-heavy 300 or Men's Health, there shouldn't be any call to strut around the men's locker room while discussing relatively innocuous topics.

Do my eyes a favour. At least put on a fucking shirt dammit.

Simple really. The only time I have to talk with a sweaty half-naked man should be in the throes. And nowhere else. Unless the man himself looks utterly ravishingly delicious in pair of tight, well-packed briefs ( and we all know I'm a firm supporter of the law allowing all personable men to walk around en déshabillé ) - and we do know how terribly rare such a magnificent specimen can be. Even then I'd be much too distracted with all the brawny action going on below his muscular neck to even concentrate on his didactic speech.

Underwear Hunk : I think he should be... bla bla bla.... poor prognosis... bla bla bla.... attempt a procedure... bla bla bla...
Paul : Gah. *Drool*
Underwear Hunk : What do you think? Don't you think we should ... bla bla bla...
Paul : Could you flex your pecs again while you say that?

Thankfully no such distraction exists in a five miles radius around my workplace.

Sigh.

Cruel Intentions

You guys already know how precious my sleep is to me :) Such a desperately sought-after commodity after all! After all, isn't the zombiefied physician desperately in need of some shut-eye kinda a known stereotype?

Well it isn't often that I manage to sleep late mornings so I try to make teh best of it when I do get the chance, rare though it is. Usually turn off my cellphone, bolt all the doors, slam the windows, shut the curtains and turn up the air-conditioner full blast. Possibly as close to hibernating for winter in a mountain cave as anyone can possibly get.

Fortunately managed to get 7 straight hours till this morning when I was rudely awakened by the sound of early birds chirping. Seriously. I know we're supposed to adore the heavenly sounds of nature calling but black murder was present in my thoughts.

And all I could think of was getting a bow and arrow to shoot them down. Perhaps even fry them with bread crumbs and spice for breakfast.


Have an apple on me!
Certainly a far cry from pure, innocent Snow White serenading the lovebirds - I'm probably more like the wicked stepmother with the poisoned apple. Pretty sure she had fried pigeon for breakfast too ( that's when she's not too busy feasting on her virginal step-daughter's heart ).

Kevin's Klutzy Kapers

Whenever I get to thinking that I'm a massive failure when it comes to budding relationships, Kevin trumps me one. Seriously.

That's Kevin Walker and he's the oft-mentioned luminary gay brother in Brothers and Sisters. Mentioned him a while back as he fumbled through a brief but clumsy affair with the lovable Scotty - since then his intimate relationships have seriously gone down the drain with a painful-to-watch liaison with commitment-phobic closeted actor and now to his latest dating faux pas.


Too sexy for this shirt!
Seriously this man needs lessons. Although commitment-confused Kevin manages to hook some mighty big snappers, he doesn't seem to be able to hold on for long!

During their first greet-and-meet set up by an overly enthusiastic sister, our rabidly anti-Republican Kevin manages to thoroughly insult this poor ( but incredibly sexy meltingly hot I-wanna-have-his-baby! ) man by inadvertently jamming his foot in his mouth. Desperately trying to impress Jason MacAllister, the hot date with his liberal cred ( hoping to get into his pants no doubt ) but only managing to trash the man's elder brother who incidentally is a Republican senator bent on running for president.

Convoluted? Yeah, it is but you gotta watch the series to know.


Admit it. We all love awful blind dates.

Not necessarily when it's happening to us of course ( I bet we all have our own terrifying horror stories to tell of the one where we got away ) but it's always so deliciously scintillating to hear when it's happening to someone else. We see the predicted social disaster coming from a mile away and yet most of us can't resist creeping closer to take a better look just to ooh and gasp over the ensuing bloodbath - kinda like bad traffic accidents and voyeuristic Malaysian drivers. Why else do I live to hear of Posh Preity's latest match-up scheme devised by her ambitious parents?

You all know one of my own horror stories of course. No doubt you've heard of the Insurance Octopus with the runaway hands? Taking a chance one of those dull nights, I made a date with this unknown stranger to meet somewhere before midnight at a coffeehouse - not knowing that I'd soon be fending off endless requests for insurance coverage! If that was all he was selling, I'd have been offended but still civil but in between muttering endlessly about yearly rates and indemnities, his roving hands were busy roving all over underneath the table and it's all I can do not to shove the briefcase into his face.

Or how about Silent Sam, who had to be persistently prodded with a cattle prod to produce a monosyllable in reply to my questions. Sure I know you're shy and closeted but at least make some attempt at polite conversation instead of making me appear like a babbling nutcase talking to himself in a crowded pub.

Still at least I had some memorable dates :)

The Young Riders

If dim sum mornings make me think of the Shanghai Bund, obviously munching on nachos for supper brings me back to the Wild Wild West.

Fortunately I haven't combined the two to get stinker Shanghai Noon yet.

Ever dreamt of riding on horseback towards a fading sunset? Facing down dastardly villains at high noon with guns blazing? Although I am pretty sure a couple of days in the wilderness miles away from the nearest God-forsaken outpost of civilization would drive me slowly insane, the idea of the lone pioneer blazing a trail through the wilderness ( and blissfully trampling on the rights of the bewildered natives ) still manages to inspire.

And yes, it does makes me dream imagining what it's like braving that final frontier, perhaps even being one of the first few physicians out on the trail ( together with that infamous Dr Quinn, Medicine Woman! ) ministering to some hot young cowboys - and finding out exactly what I can achieve with some of those mysteriously phallic-shaped medical instruments of the past :P


Come Brokeback with me!
Who knows, maybe somewhere along the line I could even find a happier ending to Brokeback Mountain by wrangling my own Jack Twist to share a bedroll with. Although with my luck - rather than getting laid by lonesome western studs, I'll probably be trampled by runaway bulls.

The thought of that cowboy is almost enough to make me forget about shopping - since God knows there would be nowhere to shop in New Hicksville, Nowhere County unless I'm in the market for ten-gallon hats.

What brought this up? Not only munching on nachos and trail mix all last weekend ( courtesy of Big Bicep Barry's bounty ) but also several hours straight of non-stop westerns. Quite enough to make me start swaggering with machismo, spitting nonchalantly and speaking with a twang. One of my favourite series ever, Young Riders is out on DVD finally - and shockingly I actually stumbled over it during one of my own wild west expeditions through Sri Hartamas. Thank the Lord for the ever-efficient vagabonds for sourcing something wonderful I thought I'd forgotten.

For those too young to know - as most of ye young whippersnappers online are! - the Young Riders tells the tale of several intrepid riders of the Pony Express, all with contrasting characters and personalities from the serious, soft-spoken southerner to the brash orphan girl in disguise, the typical hot-blooded gunfighter wannabe to even a half-Kiowa hunk in search of his identity. Easy enough for non-history buffs, think of the Pony Express as the internet e-mail and courier express of the Wild Wild West, only on horses.

Loved the series so much that I even tried horseriding once upon a time - though I sucked majorly at it since I have almost zero coordination. Learned that the only way I could ride was on a lame one-eyed pony on flat, stable ground with myself strapped onto its harness, and even then there was no guarantee that I wouldn't slip off.

Guess I'll have to find a sweet-eyed cowboy to teach me the ropes. :)

You've Been Punked!

Tied shoelaces. Sawed chair legs. Pail of water on the door ajar.

Toothpaste in briefs. Wet flour in hair.

Seriously. Been there, done that. Silly childish tricks, mindless juvenile pranks. Had them done to me ( ah those crazy days in the camp! Amazing what wild ingenious schemes bored teenage boys can come up with! ) and obviously retaliated more than once or twice as well.


Guess what, man. You've been punked!
Although I was relatively a model student ( I can already hear the snickers amongst my classmates ), I still managed to stage some careless hijinks every once in a while. Certainly not in the class of that Home Alone monster brat but I did have my delinquent moments. After all I had some brains, shreds of ingenuity and plenty of choked-up, pent-up tension to release - come to think about it, Freud would have said that my neverending pranks were a sublimated way to get close to the cuter boys.

Since I obviously couldn't express my deeper lusts otherwise! Ah, all those missed chances. I was a pretty naive kid back then.

Sometimes when I recollect funny reminiscences of my sordid past, I can see trouble dawn slowly in Charming Calvin's eyes, almost as if he's wondering what kinda terrifying reprehensible demon he's gotten himself involved with.

Paul : And it was so much great fun pulling that prank! Muahahahaha!
Calvin : How could you? They could all be scarred for life!
Paul : By tied shoelaces?
Calvin : See the sign of the cross! Get thee behind me, thou creature of evil!

Not that dramatic of course but you get the point. Still... from the astonished look on his face at my extracurricular exploits, I have a pretty good idea what kinda student he was in school. Bet he was that scrubbed-up, clean-cut prefect with the spit-clean shiny shoes :)

For myself, I believe even my colleagues enjoy their share of mischief. Believe that nerdy workaholic doctors spend half their lives cooped up in their dormrooms studying so by the time they are out in the world, they are barely in the teens - mentally speaking :P Why else would they bother to cook up such elaborate schemes?

Hell, I just got punked the other day by being sent for a late referral to a ward no longer in use. Believe me, it's a bit chilling to come off a creaky elevator to an abandoned ward, inhabited only whispers of the wind and fluttering sheets of paper.

But of course I managed to get my own back later :)

Reap This

Since Charming Calvin admits to a certain morbid fear of horror movies ( picture him hiding under the dependable comfort blanket at home ), I have to depend on Big Bicep Barry for my occasional dose of creepy critters and cleaver-carrying crazies. Unlike Jaunty Jared who has his morbid movie-going mama.

Wonder whether she dresses up as Mrs Bates :P


Ye Gods! Not another horror movie!?
Originally meant to drool shamelessly over Chris Evans in Sunshine but since Barry finished his work early for once ( actually stole out furtively from his factory like a thief in the night ) and we planned for a late supper, we caught an earlier movie at random - which turned out to be the horror flick, the Reaping. Once bitten by the mind-numbing puzzle Re-cycle, we actually thought of giving the flick a miss but decided to bite the bullet and give it a try.

For zealous followers of the Holy Book, you'll have the special treat of seeing the legendary ten plagues that a pissed-off Moses inflicted on those poor disbelieving ancient Egyptians literally come to life. Talk about going all Old Testament! Believe me, you wouldn't want a shower of floppy dead frogs raining down on you either. And we haven't even gotten to the maggots, locusts and boils yet. These old Biblical terrors obviously start with rivers of blood which freak out the good old church-going redneck folk of Haven who place the blame squarely on the bony shoulders of an eerie-eyed blond swamp gal.

But our intrepid heroine ( aren't they all? ) played by the thespian-on-a-break Hillary Swank takes it all in macho stride. Not only is she a dedicated ex-missionary turned brilliant scientist bent on debunking mystical curses and religious miracles, she also manages to look utterly ravishing in a white nightie while making chilly midnight runs around spooky Louisiana bayous.

And look how amazingly selfless she is. Her entire family gets viciously massacred ( somehow missing her! ) as blood sacrifice by superstitious villagers and she remains stoic about the unfortunate circumstances.

Paul : Damn. That's all?!
Barry : Well she does have nightmares about it.
Paul : My endless fury would know no bounds! I would have razed the entire fucking village to the ground!
Barry : Sometimes you scare me.
Paul : Scary would be sucking on the marrow of their misbegotten children.

Don't freak yet. The movie is suspenseful but not scream-till-your-bladder-overflows scary. Barely even had the chance to grab Barry's biceps while screaming my lungs out in fear - only managed a small squeal of surprise when flying frogs fell from the sky.

Flying frogs are now officially on my list of icky items.

Ghosts of Summers Past

Certainly seems like the week for brief encounters with ghosts of summers past - though this time I couldn't even point the finger at my faulty memory as a possible scapegoat since I really had no clue who this strange new ghost was.

Seemed like a nice day for trolling the malls ( when is it not a good day for shopping? ) which is what I did - hoping to find something new, perhaps a new store or a new eatery - after all there's always something surprising around every corner, and today I found a quiant little bakery tucked right at the entrance to the mall.

It was hard not to notice the cute salesman in his late teens, this well-set-up young man with enviably broad shoulders clad in shirt, pants and a green apron trying his best to peddle his freshly baked goods. No doubt most of his hungry customers wouldn't have minded getting a taste of his hard baguette dipped in creamy sauce.


Care to try my steaming buns?
But wicked salacious thoughts aside, that certainly didn't prepare me for another look of clear recognition from this total stranger.

Bread Boy : Hei, Paul! Long time no see.
Paul : Uhh... hello.
Bread Boy : You don't remember me do you?
Paul : Have I seen you in the hospital? You're an intern? A medical student? A patient of mine?
Bread Boy : None of the above but you should know me, you've seen me naked before.
Paul : OMG.
Bread Boy : You were very naughty.
Paul : Who are you?

Our playful young stud here refused to comply despite my barely whispered threats and just kept flashing me his dazzling grin, not knowing how close he was to homosexual danger with me only seconds away from performing a thorough body search for some item of identification.

I wouldn't have enjoyed it. Not really. Maybe.

Bread Boy : Take a bite of my buns and I'll tell ya. Come on, try it.
Paul : Have you seen me online?
Bread Boy : Sounds like you've been up to no good lately too.
Paul : Who are you?
Bread Boy : You really can't recall? Look at me closely.

I really did. Came close enough to bite his full sensuous lower lip and all I could see was his flawless tanned skin ( damn him! ). Still had zero clue who he was.

Bread Boy : Think back. I'm Jack. Remember? John's brother? You used to bring me out for lunch and movies?
Paul : Just Jack?!
Bread Boy : Yeah! Guess I've grown up some.
Paul : Shouldn't you still be in kindergarten? You mean you've already left school?
Bread Boy : Definitely. Been legal for quite a while.

Okay. My hyped up hormones might have added that legal bit.

Seriously though, nothing makes you feel older than finding out that you actually babysat this shockingly grown up kadult back in secondary school ( perhaps even a few inches taller than midget me! ). Talk about a frighteningly chilly splash of reality to shove you right back into the creaky 30s.

Damn. I really found it hard to believe that this eminently fuckable hunk shared the same genes with my perpetually stick-thin friend John, not to mention that he used to be this little shy plump kid who used to tag along with us to the movies every once in a while when we deigned to bring him along. Is it immoral to dream about shagging a child you once played Lego building bricks with almost a decade ago?

Horrified me enough to demand some proof of identification which Jack finally complied, handing me his driver's license with a terrifyingly sexy smile. God. No child should look so damned good. Especially a pre-pubescent child who once had chocolate sundae splattered all over his shirt. And mine. Reason enough to have him change back then which is how I've actually seen him naked.

Not that I wouldn't mind changing him now. :)

Moral of today's bedtime story - be nice to everyone. You never know when those crazy ducklings are gonna morph into fucking swans.

Still, I got to taste his buns for free. And they were good :)

Should I be jealous

Should I be jealous?

When does an otherwise harmless platonic date turn into something beyond the pale? Where do we draw the line? And should there even be a line in a relationship?

A nervous Charming Calvin put these questions to me this afternoon when he made a lunch appointment to meet what I can only guess is an old flame of his. Not that anything in particular happened but from all heavily hinted accounts it seems as if this relative stranger, Persistent Peter had a thing for Calvin once upon a time. Serious torch bearer!

Not sure exactly what slim pretext Peter used for the meet but perhaps he is peddling life insurance? :P

Calvin : You're okay with this?
Paul : Yeah.
Calvin : It's just a lunch.
Paul : Have fun. Enjoy yourself.
Calvin : You're not even the least bit jealous?
Paul : No? Is there any reason to be?
Calvin : Not at all but still... not even a little?

Obviously a disappointing reply for him.

Not sure what he expected of me - perhaps wild maniacal hair-tearing /chest-thumping in blind rage with insane promises of homicidal retribution, or perhaps tears of heartbreaking disappointment with near-incoherent accusals of betrayal interspersed with repeated threats of suicide. Maybe even a grim ultimatum reminiscent of overly dramatic Latin American soap operas - It's me or him!! - accompanied by a close-up of my dark, furious expression and a suitably suspenseful background theme.


Well, what do you want me to say?
See this bruise? I just killed him.
None of which I did. Nor did I have the inclination to do so - though I admit I had to repress this wild impulse to enact a wimpy wailing scene just to placate his delicate sensibilities.

Calvin : You're okay with this?
Hysterical Paul : No! I am not, your thoughtless cur! How could you do this to me? My entire world has been blighted by this heartless betrayal! I could just die!
Calvin : Huh?
Hysterical Paul : I will kill him, you hear me! His blood will be dripping from my bare hands! I will have no peace till he's torn away from your side!

Seriously, do I look like a raging teenage drama queen?

Despite the infamous possessiveness of the typical wicked Scorpio male, I'm slightly more evolved and far more inclined to wish him luck on the coming meeting while fishing out a good book to read while I wait. Unlike highstrung acne-prone teenagers who thrive on such emotional highs and lows, I don't have all that much energy to spare for enacting a tearful Bollywood tragedy.

After all, Calvin hasn't yet given me any cause to fly into a blind jealous rage so why should there be any niggling doubts? I hardly think Calvin's going to leap impulsively into Peter's waiting arms before making a hasty elopement to Gretna Green.

Unfeeling, you say? Or should I really be turning green?

Then again, Peter could really just be selling insurance.

The Proverbial Manbag

Bet you don't know this but for years women have been subtly misappropriating essential items generally considered masculine domain from cigarettes to business shirts to pants, even shaving come to think of it - and the men have been patently oblivious to the fact that their closets have been breached!

And somehow by the grace of God, the shrewd ladies have actually made it all work better!

So does it mean it's time that we borrowed from them as well? Every few years, the thriving leather industry working hand in glove with the devious fashionistas attempt to hoodwink gullible men into believing that the male handbag is what's lacking from their sad sartorially-deficient lives. And for the past few years it seems that the nefarious plans actually worked.


Did I just drop something?
After all, we've all seen these so-called man bags around town, slightly larger than the usual wallets yet smaller and daintier than tough manly briefcases.. stashed under the arms of smartly dressed business execs, strapped around the shoulders of sensitive new agers. Seems like a near indispensable accessory to the well-dressed metrosexual these days!

Even the raging homo with his pink dollar.

Paul : What's with your handbag, auntie?
My ISO : Hey, it's a man bag.
Paul : I'm sorry. Not even Joey could pull that off.
My ISO : See. I have all these pockets.
Paul : Which are empty.
My ISO : Which I shall fill...
Paul : With tampons?

If I recall, even Dashing Dan - and Charming Calvin despite his protests - also own a man bag. Despite dressing it up as the latest in-thing accesory, have to say the name still takes a bit to swallow. Not exactly sure why they're termed man-bags though the term still puts a queer smile on my face. Could I check out your manbag sir? Then again calling it a man-purse or murse would be even worse. Maybe we could call it a satchel instead.


Damn! There goes my heels!
Kidding aside, I do see some of the good points of carrying a man bag. Not sure exactly what I intend to put in it - not even sure if I'll get it! - but it would surely be easier toting a manbag rather than lugging all my belongings about in various unflattering plastic carriers ( vague hints of sloppy slipper-wearing aunties schlepping to the wet market ). I gotta admit after passing the age of 30, hefting a school backpack seems almost sophomorish.

Of course I don't have all that many paraphernalia to load into it of course - unlike girls who inevitably pack for the coming Apocalypse with fluids and rations for the next decade, not to mention essential feminine products, make-up and birth control. But there are days when I'm bogged down with my handphone, my increasingly expanding wallet and my stethoscope ( and that's not even counting endless techgadgets such as the iPod and the Blackberry that I wish to get but can't handle! ), I do wish I had a handy manpurse around to shove it in. Seems like a far more elegant solution rather than have unsightly bulges tenting up the chinos.

Not sure if I could carry it off though. Sure, a macho dude like Chewbacca that hairy Metrosexual Wookie can lug around a manbag and still make it look chock-full of testosterone. Hell, David Beckham could wear stiletto heels and still come off all hyper masculine but I'm not sure if a dull Mr Average like me could pull off the man-bag though.

What do you think? To man-bag or not to man-bag?

Taste My Wiener!

Every once in a while against all seeming odds, I actually finish my work early and manage to leave just a fraction earlier than most ( a delightful rarity really! ). When I glanced at the clock realizing that my work was done, I almost took up a breathless jig of joy. Seriously, is there anything better than having your dreary work schedule suddenly cut short leaving you an hour or two of leisure time? Didn't take such unexpected bounty for granted of course and immediately took the opportunity to rush off from work to have a sausage break.

Yeah, you heard me right. Sausages. Nothing I love more than hot, thick, moist sausages with cheesy cream on top. And don't even snicker at the phallic connotation, ye dirty minded buggers! :P

I mean surely some of you out there know what I mean when I say there's nothing like a plate of sausages, hash browns and eggs in the morning, don'tcha think? Of course Charming Calvin never quite understands my carnivorous need for a plate of meat and oil without boring greens to spoil the fun. Surely a gastronomical heart attack waiting to happen - and I can easily imagine Big Bicep Barry staring at my plate in consternation.


Would you like some sausages with that?
But I can't help it. Just hope my arteries can stand that little bit more abuse!

Somehow or rather biting into a sausage reminds me of late mornings lazing about in the English sun. Right after the rigors of my final exams, I actually made a sweet escape to Cambridge one brief halcyon summer ( I bluffed an excuse about attending lectures shockingly enough! ) to camp out in my cousin's crammed pied-a-terre. Amazing how I can recall my long ago summers there with perfect clarity ( when I can't even recall the names of people I've met a week back ) but it's simple really. One of the few times in my life that I've felt really free surprisingly, totally liberated from the restrained behaviour expected of me.

God, some of the shocking things I did :) Talk about Boys Gone Wild.

Nothing wildly improper about my sausage experience though. Although my cousin dutifully dragged me to a few of her dull, didactic dronings / lectures ( where I spent my time casting amorous glances at her hunkier classmates imagining naughty licentious affairs with delicious English boys ), I still managed to sneak off for several excursions around the rustic countryside. London didn't seem so far away when I had hours to spare and change enough for transport.

As fortune had it, right before my getaway train station there was this crusty old gentleman who made his living selling fresh hot dogs from a cart. Typical Brit in tweed and jacket, I assure you - and quite possibly the shrewd salesman hammed up his thick accent just a tad to amuse the tired traveler.

Sure I know the sausages were probably full of discarded intestines, leftover crud and pumped chock-full of dangerous chemicals enough to preserve a good dozen aging Mak Datins for another decade or so. But by God, it tasted good, redolent of heat, lard and spices. And it was just cheap enough for a shoestring-budget, back-packing student like myself back then.

And did I mention that he also had an economical buy five free one offer? All prettily packaged with a loyalty card - and seals in the shape of a hot dog? :)

Now wouldn't you want to take a bite?

Mr Invisible

Easy enough to disappear into the crowd, especially for a Mr Average like me ( that's if I'm not tottering about in pink feather boa and stiletto heels on that day of course ). Safe in our relative anonymity, we tend to imagine that we walk unobtrusively in teeming crowds, blending in with the rest of the boring suit-and-tie work lemmings, all an indistinguishable mass of generic grays and blues.

Not knowing that there are nefarious characters actually watching us, picking us out from the crowd and following our every move. Very Big Brother. Very Enemy of the State.

Very wicked ISO.


My spidey-sense is tingling!
Have you ever had felt like someone was watching you? Every once in while I do get that odd tingling sensation at the back of my neck, the paranoid feeling that an enemy's stalkerish gaze is actually boring into your skull. Probably some evolutionary safeguard to warn of a passing predator - a deep-seated basic instinct our primitive ancestors developed over time for their ongoing survival.

Caveman #1 : Ooh. Ooh. Head tingle.
Caveman #2 : Headache? Head rush?
Caveman #1 : No. Pins and needles.
Caveman #2 : You developed the art of acupuncture already!?
Caveman #1 : No. No. Different.
Caveman #2 : It might have something to do with the sabretooth tiger behind you.

Well. I did say it takes time to develop.

And yet lately my patently unreliable sixth sense seems to be acting up ( fortunately these days I don't have to fend off voracious prehistoric predators ) - or so my stalker claims since he called me up this evening with creepy, gravelly voice to tell me I'm being followed.

My ISO : I see you.
Paul : Through your evil looking eye-glass?
My ISO : Very funny. I see you now.
Paul : Never thought you were blind.
My ISO : And is that your Charming Calvin?
Paul : What?! Where the hell?

Cue the frantic swivelling head as I turn to look for the evil perpetrator but he's somehow sight unseen. Since I find it hard to imagine my ISO in shady Afro wig, ginormous shades and trenchcoat sprinting behind marble pillars to hide ( that's something I would do! ), I look for him in plain sight but somehow or rather he's been bombarded overnight by solar radiation to mutate into Mr Invisible.

Paul : Where are you, you evil monster? Show yourself!
My ISO : I'm watching you. You're wearing your damned British India shirt again. Bwahahaha. I know what you did last summer.
Paul : Yeah you do. Doing you, you mean?
My ISO : True, but that was two summers ago at last count.

Embarassingly enough, that's true. And I can't believe I actually cried out 'show yourself' like some quivering, helpless Victorian heroine hiding behind a voluminous curtain.

Not sure what to tell an oblivious Charming Calvin ( who took a toilet break when I got the stalkerish call ) since my ISO was smart enough to tell me that he'd left the premises before I could catch him. Though he claimed to be awfully tired, I have a feeling he probably shied off due to some admittedly shallow reasons such as a messed-up coiffure or a button missing from his shirt.

Maybe even a pimple on his smooth butt.

A sudden fit of bashfulness as he claims? I seriously doubt it. :P

An Affair to Remember

Memory lapses.

One of my greatest faults seriously.

Somehow or rather, I simply find it hard to associate names with faces ( amongst other faults linked to a rapidly failing memory ). Easy enough to recall a name and a face immediately after an introduction but give me a day or two, and the name simply slips my distracted mind. Sad to say the neural pathway between my sight and my facial recognition area seems irrevocably impaired, no doubt due to my approaching senility.

With the uninterrupted deluge of patients that flow in and out of the hospital on a daily basis ( not to mention scrolling through the endless blurred faces on the ubiquitous Friendster :P ), I find it gets harder to keep track of the number of faces that I see in a single day. Short of possessing a remarkably unforgettable profile or physique ( someone like a certain memorable Mr Chris Evans would definitely do the trick of jumpstarting my aging neurons! ), I doubt I'll remember a first-time meet.

Takes a while to jog my memory after all. So don't be shocked when I stand and stare for several minutes when you tap me on a shoulder. No worries, I'm not having a petit mal seizure. Half the time while I'm hastily rifling through my ragged memory files, I'm actually thinking of activating the fight or flight response just in case - which was why it was all I could do not to jump out of my skin when this husky young gentleman accosted me amongst the bookshelves in Borders.


Hi! Remember me?
And this was after I'd been a little busy - I freely admit - admiring the hefty set of his broad shoulders! How was I to know Mr Shoulders would turn to give me a warm smile and a vague look of recognition!

Ethan : Hey, Paul!
Paul : Uhhh... hi?
Ethan : What are you doing here? Off from work?
Paul : Do I know you?
Ethan : We just met again the other day, remember?
Paul : We met?

If we did, why hadn't I groped that ass?

Of course Enthusiastic Ethan was a bit miffed by the fact that I was replying in mentally-challenged monosyllables - or possibly by the fact that I obviously had no clue who the hell he was ( despite ogling his fine biceps just a moment before ). As usual with the sort of monstrously overactive imagination that I have, all sorts of hysterical improbable prospects came to mind as I stood there with deep foreboding wondering whether to cordially shake his offered hand - or to shove a rack of hardcover books his way and make a quick getaway!

After all God only knows who he was!

1) An old forgotten frenemy placed out of sight, out of mind now back to settle some score? A fellow colleague from my medical school who cherished thoughts of burying the proverbial scalpel - in my back?
2) Some unfortunate stalker patient that I had done wrong decades back, impossible though that may sound? Perhaps even a vengeful relative of a patient seeking reparation for an imagined slight?
3) Or worse, could he be amongst the few ( the very very few! ) one night stands that I've somehow overlooked in my little black book! And if he was, would I have forgotten that well-set-up rump - quite obvious even beneath his chinos?

Surprisingly it was the last hypothesis that gave me reason enough to flee the incriminating scene. Hardly going to talk about past sexual misdemeanours with a curious and critical Charming Calvin within suspicious earshot obviously! Even then I kept telling myself that it simply couldn't be - I've been a good boy, the last unaccounted tryst was almost two years back from last count!

And more than two years distant, this boy would surely have been untouchable jailbait?

Fortunately our enthused boy Ethan turned out to be nothing of the sort - turned out to be one of the interns ( why didn't I think of that?! ) that I hadn't recognized out of his medical accoutrements of white coat and tie. Isn't it funny how different seemingly unapproachable doctors can look in normal civilian clothes?

Curiously enough, I think in the somewhat convoluted explanation process I might have inadvertently outed myself yet again. Then again, I have a niggling feeling Ethan might have some interesting secrets of his own :)

Breeder Boys

Have come to the conclusion that straight guys can be oddly skittish.

Not that I have even tried playing grab-ass with one of the breeder boys of course - usually try to confine my inappropriate advances to men with similar leanings. Unless the hotness quotient simply goes through the roof of course ( e.g. Chris Evans / Brandon Routh ), and by then all bets are off. Heard of crawling through broken glass to grope a man's ass? Honestly I would. Might even risk a blackened bruise or two but then I'm an intrepid sort who enjoys walking on the dangerous side :P

But I digress. Where were we again? Breeder boys.

You see, my friend and colleague Shameless Shalom will be making her much-awaited transfer over to my playground very soon - and knowing our overanxious, perfectionist lil miss, she'll want everything perfectly planned out before her arrival, every pick and shovel :) And her proverbial sand castle of course. Which is why for the past week she's been calling up numerous shady real estate agents to secure the perfect nest for herself - and some yet unnamed roommate. Shared co-hab surprisingly since our miss independence claims that her fast shrinking nest-egg wouldn't be able to cover the expense of the entire apartment lease.

Paul : And who is this perfect unknown roommate?
Shalom : Maybe a Dr McStranger from the North.
Paul : Seriously? An unattached available straight McStranger?
Shalom : Who knows but it's possible.
Paul : Ooh....
Shalom : Don't ooh. I'm not interested. Only need a housemate.
Paul : Still. Ooh....
Shalom : Don't even start. People will probably talk. Don't want him getting all skittish and scared off.

See. It's that word again.


Hello, roomie...
Seriously though, why would sharing an apartment with a fabulous singletini make a confirmed bachelor skittish? You mean we haven't progressed far enough this century to have a girl and a guy share an apartment without having people ( Victorian prudes, I mean ) talk?

Haven't they heard of Two Guys and a Girl?

Is it possible even these days that if a girl were caught with a guy in cohabitation ( assuming they are non-Muslim ), they'd be unwillingly marched off to the proverbial altar with an old-fashioned shotgun held to their backs? Although presumably Shalom would love to have a 20 karat diamond ring on her finger, I seriously doubt she's going to enjoy getting hog-tied into a hasty marriage with the poor McStranger. She barely even knows the guy, much less know him biblically on a connubial bed!

Yet even a progressive gal like Shalom is starting to get a bit nervous about the semi-scandalous prospect - sure to provide ready grist for the ever-popular rumour mill, especially over ancient fogies kicking up a bit of a rumpus. The unwelcome thought of puritanical old biddies forever looking over her shoulders, clicking their tongues in patent disapproval and offering critical judgement over her unconventional behaviour seems to have given her the shivers.

Unlike me. I'd just tell them to fuck off and do what I like. Damn the incessant rumours. :) Let's face it, people are going to talk anyway so why not give them something to really talk about?

Now if only Chris Evans would send a reply to my want ads.

Imagine This

It's a lazy saturday evening - and as usual, I'm here stuck at work rifling through patients' records searching for that missing piece of information.

Most first-time visitors are actually curious to know what's actually hidden inside the hideaway storage closets situated alongside the empty hospital corridors - where even intrepid nurses fear to tread and only foolish interns venture. Far from containing such hysterical flights of fancy as decaying corpses or bloodied murder implements, they actually contain medical records stacked up from the time of Methuselah's birth. With long-staying tenants, it's quite unsurprising that their records start resembling mouldy, unwieldy encyclopaedias, with little reference sheets edging out in every direction liberally dotted with blood stains and other bodily fluids.

And that's not counting other dried-up creepy-crawlies and silverfish paraphernalia.

Decided to take a short coffee break five minutes ago to rest my aching eyes ( and my puffy nose from all that damned flying dust! ). I'll admit it's not easy interpreting a hurried doctor's scrawl ( unintelligible chicken scratchings anyone? ) after all. :)


Taking a well-deserved break...
After scanning through a few blogs, seems like this snazzy visual profile idea has become the latest bloggers' hit du jour - so how could I not jump on that particular bandwagon with the rest? Of course I'd prefer jumping onto a passing wagon with Brandon Routh and Chris Evans blissfully naked on a comfy haypile - but that's not gonna happen.

Unfortunately. Sigh. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride and all that. :) And I'd be having a deliciously dirrrty threesome with Brandon and Chris in all sorts of illegal sweaty tantric positions ( but I bet the boys are bendy enough ) amongst the dusty medical tomes. Sometimes I wonder whether my wicked inner fantasies would actually show on my visual DNA profile.

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

Not sure what sofisticat means exactly but escape artist sounds true enough since there's nothing I'd love to do more than to just run off into the sunset, passport in hand with destination unknown. :) Which of course goes with the junkie monkey without rules or restrictions ( no inhibitions? ).

So what do you think? An accurate enough reading?

Home to Hicksville

Usually I'm the guy with the answers - glib, flippant comebacks that I toss out regularly but for the past few days, Charming Calvin has been hounding me with the one question that I haven't actually been able to come up with a reasonable reply.

Calvin : What if I took the job offer to return to Hicksville?
Paul : Hmm... ooh, try this shrimp!

Calvin : What if I took the job offer to return to Hicksville?
Paul : OMG! Did you see that quiz of a woman in green and puce? What was she thinking?

Calvin : What if I took the job offer to return to Hicksville?
Paul : I think Jaunty Jerrod had sex on a balcony!

Obviously my oddly persistent man has left me practically non-plussed for the past few days - since how could you possibly phrase the notion that you find a permanent transfer to Hicksville absolutely unpalatable that it makes you want to hurl the aforementioned shrimp? After all although it gratifies me that he would want my opinion, it wouldn't do for me to seem utterly unsupportive of his career advancement - since I'm usually the one to push him forward when it comes to his work!

And I am starting to have this passing suspicion that it could actually be a good move for him career-wise.


Rusticating away in sylvan surroundings...
But Hicksville, the famed city of Homosexoil! Look, it's not that I hate rural towns! I do like them. I like the rustic locale, the pleasant chirp of the birds, the slower pace in life, the friendly camaraderie of the townsfolk. But I like it all in small, evenly distributed doses. There's only so much peaceful pastoral paradise I can take before I start twitching. Years back, I barely survived a stranded weekend in the bucolic Lake District - and practically clawed my way free from a month in a backswood kampung back when I was a medical student. More than a year would probably have me straight-jacketed ranting away incoherently in a padded cell.

Just too much of a city boy, I guess.

Not that I actually expect to brave my way through the insane urban traffic snarl of honks and swears forever. Certainly can't imagine living in the bustling metropolis with the incessant noise, the teeming crowds and the unforgiving smog for the rest of my life - but I always imagined staying somewhere out in the peaceful suburbs, relatively set apart from the hectic hustle and bustle of the city but still close enough that I wouldn't have to mount a major expedition just for a brief pilgrimage to relative civilization for my favourite iced mocha latte ( although Calvin assures me that Starbucks, that cherished cornerstone of civilization has arrived in Hicksville ). Although I don't frequent theaters and concerts as much as I used to, I still like knowing that it's all happening barely a convenient stone's throw away.

Unlike what would happen if we both transferred to Hicksville. :P

Fortunately, a place like Malacca fits the bill perfectly. Not too large a city to seem almost maddening but still only a couple of hours' drive from two Asian megacities that I wouldn't seem irreparably lost in rusticity. But then at the moment I can't even make up my mind where I'll be in a year or two. Things seem to be changing so much at this stage of our lives that it's hard to tell where our careers will eventually take us. Hell, I could be in the sweltering bush tending to sick Aboriginal children in two years for all I know.

Good God. I just remembered.

No doubt the man has conveniently forgotten one salient point. Most importantly, Hicksville is but a cosy stone's throw away from the lioness' den, the infamous Lucrezia Borgia. Dare I face the Asian dragoness on a daily basis?

Hell, I doubt even my robust constitution could last that long :)

Case of the Fixer-Upper

On my way home from work today, I heard an intriguing question posed on the airwaves.

Are women or men easier to please?

Seriously. Could there even be such a question? Seems like the answer would be obvious.

Put it to my friends and came away with a smile. Boys and girls, we all came up with mostly the same answer - surprisingly enough!

I do believe girls are more eager to please ( can already hear the militant feminists roaring :) ) but guys are certainly easier to please as well. Not to be utterly biased but sometimes when I hear my single galpals speak of their significant others, I have to pity the adoring boytoys. Certainly not easy to please these touchy high-maintenance goddesses.

In general guys are easier to please - just give a man a gorgeous babe with hooters galore holding a barrel of fried chicken in hand and a football in the other - and I think that men would be well pleased for days on end. Or easier yet, toss him a PS3 / Wii and you might not see him surface for the next few months at the least.


Hell, I'd take him even with the crutch!
Do you see the size of those guns!
Unlike us guys though, girls are a bit more demanding. Especially when it comes to close relationships. Give a girl a gorgeous man and soon she'll expect some change. Maybe not the first time she meets him. Maybe not even the second night.

But definitely in a year ( possibly spurred on by the advice by manifold women magazines on How To Better Your Man ), she'll wake up early in the morning to gaze at the man beside her, somehow discern an almost indiscernible flaw in her man - then slowly distort it into unimaginable proportions and then start thinking... 'Hmm... maybe he could do this differently.' Then our progressive lil miss will start thinking of him as a household project, a challenging fixer-upper with a solid foundation.

All while her poor groggy boyfriend's probably still wondering whether he's got serious bedhead.

Give her a Sensitive New Age Guy and she'll want some tough no-holds-barred machismo, some grab-em-and-slam-against-the-wall. Give her a Silent Tough Streetbrawler instead and she'll want some sweet sentimental stanzas, thoughtful conversations and long walks in the park. Give her a hardworking gardener contented with his lot who gives her all his time and she'll push him to be an overworked city banker. Give the gal a high-powered workaholic attorney instead and she'll want more leisure time as a couple.

Honestly, why pick the perfect guy only to change him?

My point of view? If I had Chris Evans wet and naked in a towel - with a yet unpublished bestseller in hand, I'd be a happy man :) I'm easily pleased too.

An Apple A Day

For those who actually believe in the odious misconception that doctors actually live in a life of opulent luxury unseen since the heady days of the sinfully wealthy maharajas, they couldn't be more wrong. Far from living in the land of milk and honey, it's possible that we're actually being persistently fed an unhealthy cholesterol-laden diet that's calculated to kill us off softly - if stress and overwork ( and that unfortunate nagging chest pains ) doesn't kill us first.


Not what you're gonna get here!
Just take a look at what's in our pantry at work. Far from pandering to the regular notion that doctors conform to the acsetic diet of a vegan mystic enconsced in a mountain hermitage, our larder actually resembles the stuffed backpack of a pimpled, testosterone-poisoned sixteen year old jock - sans homework.

Although I swear I saw a few ancient scribbled case notes flying out when I opened it.

And that's about the only touch of high fibre you'll see. Think chips. Think snack foods. Think peanut butter and jelly. Think instant noodles. Think burn-your-stomach java. Anything fast and furious, easy to nibble and chew, quick to digest and burn. Short of an intravenous dextrose drip, anything goes. Seriously, post-adolescent frat boys mugging for their tests would go wild over the easy pickings.

Wonder what the hospital nutritionist would think :)

But I guess keeping it to an apple a day would keep the snack-craving doctors away.

Boys, Bombs and the Bubble

We moan, cry and whine about love and all its idiosyncrasies. The impossibilities, the difficulties, the tragedies.


Forbidden Love
And yet I doubt anything compares to something like this. Just put yourself in someone else's shoes - you're an army reservist, fulfilling your duties at the border checkpoint with a hostile nation. Your lover is a desperately closeted man, a man of a different race and religion - with his people at odds with yours, with a temporary ceasefire at best always ready to explode at the least provocation.

Then you'll have the Bubble. Have been a fan of Eytan Fox's work since the romantic Yossi and Yagger and even the provocative Walk on Water. Homosexuality in the Israeli army and the ongoing political strife within the fractious Middle-East seem to be recurrent themes in a number of his films.


I love love Tel Aviv!
Beg, hound or blackmail your DVD pirates ( or else there's always P2P :P ) since there's no chance in hell this movie is going to make it to our screens - but make sure you catch this thought-provoking drama on the relationship between a brooding Israeli reserve soldier who falls in love with an intense Palestinian man.

Seriously. Just imagine the horrors of our conservative censorship board when they realize it's a movie about a Jew falling for a Muslim - and both guys! Of course if left to our scissor-happy censors, we would have to be content with religious-based dramas and 1950s Leave it to Beaver reruns.

But I digress. Where was I again?

During one of his duties at the border checkpoint, our serious-minded Israeli protagonist Noam first makes the acquaintance of the dark, handsome Palestinian Ashraf in a shocking opening prologue, striking unexpected sparks - that later leads to Ashraf being welcomed into the comfortable fold of his progressive-minded friends, the tolerant, optimistic Lulu and the hip, flamboyant Yali. Life in the posh, vibrant Tel Aviv suburb with its trendy cafes, hip clubs and raves couldn't be more different from the violent sociopolitical realities of the moment, though these kids enconsced in their bubble would prefer it so.

Despite some initial resistance, Ashraf's appearance into their daily lives heralds an unwelcome change as the grim reality of the neverending violence and bloodshed that surrounds them finally intrudes upon their lives, making little pricks into their previously sheltered bubble.



Now doesn't that make all the silly fights we all have almost inconsequential?

Cousins Cleaning Cemeteries

Obviously yesterday was a pretty tiring day, which is why I could barely lift a finger to blog. With my advancing years, climbing up a steep mountain with boxes of Hell money can be surprisingly taxing. Add that to the virulent stomach bug I received sometime during lunch and it was a pretty miserable evening for me.

As usual we started the morning late, despite solemn blood-oaths the night before not to repeat the debacle last year. But I guess it can be a little difficult corralling the entire gang, taking attendance and such before making the required pilgrimage to the cemetery for our Chinese version of All Soul's Day. However filial piety never counted on 4 dozen members rushing helter-skelter to get things done while stumbling on each other - and that's all before queuing up in line for the coveted communal bathroom. At times it felt like I was back in the dorm again :)


What? Is it morning yet?
Albeit with a bunch of squabbling girls rushing to get their hair and make-up done with Lispy Lori leading the pack. Though God knows who they expect to see on the way to the cemetery.

Still we managed to finally reach the cemetery bright and early - as did twenty other families with similar expectations - which made the usually silent hill literally come alive. Imagine a night market set up at the cemetery with all the noises, the smells and - yes, even the pervading smoke from the incense.

And with my rambunctious cousins actually contributing to much of the above, what with our incessant cacophony, our overpacked picnic boxes and yes, the monstrous large candles purchased by one of my overly pious aunts - surely another ginormous man-made object seen clearly from space. Even the vaunted Twin Towers would have been put to shame. Never doubt the ingenious folks over at the paper factory - not only did we have paper money in different denominations from pseudo US dollars to the Euro, we even had medicine cabinets ( though I'm quite unsure of what they expect to do with liniment and plaster in Hell ) and dim sum baskets. Of course cigarette cartons were the norm - for although my grandfather doesn't actually smoke, he could reasonably share them with his mates over the mahjong set we burned him last year.

All in all, a job well done. Though it would have gone much better if I hadn't gotten the stomach flu.