Begging for Mercy

I do have a serious weakness.

That radio-active something - my kryptonite - that really makes me weak in the knees.

Which evidently leaves me gaping agog over a dinner table with my wine glass in hand, the entire conversation forgotten as I stare transfixed.

At a man's arms. Call them whatever you want - biceps and triceps - but yeah, a pair of really great guns really gets me going. And like the eyes of a trained predator, I can spot sculpted gym-bot arms from at least a hundred metres away on a busy mall floor. Whether guy has a bald pate, a straining paunch or a face like the back of a bus, all that comes in secondary since I usually zero in on what's under his sleeves first.


Now I'm ready to carry those bags...
And not what's under his pants - get your minds out of the gutter :p

Paul : I almost bought that CD at the fest when I....
My ISO : Paul? What are you looking at? FUCK.
Paul : What ... what?
My ISO : Stop staring. You're drooling over the waiter's arms again.
Paul : Well he flexed when he picked up the plates. Sorry for noticing.
My ISO : Look at mine then.
Paul : Nice but you're wearing long sleeves. I need upgrades on my X-ray vision.

Seriously. Nothing better than the curvaceous swell of hard muscle under cotton sleeves with the long line of vein that you just wanna lick. My ISO claims it's some subliminal Freudian obsession to have a guy who'd take care of me by shouldering my heavy shopping bags. Hence the muscular arms.

Kinda makes embarassing sense actually. Especially judging by my weighty hardcover purchases at the bookfest today! Easy enough to claim that my income tax rebate for books has been well exceeded since March. Honestly, a measly thousand wouldn't cover a tenth of the books I buy.

BTW if you were wondering about the CD I almost bought ( and weren't irresistibly swayed by the sweat-soaked vision of a man's beautifully sculpted arms! ), check this out. It'll have you begging for mercy for sure.

Playing the Coquette

In taking up the heavy burden of women's lib and feminism, I think some of the girls I know have turned their backs on the weapons readily available at their disposal. Opting instead for direct aggressive confrontation like any one of the rough testosterone-charged bulls rather than depending on their own feminine wiles to win the war.

Not knowing that the seemingly soft ways can be quite as effective.

So when my single galpal met up with a reasonably attractive guy in a bar, I expected at least a modicum of wink wink flirtation. Or at least a coquettish look with a come-hither smile though shaded lashes. Coming up with a smooth pick-up line is generally a job for the men ( sexist though! ) but I think the ladies can afford to offer some encouragement.

Hardly the case however.

It could have been a meeting at the boardroom with civil business-like handshakes all around. Half expecting a quick manly pat on the back actually. Seems like playing the sly coquette - a seemingly unscrupulous trick of the feminine persuasion - is a serious no-no breach of conduct for brash Miss Independents these days.

Did a quick head count of the truly flirtatious girls I know and realized that their numbers are seriously dwindling. Really? Are the days of the vamp over?


Boy, I could peel that shirt off you right now...
Hell, if plain flirting for practice is deemed a social faux pas, I'd be in serious danger of being branded a shocking tease! Come on, what's the harm with some coquetry? After all, isn't it nice to share a light dalliance with some amorous wordplay? For instance, rather than a simple strict hello at a meetcute with a reasonably charming fella, I would have found at least something sincere to compliment. Or at least titter a little.

Joe : Hello.
Paul : Hi, I'm Paul. You know, that's a really nice shirt.

And if I'm feeling daring enough ( or perhaps drunk enough! ) I might even run a finger assessingly down his shirt.

Seriously. It wouldn't be my first time. Perhaps I was a vampish courtesan in a past life.

Depending on how he responds to the teasing overture, I think I'd have gotten a reasonable reading of his character. Say what you might but first impressions do count. Look at it this way, any regular red-blooded joe would respond favourably to a light flirtation. Guys are built this way - we do like the occasional stroke to the ego. And if he has any sort of wit, he'd be able to counter with a sassy riposte.

Joe : Hello.
Paul : Hi, I'm Paul. You know, that's a really nice shirt.
Joe : Now, wouldn't you rather see me out of it?

Unfortunately not every guy's that quick ( or direct ) at verbal fencing. Usually you'd have to parry aimlessly a bit through the conversation ( a few detours over at his career and work life ) before you'd get at least a hint of humorous repartee. But you'd get there soon enough. Thankfully most of the guys hanging around bars are sensible fellas who don't mind having a lil something to talk about.

After all if you don't want to get picked up in the bar, buy some booze and hole up in your fucking mountain hermitage. Don't socialize if you're feeling antisocial. Of course be warned there are blackguards everywhere. If the guy in question can't take a compliment well and gives you an impolite rebuff, you can rest assured that he has got quite a chip on his shoulder.

Broad though those shoulders may be. Probably to accommodate the larger-than-life boulder of ego and insecurity perched on his shoulder.

No need to feel ashamed at the rejection though. Brush aside the glancing wound and call it an early save. After all, would you wanna date such an arrogant bastard?

Down Under

If you haven't heard, I'm down under in our neighbouring country soaking up the sterile mall air-conditioning. Strictly PG-13 fun though since I'm with my more conservative colleagues. When you get that itch to travel, you just gotta get somewhere.

And that includes the first bus I see going anywhere. Not much choice to be had though since the irritating schoolkids have already bought up every acceptable free-and-easy package possible relegating me to the Great Singapore Sale.

Not that I'm complaining.

So what do I do down in Singapore apart from indulging my favourite past-time? Sure, the prohibitive exchange rates might have curbed my excessive splurging a little but trust me to find real good bargains all the way from the posh high-street stores to the cheap bargain basement buys. Even picked up rose apples and mua chi to munch on while shopping.

Sights aplenty - and I'm not only talking about the boys. Our country could certainly learn a few tips from them on the refurbishment of colonial era buildings - rather than tearing them down willy-nilly to replace them with boring generic building blocks. And what's with paving paradise just to put up a parking lot? Haven't our construction guys learnt how to work with the natural topography yet?

But I'm not here to gripe about architecture. That's for my ISO to do.


Dinner and drinks...
Last time I was here, I did St James with my ISO so this time we spent the night trolling Clarke Quay till the wee hours. Yelling loudly in the bars, whispering sotto voce in the cafes - learnt for a fact that doctors can seriously stay up late chatting away like magpies till breakfast time.

Have to admit it was a little unsettling to realize that my colleagues and I actually enjoyed retro music in 54 far more than the thumpa thumpa house music. Then again I prefer music I can hum to. Fortunately there were plenty of youthful college students who evidently agreed - or I'd be forced to apply for a retirement home!

Oddly enough - in comparison to the last time - I found the hottie quotient dropping. I mean, I was once hypnotized by a set of amazing buns all the way down Orchard. Either I've become far more discerning ( not likely! ) or there's some secret National Service weekend rendezvouz where all the hotties have gathered together.

Hmm. Wonder what that's like.

Behind Convent Walls

Coming from an all-boys school, we've always lived in silent awe of the cloistered damsels hidden behind the high-walled convent a stone's throw away - girls with their spick and span blue pinafores dedicating themselves to lives of steadfast duty and simple virtues. Fey desirable creatures seemingly far beyond a mortal's touch.

Or at least that's how my infatuated classmates ( busy struggling with testosterone and adolescence ) saw them from across the way.

Sad to say we were all mistaken. Seriously, the things you learn on a weekend trip with an old classmate! The secrets spilled! The past revealed! Recently had news from a trusted source that not all convent girls are made of sugar, spice and everything nice.

Quite the opposite in fact.


Innocent boyish fun...
Sure the boys are made of snips, snails and puppy-dog tails. But although we brawled ( almost daily ) in school while keeping a close lookout for nefarious gang members who reputedly ran an extortion ring, what we had was certainly no match for the scorching scandals going on behind the convent walls.

From extreme girl-on-girl action ( think all-female gladiator arenas! ) to highly sophisticated prostitution rings!

Who knew! Even I found myself staring agog. And here we thought they were all lily-white pious novitiate nuns!

Of course I'm sure the straight boys would have enjoyed knowing this deliciously salacious fact years before. While our adventuresome sisters were busy experimenting with lesbianism and white slavery, over in our pious all-boys mission school the closest brush we ever had with homoerotica was a particularly comtemptible schoolmaster with a penchant for ball-breaking as punishment. Of course back then I was by far too innocent ( and foolish ) to enjoy the sight of my hunkier classmates wincing from having their crotches manhandled.

Ministry of UnSound

Seriously.

I don't dance. Though I tried my best to shuffle along to the beat as much as I could - especially when I got dragged to the retro dancefloor in the Ministry of Sound by my friends. I mean, twirling disco balls, psychedelic motifs and the ever-present glowing pavement lights. Hello, Studio 54 I know.

And oddly enough that was the name of the club.


After a night out at 54...
As if I didn't feel unsound enough :) Fortunately most of the youthful patrons shaking their derriere on the dancefloor ( not much better than my arthritic movements ) while waving their hands up in the air didn't seem to have done the same back in the 70s. Guess even tertiary kids can still enjoy the Dancing Queen.

Especially since they entered for free. Damn.

There was one guy with the cowboy hat who might have jived with Travolta way back in his hip-shaking heyday though. Heck judging by his jiggly paunch, he might even have grooved to Elvis. But he was a helluva enthusiastic dancer though! Kudos to him I say for proving that age hasn't deterred his happy feet.

Few extreme hotties to be seen. And even then I needed several shots of vodka to make them so. Are all the cute straight guys married? A possible bias but seems like gay men have gotten a serious monopoly on buff guys in super-tight tanks.

Guess I didn't read fag though since I even had one blowsy female patron shaking her overly endowed weapons of destruction right at me. Seriously. Closest encounter with boobies ever.

Female : Dance with me now or I'll suffocate you with my heaving bosom!
Paul : Uhh.. could I finish my vodka first?

And had her black skirt risen up any higher, I might have gotten an opportunity to see her vagina dentata. No doubt she was there to hook one of the many expat guys around but had to settle for me.

The Doctor and the Janitor

Gosh, I've just realized that I've turned into an elitist bitch.

Before this I'd have claimed almost shockingly egalitarian beliefs gleaned from my hippie-wannabe socialista parents who drummed such ideas into us from the crib. It was all about Liberté, Equalité, Fraternité ever since then with my childhood marked with occasional revolts and hunger strikes. All ending with my democratic parents ( their policies waver! ) throwing in their votes to silence our vociferous protests.

And then came adulthood where all my sadly battered ideals went crashing down the proverbial drain. You see, I just found out that my ex-colleague from some years back finally got engaged. Long since put on the shelf as the saying goes, a disappointed Ayesha had already started collecting cats and darning mittens for her lonely retirement - so you can imagine what joy I felt on finally wishing her well on her engagement!

Paul : Wonderful news. So who's the lucky man?
Ayesha : Well, he's the hospital janitor.
Paul : Oh. I wish you all the best.

All very civil, polite and friendly, I swear - felt just like a freaking politician kissing babies. Of course this is what I actually wanted to say.

Paul : Wonderful news. So who's the lucky man?
Ayesha : Yes, he's the hospital janitor.
Paul : You are fucking kidding me. Getting desperate trolling around in the sewers now?

It wasn't my finest moment, I'll admit.

Though I'll admit I wasn't objecting to his social class as much. Well maybe a smidgen. I was thinking more of a meeting of the minds. Or not in their case. Seriously. What would crop up in their conversation? Would they be forever talking abot mundane household matters only? Would they even be able to discuss certain topics and issues intellectually?


Widening differences?
Does it even matter?

Love between persons of different castes or social strata have been in the forefront of literature and poetry - and Bollywood dramas - since forever. Very few have gotten their happy endings unfortunately. Not all the sultry sweat-soaked Hindi songs can possibly bring them together - not without their share of tragedy.

Look at it seriously. Romantic idealists would peek through their rose-tinted glasses and claim that love conquers all. But does it really? We only catch the lovers in the hopeful beginning. After their whirlwind romance settles down, what would Cinderella and the Prince talk about apart from housecleaning chores and pet-husbandry? Would Sleeping Beauty - after a comatose century - be able to catch up with the latest IT trends even with her charming beau around? Would the Mermaid be able to enjoy sashimi and unagi as much as her air-breathing land-lubber husband?

And what would a doctor say to her janitor?

Maybe in their case, they can look past all that. So I'm hopeful for the both of them. Someone tell me I'm an elitist snob who has gotten things all wrong. Maybe - fingers crossed - they could actually make it work.

Maybe love can find a way.

Mutt Ado About Jonesing

I don't get enraged easily. Friends would say I'm usually a peaceable man. Though like the typical Scorpio, I do get passionate opinions about every issue under the sun, I rarely come to blows with anyone. Well, at least not since high school.

But the other day I almost saw red when someone dissed Indiana Jones. More like dismissed out of hand but it didn't stop my hands from clenching involuntarily.

Isn't it amazing how much prestige and allure a legend like Indiana Jones can hold for a boy growing up in that particular era?

Hell, all of us wanted to be Indy battling dastardly no-gooders to rescue the helpless damsel and find the hidden treasure. After all he's an everyday regular joe we can all easily emulate. No alien super strength. No radiation-gifted spidey powers. No mutant gene. And yet our very own Henry Jones Jr saves the world every once so often - with more than a few utterly human mishaps - armed only with his resourcefulness, his fedora hat and his trusty bull-whip.

Not to mention a self-deprecating smirk and a witty quip.

Don't you gotta love a man like that?

Well, step aside Tony Stark cause Indiana Jones is back. Sure, he's aged a bit in the latest installment Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. Paunch here. Wrinkle there. White hair all over. But that hasn't made him any less of a hero in my nostalgic eyes.

Though token asian kid Short Round made a much more effective foil in the Temple of Doom, I have no complaints about this film's junior sidekick, Mutt Williams ( played bye the sweetly adorable Shia Labeouf ). Especially since the surprise spoiler makes it quite clear who's going to carry off the famed fedora into the future.


Good God. I traded prep school in good old America for scrubby grave-digging in some third-rate banana republic!
Several things I'd do different though if I were Indy. Bigger bags for one - after all I'd be bargaining with the conniving locals for more lamps and carpets. Trading barbs with sadistic villains for another - sorry but I'd have them decapitated as soon as I possibly could ( unless they are cute and hunky of course - whereupon I shall use them as unwilling sex slaves! ).

And please, all that chasing clues but leaving a candy trail for the baddies? Come on, I'd leave nasty booby traps all over for them to find.

Evil villain : I've got you in my sights.
Paul : Take a step closer then.
Evil villain : You shall die and I - AAARRGGGHHH! Booby trap!
Paul : Gross. Didn't expect his torn arm to go flying like that. Blood stains are so hard to remove! Ooh, wait there's a diamond ring on his finger!

And I'd be sure to pocket some of that gold treasure.

Guess that would make me more evil Nazi villain than All-American hero of course. Eh, I never was that good anyway.

Students Sexy School

Look, I'm a gay man.

Pretty obvious if you've been following my last few posts. But I just had to reiterate that fact. You see, I don't see the unique licentious charm of schoolgirls in uniform - all those buttons, bows and white blouses. Peeking through the blue pinafore for a glimpse of lacy bra isn't going to turn me on. Despite the fact that some grown men do furtively fantasize - no matter how secretly - about such dirty scholarly fetishes.

Then again, give me the reverse and I could possibly drool just a lil. Gotta admit I have had the stray sexual thought when I see a particularly hunky kadult strolling by in school uniform. No doubt some passing fancy in school that I buried deep deep inside only to resurface now.


Don't you think we look hot in prep school uniforms?
But I don't blame the hot-looking teenage boys for trying to entice me with their sweaty muscles inside transparent white shirts. Nor trying to seduce me with their shockingly tight green uniform pants.

Because they are not to blame.

It's all in my perverted lil head.

At least I do admit that. Guess not everyone thinks the same since there are folks out there - specifically the National Islamic Students Association of Malaysia - who are out to declare the school uniform far too licentious for public viewing. According to Munirah Bahari - vice-president of said association, covering up according to Islamic precepts was important to fend off social ills, including rape, sexual harassment and even premarital sex - possibly leading to babies born out of wedlock and prostitution.

Sounds like I'm reading from the Victorian Times circa 1800s but I kid you not.

By reading from their entirely erroneous method of leaping to far-fetched conclusions, don't they know what comes next after covering up with a dresscode to avoid the things they mentioned? That leads to one brilliant mind suggesting placing the women out of harm's way by enforcing a strict curfew. Then another one would come up with the next option which is to have them all cloistered in a convent together.

Lo and behold. No more female students. No more Munirah Bahari as vice-president either. Haven't we all seen this happening before?

Brava, I say.

Sad to note that a number of our students these days are just as close-minded as I imagined. Just exactly what asinine rubbish is being taught to them! Having such a statement coming from a myopic female student herself, I find myself astonished not only by the fact that she said - but also why she hasn't been lynched by half the independent-minded females I know. Come on, what happened to blaming the predatory paedophilic-minded offender? Don't point the finger at the victim dammit. Rape's never the fault of the victim.

I wish they'd just remember that.

And stop blaming the dress.

Getting over Barnes

Forget what I said about being independent.

If a prince charming ( who incidentally looked like Ben Barnes ) asked me to stay in his fairytale kingdom with the minotaurs and the dwarves, I am so dropping all my lofty ambitions to chase this particular happily-ever-after. Need you even ask?

That wasn't the reply given by Susan Pevensie. Seriously tough gal with impossible standards, I'd say.


Disregard the dwarf. Focus on the prince.
The guy is smokin' hawt ( even in tights! ). The guy is chivalrous. The guy is a prince. What more could a upper-class Brit lassie want? Sure, obviously staying in the Kingdom of Narnia without make-up and perfumes would be intolerable. Let's not forget cleaning after the numerous centaurs and minotaurs leaving their... daily contributions on the castle floor. And I guess regular armed battles in muddy fields must be hell on the embroidered silk gowns.

Of course if I were Queen, I'd have the miserably muddied forest creatures a.k.a. the Talking Beasts sent out to the farm to work. Would be little need for a restive army after my sheer ruthlessness in savagely butchering all my enemies on the spot with a blunt axe ( rather than chatting endlessly about chivalry and nobility ) would send the rest of them cowering in the shadows. Can't do much about the decidedly poor retail experience over in Narnia but Aslan can always transport some designers over with his magical portals. After all, lowly pirates ( i.e. Telmarines ) sneaked over, I'm sure Manolos can do so too.

And yes, I did catch the movie Prince Caspian today with Jaunty Jared and Lanky Lex. Suggested a cosy threesome in the cinema but anything more than popcorn and movies would have gone over poorly with the Victorian prudesome. :P Witness their appalled faces when I mentioned Spin the Bottle during dinner later.

What can I say about the movie? The kids from the previous film are called in to help save their beleguered Narnia yet again - this time from a race of wicked overlords. It was alright for a rainy evening. Certainly different from the more sedate book I remembered reading in primary - yet I didn't find much to complain since most of the details of the Chronicles of Narnia have seriously faded with time. All I can recall are the High Kings and Queens. The rest of the books have congealed into a mess of silver chairs, horses and flying ships.

Of course we all dished about the movie after - but the topic inevitably veered to our friends since we had so much more than that to talk about, especially with our last outing being full of alcohol, skanks and laptops.

Bad Behaviour

I've never been all that big with confessions. Always thought the confessional a futile effort - blabbing about the sins I've committed, pretending that I've actually repented and then getting sent away with a couple of hail marys for spiritual atonement.

But despite the fact that I've never been much of a saint, the fundamentals and principles of being a goodfella has been relentlessly drummed into my head since infancy through years of moral education and bits of catechism. So yes, I do know that being good is all about. Though I usually fall short of achieving said goal. But hey, at least I'm trying.

Can't say the same for all I know though. After all I hear stories from all over during my own confessionals - and for some, I think the line between right and wrong starts getting a tad blurry. Especially when it comes to relationships.

Just the other day Jaunty Jared related this true-life urban legend - the crazy on-off sado-masochistic relationship between his colleague, Kiki and her ex-fiancee. Seems like Kiki comes weepy-wailing every so often about that nasty fella of hers.

During their far from amicable breakup, said guy treated Kiki badly calling her a bleeding parasite leeching onto him ( amongst other uncomplimentary nicknames ) and yet she returns to him time and again. Far from being the only freak in this painful relationship, the ex-fiancee isn't that much better. Oddly enough after calling her derogatory names - and despite the fact that they did actually split up after, he continues to shower her with extravagant gifts, paid vacation trips and even pays her credit card bills.

Rather than refuse this rather inappropriate show of (in)affection, Kiki takes this particular homage in stride - and continues sending her bills to her ex for payment. Rather like the leech he rightfully calls her. So much for women's lib and empowerment.

Man : You are a scheming bitch-slut.
Kiki : How can you call me that after all I've done for you! I am.. heartbroken.
Man : Useless parasitic leech.
Kiki : Don't say such mean things to me please. Boo hoo.... oh yeah, here's my monthly credit card bill.
Man : Okay. Will pay it later. Ummm, cheap skank.

Interesting dysfunctional relationship. Bet someone could do a case study on it. Not sure how Kiki accepts such abuse on a daily basis.


Ooh yeah step on me again. Then buy me a trip to Bali.
Feel like shaking the girl. As much as I'd like to blame the sadistic fella, he'd have to share some blame with idiotic Kiki. Far from tone of the gentle father confessors who'd counsel with sweet platitudes, I'm more the brimstone-and-fire preacher of olde!

Here's what I have to tell Kiki. Are you some cheap ho without a shred of dignity and pride? Having a sugar daddy around to pay your bills ( despite the fact that he belittles you by calling you names ) is wonderful but shouldn't it be time you found your own way in the world rather than depend solely on the kindness of relative strangers? Didn't your mama teach you not to be thus beholden hoping to be handed favours all the time?

Come on, there has to be a line drawn somewhere. I know you don't look a gift horse in the mouth ( especially if it's an abusive ex ) but that certainly doesn't give you the rights to whack the horse again and again for goodies to spill. It's not a fucking piñata.

Make a clean break and leave dammit. And no parting gifts dammit. Bet even the priest in the confessional box would agree to my advice. Or if you're okay with being a ho, then suck it up and cry no more tears.

Then again, it could be the perfect symbiotic relationship. Certainly wouldn't want either defective to be inflicted on the rest of the world. Hmmm.. guess sometimes God actually does listen in.

Icons of Style

Personal style.

Have friends I've actually pegged with certain looks - for example Jaunty Jared with his snazzy psychedelic printed 70s shirts and Zany Zinedine with his chapeau fetish.

Never though that I'd actually have something approaching a signature look though. Thought I usually roll out of bed, throw on whatever's on the top of the cabinet and it's off I go. Usually to work hence my button-down shirts and such. Seems I was wrong though since my ISO called me up on it when we strolled by a men's store today.

My ISO : Hey, that sweater is so you.
Paul : What? It's so me!?
My ISO : Seriously. Preppy. Stripes. Gray-blues. So you. I call it Chandler-Meets-Nate-Archibald.
Paul : That's not too bad.
My ISO : I meant a bad version of that pairing.
Paul : Bitch. You are so paying for that sweater if it suits me.

Would have been insulted that he'd pegged me so easily but I couldn't blame him though. Especially after strolling in for a random peek and realizing that I actually liked the cashmere sweater on the mannequin - and it certainly suited me. Damn.


Prep chic - that's me, Nate Archibald.
Paul is just a cheap pretender.
After running through an inventory of my wardrobe, I've come to realize that apart from a light smattering of reds and pinks in the mix, the majority of my button-down shirts and striped sweaters are in sedate blues and grays. And judging from the pants hanging in my wardrobe, I'm obviously a conservative Dockers kinda guy.

Wonder whether that says something about me.

Guess the leather pants and hawaiian shirt hidden deep in my closet is gonna stay in the bottom drawer for a while longer.

BTW obviously I did purchase the sweater.

Fever Dreams

Guess alcohol isn't the only thing that makes us see things.

A lil bit of fever can do the same. Just this afternoon, I suddenly developed a touch of high temperature whether fahrenheit or centigrade - not sure what aggravated it. Blame it on a pyrexia of unknown origin. As usual I eschewed pharmacological treatment and started on a regime of fluids and fruits.


Certainly not high enough to cause delirium though I kinda got suspicious when guys I'd never normally go for start looking somewhat hawt. No doubt my sexual deprivation lately played a part.

Yet when Winsome Wandell walked in, I felt hot all over. Fever - I'm afire, fever yea I burn forsooth! Shivered when I caught his meltingly dark almond eyes gazing at me. Even developed a trickle of sweat that went down my back.

Still lucid enough to call for help, I immediately messaged Laidback Larry and Statuesque Sarah. After all they could help restrain me if I went a tad crazy from my fever hallucinations and propositioned poor Wandell..

Paul : Must be the fever but suddenly Wandell looks doable. Hell, I'd jump him right there on the operating table if I could.
Sarah : Dang the fever. It's causing you to see things. Stay away!

Real thankful for that cold slap of reality - as I was just this close to helping him retrieve the ringing cellphone in his pants. And I'm never that helpful.


Hell, I'm burning up!
But the immediate reply from Larry surprised me.

Larry : he's actually okay la. See, his arms are pretty big under those scrubs.
Paul : Gotta check it out when I stalk the changing rooms then.
Larry : Well maybe not underwear model type but maybe old-fashioned scuba trunks.
Paul : Not a thong guy then?

Dang. Who knew. Straight guys can still surprise me.

Fever dreams. Maybe I should reach for some paracetamol.

Meek Girls

A few weeks before my 12th birthday, I stood at the airport with ticket clutched in hand waking around looking for the ticketing counter in trepidation. Certainly not my first trip away from home ( what with my parents who love to travel ) but it was certainly the first solo flight. Even though it was barely more than an internal route. My backpack was filled to the brim with the essentials that I'd need - probably enough to survive a five day nuclear fallout come to think about it. Not sure whether I was more scared of flying off or being left behind.

Though I was frightened to death, I didn't shed a tear.

Which is more than I can say for Milicent Meek.

You see, I had late drinks with Lissome Lorelei and her duenna - who actually turned out to be far from the fearful dragon I'd imagined and more the funky mama she'd described to me. Lorelei had already made earlier plans to meet with her classmate, Milicent after our drinking session but I managed to detain her for another brief half hour to catch up on her increasingly scandalous sexploits. Turns out she's been gallivanting with far too many gay men to create any!

Definitely a mistake keeping her though since judging by the increasing volume of messages she sent, Milicent Meek was growing more hysterical by the minute as she waited.

Milicent : I ... I... I... am alone in this cafe. The waiters are telling me to leave. What do I do? Boo hoo hoo.

Seriously. The gal almost burst into tears while waiting alone in a cafe. Lest you think this lil orphan annie was left abandoned in a disreputable diner in the seedy side of town with a bunch of leering roughnecks and drooling druggies, let me remind you that she was in a popular coffee express in a mall just past closing hours. Not that she was actually alone with the bustling shoppers hurrying by with their last-minute purchases. And let's not forget the harried waiters eyeing her table, trying to hurry her away.

And she isn't 12.


Hullooo.... am I all alone here?
Yet I could hear her barely able to contain her tears as she cried for her saviour to arrive.

If we'd been another five minutes late, no doubt we'd find her a screaming doddering wreck frothing at the mouth while huddled terrified in a dark corner.

Boy, guess they don't make girls like they used to.

An Army of One

No man is an island.

We all need our friends after all.

Though I'll admit we do have friends for different reasons sometimes. For instance, I'd go to Lanky Lex if I needed an hour long discussion about God - or in his case, the fact that God actually doesn't exist. I'd go to Zany Zinedine if I needed a patterned scarf from Burberry's - or if I'd gone crazy on a shopping spree - a Ghost chair or two.


Oops... I did it again.
But if I'd accidentally killed someone ( not that unlikely judging by my insanely murderous mood the past few weeks ) and desperately needed to hide the corpse, I know of only one person to call. It's not even Charming Calvin though I adore the fella. Unfortunately he has too much of a righteous goody-two-shoes streak in him that I figure he'd be far too horrified initially to react. And probably a tad judgemental as well.

Paul : I killed someone.
Calvin : OMG.
Paul : The body's in the boot right now.
Calvin : OMG.
Paul : We need to hide the body.
Calvin : OMG. We are so gonna get arrested.

No, he wouldn't be the first number I'd call. Wouldn't want that wicked deed on his conscience. I'd probably buzz my ISO first.

Paul : I killed someone.
My ISO : Let me get the shovels.

Odd to finally realize today that the only guy I'd trust to carry the extra shovel would be my morally bankrupt ISO. Probably wouldn't blink an eye if I told him that I'd stabbed someone repeatedly with a rusty fork after an argument - since he'd probably have encountered such sinfully homicidal fantasies as well.

Reason enough that I smiled when I saw this sequence on the telly.



So I sent him a message.

Paul : With friends like you, who needs an army.
My ISO : Same to ya. Though I'd keep the sharp implements away from you. You are dangerous with knives.

Awww. Despite being a lying, cheating bastard, guess I don't hate him as much anymore. Fortunately at this nostalgic moment, my ISO is hundreds of miles away ( probably gorging on dim sum at Maxim's ) or I'd be far too tempted to follow through with the Chinese Exemption.

1 2 3 Paged

Time I did a meme. A slew of them came by after all. This one's kinda cute though. All you gotta do is :

Pick up the nearest book
Turn to page 123
Find the 5th sentence
Post it up in a blog

Simple enough - especially since I already have piles of books all over the place. Right on the top of the closest pile by the nightstand, I already have one well-thumbed paperback flipped open! Swear I never can find my bookmarks when I need one.

Well the 5th sentence I have here sounds ominous enough.

"I don't have Mr Grady's nose for evil, I'm afraid."

It's from Kelley Armstrong's paranormal fantasy No Humans Involved so you can imagine necromancers, werewolves and witches abound. Bet a few of them would come in handy right now in Sichuan County, China to help with the post-quake rubble.


No superpowers but I can still lend a hand to those in need!
Proof that cute boys do have hearts.

Pride and Prejudice

Obviously my wicked reputation precedes me.

Or maybe it's just my avidly ogling eyes - though I seriously doubt it. Whatever it was, when I walked into the on-call room this evening, I found McWacky in a state of undress. Seems like the sultry weather outside had forced him to abandon his clothes in a freakin hurry. Now now... don't get too excited. I certainly wasn't.

Firstly, it's McWacky. Like ... huh? Let's be honest here - McWacky's built like a skinny stringbean straight out of the cruel depths of some wartorn, starving third world nation - certainly no shiny buffed-up Chris Evans for me to drool over.

Secondly. It's only his shirt off. And it was certainly not some cheap come-on.


At least give me something to ogle - like this fella!
Certainly see no reason for our freakish McWacky to screech like a defiled Victorian virgin caught en déshabillé to reach for the blankets to cover up in a hurry. Probably would have clung desperately to the chandeliers - if we had them.

Gobsmacked yet again by his unpredictable reaction, I was caught between the sudden urge to laugh in derision - or to bitch-slap him repeatedly. Come on, I might be a lusty raging perv ( and seriously sex-deprived ) but even I have my standards! Swear I didn't even ogle for a second! Hell, I'd have told our capricious friend to keep his clothes on if he hadn't gotten to it first. :P

Ready to Rumble

Today the earth literally moved for Charming Calvin. Right under his feet.


Unfortunately I wasn't the cause of it. Swear not even I could make the earth shudder at a magnitude of 7.8 on the Richter scale. Hell, I'm just not that good. But Mother Nature certainly can make things rumble and she did so just this afternoon in Sichuan Province, China.

Even hundreds of miles away in the northern capital of Beijing, Calvin felt the resultant tremors with the rest of his panicked colleagues who all rushed out of their vulnerable glass-and-metal skyscraper to hurry haphazardly to the open areas below. That - and he sent an urgent message to me.

So how would you reply in the event of an earthquake? I know sentimental folks would sent weepy mushy mawkishness across the bandwidth but I told him to head towards an open area far from any falling debris - and if not, to hide under a sturdy table or doorway. Then I started googling for precautionary measures to take in the unlikely event of an earthquake.


Would hiding in a bathtub help?
Hell if I ever knew all this. We're fortunate enough to live in the Malaysian peninsula - situated on the relatively stable Sunda Shelf a hairsbreadth away from the infamous Pacific Ring of Fire - hence the relative lack of natural calamities such as earthquakes and volcanoes. Turns out I was actually paying attention during those interminably dull geography lessons.

Those mild tremors felt by us in the past few years are nothing in comparison to those felt right up close at the epicentre.

Faced with such an unexpected catastrophe, I'd probably allow myself a moment to start screaming hysterically for a brief second ( maybe two ) before ruthlessly slapping myself alert to start barking orders. Seriously, I'm a man of action. I don't do wailing endlessly like an idiot wringing my hands helplessly - while a huge chunk of brick and mortar falls unerringly towards me. And that's if the earth doesn't crack open to swallow me.

Horrifying thought. There's rumour that another slight tremor might follow tonight so here's a quick prayer to the folks over there hoping that they make it through alright.

Crouching Tigress, Hidden Witch

Usually one to play fair, Mother Nature has a way of offering sufficient prior warning ( or at least a sly hint ) when it comes to the dark and dangerous - especially when it comes to the plant kingdom. From afar, elegant long-stemmed roses are pretty enough with their velvety blooms and distinctive fragrance - but step a lil closer and you'd be sure to take heed of the prickly thorns that surround them. Despite their seeming fragility, it's quite obvious that roses are blooms you don't trifle with. Easy enough warning to keep us away lest we get hurt.

But sometimes Mother Nature likes to throw a curveball. Despite the name, the noxious weed poison ivy appears relatively benign. Almost deceptively harmless with its shiny leaves of three with berries of white. You'd never quite believe that such a common lil country weed could cause such apocalyptic mayhem to the vulnerable immune system.

Certainly a much more evolved, far more dangerous villain if you ask me. Of course we can draw our own parallels in the real world amongst us.


Paul and Jared have a chat
You see, Jaunty Jared - a recently converted devotee of Gossip Girl or what I'm starting to call the Gos 'Mos - has developed a healthy fear of resident bitch Blair Waldorf. Or at least that's what he confided to me over laksa and pie tees during tea ( they really have to coin a name for late lunches! ).

I also confirmed that he has a cute tight tush but that's something else entirely.

Jared : But she's a bitch!
Paul : So? I heart Blair Waldorf!
Jared : But she's a bitch!
Paul : Tell me something I didn't know. Honestly, I'd rather have a straight-up biatch Blair Waldorf rather than a crouching tigress, hidden witch like lying, stealing two-faced social climbing Jenny Humphrey.

I am an opinionated sort. Certainly not a surprise.

I'll admit I like bitches - at least those who are pretty open and honest about it. Like the prickly rose, that nasty mean-girl attitude is right out there in the open so you know not to mess around without chink-free fire-proof armour. See that queen bee with her coterie of plastics in high school - don't cross her or learn the consequences. So that makes her ineffectually harmless. You don't go near an open flame without getting burnt after all.

But it's the sweet-faced Jenny Humphrey ingenues with the hidden cruel intentions that you gotta watch for. Or even the seemingly harmless fella with the religious turban and the goatee combo. Hell, the more pious they look, the more suspicious I get. You never can tell what's hidden behind that deceptively innocent, butter-can't-melt facade. Like the poison ivy, you never quite know for sure till you've gotten stung. And boy, it hurts like hell.

Hurts all the more when you're ill-prepared to deal with the unexpected stab-in-the-back.

So which would you rather - the rose or the ivy?

Java Me

I'll admit that i used to be a caffeine addict.

There was a time when I downed enough java to help support a struggling coffee-bean growing industry in a small third world island nation. These days - after my semi-successful coffee embargo - I limit myself to a cup or two a day. Though I do fall off the wagon every now and then - especially when I'm staring sleepy and bleary-eyed at the blurring monitor at 4 in the morning. Nothing like a quick pick-me-up like a deliciously brewed cup of hot coffee.

Or two. Or three.

Even if I'm forced to subsist on the overly sugary, sadly inferior 3-in-1 sachets that are stuffed in our pantry cabinets at work. Certainly no coffee snob with filters and French presses stuffed in my backpack but the instant sachets are an insult to my delicate sensibilities. I'll admit to needing at least a hint of the sultry Amazon in my beans - rather than the faint whiff of lab chemicals in the sachets.

But beggars can't be choosers.


That ain't what I ordered.
What do I have to do to get my coffee here?
Unfortunately even the shockingly ubiquitous Starbucks hasn't seen fit to open its doors over in the general hospital ( at least a makeshift stand dammit! ). Not sure why though since it's common knowledge that medical staff - doctors, nurses and all - are all obsessed caffeine addicts who consume the black stuff by the gallons. Don't they know that their tables would be forever crammed with drained, insomniac physicians with laptops and PDAs in tow?

And in between patients, I could carry on a flirtation with the cute barista.

Barista : Would that be a venti for you?
Paul : Why? Think I can't swallow something that size?

Used to chug expresso shots back in medical school cramming over dull-duller-dullest textbooks but I think I'm already hyper enough without an overdose of caffeine. Anyway these days I need my java fix with at least a pinch of sugar. Hence my regular caffe mocha.

Some folks say that the type of coffee you drink tells a lot about a person. Or at least that's what my ISO has heard.

Paul : Then what am I?
My ISO : An anal-retentive control freak?
Paul : And you can tell that from my cup of grande caffe mocha with whipped cream and cinnamon sprinkles on top?
My ISO : Nah, that's because I know you - not because I read coffee beans.
Paul : Well my psychic powers tell me that delicate girly lil cup of caffe latte is so not you.
My ISO : But it has a phallic cinnamon stick.

If I recall, Charming Calvin takes his poison in the form of a light, frothy frappucino.

Lickin Lando

Sexual deprivation can certainly drive a person up the wall. Makes a reasonable sorta fella start to thinking all sorts of nasty sexual fantasies over the most innocuous matters.

Makes ya see things that ain't there, I swear.

Even when it comes to my poor, innocent - and newly married - friend. This delicious lil mocha-skinned Orlando Bloom lookalike with the bashful smile and the puppy-dog brown eyes. Known him for a while and I'll admit to the fleeting fantasy of me playing grab-ass and wrestling him in the changing rooms. Nothing too substantial though.

Of course once sexual deprivation hits like a sweltering summer heat wave, anything fleeting starts becoming all too real. And far too persistent to be dismissed.

Over a dining table griping about his wife, just mild teasing humour, Lando started telling us stories about the minor adjustments after saying the sweet I dos. Pledging commitment's easy enough but sharing a home takes some compromise.

Lando : Life's certainly different these day! Came home all hot and sweaty after a football game. Then she complains about the sweat stink.
Paul : Damn. Well I never would complain about a hot sweaty guy after football.

Damn. Newly married wives can be picky. Sorry but I'd have better uses for my wayward tongue than to complain.


Come lick my sweat!
Reason being.... hell, I'd be leaping on him to lick off the sweat. And in my current sexually deprived state, I'd probably lick the mud and grime off too. Boy was just sitting there innocently stirring his coffee and there I was, thinking of munching on his nips whlie he writhed helplessly on the table. Come on, hot sweaty guy after football? I'd be all over his cleats in seconds. The heavily sex-soaked porn vision was so high-definition clear I could practically taste his salty sweat on my tongue.

Of course I didn't tell him that. I doubt Lando would wanna know more of my kinky alternative sexual mores than he needs to. Would probably scare the poor fella off.

Then again, bet he has an inkling about my dirty thoughts though since he smiled when he saw my drooling tongue. Fortunately for the sake of his unimpeachable virtue - and his budding heterosexuality, there was an unappreciative audience around so I refrained from falling over to bite his neck.

Gosh.

Sloppy Joes

I'm far from the reigning fashion maven.

Heck, I usually throw on whatever's lying on top of the clothes heap - meaning anything recent - and then leave it to sheer pure luck that the clothes actually match. Bad gay man, I know! Sure I know the branded stuff but I'm usually far too lazy ( and too pressed for time ) to pose in the mirror for hours before deciding. Hence I do commit the occasional sartorial faux pas - especially when I'm rushing out the door without pausing by the hallway mirror to check out my reflection!

And it's usually far too dark out ( that early in the morning! ) for me to notice that my socks don't match as well :) Thank God for leather half-boots.

But I still try my best - despite the fact that I look like a troll in most ensembles - to at least look presentable.


The fashion police - always on the lookout!
Obviously not all of us think the same. Especially doctors. Seriously, forget about the pretty people in blue scrubs over at Seattle Grace. Pure commercialism.

Honestly, doctors have got to be the sloppiest joes around - outside of work that is. One even had the audacity to crow about it at work today and had me gaping in astonishment.

Spin-dried Sally : Nah, when you see me outside at the malls, I'm usually in my worst tee, shorts and some slippers. Just like every other amah going to the morning market.
Paul : Uh. How lovely. How egalitarian.
Spin-dried Sally : I've even had patients come up to me and call me by name.
Paul : With you dressed up to the nines? Did they run screaming from the scene of the crime?
Spin-dried Sally : What crime?
Paul : The crime against fashion.

Brazenly and boldly, Spin-dried Sally proclaimed to the world that she stalked the town in her rattiest shorts and her crappiest tee. Think fraying threads, sloppy multi-coloured food blobs and unsightly holes. Curiously it seems almost a point of pride for her to strut unabashedly about the streets in her absolute Sunday worst.

And like these girls who erroneously believe that sweat au naturale is the equivalent of a quick slap of blusher on their pallid cheeks, absolutely no make-up for Sally.

Wonder what she does with her clothing allowance, honestly.

Much to the delight of some, the introduction of casual fridays in workplaces has certainly revolutionized our dress codes - but I doubt running around in kitchen rags can be de rigueur even in these informal bourgeouis days. Being casual is perfectly alright but there has to be a line drawn somewhere to avoid sheer carelessness. There's comfort - and then there's slovenly. Look, I'm not expecting anyone to sashay through the local night market in a glittering ballgown and stiletto heels - but between strict black tie and frayed denim shorts, I'm sure we can all strike a happy compromise.

And we won't talk about our embarassing fashion misdemeanours in public.

Why I Don't Want to be a Girl

Actually heard one of my straight guy mates loudly proclaim that he'd prefer to have boobs and tits. An odd wish, I'd say. Then he turned to me - probably thinking erroneously that I'd have similar ambitions as a homosexual fella.

Eh?

Don't make the mistake of thinking just because I'm gay that I'd want to hand in my penis ( which I adore btw ) for exchange. Wouldn't be gay if I didn't love it now, would I?

And seriously, girls, I love ya. Really I do. But to be a girl?

Sure you have the fabulous dresses, the slinky heels and the drooling attention of the hottest straight men to strut down the corridors ( bloody hell!! ) but I still wouldn't give up my precious manhood to join the estrogen club. We boys might be prone to the occasional testosterone surge that morphs us into imbecilic sex pervs who attempt stupid stunts for attention but hey, I still wouldn't dare walk a mile in a girl's Jimmy Choos.

Let me count the ways.

Parental and societal expectations to act like a virginal abbess just released from seclusion in the nunnery? Cloistered in a convent begging for permission to even leave? Toe the line, keep my voice down and play the part of the submissive hausfrau to some hairy MCP scratching his balls while burping beer? What is up with that? I don't think I could do that for long without reaching for the proverbial hacking knife. Then again, try flexing some muscle and you come off being a ball-breaking leather bitch - and possibly scare off most of your potential suitors.


You kidding me? Give this all up!?
Wear a slinky dress - and be automatically branded a slut. And worst of all, be judged by your female peers as well. And you know there ain't nothing more chillingly vicious than a bunch of mean teen queens passing judgement! So you can imagine how much ... nicer they get when age - and cellulite - finally catches up with them.

Sure the attention from the straight guys is certainly a welcome bonus. Would be nice to be offered a free drink at the bar once in a while - and not have to crack my aching head thinking of the perfect come-on. Let's not even talk about being summarily rejected countless times by the neighbourhood hottie.

But the occasional uncivilized catcalls and leering grins you girls receive from time to time certainly isn't welcome. Heard more than a few seemingly complimentary wolf whistles when a lonesome fashionista saunters down the street - and usually you see them freeze a little. Try being that alone and vulnerable - then you'd know why the singleton usually rushes off as fast as her towering Manolos can take her.

And this I gotta say... ouch! Monthly cramps. A lil hot water bottle just won't be enough. Think I'd have to take a chill pill - and possibly a few days off with shots of morphine - to contend with the miseries that come every month. Sorry but no can do.

So I'm glad to be a boy.

The Rear Window

So much cooler saying the rear window rather than the front window with the pseudo one foot squared balcony.

But I do have a neighbour.

You see like every good neighbour with an extra-large bank of windows, we actually spy on each other. L.B. Jefferies would have been proud.

From what I can tell from my incessant voyeurism ( no binoculars though ), I know that Window Boy is single, takes care of his ailing dad and works in construction. We both share similarly erratic hours so we only see each other in the few moments before we leave for work. Do the usual nod of greeting. Usually he gets up to twist his arms to get the kinks out while gazing at the indigo morning sky - even as I'm flipping through the radio channels for the morning news while the car gets the obligatory warm-up before zooming off for work.


Rear window!
Only late in the night those few hours before sleep that I manage to catch him at his window again. Boy lives in a spartan room with bare essentials - a far cry from my own. Have't caught him striking a spartan pose yet - though I admit I'm curious what lifting bricks has done for him. Window Boy doesn't seem to have much of a hobby though since I usually see him walking aimlessly around the room without any seeming purpose.

Funny how people form the most erroneous impressions from a glance at the window though.

Sees me in my room busy tapping through my laptop while glancing through the several open books on my bed. While he was thinking I'm the overworked idiot savante busy searching for the cure to the common cold, I'm probably concentrating on an imaginary life where I save the world by choosing to boff either Chris Evans or Zac Efron. Hard choices to make.

Certainly a disillusionment for Window Boy.

Thrill of the Hunt

Men are primarily hunters.

Back in the good olde days when prehistoric monsters roamed the earth, alpha males had to survive by flexing their testosterone - keeping a watchful eye over their clan to the best of their ability by wit or guile.

Not to mention ensuring their precious progeny survives the turmoil of the hostile environment. So here their choice of mate comes to play. Men had to find the perfect mate - not just any runaway cavewoman who hunched on by in her straggly loincloth. Unfortunately in those times where men still lived hundreds of miles apart - and the population probably numbered less than a few thousands, the choice was slim pickings. You just bashed the closest wandering babe and dragged her home - then prayed really hard to some heathen gods it wasn't your sister or worst, your mother.

Without make-up or nair, they all likely looked the same.

Despite the fact that men have stood up to listen to Ipods, things haven't changed all that much since then - and those primal survival instincts haven't faded away. Reason enough that men do tend to stray in search of greener pastures, fertile ground and younger mates.


Time to move on...
Despite having better taste in cave paintings, gay men aren't all that much different. Worse in fact when you have two hunters cooped up in the same cave - both out to score with the new younger meat. After all, there's always younger, leaner, sleeker prey leaping gaily around the pastures.

Sad fact - I can count on my hand the number of gay men I know who have stayed in the same relationship for more than five years. Not sure how we're ever gonna plan homo dinner parties at this rate! Gotten so inured with the recurring news of breakups that I hardly batted an eye when I heard that one of my friends had just broken it off with his boyfriend. I'd have been more surprised to hear of a commitment ceremony!

Isn't that sad? And you wonder why I'm cynical.

Blair Bitch Project

My parents encouraged me to speak my mind even as a kid but for years, I somehow lacked the self-confidence. Took me a while, I'll admit before I dared even utter a single word of disparagement when it came to authority. Certainly not the Asian way to question our elders.

These days, I can't seem to shut up.

Seems like innate bashfulness is an inherited trait in my family since my poor niece seems to suffer from the same. Though Chatty Carmen might be a roaring tiger at home living without fear of reprisals, she seems a far different sort out of doors - fading before my eyes into a timid, bashful wallflower who clings to her mama's hand.

Very surprising. Yet one of the reasons why her mother's afraid of letting her enroll in an all-girls school.


We're not mean! We're really nice girls!
Not sure if my sister-in-law is speaking from bitter experience of course but supposedly an all-girls school is far too exacting and hostile an environment for a fragile blossom like Chatty Carmen - who'd be presumably crushed to a pulp by the prickly elitist roses. Though I know from hearsay that convents aren't exactly friendly to quirky outsiders - after all, witness the mean girls in Constance Billard - I've always thought that an all-girls produced better graduates.

Don't take my word for it. May be hopelessly biased though since most of the girls I know are the products of all-girl convents from Lissome Lorelei to Shameless Shalom. Even my fiercely independent mother - and my grandma come to think of it. Wouldn't even think twice about sending my hypothetical daughter to a single-sex institution of learning.


Wait! Did you hear that? There's a catfight going on next door!
Never had all that much problems in an all-boys as well - despite the fact that Shalom insists it's a fertile breeding ground for homosexuals. I contend that it's made us far more confident individuals willing to step out in the light.

But what about the innate all-girl backbiting / bitching that we hear so much about? Won't deny that it could be detrimental to a young girl's fragile adolescent psyche to be exposed to the malicious taunts of the mean girl crowd but ... hell, I'd have to prepare my daughter for all that if I ever had one ( though I still prefer the relatively less complex boy-child ). I'm sure my gal Blair - coincidentally - would be able to cope just fine.

Calvin : Whoa. Where is Blair going?
Paul : Like it? Ordered it specially from Paris - note the detailed stitching.
Calvin : Are you crazy? Do you know how much it costs! It's only her school uniform!
Paul : Please. It's her designer battle armour for her social campaign to win over the A-list convent girls. Don't forget her chi chi beribboned Adrien Vincente hairband. Very prep girl chic.
Calvin : OMG. What kind of values are you teaching her?
Paul : Dress like a handmaiden and expect to be treated like one?
Calvin : What is she reading? Is she prepping for her exams?
Paul : Nope. Just some sharp ripostes to be used during close encounters with the junior high bitches. I added some diabolical contingency plans as well.
Calvin : My God. Where is she going?
Paul : To school?

Come on, designer schoolwear, slick hairbands and the handbook of snarky one-liners compiled by yours truly? I guarantee Queen Bee status at least in six months.

Can you tell I'll be one of those crazy over-achiever parents? Poor Blair's gonna be under so much pressure. See what I mean by saying that a boy is far less complicated?

All about Politicking

Politics.

Don't worry, this isn't going to be a rant only about politics. Gonna be about Big Bicep Barry and politics.

You see, I've always thought of him as a perfect candidate for election. Not only does he come from a stable, well-to-do family with good connections, he's eminently presentable and extremely gregarious even in a crowd of strangers. Me, I get tongue-tied but Barry, he'd be out schmoozing, working the crowd with his agreeable hail-fellow-well-met demeanour.


Going all the way for the constituents...
And he does that schmoozing - fluently rattling on about the issues of the day - importantly enough in all three of our main languages. Important enough when you have some of our MPs desperately struggling to articulate their points in sadly broken Bahasa. Makes you wonder exactly what they were doing back on the school bench!

And let's not forget his looks. It's the kind of handsome, square-jawed looks that girlie sophomores swoon over - and yet the trustworthy sort that the arthritic grannies don't fear but depend on to play the hero rescuing that itinerant kitty up in the tree. Looks great on an election poster, I swear.

Of coure Barry looks better wrapped around a pole - especially with his recent tropical island tan - but he ain't never gonna believe me on that.

Paul : Picture this. Big Bicep Barry - from struggling beach bum stall operator to aspiring member of parliament.
Barry : Me run for elections? You must be joking.
Paul : Why not? You already have half the street in your pocket. That would be hundred families at the least. All honest stall operators out to make a living, rallying against increasing rents and inflation. Imagine that!
Barry : They'd probably run after me with pitchforks for not delivering on my promises.
Paul : You can't be worse than a rich kid with a handy camera phone.
Barry : Nah, I can't be the crooked type. You bet there's always those nasty, underhanded deals and politicking going on in parliament.
Paul : But that's where I come in.

Seriously. I managed well enough in the backstabbing politics in high school. Can't you already see me as the savvy yet shady political campaign manager?

No worries. There's four years to go - and I'm a really persuasive speaker.