Monday, December 31, 2007

Nine Prayers Pending

Eight Maids-A-Gossipin
Seven Hours A-Lazin
Six Tease-and-Lay-Em
Five Golden Things
Four Tangled Hearts
Three Insomniac Men
Two Slaughtered Birds
And A Party in the Pantry


Warring factions in the Middle East aside, it has always been a thorny issue.

Especially when it comes to us perverted sinners. In our late adolescence, quite a number of us go through this very issue - trying to reconcile our unswerving faith with our budding alternative sexualities. No easy matter wrestling with such weighty issues especially since the debauched folk of Sodom and Gomorrah ( must have been one helluva party BC! ) seem to crop up every so often.

A lucky handful emerge from the confrontation with renewed faith, often shinier and brighter than ever - but unfortunately the majority usually end up defeated with broken crucifixes - often literally! Some find themselves lost and adrift, torn from the one lifelong anchor they've always depended on, often breaking the hearts of those who care for them all in the name of religion.

No matter what our religious leaders might preach from their pulpit, I doubt that's what Jesus and Muhammad originally intended.

Searching for something to believe?

But let's not mince matters. There is no doubt that Judaeo-Christian doctrines do not approve of homosexuality in any form, although the approach they take might differ - whether they only shake their heads in abject disapproval ( silently consigning the degenerates to the ferocious flames of hell ) or whether they actually turn to the darker side and ruthlessly chain the unfortunate sinners to the burning stake.

So much for hate the sin but love the sinner.

So when a young friend of mine brought up this prickly problem just a few days ago, it did make me reminisce about my own struggles. He couldn't quite reconcile the fact that his strict religious principles practically condemnd half the sinful activities he's been busy indulging in. Couldn't offer much of an advice since I think religion is quite a personal thing ( despite what the officious, self-righteous clergy might think ).

Me, I dealt with such issues a long while ago. And it's fortunate enough for this profligate that I managed to make peace with myself and the Big Fella up there all on my own - without any interfering intermediaries. I didn't even have to turn to other pagan gods such as the Rabbit God.

So what conclusion did I finally come up with? Well yes, I am gay, but whether God actually frowns on fornicating homos and seedy bathhouses, I guess I'll only know for sure when I wave hello at the Pearly Gates at the end. Does anyone know for 100% sure what the Big Fella actually thinks? And anyone who thinks they know better can go fuck themselves. Seriously.

But that's me. What does your God say?

Sunday, December 30, 2007

Eight Maids A-Gossiping

Seven Hours-A-Lazin
Six Tease-and-Lay-Em
Five Golden Things
Four Tangled Hearts
Three Insomniac Men
Two Slaughtered Birds
And A Party in the Pantry


It's a simple word that strikes fear into the hearts of many, brings tears from the eyes of a few - but definitely makes me clap with wicked glee.

Never been afraid of rampant rumours and salacious gossip - I've always taken it as a sociologically relevant part of life. Bet the first Neanderthals were grunting up a storm during their hunts over one of those naughty cavewomen allegedly sharing a bear rug with another. And you know that slutty cavebabe had to be sizzling hot, right? After all darlings, you know only the popular folks get gossiped about! Come on, no one ever talks about that sad insignificant lil wallflower! So consider it a compliment :P

Shane : No! This is bad, we shouldn't talk about this break-up. I mean, that's like talking about Z meeting X for lunch behind Y's back!
Paul : Seriously? Ooh. I never knew that! *claps hands with glee* More grist for the rumour mill!
Shane : That's so bad!
Paul : Like whatever! I need to text.

So why do we gossip? Certainly a way of dishing and catching up on things with friends. Come on, it's a fabulous way to kick off a conversation! Just dangle a juicy morsel and frankly that can fuel a saucy discussion for hours. Doesn't necessarily have to be catty back-biting after all.

Gossip Guys!
Gossip? What gossip?

Recent relationship tragidramas have certainly brought my naughty gossip self out of the closet again - after being shoved straight to hell with years of dull, monotonous, non-scandalous medical school life. Obviously I am making up for lost time. Trust me, it's impossible to even squeeze out a drop of juicy gossip from a bunch of nerdy pre-meds who have zero social life to speak of!

Paul : Who were you with?
Bore : No one.
Paul : Where did you go?
Bore : Nowhere.
Paul : What did you do?
Bore : Nothing.
Paul : God, I have to make up an imaginary life for you dammit!

So how can I not love Gossip Girl when I'm clearly a Gossip Guy. Rich, glamorous teen socialites in search of a good time? I am so with it.

Gossip Girl is the seemingly omniscient titular blogger who makes regular diss-and-tell commentaries on the wickedly scandalous sex, lies and YouTube vids of the celebutante set ( albeit teenage ) of the Upper East Side. The series begins with the sudden yet unwelcome return of the former It girl, Serena van der Woodsen to the social scene throwing up sparks with her frenemy, current queen bee Blair Waldorf while the swanky neighbourhood hottie Nate finds himself hopelessly torn between the two.

Take away the Manolos, the martinis and the other trappings of upper-class wealth though and you'll have all the usual hallmarks of a typical angsty soapera: fashionista-bitchin, boyfriend-stealing, rumor-spreading, back-stabbing, social-climbing, even date-raping!

Riveting stuff. And that’s all in the first hour.

See why I love it? Not to mention all that scandal's instantaneously speed-texted to everyone else by the gadget-friendly Gossip Girl. And then blogged about. Talk about instant gossip!

And there's smarmy resident troublemaker Chuck Bass as well, evidently Nate's best bud but with a lusty eye on one of his girlfriends. Now there's a boy out to wreak havoc if you ask me - so I'll be watching. Closely.

Oh, and remember... you know you love it.

Saturday, December 29, 2007

Seven Hours A-Lazin

Six Tease-and-Lay-Em
Five Golden Things
Four Tangled Hearts
Three Insomniac Men
Two Slaughtered Hens
And A Party in the Pantry

Look, I'm far from your regular workaholic physician. The stressed out fellas you see breathlessly sprinting down the halls of hectic medical dramas such as Grey's Anatomy and House? Well, that's not me. Far from it. Have you seen the endless hours they spend at work? I doubt I'll ever make the hospital my second home - no matter how appealing that may sound to some of my more dedicated ( get a life! ) colleagues.

But today I came to realize that being given a week's off can be quite as detrimental as well!

Is it time for work yet?

Sure if I were a dedicated househusband ( when Charming Calvin finally returns with that treasure-laden ship of his! ), I'd of course have a plethora of activities lined up for my free hours from pottery classes to baking sessions with the other desperate housewives. Hell, I wouldn't even have a minute free to catch a breath.

Unfortunately though that hasn't happened as yet. Still working obviously. During my workdays, the hours are filled to the brim with patients to see, discussions to hold and ... yes, endless monotonous paperwork ( case notes, OT summaries, protocols and such ). Then I usually cram as much social activity into the after-hours as possible which makes me run like an Energizer Rabbit from one place to the next. Picture the Amazing Race. Seriously hectic.

So when I'm suddenly handed the days off, I find myself faced with endless hours of.... nothing. No activities. No plans. No itinerary. Confused and undecided, I find myself lazing for hours in bed staring at the wall. Literally. There dosn't seem to be anything worth rushing out the door for so I procrastinate. For hours.

Not the first time I've felt like this and obviously I still haven't learnt.

Or else I find myself calling up the one person I can count on to be free enough to accompany me for lunch.

My ISO : You must be freaking bored.
Paul : You'd rather be with your mother?
My ISO : I'd rather drown in tequila.
Paul : So how was Christmas?
My ISO : Chilly, frosty and civil in my household as always.
Paul : Plenty of festive cheer there. At least they don't throw plates anymore.
My ISO : Too early to tell, still a few days yet. You know New Year's coming. We should have sex. It could be my good deed this year.
Paul : Normally I'd say no but these days, I might be bored enough to say yes.

Yes, it's THAT time of the year again. A shockingly horny time for me for some reason. I blame it on the free-flow alcohol. After two hours of TV reruns and endless cups of Baileys, my ISO seems suddenly much less of a complete bastard than he usually is :P

Friday, December 28, 2007

Six Tease-and-Lay-Em

Five Golden Things
Four Tangled Hearts
Three Insomniac Men
Two Slaughtered Birds
And A Party in the Pantry

Boys can be prudes.

Seriously. You'd assume that teenage boys with rowdy testosterone coursing in their veins would be the first to drop trou ( so to speak! ) when the opportunity arose... but you'd be mistaken.

Unfortunately, as the case may be. Lately I find the boys far more obsessed with steadfastly remaining vestal virgins than sainted Mother Mary herself ( forgive me if that sounded vaguely blasphemous! ). While the fairer sex find themselves busy imitating Samantha Jones and Gossip Girls with martinis in hand, the boys are desperately turning to secluded monasteries while taking vows of celibacy till they meet their princesses charmings ( or prince charmings as the case may be ).

Obviously the safe sex ( celibacy? ) campaigns finally made an impact.

Paul : Why aren't you out picking up guys, sexy boy?
Boy : GASP. Picking up guys?!
Paul : Yeah, one night stands and such. With protection of course.
Boy : No! That's wrong!
Paul : Why? Are you impotent?
Boy : No! I believe in commitment and long-term relationships. I shall abstain from sex till I meet Mr Right.
Paul : Good God. Talk about a dry spell.

So no-strings-attached Christmas gropes are all out for them. Hell, it practically gave the puritanical prudes I know a collective heart attack when I suggested a group orgy. Cum is the cement of all relationships after all. I think I even saw Lanky Lex the staunch agnostic reaching blindly for the crucifix to ward me off.

Too Busy to FCUK!

Odd. Because for me, sex is sex. It's getting your rocks off, blowing your pud, bustin a nut, whatever you call it. I don't equate sex with love. Don't get me wrong. Like any typical Scorpio, I can get helluva jealous as well. I'm hardly gonna sit around if my boyfriend's cheating on me.

Boyfriend : I'm cheating on you. I'm sorry.
Paul : So am I.
Boyfriend : Why?
Paul : That soup you just finished? I poisoned it.

And that's only the tip of the iceberg.

But my interpretation of cheating's slightly different. Sharing cum and sweat would make me helluva pissed of course - but I'd be far more jealous if my boyfriend shared his hopes and dreams with someone else. For me, it's far worse to exchange personal intimacies online than to swap spit and semen in an unknown den of iniquity with dozens of skanks. Steamy group sex in a seedy sauna I can understand - as long as there's some sorta protection. Doesn't mean I want to catch the clap, you know.

Thursday, December 27, 2007

Five Golden Things

Four Tangled Hearts
Three Insomniac Men
Two Slaughtered Birds
And A Party in the Pantry

Justin Bartha, come to papa.

It's been so long since that I've almost... almost forgotten the cute fella! Unforgivable I know but when the last sighting's several years ago when Bartha played the memorable sidekick role of techno-savvy Riley Poole ( what an unfortunate name! ) in National Treasure, you gotta give me some leeway. Didn't take long for me to place that preppily handsome face though when he appeared in the trailers!

Justin Bartha, come to papa!

Thank God for that.

Come on, how can you expect Nicolas Cage to carry a show? He certainly doesn't make my carnal glands thrum with delight. Sensitive and tortured actor, I'll admit - but melting heart-throb material, I simply don't see it.

Fortunately the movie National Treasure - Book of Secrets doesn't depend on our craggy-featured actor to sink or swim. Instead it depends on rehashed historical moments mixed with heaps of imagination, spoonfuls of interesting trivia and bits of vaguely treasonous conspiracy theories. Let's face it, all of us have our own treasure-hunting Indiana Jones fantasies!

Haven't you at least play-acted as a swashbuckling adventurer as a kid?

Oddly enough I tuned in to National Treasure with Jaunty Jared's hip ( or should that be hippie? ) mom. Finding out to her utmost dismay that asian horror movies are kept to a minimum during this festive time of year, Mama Jared finally begrudgingly settled on this action-adventure vehicle instead. Trust me, it was near impossible to fantasize about riding to the rescue of a helpless Justin Bartha dressed only in a skimpy thong when Mama Jared is sitting right beside me.

Paul : OMG. He's so fuckable I could bite him on the ass right now.
Mama Jared : What?
Paul : Uhhh, I meant... umm.. uhhh. Ooh! Big big explosion! Look!
Mama Jared : Ooh.
Jared : Nice save.

Nothing like blood, gore and blown-up stuff to get her attention.

Wednesday, December 26, 2007

Four Tangled Hearts

Three Insomniac Men
Two Slaughtered Hens
And A Party in the Pantry

I'll admit it took a helluva long time to finish but it's sorted! Finally. Hallelujah. Talk about a last-minute Christmas Miracle!

And thankfully it was worth it.

Let's face it, we all have our silly little problems with our friends and lovers - oh boy, do we have! - but this edgy, stylish BBC dramedy certainly puts all the little tiffs in perspective ... since corblimey, no one could be as seriously messed up as these bunch of friends, seeing as how they all get hopelessly tangled up in a huge web of lies :)

Tiga Sekawan - Nathan, Fi and Jase!

Sinchronicity revolves around the pivotal protagonist ( who also plays the wry, cheeky narrator ) Nathan and the sexual misadventures of his hip 20-something friends, Fi and Jase. Set in the mean urban streets of Manchester, the clever plots hinge on serendipitous ( or otherwise ) and seemingly inconsequential moments that prove ultimately crucial for perfectly flawed strangers looking for love in all the wrong places. Coincidences don't seem so entirely random in their world since just missing a bus could mean the difference between a tragedy or a happily-ever-after.

And best of all, we have a budding ( though heavily closeted ) gay romance embedded in the sado-masochistic love triangle as the troubled Jase finds himself struggling with his sexuality ( and his increasingly ho-hum relationship with Fi ) when he meets the deliciously seductive Mani.

So you have in a nutshell... Nathan who loves Fi who loves Jase who loves Mani. Did I mention that Jase and Nathan are best friends?

Ah, what a tangled web we weave.

You know there has to be a reason I'm in love with the show, right?

Tangled hearts always get trodden on when relationships go sour after all - a fact made even worse when the protagonists are all somehow intimately connected. Reminds me of my somewhat sordid school life when my socially-hyperactive classmates were all busy dating, doing and dropping each other, sometimes all in the space of a week - a far cry from my stodgily attached pals now! Recess at school was even better than a particularly racy episode of Gossip Girl, I promise you. Imagine the juicy gossip. Can you tell that I loved it?

I've always liked a little spice in my life after all. Though of course I remained an unlikely watcher back in school, always standing apart from the tangled romantic conundrums while I wrestled with my own sexual proclivities. Forever the humorous sidekick back in high school since I didn't feel like starring in my own romance. Like kiss a girl? Like eeeww, she has cooties!

So to catch up on all the hysterical social drama I missed, I guess I did turn into quite an addict :P

Tuesday, December 25, 2007

Three Insomniac Men

Two Slaughtered Hens
And A Party in the Pantry

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse!

Well, all except for three!

We three kings indeed.

One loud drunk - who moaned continually about his pounding head whlie simultaneously reaching for the next bottle - with two insomniacs as the innocent baby ( after a drowsy hangover ) slept peacefully in the manger. All the bottles of wine in the house were finished after the party earlier. And yet none could fall asleep.

You know me. I'd have tried sex. Didn't I hear somewhere that men snore after sex? Surely the delicious endorphins released after a good sweaty orgasm would help induce sleep?

True enough as the hours ticked by, one of the insomniacs grew horny and since he was somewhat an unprincipled libertine, suggested a carnal half-hour of getting-to-know-you the time-honoured Biblical way.

Lemme tell you a secret!

The shocked silence was near palpable. One would have imagined that he'd suggested heavy S&M with additional fisting followed by golden showers rather than just some plain vanilla suck-and-blow.

Unfortunately there were prudes amongst the three as well. The revolutionary ( though admittedly depraved ) idea seemed almost sacrilegious to these celibate monks of old - no doubt recently released from a secluded mountaintop monastery for the festive season. Rather than play nice and submissively accept some good-natured yet utterly debauched gropes, the other two puritanical souls squealed for their vaunted virginity, leapt to the high ceiling beams and decided to strap on their metal-studded chastity belts instead. Hardly the right elements for an invigorating threesome.

So much for a time for giving.

But to placate the horny insomniac who'd grown increasingly violent, the other king wisely decided to play Scheherazade instead ( rather than sacrifice his increasingly endangered shorts ) and started spinning his 1001th tale of betrayal, woe and herpes. Of course instead of getting his head lopped off with the executioner's thirsty blade when he paused for significant dramatic effect, our stammering Scheherazade got a quick satisfying grope ( yelping in protest all the while ) instead to the creepy tinkles of Shiina Ringo's Ekimae.

Near the end of the harrowing tale, the horny insomniac was happy and heard to exclaim,

"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night."

Monday, December 24, 2007

Two Slaughtered Birds

And A Party in the Pantry.

Have I told you I hate markets?

No, not the cool, sterile, air-conditioned convenience supermarkets that a growing number of us urbanites have grown up with. Wouldn't surprise me these days some town kids imagine that milk comes ( not from a bovine betty! ) but from a plain rectangular tetra-pak box.

How to milk a cow!

Think old-fashioned markets of yesteryear - at least over here in Asia - with endless rows of colourful ( often mysterious ) produce presenting a vigorous assault to the senses. From the eyes with the vibrant colours of the fresh vegetables energetically waved right in front of your nose by the overenthusiastic grocer. From the ears with rousing yells coming from the boisterous butchers added to the cries of the lusty fishmongers along with the clamorous din of the customers bargaining at the top of their voices. And there's the nose - the ever-present ( almost overpowering ) scent of fish and meats mingled with the slight taint of herbicides from the greens.

And the slosh. The mush. The gunk. Fish guts, meat entrails, whatcamacallits and everything else that I simply couldn't ( and wouldn't dare ) to name.

Reason enough that I avoid the place as much as possible. Swimming in mystery excrement simply isn't the ideal way to spend a weekend. Have you ever tried to get those impossible stains away?

Still for reasons I have been unable to fathom, my mother simply lives for such moments. When she found out that the Christmas shindig was growing immeasurably larger than the intimate gathering I had originally planned, she practically clapped her hands with glee. The thought of wading through all that mulch obviously puts a light spring in her step.

For me, I find myself dragging my feet.

Mother : There's always something new. A new vegetable. A new fish.
Paul : Hallelujah. Who will buy? I could sing like Oliver.
Mother : Show some enthusiasm!
Paul : You can make me get up in the morning to drive you here but you can't make me enjoy this.
Mother : Ooh. Look they have quail's eggs for only 3 bucks.
Paul : Eeew. I think I stepped on something. Don't tell me. It's someone's brains. The last victim of the midnight market murders, I'm sure.

No, I'm not a fan of squishy feet.

Sunday, December 23, 2007

A Party in the Pantry

My mother is finally out of the closet.

Seems that nasty lil trait - though it thankfully skips a generation or two - runs in the family. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, my mother's a closeted dinner party hostess.

Paul : Hey mom, I thought of inviting a couple of friends over for Christmas.
Mom : Non-denominational Christmas? Sure. Bring them over.
Paul : I'll just get some extra ham.

That's all I thought I needed obviously. After all, not all my friends hoovered up food ( well.. maybe Strapping Shane ) as if they were starving famine victims running amuck at a sumptuous buffet.

The perfect party!

Last year Charming Calvin came over - and although he remained enigmatically silent like the proverbial Sphinx, I thought the dinner went swimmingly. So this year I boldly decided to call a few more. It was only a couple - and by a couple, I meant maybe one or two! Certainly less than a handful. Sure enough though, that modest number swelled up slowly - exponentially, I'd say - from two to four to eight... but it was still a reasonable number and I thought I'd be able to deal with the coming deluge. Seemed to be plenty of room even with eight coming.

My mother didn't even blink an eye when I told her they were all guys. All of marriageable age and yet still single.

Come on, how suspicious is that? For a matchmaking mama like mine, I'm sure it rang a thousand alarms!

Of course that niggling thought didn't have time to cross her busy mind since she's far too involved with organizing the dinner menu. You see, my mother's actually been hiding a secret penchant for throwing dinner parties - a wish no doubt sadly hampered by the wickedly antisocial trait running through the male members of the family. Yes, we all hate crowds and galas.

Not so my mom. She obviously welcomes gaiety in all its forms. The more the merrier seems to be her latest mantra.

When my brother suggested having a barbecue - and I quailed, she went out to buy skewers.

When my brother suggested bringing over a few friends - and I shuddered, she called for additions to the already extended menu.

When my brother told her that his friends would bring their respective spouses and children - and I suffered palpitations, she rejoiced.

What's this? What happened to my intimate gathering? With that many people in the house, soon we'll be having a party in the pantry!

Friday, December 21, 2007

Deck These Halls

What's the opposite of the Grinch?

Well whatever it is, that's what I turn into come Yuletide season! Let's be frank, I admit I'm pretty much a shopaholic who shops almost all the time ( the rest of the time I work and sleep ) - but seriously during Christmas, I go just a bit... crazy. Think of it as a visitation from the Ghost of Christmas Sales. Shiny baubles and cone-shaped firs trigger something that simply compels me to shop.

It's like my usual frugal inhibitions have gone on vacation ( not that there were that many in the first place! ) and any notion of austerity flies out of the proverbial chimney along with the reindeers. So what if I'm desperately in debt with my creditors? All bets are off.

Shiny! I want it!

Everything previously untouchable and way too expensive suddenly seems miraculously cheap. It's like the Christmas Miracle. Egyptian cotton sheets. French linen. Thai silk. Anything and everything that comes with even the most minimal discount seems like a bargain.

Paul : Ooh. 10% discount. I've got to have it. Damn, it's so cheap I might as well get two. Why not three? And there's a voucher if I spend more so I might as well get the chafing dish as well. I'm sure someone will need it for a housewarming soon. Ooh, look at that Hermes scarf! My God, 15% discount! I should get it for my long-lost cousin.

It's a syndrome I tell ya. I should be stopped! Don't even get me going on the sinful number of glass decorations I bought - and then had my niece cram the tree with so much ( like an overdressed Mak Datin ) that it's almost imperceptibly tilting to one side :P Even the kitchen has gotten into the Christmas spirit this year.

Just amazed my credit card doesn't go into meltdown.

... ooh.. online shopping.

Thursday, December 20, 2007

Natural Beauty

If you take a good look at the dreamy doctors in Grey's Anatomy, you'd naturally come to the erroneous conclusion that the ones we have in real life are similarly well groomed. That we hardly ever get our hair messed up, our blue scrubs are tailored individually to flatter our physiques and none of us ever had an unfortunate encounter with blood and human excrement.

A far cry from the truth.

I can personally vouch for that fact since I've personally been liberally doused in bag of packed cells - emerging from the ensuing bloodbath resembling Dracula after a crazed drinking binge. I could barely repress a shudder when I saw my nightmarish reflection in the mirror ( with flickering neon light to add to the effect ).

Not a pretty sight.

And neither is a physician after doing a 24 hour call. Unfortunately very few take the trouble to even run a careless brush through their bed-hair before starting rounds. Hence the groggy, pale, unkempt zombies that roam the halls in the early ungodly hours of the morning in search of that glorious caffeine hit - possibly giving rise to the endless rumours of hospital hauntings.

But for those that have slogged through the grueling 24 hours, I can forgive. Though barely. Come on, at least take the time for a quick shower and change before starting work again!

Victims of the spin cycle!

The ones I find unforgivable ( and think should have their heads collectively decapitated ) are the doctors who come fresh from home in the morning looking as if they'd been literally ( liberally? ) dragged through the washing machine cycle - and tossed through a spin cycle as well. A few even look as if they could have been senselessly battered at the tumbling creek by the ancient washer-ladies.

Paul : OMG! Were you on-call last night?
Spin-dried Sally : No. What makes you say that?
Paul : Umm... Your trendy tornado-tossed hair? So nattily clipped with the giant hairclip?
Spin-dried Sally : Nah, I don't have the time for that. I depend on my natural beauty.
Paul : Natural beauty!? *choke*

I hate perpetuating the shallow notion that beauty is more than skin deep but in this case, I can't help it!

Look, I know God gave us all natural beauty ( though a gifted few had a bit more than the rest, I think ) but He in all His divine wisdom also gave us cosmetics - and other assorted enhancements such as the miraculous Wonderbra and the looks-preserving Botox. So for the love of God, use them! I'm not expecting a drunken extra from the Peking Opera House - but rather than have the guards at the hospital mistake you for the cleaning amah, at least slap on some Rose of Dawn blusher for God's sake.

Beauty might be in the eye of the beholder but please, don't kid yourself. Even Angelina Jolie - who probably looks fabulous au naturale - would think twice before stepping out her house without a touch of make-up.

Now that I've blasphemed myself this time of year and taken God's name in vain several times, I think I need to go to church.

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

Illegal in 48 States

Beware. What you're reading could be classified as sensitive material not fit for your eyes ( most especially if you're a naive innocent fresh out from a secluded convent )!

Or at least this is what They want you to think.

Prison Break
Do they actually think these walls will keep me in?

If you don't know this already, I'm actually banned in several Gulf States ( colour me surprised ), a handful of conservative quarters and even a number of prudish multinationals over here. A fact that always has me in stiches ( if I don't laugh, I might go crazy ranting about mindless censorship again ).

Come on, seriously, how could anything in my blog possibly endanger the fragile psyches of the readers? The pictures? Although I do push the boundaries a little with some of the more risque shots, I don't think I've veered into the smutty realm of the untouchables ( well not till you're above the age of consent ) yet.

It's art after all! :P

I think I'd have remembered if there were hypnotic ( subliminal? ) suggestions embedded deep inside that could influence the gentle minds of the innocents who stumble inadvertently into these pages. No doubt turning them rabidly homosexual with inexplicable penchants for window arrangements and flaming scarves.

But honestly, I don't think anyone could possibly stumble onto this blog - out of the countless millions out there in the net - purely by accident.

Still it's amusing to type in my page only to find that some overly conscientious Net Nanny out there has painted my blog as a danger to the susceptible masses. Wonder what prohibited classification it falls into! Dirty gay perversions? Counter-culture madness?

Well, I've always wanted to be notorious.

Monday, December 17, 2007

Tale of Charming Calvin & the Poison Ivy

Oh, the weather outside is frightful but the fire is so delightful.

And since we've no place to go, come closer, lil children, come near and listen to this cold winter's tale of bitter betrayal and love lost.

Once upon a time in a land far, far away, there lived a boy in a city. Just a simple boy, nothing very much special about him at all. A boy who pined for his laddie-love, Calvin. A certain charming soul ensnared by the wicked machinations of the wily Homosexoil Monarch who had captured him one bright midsummer's day only to have him transported to an enchanted, wintry capital far away in the frozen wastes of the north.

A place ( one had only heard in picture books and fairy tales! ) where walls were painted red as blood, the streets were paved in silvery sleet and the people spoke in foreign devil tongues full of chings and chongs.

Wishin and hopin
And thinkin and prayin

But a solemn promise was made by the Monarch to allow Calvin's return when the seasons finally changed - when the cold hand of frost touched the gleaming spires of the capital.

The boy had to be pleased with the seasonal arrangement since winter solstice seemed not too far away. And he began to make plans for Calvin's imminent return.

Till unbeknownst to the boy, a certain femme fatale by the name of Poison Ivy alighted on the capital weeks before winter came along to bewitch the heart of the faithless Calvin! Armed with her broomstick, her cauldron and her tempting brochure of travel trips, Poison Ivy knew exactly how to enslave the gullible Calvin to her every whim! To the lonesome Calvin pining for home, the clever witch all clad in green whispered promises of an eternal summer with sun-kissed beaches, endless azure waves and magical carpet rides in the land down under she called the Gold Coast.

Far from thinking of the ones he left back home and the boy left to fade with the coming cold, Calvin was swayed by her wicked wiles.

And thus was the boy betrayed and love lost.

Summer kisses, winter tears. Not every fairy tale ends in a happily ever after.


Though there might be a trip to Morocco instead of Brisbane if the boy has his way ( and of course manages to break the cunning spell cast by his new nemesis Poison Ivy ). Come on, we already have plenty of sun, sand and sea. What about the exotic bazaars of Marrakesh instead?

Still... to continue in Christmassy spirit of the tale...

Sunday, December 16, 2007

Isn't it Ironic?

It's like ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife

Always struck me as particularly apt, the lyrics to this song :) Not exactly ironic but hey, you'd still feel like hitting your head against the wall when it happens, wouldn't you?

You see, my ISO knows me pretty well.

Since he might be spending his Christmas this year with his estranged family - not sure which side he's doing the lovin-and-givin ( HA! ) bit this year - he decided to hand me the prezzies early! Like me, he's an early Christmas shopper - nothing like the word early sales to get us going - so a week before Christmas, we're usually done with the list of naughty or nice.

I bet he has more naughties on his list though.

He's great at the giving after all :P How else could he find me the perfect gift - only to frustrate me like hell? Kinda like him. Seemingly the perfect boyfriend on the outside but driving me Mrs-Rochester-batty all the while.

So he found this out in the stores during one of his quick business trips. The perfect Hairspray Shake & Shimmy DVD.

In Blu-ray.

That I can't play.

Not till I get the player. Which costs a minor fortune.

Water, water everywhere,
Nor any drop to drink.

So near yet so far.

Talk about the O. Henry's Gift of the Magi. Now, doesn't that make you wanna scream?

Saturday, December 15, 2007

Amazing Race

Let me tell you a little something you didn't know.

Scorpios like to win. Looking at them with their placid, unemotional facades, you might be fooled into thinking that just like Mr Rhett Butler, they couldn't give a damn either way. But just look closely each time they lose, a little something seems to falter in their generally impassive expressions - somewhere a lil part of them just dies - even over the little things.

Even over parcheesi.

So they try not to lose.

All of which doesn't help when I'm actually quite fond of the occasional challenge. There's nothing quite like pitting your strength and wits against a worthy opponent ( and obviously crushing them ruthlessly at the end ), is there? Whether it's for petty chump-change stakes ( or even childish dares! ) to astonishing million-dollar-bets.

So each time the Amazing Race comes around this part of the world, I always toy with the novel idea of signing up myself. Not only for the thrill of experiencing Phineas Foggs' breathless journey around the world with mind-boggling puzzles to solve and to ogle the prerequisite hotties ( I mean there's always a couple or two shirtless hunks around, right? ) - but also to give the religious conservatives a collective heart attack.

Imagine a gay couple from Malaysia ( an asian Chip & Reichen? ) on a race! Surely that would warrant at least one demonstration.

Though who would I call for my Passerpatout? With my ISO, I think our sheer wicked ruthlessness would have us kicked out in a matter of days. If not summarily murdered by the rest of the conspiring contestants in collusion ala Murder on the Orient Express and tossed inside a forgotten swamp somewhere.

Paul : I have something to confess.
My ISO : I took their map.
Paul : I stole their money.
My ISO : I threw their baggage in the river. They are so biting our dust.
Paul : They will have to. I burnt their tickets.

I don't think Allan Wu would approve.

Mark & Rovilson
Prerequisite hotties in Amazing Race Asia! ( who are doing quite well at the moment btw )

On the other hand, Charming Calvin's totally dissimilar in character from my ISO - and almost the opposite of me as well. Calvin would be good company, certainly organized, detail-oriented and people-friendly. Though I'm a lil afraid my sheer intensity would surely drive him up the wall - I doubt even he could deal with me 24/7! I'm okay in small doses. In an amazing race, I'd probably be yelling at him non-stop to get a move on ( like a drillmaster! ) even as he moans pitifully about his tired legs.

Just take sweetly sentimental couple Alanis & Jenny as a comparison as they face the fear of heights that inevitably tends to crop up somewhere mid-season - whether it be bungee-jumping, rappelling or base-jumping.

Jessie : I can't do it. It's too high. I'm scared.
Alanis : I'm here with you my love. We'll work this through.
Jessie : It's a sheer cliff. I can't do it. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.
Alanis : We'll find another way. We'll get through this together.

Then there's me faced with a similar situation. You can be sure that I'm real persuasive when I need to be but let's not forget that this is a race. We only have minutes to spare.

Calvin : I can't do it. It's too high. I'm scared.
Paul : Just try it.
Calvin : It's a sheer cliff. I can't do it. I'm sorry. I- OMGaaaaarrrrrrggghhh...
Paul : What a fall. I knew all he needed was a gentle nudge off the edge.

Of course Calvin might not be entirely comfortable with my Machiavellian methods.

Jessie : This task is too difficult! It's impossible. I give up.
Alanis : My darlin love, I still love you. It's alright if we don't win. We've already tried our best already.
Jessie : Let's go home.
Alanis : Yes. If that's what you want.

You can be sure I'm not giving up that easily.

Calvin : This task is too difficult! It's impossible. I give up.
Paul : Fuck that. We are winning this. There's a million dollar cheque with our names on it. I've already got my eye on the perfect designer lamp!
Calvin : Let's go home.
Paul : Only if you're in a body-bag dammit!

Yes. Scorpios can be ruthless.

Especially when it comes to winning.

Thursday, December 13, 2007

Hearts and Flowers

Let's face it, in a past life I must have been a jilted lover who went crazed and took that last desperate jump off lover's leap due to unrequited love.

No doubt after successfully gunning down his entire family! I was jilted. Not pathetic.

Why else would I be a hardened skeptic when it comes to love? Why else would I have gotten the dry heaves when I saw the hugely sentimental hearts-and-flowers card ( with a kitschy heart-shaped mirror! ) that my lovey-dovey friends made for each other?

Hearts and Flowers?

But today I saw a touching tableau of tenderness that left me with a queer tickle in the throat. A sweet little something that reminds us that love does endure after all ( despite what the lurid Hollywood scandals might suggest ). Yes, the hardened tin-man actually has a heart!

Today as I made my rounds through the wards, I saw a wife feeding her husband with some steaming porridge. A simple matter of course - and one you'll see quite often in the hospitals - until you find out that she's been doing so for the past ten years after his tragic motorvehicle accident.

Let's face it, not everyone can take care of a paraplegic husband for almost a decade. In these modern age when marriage certs seem to be but a cheap annulment ( and an eager lawyer ) away, it would be easy enough to shirk such a duty crying irreconciliable differences. Very few would even consider shouldering such an irksome baggage, some would even say damaged goods! A partner who's suddenly terrifyingly unable to care for himself, regressing essentially into an infant dependent on the kindness of others.

So how does his wife take care of him so dotingly without shirking even for a moment? Old-fashioned values such as duty, commitment and obligation to her vows perhaps.

But that wouldn't explain the blinding smile on her husband's face as he looks at her. And it wouldn't explain the tender loving care obviously lavished on him. Far from being unkempt and uncared for, his hair was brushed till it shone with not a single hair out of place and his skin was smooth as a baby's. His buttoned-up pyjamas didn't have a single crease on it - obviously bulldozed into submission. Not only that but his exacting wife could recite by rote every medication and every procedure that had been done to him. Practically a medical encylopaedia on his affliction by then.

Asked on how she could it on a daily basis, she only replied simply 'He would have done the same for me.'

But all that didn't impress me as much as what she did as I left the room.

As she got up to leave the room to wash the bowl, she pressed a warm loving kiss on his cheek. There were tears shining in his eyes.

After ten years.

Now that's love.

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

Curl Up & Dye

Thank God for my hair.

Not that my hair's always been such a stellar personality! Despite being ruthlessly straight ( no doubt God's attempt at cheap humour ), my hair sticks out in entirely different directions like the spokes of a wheel. In fact half the time, it uncompromisingly resists my futile attempts to tame it - turning into an electrified Godzilla on a bad hair day. On a good day, it falls into place nicely ( after being whipped into submission ) only to seep enough crude oil to rival the recent South Korean environmental disaster.

Even on the best of days, it manages to irk me by casting the occasional stray snowflake.

Point of fact though.. I don't treat my hair really well, subjecting it to daily painful scrubs, lackadaisical finger-combs and the occasional sadistic hair-pulling ( when I'm work-frustrated ). There was also that memorable time I cruelly bleached it ash blond to resemble an intimidating DVD pirate for a month in June. Apart from that brief flirtation with harmful chemicals, I usually don't have it rigorously styled by so-called mavens of hair design such as berry, cherry and other assorted fruits ( unlike others I could name ). Instead I have the 12-minute speed demons in the Jap-inspired booths go at it with sharpened shears and gleeful ( experimental? ) abandon.

Tom Cruise
Next guy who laughs at my hair eats this bullet!

Yet today when I was hailed at work by a white-haired octogenarian, I found I had reason to rejoice in my hair.

Octogenarian : Paul!
Paul : Uh.. hello? Yes?
Octogenarian : Hi! Remember me? I'm your classmate, Elderly Joe!
Paul : Joe? OMG! Uhh... you look well?

How did he expect me to remember? I had him mistaken for Gandalf dammit!

Seriously, rather than age gracefully with that distinguished touch of salt-and-pepper to lend gravitas, he'd gone almost terrifyingly grey! An aging, sickeningly morbid grey! It was as if he'd taken a debilitating twenty-year leap into the future. I was half expecting to hear news that he'd encountered a frightening near-death experience recently - thereby turning prematurely grey as urban myth ( and tragic French queens ) would suggest.

Tom Cruise
Yikes! The wear and tear of old age?

Certainly spurred me to check myself out in the nearest mirror. Did my best to resist tugging all the gray hairs out on crazed impulse since we all knows its similarly-hued pals will surely attend the funeral! Surely Samantha Jones can't be wrong about that! Yeah, sure I do have the occasional stray grey here and there but it's still fortunately an even regular shade of dull black.

From a distance.

I'm over 30 but not thoroughly decrepit yet. Thank God for His little graces.

Though maybe it's time to reach for that Clairol Grey-Buster.

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

Ghosts of Christmas Future

Well, just to tell you what's gonna be happening in the coming future - yeah, I do have moments of pseudo-clairvoyancy! :P Since I finally have a place of my own, I think it's time I do what every gay devotee of Martha Stewart has been doing since her good housekeeping bibles first got published ( you mean you're all not devotees?! ) and host a fabulous dinner party.

For Christmas no less! Don't get all excited yet. I'm hardly gonna dress a turkey and bake some pies - where the hell am I gonna find the time? Charming Calvin's earning big yuans up north but he's refusing to subsidize my expensive high-maintenance habits so I'm gonna have to continue slogging at work for minimal wages.

Yes. Bah-humbug.

A Decadent Christmas at Paul's...

But I can easily speed-dial a reliable caterer. So I'll start small first.

No worries, folks. It won't be as decadent as the one above - I'll have to work up to that slowly. Just take a look at the mailed invite.

So here's how it is. I'll be back the weekend before Christmas - that should be around the 21st for you guys. Should be having a small dinner then so you're all invited. A few can stay over if you guys want but expect to rough it out a bit ( expect wandering hands from me especially if I've been downing Bailey's ). No vodkas or tequila shots - Bailey's at the most! Mostly coffee and tea though. Civilized chatter. It's Christmas after all. :) No prayers and chants to sweet baby Jesus so you can all rest easy - we're really non-religious if you haven't guessed by now.

And leave the Wiis and the X-Boxes at home, expect to play old-fashioned board games and watch a ton of weepy sentimental romantic comedies such as Love Actually and The Holiday. It's Christmas and I spend the evenings weeping over irish cream and romantic movies.

Hey it's a tradition.

Now, wouldn't Martha be proud? No doubt she'd expect personally hand-written scented letters ( with environmentally friendly mini-reminders of RSVP ingeniously made up of bits of ribbon and scrap ) but hell, I'm not a dedicated househusband yet! So emails will have to do for now.

What about New Year's? Well I hear Jaunty Jared has another surprise planned for us - fresh from his party-planning triumph last week. A New Year in the tropics? Jared in a skimpy thong? I am so there - and I intend to be there armed with sangria ( the better to get Jared loose and drunk - the easier to take advantage of! ) and my trusty though long-suffering camera ( the better to record the lurid event for future blackmail ).

Monday, December 10, 2007

Have you Facebooked today?

I'll admit. I have the occasional whim but I rarely follow through.

Which explains the multiple entries in every new internet fad that comes through. Ever since fresh face Hotmail came onto the scene way back when I was in secondary till the not-so-recent Facebook, I've always been curious enough to try them out first. Can you tell I like new toys?

Of course I'm not so hot at recalling my passwords. FYI, I pick my passwords at random seemingly out of thin air - it could be the admission number for a patient to an African musical instrument. Or a combination of both. Which explains why I can never quite remember.

Do they recognize fingerprints now?

Maybe people will notice me on Facebook if I have a shiny umbrella... ella... ella...

So after rifling through the dusty corners of my brains ( senility doesn't help ) for a day or two, I finally found that particular folder marked Facebook with the password scrawled across. Yes, I registered a while back but never actually got around to doing anything with it.

And boy, did I find myself seriously flabbergasted! Not by the flashy applications, not by the snazzy games ( such as an entranced Strapping Shane ) but by the people. The world's certainly getting a lot smaller - at least technologically speaking - since my old classmates that I half imagined had fallen off the edge of the world actually still exist.

Albeit a few literally at the other end of the world.

Bet we never thought as grubby kids in blue shorts throwing gum at the nerd in the front of the classroom that we'd be scattered all around the globe : an architect in London, a doctor somewhere in the US and even an engineer in Japan. Hell, one of them's sailing on a cruise ship somewhere! Quite a number are married, one is even divorced now - and a handful have toddlers running about ( and a coupla stepchildren too! )!

Life happened. And we sure have wandered far from whence we came.

Sunday, December 09, 2007

Get Me the Buzz

I don't drink often.

As kids, we're all curious pandoras always wanting to discover what lies hidden behind that secret door - and one of the great taboos was the vodka and gin hidden behind the uppermost cabinets. For some reason, otherwise sensible adults seem to derive an inordinate amount of pleasure from imbibing the noxious solution ( clearly engineered to achieve insensibility! ) that it seems clear that we should all partake of a sip as well.

Of course that first taste is always memorable! Clearly remember mine even more than a decade past - the bitter aftertaste of lager at a dinner party - and then the dry painful heaves after downing one too many glasses of it.

Ugh. Till now I've never quite acquired the taste for beer.

Chris Evans
Care for a drink?

Apart from the rare ( hardly ever, I swear! ) occasions that I take to drink ( evil alcoholic ex-boyfriends aside ), I usually keep an arm's length away from alcohol. Far from any strict religious intolerance and more from a patent dislike of the booze buzz! Getting disgustingly inebriated never seemed like a worthwhile ambition for me.

And yeah, I stay away mostly because I'm usually the designated driver for reasons that simply escape me! So pardon me for the occasional alcoholic binge when I find out that I'm not driving.

So when I realized that I'd be chauffeured around for a night on the town, I immediate called for a drink at the nearest bar after a brief unappreciated victory jig. I'll readily admit that I have a penchant for girlie chi chi cocktails. Bitter lagers don't do it for me, I'm afraid! I like them sweet :)

Still... don't know whether I've become inured to drink - or whether it's been suspiciously watered down - but after a couple of cocktails and possibly half a bottle of wine, I found that I could not quite achieve that alcoholic high. So much for Cloud 9 - I wasn't even close to floating off the table! Sure there was a time when I realized that my hands were starting to tremble ( the shakes! ) but that wore off almost as soon as I dropped the bottle.

I did start imagining all sorts of nasty ( positively illegal! ) sexual positions with a certain handsome Eurasian boy on the next table.

Damn, how many bottles of wine do I need for that buzz?

Maybe this Heineken cutie could get some for me.

Saturday, December 08, 2007

Tales from a Weird Carpark

Isn't it unusual that something so familiar can change its face in the dark of night?

In the minutes just past midnight, the regular carpark turns into an unearthly Pan's Labyrinth of hair-raising twists and turns with unknown terrors at every corner. Where a regular hum of human activity brought the place to life barely hours ago, now there's a deathly hush broken only by the sound of my faltering footsteps and the occasional snap of a broken lightbulb. Regular nondescript pillars turn into eerie fantastical black towers where maleficent creatures of the darkness lay in wait for their next unsuspecting victim.

Half suspecting the doors of the elevator to slash open with a dour lady dressed in scarlet holding up a decapitated chicken still dripping with its lifeblood.

And I'm wishing that I really had a Golden Compass to show me the way to the ticketing counter ( despite the fact that the juvenile heroine in the movie was a bit of a wimp and there were no hotties in sight apart from a grizzly Daniel Craig ).

Would be great to have a daemon accompanying me right now - though I have a feeling it might be cowering under my shirt even now. What can a sly red fox named Athenestia ( Anaesthesia? ) do after all? Maybe it would be better to have an armoured bear instead.

I hear a snap and my heart skips a beat. Gripping my Christmas packages tight in hand hoping it's substantial enough to make a dent ( well I did buy a whole lot of books ), I turn the corner with bated breath.

Do you need some help?

The agonized scream I have lodged in my throat comes out in a whimper instead when I glimpse salvation!

Four half-naked men repairing a ceiling light. Begs the question how many Chinese men do you need to fix a lightbulb. There is a God. Not all of them are sizzling hot of course ( one had a middle-aged paunch after all ) but one of them was young, virile and delicious - and it was as if I'd achieved the One Ring after travessing the entire fantastical lands of Middle-earth.

In between thanking them profusely for not turning out to be frightful denizens of hell ( and eyeing the succulent Chinese hunk who was smiling all the while no doubt enjoying my discomfiture ), I find my way to the ticketing counter unmolested. The hunk waves a farewell - flexing his sculpted biceps quite fetchingly.

A pity. I certainly wouldn't mind having his rough, calloused hands on me.

Thursday, December 06, 2007

Bitchy hotness

Why are hot guys bitchy?

That's the woeful cry I heard today from amongst my disappointed singleton friends. I would have thought the answer so painfully obvious that it doesn't have to spelt out.

But it seems that it beggars a more detailed explanation. Average joes who attempt that level of wicked snarkiness would find themselves run over by a steamroller - possibly savagely excoriated by his unapologetic fellow homos - but hot guys usually manage to get away with vicious verbal assasination. You see, increasing levels of hotness negates the passing cattiness.

Do I look like I could give a fuck?

So the hotter you are, the bitchier you can be.

Unfortunately in the shallow superficial gay world, that adage carries true :) Let's face it, genetically gifted guys get away with the occasional unpolitically correct slander ( possibly tearing some inferior creature's reputation to insignificant pieces ) because we're far too enamoured with their looks to care. Usually we're far too engrossed with the hunk's pouty lips - if we even get that far above his muscled neck - to notice the monstrously nasty venom dripping from his potty mouth. By the time we realize there's a suspicious fork in his devil's tongue, usually the unfortunate victim's already slain by his malicious bite.

They don't even have to resort to physical - and far more primitive - methods like the bitchslap to prove their point.

Of course this rule doesn't extend to cover all cuties. There are always sweet, loveable boys out there who wouldn't utter an acerbic word of disparagement but these genial gems are getting thin on the ground. Most of them I've already tied up in my dungeon for personal use.

Leaving us with the malevolent cads who prove the rule.

Fortunately nature provides an antidote. So if fate places me within close range, fast-acting poison could be inadvertently slipped into his drink - or jabbed into his gym-tight ass. So cute boys, watch your lip. Whether you're naughty or nice, Saint Wicked will be watching.

Wednesday, December 05, 2007


It drizzled earlier this morning but thankfully stopped after lunch. Guess our offerings and prayers at the nearby temples worked wonders. Otherwise I'd probably turn into the male version of Bridezilla, whatever that may be. Groomzilla?

Possibly. Isn't it weird that I could be thinking of such trivial matters at such an important day? Hell, I'd been so busy fighting over the cream-coloured napkins and the calla lilies in the table settings to think about what's going to happen. Even at the last moment this morning I'd agonized over whether the gilt-edged wedding cards would be able to match the table settings, whether the guests all in soft pastels would fade out amongst the garden background making the pictures look wishy-washy. Guess it's easier to worry over whether my hyperactive nephew Raoul would fidget in his teensy gray suit ( rather adorable actually ) rather than think about what the future might bring.

Certainly easier on my blood pressure.

Zinedine did say I was insanely specific about my preferences.

A crazy perfectionist wanting everything to go smoothly despite the fact that no one would really care all that much if I actually fell flat on my face. After all I'd poured enough champagne down the guests' throats to make sure they remained happy and sloshed throughout the entire evening. By now a few would probably have started singing along to the dignified string quartet.

Though not to Ave Maria. By God, I specifically never wanted to hear that particular weepy song again. I'd probably break another ceramic vase if they started playing it. I mean what's with registering for gifts when everyone buys a vase or a kitchen appliance?

Matt Dusk
Wonder if the flowers look alright!

I hear the quartet start playing the wedding march and I stand. There's this moment of trepidation when I wondered blithely whether I'd be meeting Lou Ferrigno as the Hulk at the altar instead of my groom.

And then I wake up.

It's a freaking dream. Guess I shouldn't have spent the day trolling the malls looking for baby clothes - and I just couldn't keep my eyes off this amazingly adorable gray suit for a smart toddler. Just perfect for an early morning service at church.

Or maybe I had one too many frilly cupcakes.

Or I attended one too many weddings this weekend.

Tuesday, December 04, 2007

The new Lorenzo Mercanti

This isn't Paul.

Well not since I came across my new locker with the surprising name of Lorenzo Mercanti. And fell blissfully in love. Like the entertainer formerly known as Prince ( and now some oblique pansexual symbol ), I've whimsically decided to adopt a new name - and Lorenzo it shall be.

Googled the name ( doesn't everyone do the same? ) and sadly found nada! Was hoping Lorenzo would be a gorgeous Italian God with a fabulous apartment in Florence full of Bruno Magli leather boots, we'd start a torrid correspondence online and he'd end up falling madly in love with me.

Sweet Lorenzo...

Chances are he's a happily married octogenarian with grandchildren on his knee.

God only knows who the original bearer of the name is but I figure he can bear to share especially since he left some dark blue scrubs ( used? splattered with bodily fluids? ) behind. And after all, Paul is such a boring outdated name, dontcha think? So terribly biblical. Well, you have to agree Saul was way more happening before with all the violent heroics but ever since the lightning struck, he seems to have turned all saintly after.

Much easier to be called Lorenzo. Now a name like Lorenzo conjures up all sorts of exotic images of gondolas, masquerades and grand canals. You can fight a dashing duel over the fair name of Lorenzo Mercanti! Hell, you can sell delicious flagons of perfumes with that name!

Say hello to Lorenzo.

Monday, December 03, 2007

Bi Now Gay Later

Are you gay?

Or are you straight?

Or is there even such a thing?

For me, sexuality is a fluid thing. I don't think anyone's 100% heterosexual or 100% homosexual.

Rarely do you find such a thing. Like most folks on the Kinsey scale, I think we all veer from one end of the scale to the other depending on the situation - and of course, the person we're with. I'm hardly going to confine myself to being steadfastly homosexual forever. Why stick myself in that small-minded box?

Who knows, I could meet this wonderful person out there who's a combination of every personality trait I admire and love - have just the right connection and chemistry - and BANG. Just like that, we're in love. The big L like the one every schmaltzy poet and artist has been trying to convey since men started walking upright and doodling on cave walls. I'm hardly going to dump that person just because she possesses the wrong genitals, am I? Would be rather silly and thoughtless of me to throw a gem away just because it doesn't match the stringent criteria I have locked in my head! I'm pretty smart. If that unlikelihood ever happens, I'm sure ( human anatomy studies aside ) I'll figure my way around a hoo hoo one day.

I might need a manual though. With crudely drawn stick figures possibly.

Though at the moment I think I'll stick to the dicks. Let's face it, boys are easier to love.

Women. Well, women are a tad more complicated.

Ananda Everingham

So imagine Tan's confusion when he surfaces from a traumatic amnesia and finds himself falling for a winsome girl ( who ostensibly ran him down ) named Oom. Simple enough premise for Me... Myself, one that's been replayed a thousand times onscreen and yet there's a tragic twist to this timeworn tale. Tan has a secret - in his checkered past, he was actually a showstopper drag queen with a married man on the side. Jaunty Jared - that man with the vaguely schizophrenic taste in movies veering from screamin nightmarish horror to weepy sentmental tales - has been recommending this movie forever and it's only today that I took the time to finish it.

Who could blame Oom for falling for Tan - even after discovering his sordid beginnings? Played by Ananda Everingham, not only does the stubbled thai god look supremely hot in jeans, he also looks pretty good in a smile and a teensy bowl to cover up the goods. Have I mentioned that the man's a delicious domestic god on the side as well! Small wonder Oom's all distraught at losing him.

Hell, I'm thinking of running down handsome guys in dark alleys and dragging them home as well ( the modern version of clubbing them and dragging them by the hair back to the cave ). Fortunately Tan has a ponytail just perfect for the job.

Saturday, December 01, 2007

Hungry Woks

You're dead hungry. You're in a new area relatively unknown. There are two friendly local girls in front of ya, one fat girl and one thin girl.

So who do ya ask for recommendations on places to eat?

I know it's supremely biased but hell, I'd head for the fat girl ( let's not be overly PC over here ). I'm hardly gonna ask the Twiggy-thin model-esque gal who looks like she sticks a finger down her throat after a meal of two wafer-thin crackers a day. Sure she might know where the nearest fad diet pill store is ( or perhaps the location of the low-fat, low-cholesterol, low-taste eatery ) but I doubt she'll know where to go to satisfy my carb cravings!

Surely with that gaunt, concave abdomen, the words donuts and cream cheese would be anathema to her.

Ice cream
Oh God. I haven't had this in years. She's not looking. I bet I can steal a bite!

So why do culinary shows persist in hiring shockingly anorexic hosts? Boggles my mind seriously! Why would you want to follow the culinary advice of someone who probably thinks two stingy breadsticks is a bingeing feast. Sure I know everyone wants to gaze at something pretty onscreen but big doesn't necessarily mean un-photogenic. Just look at Nikki Blonsky. Now that's a healthy gal I'd stalk unapologetically when she heads for lunch.

Or look at the delectable Nigella Lawson. Now that's one curvy domestic goddess you just know has the occasional private orgasm over sinful chocolate. I'd turn straight for her ( though I wouldn't know what to do with her hoo-hoos and ta-tas )!

And I'll have to assume that she doesn't automatically head for that organic deli. I mean sure we should all partake of healthy organic fruits and vegetables ( doesn't the medical journal insist on that promotion? ). After all since we were kids, we always known boring broccoli's good for us. But hell, could it possibly taste as sinfully delicious as a fried chicken drumstick literally dripping with transfats and cholesterol? Or steaming roti prata oozing with oils and ghee?

You just know I've been watching too much Asian Food Channel.