From Sin City to Pleasantville

I don't think I'm naive.

Cynical fella that I am, lately it seems as if I'm always searching for an ulterior motive behind every move - despite the fact that there's generally none! Though I always seem to be hunting for bogeymen behind every closed door, I swear that doesn't stem from the fact that I had a bitterly scarred, untrusting childhood filled with wicked enemies at every corner. Far from that, I think I had a particularly idyllic life.

Though certainly not as charmed a life as some I know.


Watching the world go by?
Just one day with a charter member of the Calvinettes Steel - and I feel like I've just crawled out from the deepest crannies of the dirty, gritty tenements of Sin City only to stumble inadvertently onto the bubble-gum nostalgic streets and avenues of Pleasantville. Sunshiney sweet yet straight and solid like the Steel she's named after, she could be a poster child for wholesome good living in suburbia.

Beside her I feel utterly besmirched :)

Me, I run around turning over rocks to search for conspiracy theories. Crouching bitches, hidden agendas everywhere.

Paul : That demoness practically took you hostage holding your wallet - on the slimmest pretext - and you still think she's kind?
Steel : No, she's trying to be a nice girl.
Paul : In Pleasantville sure! Over in my world, she's just a crouching bitch sharpening her malicious claws.
Steel : Wait, wait! Maybe I told it wrong!

Steel doesn't see a monster hiding under the bed, a demon lurking in the closet - or even a sneaky frenemy holding a dagger behind her back.

Sometimes I have to envy that.

Marry in Haste

Imagine all this people!

Yoko : Darling, I'm getting married!
Paul : Huh?
Yoko : Yes, wish me luck!
Paul : Seriously?! To John? You just met the guy two months back!
Yoko : Of course to John! And I brought him to meet my parents yesterday so we're getting married next month.
Paul : Is he a mail-order groom? Are you knocked up?
Yoko : No! And no! He asked me over mexican food and I said yes.
Paul : You sure you weren't high on margaritas?

Teased by the rest of the clique for being the last member of the lonely hearts club band, our perpetual singleton Yapping Yoko finally decided to take the crucial plunge into the magical mystery tour we call matrimony. With John, no less! Frankly though I'm astonished at the lightspeed progress of her courtship from meeting to proposal. It might even be a world record for a non-elopement! And she confirmed the fact that she's not eating for two - since our ingenuous born-again virgin's apparently saving herself for marriage.

Though that's not what I heard before :P


Till Death Do Us Part?
Really, am I the only one who thinks she's moving too fast? Of course I'm far from the most sentimental guy but I do catch the occasional sappy-sentimental chick flick! Where boy has a meetcute with the girl only to get blissfully married in strawberry fields forever all in the span of two short eventful hours. But that's onscreen where time and reality ( and commonsense! ) seems to suspend itself sometimes.

But this is real life we're talking about!

Even changing my locker can be a momentous decision that takes several days to digest. So what about settling down with someone to have and to hold for better and for worse? How did getting engaged become something you decide in between hot nachos and a movie?

Hell, not only are the straights falling into this commitment bandwagon, the fags are following suit. Turns out this shotgun wedding trend seems to extend to the young gay fellas as well with them meeting and moving in after only three dates. Seriously, what happened to guys scared of commitment? Are they all turning into lesbians in love? Perhaps younger guys are more willing to risk it all, take that amazing leap of faith. Far less cautious than those of us who have been burnt before.

Romantic? Impulsive? Definitely. No doubt about it. But isn't that moving a lil too fast? What's the rush? Haven't they heard of the age-old adage of marry in haste, repent at leisure?

Or am I cynical much?

Mamma Mia

Forget about pomp and circumstance. Forget about class and dignity. You know what I said about having elegant chamber music playing with a sexy tenor tickling the ivories while the guests whisper in a low, genteel murmur?

Turns out that's just not me! Well, not totally.

I need Abba! When I get married, I want super troupers, dancing queens and cute boys in boardies as far as the eye can see. Flowers in the garden, broken glasses, dancing in the hallways. Mamma Mia indeed!

But I wouldn't go all the way to their Waterloo! Certainly wouldn't want the cracked floors, the garish 70s glitter or even three blokes crashing the party claiming to be my dad. That's what poor Sophie Sheridan had and I'd find that absolutely nightmarish. Sequins and platform heels? Ugh.


Dominic Cooper who plays the groom in the show!
But bring on the Abba for sure :)

If you haven't already seen this high-spirited romp Mamma Mia, what are you waiting for? The musical tells the tale of Sophie's search for her hitherto unknown birth father - writing a wedding invitation to the three men her hippie mother dallied with in the past. A big fat Greek wedding to be held on the island of Kalokairi, where her mother runs a charmingly crumbling hotel that’s perched above the sparkling blue sea. All interspersed beautifully with various Abba hits from Chiquitita to Take a Chance on Me.

And an amazingly gorgeous cast of Greek boys moving in and out of the background. Seriously. Damned distracting.

But we're here for the music of course! I felt like dancing in the aisles but I already had more than one member of the audience staring me down as I bust out a move from Super Trouper. Wet blankets!



And to think I had a colleague who has never even heard of Dancing Queen! Sacrilegious!

Cousin Knows Best II

Just when I thought I'd heard the last of her, she comes into my life again.

And for that I have Lispy Lori to blame. Finishing my work early, I buzzed her for lunch only to catch her forced into a tete-a-tete with the Flighty Mama of my cousin Richie Runt. Obviously eager to be rid of her endless ( mindless! ) chatter, Lori deliberately foisted her onto me for lunch.

Flighty Mama : Let's continue this conversation over lunch.
Lori : So sorry! Wish I could but I have a bunch of work to catch up with. Oh wait. Paul's free though.


WTF!
over the phone
Paul : You backstabbing bitch.
Lori : You'd do the same, darling. Take her off my hands please.
Paul : You owe me.

Flighty Mama : So what did he say?
Lori : Oh, he said he would love to meet you for lunch.

So that was how I ended up in a small cafe with Flighty Mama and Richie Runt. Far from winning the Mother of the Year, she tried to bring up the idea of fostering her child again but I managed to sidestep that particular bullet by stuffing her with munchies.

Had to sit tight on my hands so I wouldn't reach over to silence her senseless rattle by strangulation. Somehow or other, I doubt homicide would be acceptable in the family eventhough it was clear I had just cause.

Quite obvious from his glowers and grunts that our family black sheep Richie Runt would have preferred to be anywhere but there as well. Precisely the reason why I picked the place - a chi-chi cafe dining on tea and cupcakes. If I had to suffer through his mama's fatuous speech, so did he.

Flighty Mama : See your cousin here. So clever. So accomplished.
Richie : Grunt.
Paul : Hardly.
Flighty Mama : And how about Lispy Lori? She studied abroad, you know. Got scholarship too.
Richie : Grunt.
Paul : Oh Mother of God.

What kinda twisted child psychology is this? Did she get the wrong copy of Dr Spock's manual? Did she really expect endless comparison to his older cousins would actually spur him on to achieve his hitherto hidden ambitions to win the Nobel prize? No wonder our juvenile delinquent goes out of his way to play truant!

Way to make us all seem like overachieving bastards. No wonder he hates our guts. Me, I'd be drinking out of a bottle already.

But first I gotta tell Lori.

The Meme that Shocked the World

Well it shocked me anyhow.

Really. Should have known that a nutty solicitor ( I can't think of an alliterative for him dammit! ) would dig out the most salacious details of my life - but so it is! And since I might need his help bailing me out one day, I am obviously submitting to force majeure ( he is a bit taller than me as well ) and putting up his meme.

And I love memes anyway :)

(1) The first time you realised that you fancied men was...

Possibly the beginning of secondary school. The boys started mooning over the girls and I realized I'd been staring at them ( the boys! ) instead. Talk about being on the wrong side of the fence.

(2) The last time you were reminded of the fact that you fancied men was...

This afternoon when a hot hunk of Sino-Japanese extraction walked into the bookstore with heavy-lidded slit eyes, rakish stubble and a body that just wouldn't quit. Then he bent over to retrieve some books on the lower shelf and revealed white calvins with a blue stripe.

And I wanted to bite his ass. So yeah, I'm still gay.

Then his equally hot brother came by. And I thought - hmm, California Roll me please!

(3) The first man you ever fancied was...

Now this is a bit hard for me ( figuratively as well ) since my memories of high school seem to be a blur of boys, britches and balls. It was a fucking buffet and I was the naive ingenue innocently fasting when I could have been feasting. Naming a specific crush could be nigh impossible but I might as well pick a name out of the proverbial hat.


Simply Sam Says Smile!
How about Simply Sam. Met him on the first day of primary. Nicked his chin when I slammed him into a door - I toldja I was violent. Turned buds for life after. He grew up to have teensy korean eyes, black curls and a sinewy bod. Helluva sense of humour too with a penchant for mouthing naughty hip hop songs into my ear since I hated them.

Had my first-hard-on possibly thinking of playing with his hockey stick. And he had his as well when he first read one of my naughty novels. Even caught me staring at his prepubertal erection - I might have even given a cheap stroke - but hey, I was a kid back then and barely knew what to do with my own.

Heard he was working in a gambling den someplace. Wonder whether he's up to rehashing the old times :)

(4) The last man you fancied was...

A lazy-drawlin slowpoke called Charming Calvin - and you guys know how that ended. :)

(5) The first time you did the horizontal mambo, you remember it because...

It was far more memorable for being embarassingly funny than being in the least bit sexy. Stumbling over beds, tripping over shoes and bumping noses. Whoever said first times were steamy glowing soft porn? And oh yeah, it was the fastest I've gone from suit to nude. Same goes for my InSignificant Other. I bet it could go down in the Olympics. Milli-seconds I tell ya. Finished almost as fast actually :)

(6) The last time you did the horizontal mambo, you remember it because....

It was dark. It was chilly. He was hot. He was muffled.
And my parents were just next door.

(7) The first time you went without sex for more than a week lasted exactly and approximately...

Almost three months and that was during my grueling days in Obstetrics and Gynaecology. Sure the smell of liquor and the look of vaginas put me off sex for a while but I soon get revved up again at the end of that posting.

(8) The last time you went cold turkey like that was...

NOW! BLOODY HELL! NOW! I could fuck a moving door. The two brothers from this afternoon could unagi me right now.

Berbuka Puasa

After a week or two of contemplating, today I decided to take the plunge with my ISO and brave the crazed insanity of Ramadan by fighting my way into one of those infamous break of fast buffets. Just to satisfy our rampant curiosity after hearing one too many adverts deliberately touting the delicious feast of neverending goodies awaiting us at the restaurants nearby.

Seriously. How could we resist?

Though we huddled with the rest of the anxious patrons twiddling our thumbs waiting for the break of fast, we weren't exactly part of the hungry crowd. After all, the last time I fasted was that time we camped together as scouts and got lost in the woods - not deliberately! - for several hours. After that one time, all bets were off and we don't even fast during Lent.

My ISO : It's nice waiting.
Paul : Shaking our legs counting the seconds.
My ISO : Waiting for the call to prayer.
Paul : I hear the veal sauerkraut calling my name.
My ISO : I'll race you for it.

Well I never said we were famous for denying ourselves.

So we crumbled after five seconds of waiting and stole away to pile our plates high with the food readily available - at least ten minutes before the actual break of fast. Much to the envy - and endless enmity - of our neighbours still busy watching the clock.

Which was a fortunate thing.


The real buffet
Since our breaking the rules of fasting surely contravened some divine law because all hell literally broke loose after!

You know the beginning of the Amazing Race where everyone breaks into a maddened sprint for the main gate? Well the same thing happened here except the folks running amuck are armed with plates and forks. And with a far more dangerous glint in their hunger-stricken eyes.

Hell, I'm standing aside.

Frontpage : The Bitch is Back

Well one of them anyway.

And surprisingly not me. Since it's just past Sunday, I'm talking about Frontpage - and I'm not talking about the headlines but the new drama series on NTV7. If you'd recall a bunch of ladies amongst the small coterie of journalists in that local drama, there's a chilly ice queen with frizzy curls, snazzy shades and a penchant to be bitchy without provocation? Rebecca Anuar gets her day though she doesn't look at all pleased to get it!


An interview with Jack Lee!
My delicious Jack Lee isn't too pleased either. Rather than stay obediently in the sidelines as she's handed a choice assignment on a star athlete's shocking death, he tries to lend a hand - though our snooty antisocial Rebecca ( with a touch of misandry ) doesn't appreciate his high-handed interference at all. Her distrust of men becomes apparent - as are the traumatic reasons behind them - as Rebecca start probing into the case matter.

Well she's proof positive that bitches are made, not born. Childhood trauma aside, I see no reason for that ginormous boulder on her shoulder and if I were working with her, she'd get more than a piece of my mind. Forget about weepy empathy, I fight fire with fire.

Rebecca : Why are you standing there? Get out of my way.
Paul : Are you always this nasty or do you just love eating babies for breakfast?
Rebecca : Why! That's just..
Paul : What? Rude? Bitchy? Mean? I learnt it from you, darling.

Then again, the frizz could be reason enough for anyone to be permanently pissed.

Third episode in and I'm glad to say that Frontpage has certainly raised the bar for the rest of the drama series on the local telly. Interesting storylines, catchy script with enough emphasis on the individual characters to draw us into their lives. Then again raised the bar is far too nice - left the rest floundering in the dust is more like it. Hear that Ampang Medikal?

And they have characters who actually speak in local dialects - Hokkien to be specific - without appearing in the least apologetic. Kewlness. Even Jack Lee tried his valiant best at broken Hokkien.


Fret not if you missed the earlier episodes, tune in on the ntv7 webpage.

Bowtie Boys

Pretty sure the waiters at Alexis had a good chuckle last night when a bunch of boys ( I'm using the term loosely! ) obediently marched in two rows right into their cafe - all dressed suspiciously in matching bow ties though in varying orders of respectability with one opting for a black Minnie Mouse bow pinned to the arse. And quite another with a sad excuse for a bow tie made out from cheap pink crepe :p

I'd have been worried that a Bowtie Boy gang fresh out from the local seminary ( away from the auspices of Miss Clavel ) had come for an attack of tiramisu.

But it was the birthday of a certain taciturn fellow we've christened Mr Nipples ( for quite obvious reasons ). Our Genial Graham was having his day and we were all there to celebrate with the theme of bowties. You know gay boys and their party themes.

So much for looking dashing though. Been a while since I tied one on - did a helluva crummy job on my old one - so much so that I had to rely on a ready-tied. Just as well since it turns out I wasn't the only one. Unfortunately there were a few who chose to flout the dress code. Cruel and unusual punishment awaits.

Perhaps a black bow painted in permanent marker on their foreheads?


Getting ready!
Unfortunately the host - our multi-personality Janvier ( hence making it quite impossible to tack an alliterative adjective for him ) - remained placidly calm despite such unprecedented sartorial mutiny. Frankly I'd have expected his evil side Soldat to surface.

Paul : I think his multiple personalities are warring inside in hidden rage. Kinda crouching puppet, hidden janvier.
Lex : They were stuck in a jam. That's why they were late.
Paul : Stuck in a jam? Janvier and Graham Nipples. Ohhh. Hmm. They're forgiven then.

After all, we certainly wouldn't mind getting stuck in that particular jam :) Certainly put them in a good mood.

But as usual, our Janvier remained generous as ever with drinks served all around. For some of us it was already our fourth round! Once soused however Jaunty Jared turned bitchy - that boy should stay away from drinks and sushi! Zany Zinedine remained bitchy as ever - while Lanky Lex turned into a whole barrel of fun. Now that's a guy I vote to be permanently drunk. :P

Me, I just got sleepy and sneezy.

80 Pence

Really. My ISO went to London for summer and he didn't even get me a lousy t-shirt.

Fortunately he brought a gift - something even cheaper than the 5 pound tee. He'd better since I seriously wanted to bean him when I found out he'd be doing London for three weeks. Fucking bastard. Usually I'd be resentful as hell but I've found kabbalah.

My ISO : I'm going to London to see the queen.
Paul : Motherchucker.
My ISO : You could come along.
Paul : Fucking basstard.

Okay I haven't actually found kabbalah. It wasn't my best day.

Sure he did the sweet thing asking me but I figure I'd better not take such a risk. An impulsive weekend jaunt over to a neighbouring country would be one thing but three weeks strolling hand-in-hand through the streets of London would be criminally dangerous. For me, nostalgia on paper is sweet, nostalgia in real life has dangerous consequences.


A day at the bookstore
So during his walks around London, my ISO stumbled into a secondhand store and got me a book. Cheap tattered paperback actually all of 80 pence at the most. Probably less if he'd bargained hard. But I adored it. Seems like he remembered my penchant for picking up Heyers on the go while I was there last.

One of my peculiar obsessions - anyone who has been to my library can attest to the fact that I have multiple copies of her regency novels all stacked up in several shelves. Started with a handful of inherited novels by Georgette Heyer that came in a steamer trunk in secondary. Fell in love with her wit and style which led to randomly buying her paperbacks wherever I saw them. Since they were out-of-print for quite a few years, I only found them in dark, dusty secondhand stores full of nostalgia, knickknacks and forgotten memories - all the way from Bangkok to Paris.

Obviously my ISO hasn't forgotten the endless summers tramping through the dust, cobwebs and silverfish just to find that coffee-stained copy of the Grand Sophy.

Trivial Pursuits

Sometimes I wonder whether my mum's trying to be deliberately obtuse.

When my mom had a chance meeting with the Lushes last night, I wondered what she could have thought. A swinging fancy-free bachelor flirting with a sisterhood of hot singletons in heels! Now isn't that just a wee bit suspicious?

When Harry met Sally aside, it's rare to find breeder boys getting chummy with the girls. Logically, wouldn't any straight red-blooded fella be hitting on at least one of these lissome beauties? At least trying to steal some sweet time with either Statuesque Sarah ( only to be rebuffed with chilly disdain ) or Fabulous Fiona ( only to be tuned off with girlish laughter ).

Or even Shameless Shalom ( only to have her upchuck her breakfast at the revolting idea ).

Honestly I'd be highly suspicious of any guy who didn't try to make a move.


Paul : Quick, hide me! My mom's gonna ask why we're not dating again.
Fiona : Why don't you just tell her?
Paul : That you're a skank with syphilis?
Fiona : No! The truth.
Paul : Wait. You aren't a skank with syphilis? :)

I would have thought the reasons obvious enough. Even the waiters who see us all huddled together for our weekly brunches would have made the rightful conclusion that I'm the sole raging fag in the group - since it's painfully obvious that my only interest in them is purely platonic.

Apart from the fact that I adore their killer shoes.

Thought that seeing me with my Lushes would have pegged me as unapologetically gay but my mom went down an entirely different lane of thought instead. Yes, my renowned matchmaker mom did start wondering why I'm not heavily pursuing any of them! However she started blaming me ( comically enough! ) for taking my own sweet time in setting up a target for my seduction. Telling me that I'd be the one to blame if I let one of the sultry Lushes escape my voracious grasp.

I didn't know whether to laugh or slam my head repeatedly against the nearest tree trunk.

Come on, my mother knows me well enough. When have I ever been painfully shy about going after the object of my affection? If I'm interested in a hunk, you can be sure the jungle drums would be announcing the information across the savannah. And I'd be literally hunting them down like the lion tracking down that juicy gazelle.

Evidently my mom doesn't think too highly of my methods.

Mom : All very nice girls. So why aren't you showing any interest in one of the girls?
Paul : Not interested.
Mom : You have to make a move! It's a modern world but the guy still has to make at least a push.
Paul : Tell me something I don't know.
Mom : So why aren't you making a move?
Paul : Because I'm not interested?
Mom : Isn't there any girl you're interested in?
Paul : No, I'm not interested in girls.
Mom : Work isn't everything.
Paul : You think I'm interested in work?!

One would have expected her to pursue this little dust-trail of thought instead but obviously denial isn't only a mighty river in Egypt.

Disrobing Dominic

I want to get Dominic Lau's shirt off.

Seriously. I can't be in the minority here. Admit it. After looking at the buff, sculpted hunk of Chinese-British extraction by way of Hong Kong, don't you just feel like tearing his tight tee off?


Dominic Lau
Evidently the prudish folks at our local Men's Health magazine don't think so. Why else would they be all busy covering up the sizzling hawt meat on display? For the past few months, I've noted their usually sexy, grinning coverboys have been shockingly overdressed. No sign of chest hair, no shiny pecs, not even a flash of six-pack abs. All shrouded behind plain, purdah-like generic tees.

Not even a perky nipple in sight.

I know it's all about Men's Health - I'm sure the verbose editors would claim it's all scientific evidence, nutrition advice and rigorous exercises for the betterment of mankind - but we all know what we're paying top dollar for. Come on, show us some skin dammit. The healthy fresh-faced boys worked hard enough at the gym for it!

Detractors would claim the breeder boys are getting embarassed by the excessive display of luscious man-flesh on the covers of fitness mags. No doubt fearful that notorious gay-dars would zero in on them just for strutting around with the risque covers. Seriously. Are their sexualities on such shaky ground that they can't bear the slightest hint of doubt? Come on, straight guys who are secure in their heterosexuality wouldn't give a fucking shit.

So poor Dominic had to put on a shirt.

Paul : So what do you say, Dominic?
Dom : Hell, I worked so hard to build up my abs. Hit the gym daily for weeks, then subsisted on cereal and mineral water just for this shoot! Then they had to force a shirt on me. Dammit! Seriously, I should have just gone for the dimsum buffet!

Bet the fella doesn't sound anything like that ( hey if I knew him, I'd be hitting on him! ) but hey, I'm just saying!

Unless this is all the work of our notoriously busy censors again - fearing that a chance glance at rock-hard abs ( uncovered aurat! ) would turn us all into raving, drooling sex maniacs - and possibly horror of horrors, turn us all into decadent homosexuals since we all know the gay plague is shockingly infective.

BTW for the more literal-minded I am being sarcastic.

Back to the Front Page

Hold the press, we've got a new exclusive for the headlines.

Yes, Malaysia can produce a drama script riveting enough - and plausible enough - for television! Just check out the Frontpage. Tightly-paced action, excellent casting and eeriely familiar storylines plucked out from our own publication archives. Frontpage tells the story of a newsroom team of the daily The Voice covering the latest news from the notorious Axe Gang members to the enchanting black magic practitioner Maya Shaari.


Fortunately Ampang Medikal hadn't soured my taste for local television. Was hopeful when I caught the debut of Frontpage last week - and the second certainly proved to be a hit.

Only two episodes under their belt and already they have their main characters well established with brief defining moments ( cleverly spaced so as not to disturb the main storyline ) - from the stern editor Andrea Ng to their streetwise star reporter Jack Lee. A shared glance between the two - added to an annoyed look from the younger newshound Dylan Pereira - is more than enough to paint a picture of a complicated love triangle.

Certainly far more believable than the flimsy plots on Ampang Medikal ( a show desperately in need of resuscitation ).


Hot off the press!
Hope they all take a leaf out of the Frontpage! Find it amusing that so far all the female journalists at The Voice - excepting the optimistic rookie Nerina Rahman - seem to be antisocial bitches. We're creditably told their barks are much worst than their bite so we shall see. After all both of them have stories yet to be told and I'm confident the excellent scriptwriters will make us fall in love with them anyway!

And lookie here, it's a seriously muhibbah multiracial / multilingual cast - and they all have their roles to play.

Though I love writing, I've never been all that interested in covering real-life news. Fiction's more my style. And since I know first-hand how very fatiguing life in the newsroom can be ( have a handful of classmates sitting at those desks right now! ), I'll stay clear of temptation. But watching these dedicated journalists at work can be inspiring to say the least.

Sound like a rave to you? Oh yes it is though I might be a tad biased. Seems like I do have a tiny crush on the tough, taciturn journalist Jack Lee - played by understated hunk Tony Eusoff. Now where do I apply to be his intern?

Good Fellas

Paul : This seems like the best place to do it.
My ISO : I feel so dirty.
Paul : Stop touching yourself then.
My ISO : Hope there's no one around.
Paul : Trust me. I checked the entire place. There's no one around. I've already turned off the headlights. No one can see us.
My ISO : Never knew I would sink to such depths.
Paul : Bet no one's surprised though.
My ISO : Okay. let's do the dirty deed then.

Pickpocketing naive tourists and kidnapping bar-hopping heiresses in the City of Blood seems so terribly limiting for a man of my genius. Dissatisfied with the virtual reality of maiming and killing on facebook, I have decided to expand my horizons.


Yeah, they'll be sleeping with the fishes tonight.
Fortunately I have friends. Remember when I said that I could depend on my ISO to hide the corpse? Turns out I certainly can since I spent the wee hours of yesterday morning slightly inebriated searching for a dark lonely corner of town to dump the body bags.

The usual aftermath of a really horrific bloodbath. Guts. Blood. Bones.

Take care never to be on the wrong end of my skewer.

That's what happens after you have a lovely evening of barbecue and the remainder is tossed in a bin. One small bin's never enough for the trash so we had to drive around looking for a convenient dumpster at this ungodly hour - guiltily feeling like a duo of inept assassins searching for the perfect dump site. Wondered what people ( or the police! ) would think of two goodfellas wandering the streets in the dead of night with anonymous black bags dripping with blood. Fortunately we had downed enough spirits earlier to lend us courage.

Unfortunately there seems to be a surprising scarcity of dump sites these days. Actually inched down several blocks before finding one - all the while busy wondering where in the world the unfriendly neighbourhood gangstas go to bury their dead! Their backyard? The incinerator? The deep blue sea? Where do they hide the bloody evidence?

But the act of chucking the body bags at 1 in the morning? Not that difficult surprisingly - ten minutes was all it took. Disturbing.

So how does a life of crime sound?

Damsel Dimwit

You know the Marilyn or Einstein equation? Remember before when I said that given a choice between being born gorgeous / dumb or hideous / brilliant, I said I'd choose gorgeous / dumb? Being brilliant you'd know the hideousness of the situation so it'd be easier to be dumb enough to enjoy the pretty world out there.

Well make that gorgeous - and not too dumb. Since I finally ran into a Damsel Dimwit. Not that she'd actually know to get out of the way of a runaway truck.

I know! I am so mean. But honestly, my ISO and I couldn't help it.

The story goes like this. Seeing as it's Mid-Autumn Festival, we had a lil gathering of friends so that I could met up with my ex-classmates. Our recently dumped and heartbroken fella, Beercan Boy seems to have found a new mate and decided to bring her along for a quick meet-and-greet. Surprised that he hadn't thought the entire thing through since we aren't exactly known for our tact when it comes to his girlfriends. But perhaps ( a rather touching dependence on the legend of the Kitchen God ) he was hoping that some lotus paste mooncake would sweeten our criticism.

He was woefully wrong.


The Backbenchers Club
Her looks were immediately arresting of course and I'm sure Beercan Boy could compare her peerless beauty to the stunning glow of the full moon. Even I couldn't argue with that. Close to perfection, our Damsel Dimwit and certainly out of his league. Even briefly wondered whether Beercan had paid for her out of a mail-order-bride catalog :)

But that was before she spoke. Fortunately it took a full five minutes before the force of her personality hit us - and compared to her dazzling mega-watt smile, that turned out extremely dim indeed. I'm far from a genius myself - quite a himbo in my own way - but Damsel Dimwit certainly lowered the bar last night.

My ISO : If she asks me what I mean again, I might just kill her. Did she just say that Korea's an island?
Paul : I'm not sure. I'm still reeling over the fact that she believes collecting fireflies into a jar could be an effective solution to our energy problems.
My ISO : Maybe we shouldn't talk this fast.
Paul : You're right. We might be short-circuiting her brain.
My ISO : I give it six months.
Paul : God, you're mean.
My ISO : Monstrous.
Paul : Five bucks says three months.

I know. We are so mean. Swear I will do a good deed tomorrow to make up for it.

So when Beercan Boy nodded to us in his inexplicable way trying to ask us what we thought, both of us nodded in tandem agreeing that she's real pretty. That seemed to be the nicest thing we could say. After all... in the space of a year, Beercan Boy has progressed from an adulteress to a snake... and now to our Damsel Dimwit. Hell, she's the best of the lot!

The One Where Everyone's Gay : The Hospital Edition

According to Charming Calvin, enterprising gay men venture into the medical field in droves to justify themselves. Of course that inebriation declaration is a whole bunch of crock - certainly not true for myself! - but there might be some small hint of truth in there.

After all these days I'm starting to feel as if the hospital's literally teeming with homosexuals. Either my glitchy gay-dar's working overtime or gay boys seem to be popping out of every nook and cranny. Look this way and theres a gay nurse, turn the other way and there's a gay intern. Shocking! I'm sure the right-wing conservatives would have collective strokes at the hideous thought.

Of course I'm sure the numbers are greatly exaggerated since not all guys who are femme necessarily swing our way. And quite a few cases of pure wishful thinking since as we all know, confounding metrosexuals abound. But one of my colleagues Timber Tom seems to rely solely on the controversial duck theory ( walks like a duck, talks like a duck ).


Come join us!
Oh yeah... not to mention the highly confidential underground homo-doctor grapevine. No dubt they have clandestine skull-and-bones meetings with secret handshakes at the masturbatorium.

Seems my evident homosexuality pinged his overactive gay-dar enough that Tom saw no qualms in coming clean with me on his various theories. Reason enough to hit me for lunch to expound on his latest findings.

Paul : You can't be serious. You're telling me Maarof is queer?
Tom : As a three dollar bill, yes.
Paul : But he's married with kids.
Tom : So? Still gay as a mardi gras.
Paul : How about Rafe? How about Jim?
Tom : Gay. Gay.
Paul : They are both married too.
Tom : Beards I tell ya. Joe and Yaakob are gay as well.
Paul : You just named half the guys in the department. We might as well spring for a gay cruise to Phuket for family day next year.

Come on, I'm ready to believe that some closeted fellas - in a desperate bid to repress their sinful lusts - would actually get married to the closest beard and have children. A really small handful at the most. The rest are just femme acting but probably straight.

Far from agreeing with my sensible postulation, a disbelieving Timber Tom insists on lumping the entire lot into the gay category. No doubt to him everyone's gay until proven straight :)

Well if his far-fetched theories are to be believed, the hospital's definitely a scandalous hot-bed of homosexual activity. At this rate of outing, we'll soon be having our weekly department meetings ( with cocktails, go-go boys and thumpa thumpa disco music ) at the Marketplace.

Cousin Knows Best

Once in a while, you'll have the familiar old tale rehashed - the troubled teen gets exiled to a foreign place only to find kind but firm guidance under the care of a supportive adoptive family. Just the sort of sweet heart-warming tale you'd expect Hallmark to expouse.

Dan from Little Men anyone? Heathcliff from Wuthering Heights? Perhaps the Fresh Prince of Bel Air? Or something even more current, the OC?

I've always wondered where they got such abominable crock from since I doubt any rebel without a cause would fall into line that easily without breaking a rule or three. The black sheep listening obediently - with nary a protesting squeak - to his adoptive father's gentle, well-meaning advice? Father Knows Best? Seriously, I'd expect the brooding fella ( aren't they always brooding grim? ) to punch out the patronizing old guy before toeing the line.

And if their own family couldn't control their unruly behaviour, how could they expect someone else to perform that miracle? Doubt anything less than daily spankings ( and not in a kinky manner ) and endless brainwashing would achieve that particular goal.

Seems I spoke too soon. You see, not all my cousins are perfectionistas who march straight into the professional careers of doctors, lawyers and engineers.


Won't you take me home, sir?
There's always the occasional black sheep. Back up north, I have a juvenile delinquent of a cousin who frequently plays truant to patronize gambling halls ( disguised as cybercafes ). Any surprise that his scholastic results scrape the bottom of the barrel? Maybe you've seen him. Goes by the name of Richie Runt. Lil unprepossessing midget of a runt with a big snarky mouth - that I wouldn't be surprised had gotten him more than a few black eyes from the schoolyard bullies. Probably a dunking in the toilet too.

But I'm not laying the blame entirely on the gap-toothed tween.

Obviously eager to be rid of her parental responsibilities, his flighty new-age mama suggested that Richie come over to stay with us. Me and my brother. Though she said it in a half-joking manner, I could see the truth in her possibly inebriated eyes - and found myself simply shell-shocked. Made it sound like an everyday thing to have a child just handed over to the care of someone else.

Though I am starting to agree that she might be an unfit mother.

Flighty Mama : Oh, Richie should be transferred here. I'm sure you both would be great examples for him to follow.
Paul : You've gotta be kidding me.
Flighty Mama : Well maybe. But it's a good idea, right? He certainly wouldn't run into trouble with you watching over him.
Paul : You seriously think he's gonna bother a whit about what his two staid older cousins say? He's gonna tell us to fuck off.

Of course my serious-minded brother - always in the testosterzone - would have walloped Richie if the runt had dared sass him that way. Me, I'm a gentler soul and I don't hit. But I'd torture in slow devious manipulative ways.

Now wouldn't that be a tale made for the movies? Paul In Charge? The Manny Diaries? Hopeful writers would have you believe that the orphaned runt would blossom into a studious, respectable gentleman all in the space of one eventful season ready for the ball ( shades of My Fair Lady? ) at the grand finale! In truth, we'd probably be yelling ourselves hoarse trying to get Richie Runt to behave while spending the weekends bailing him out from juvie.

Of course this story would be different if the poor scruff looked like Benjamin McKenzie ( or even my hot Australian cousin ). I'd be helluva more accomodating that's for sure :P

My Milkshakes

I've always found it curious that the my friends, the Lushes don't wear more revealing clothes at work. At work I see far more Laura Ashley frocks than Versace glam. Not talking about shocking the stuffy seniors with scandalous gold-sequinned minis but perhaps just a modest slit up to there or even the occasional tastefully revealing neckline! Doubt that would outrage the moral code of our practitioners.

Paul : So why not a short short skirt to work? The coats would cover them up.
Fiona : The male workers would stare at us in a disgustingly lewd manner.
Sarah : Think drooling dawgs.

Never walked a mile in a lady's stilettos - well not figuratively - so I wouldn't know how being ogled and yet feel utter helpless would be like.

But today I finally caught what they meant.

Imagine randy leering uncles with their gaping fish-mouths and drooling chins. And I wasn't even at the secret neighbourhood go-go bar - I was at an immigration office! And the poor victim was an underaged nymphette who astonishingly had the glorious D-cups of Dolly Parton. And though our Lolita was dressed far from seductively, her frilly peasant blouse could only do so much to disguise nature's blessed bounty.


I'm talking here! Eyes to my face!
Certainly brought all the 'boys' to her front yard since it was quite obvious that the much older men around were eager to appreciate nature. Obviously the current fasting month - and her relatively juvenile age - wasn't enough to give the aging pervs a valid reason to look away red-faced. Easy to understand how they get all excited over the allegedly provocative schoolgirl uniform.

Look I have a tendency to ogle as well - though I try my level best to be somewhat discreet. But the pecs I drool over belong to gym-built fellas who would have no need at all to fear me physically. Come on, they could crush me with their ham-sized fists quite easily. Hell, maybe even a thick finger or two.

But I guess it's a whole different scenario for the girls. Especially a younger ingenue trapped with a group of older men. So how did our poor Lolita feel having her bountiful bosom stared at like fresh grade-A meat dumplings just off a rack? Can't say since the schoolgirl buried her burning face - and what she could of her generous endowments - under a local daily.

Shocking Thoughts

Just the other day while I was watching a trio of gung-ho medical students run about the ward searching for lumps and bumps, I chanced upon a sudden ventricular fibrillation on the general monitor. Having students about seemed reason enough to enact a tense, dramatic situation guaranteed to trump the medical dramas on telly. Fortunately the nurses were quite eager to lend a hand. So there I was calling for the crash cart while starting resuscitation on the unfortunate patient.

Thankfully for my aching ( aging! ) back, there were eager younger volunteers around to help out with the resuscitation.

After the event - yes, the patient survived due to my recently googled SCREAM techniques - I had one of the students telling me that I looked uncharacteristically serious while performing cardioversion on the patient.

That would be the exciting electrocuting the patient bit you see on the telly.


Lexie : Whoa, that was impressive.
Paul : Hur hur.
Of course that innocent statement had me smiling. Seriously? God, if she only knew half the thoughts going through my head! Now that would be even more shocking than 360 Joules of electricity!

Hmm... wonder if the fibrillation's precipitated by a heart attack or by some electrolyte abnormality. Potassium?

That's the first. Now that's the usual scenario most doctors would have running through their heads while preparing the paddles ( dripping with gel! ) for cardioversion. After all there's an urgent need to hack at the root of the problem. But then I also have some of the more unorthodox thoughts as well - hence the need to keep a straight face.

Hell, could they prepare the amiodarone any slower?
I wonder what I'll have for lunch today. Noodles? Rice?
Fuck, was that some blood spurting! Damn, there goes my silk shirt!
God, where are the cute medical students? No junior McDreamys? Are they keeping them in storage somewhere? Then again, it's a weekend - I bet the cute ones are partying.

And the worst.

Damn, wish I had a sworn enemy I could place under the paddles. Would be kewl to see him twist and shout.

Monstrous, I know.

The Other Side of Queerdom

If it looks like a duck, walks like a duck, talks like a duck - it's a duck.

But as we've recently come to find in Malaysia, not everything's that simple. Slick lawyers can be mistaken for something else entirely. So can rampant homosexuals for that matter.

X : I fantasize about men. I have crushes on men. But I'm not gay.
Paul : Huh?
X : Well I don't have sex with men.
Paul : Huh? So that hand on my crotch bit was purely an accident then?

But let us not jump to conclusions yet.

So how would you define a gay man? Is it by the thought or purely defined by the act? By definition, homosexuality refers to sexual behavior with or attraction to people of the same sex, or to a homosexual orientation. As a sexual orientation, homosexuality refers to having sexual and romantic attraction primarily or exclusively to members of one’s own sex.


You think I'm gay?
So if a fellow has the occasional lustful thought without acting on the supposed sin, would that make that fellow gay? I would think not.

But if it occurs on a regular basis without abating, I think that would be just cause for suspicion. The thought counts. Since otherwise if the homo definition only extends to those who have indulged in backyard schoolboy buggery, I'm afraid quite a number would have lost their pink passports a long while ago.

And that includes the closeted virgins out there. Not to mention those not receiving their anal dose regularly.

Makes sense actually. No wonder after a certain age, you'd find gay men nearly extinct in the country! Since most -if they're not put out to pasture without their weekly buttfucks - either repent, revile or revise their tactics! Repent by getting married to the nearest willing bridezilla. Revile by taking an aggressively homophobic stand instead - perhaps even opening a reformation camp for despairing fags. Or otherwise revise their tactics by making haste to leave the country for pinker pastures.

But that's all me. Some people equate homosexuality with the act of sodomy by itself. So rampant in our papers these days that it's a matter of time before they have a raunchy show-and-tell article on sodomy. :)

For those curious about visiting the other side of the matter just take a look at what Afiq has to say about gay muslims. Not that I'm commending him for his point of view but I'm glad that he has put forth his ideas in an articulate, non-judgemental way while somewhat tolerating ( sort of! ) the mores of the unrepentant sinners. Quite a refreshing take - out of the mouths of babes - far from the usual rabid militant curses I get from the right-wing conservatives!

Babes in Toyland

Channelling the stereotypical crytic asian ever ready with a handy saying, Charming Calvin recently came up with this - he claims that our behaviour at 3 will provide a window to our aged selves at the age of 80.

Owing to my approaching senility, I can barely recall even my primary schoolyears - apart from brief snapshots of sepia-toned memories that I half wonder whether I clipped from weekly reruns of the Wonder Years.

But I bet if I could look back, I'd find myself making something. Search around the attic and you'd find one of my dusty home projects. Always the arts and crafts fella even back in kindergarten - my busy lil hands making up DIY projects, drawing caricatures and building castles with the wooden blocks. Not forgetting creating mayhem with my endless prankster tricks. Quite a few tiny tots out there in the sandbox who got punked by me, I'm sure.

Learned pretty fast to cover up my tracks though so I rarely got caught. Anyway who would have suspected a sweet attentive pupil like me?


I think I'd prefer to play with some Lego.
Of course some things never change as Calvin says. I still doodle the occasional monstrous mutant colleague. I still do the occasional prank. And I still like building things. Hence my recent fascination with Lego building blocks. Scrap the recent - I don't think I actually ever left Lego behind ;)

Each time I bring my nephew to the toy store, I never fail to make a stop just to check out the newest gizmos to be found. Approaching the dreaded mid-life crisis, aging daddies clutch on desperately to their youth by purchasing phallic symbols such as fast cars and boy toys. Me, I get a second childhood. And Lego fever.

Seems like I'm not the only one indulging in such juvenile hijinks since I got inundated with excited queries from my colleagues ( some even older than me! ) once I mentioned a Lego Warehouse sale. Even an elderly matron sheepishly commented on the latest train set she bought.

And I'm certain they weren't all buying for their kids.

Now that I've probably embarassed myself by revealing my geeky Lego fetish, might as well tell you that I've got my eye on a certain fast-disappearing set! A Lego Market Street set with a three-storey shophouse full of graceful balconies, turrets and even a gargoyle or two. Now, come on, wouldn't you want to play with that? It even has a basket of fruits and vegetables for the grocer to sell!


The Market Street Set
And I'm not even gonna think of the Green Grocer and the Cafe Corner set yet.

Ampang Medikal : Wit, Wattage and Watchmen

Seriously.

By the third admission - the results are back - and I can tell Ampang Medikal is in dire straits. Blood pressure falling, oxygen saturation fluctuating, heart rate flatlining - it needs a resuscitation trolley desperately. If only someone would give it a good dose of epinephrine stat.

Or preferably a full calculated dose of what I'd call Wit, Wattage and Watchmen.

Wit

Come on. Our very own little Dr Siti to carry the show with her spiritless, humourless monologues? Gosh, someone give our dour doctor a quick stab of humour please. Not to mention I find her coy flirting with the patients simply inexcusable as well.

Siti : But I was only trying to make the patient comfortable.
Paul : By letting him propose to you? Excuse me doctor but you're not dawdling at a dingy bus-stop shaking your booty picking up flirtatious fellas.
Melissa : Hee hee hee.
Paul : Stop that infernal cackling this instant.
Wong : Damn I got vomit on my scrubs again.
Paul : My God, you poor one-trick pony! Next time get a plastic apron and a mop.

Yes, the bubbly Dr Melissa has to stop giggling before someone slaps her to reality. A wonderful character otherwise but is she actually high on amphetamines all the time? Enough with the childish chatter. Time for some beta-blockers, I think.


All hail, the gang's all here.
Not much to say about the token minority pair, Dr Rajesh and Dr Wong. Apart from his obvious crush on her ( though no one knows what suddenly drew them together! ), both of them seem to have no role in this series. Apart from Dr Wong being the unfortunate victim of the vomit gag. Again.

Why do I have a bad feeling it's going to happen again?

I won't even talk about their diminished superiors who seem to have shrinking roles. Even their medical officer seems to be nasty without much provocation ( at least with the charismatic Miranda Bailey, you had the feeling that she was a super-capable wonderwoman ) so his well-meaning advice seems far less than it should be. Good writing establishes personality with defining moments and loaded lines. So really, where is the characterization in the script? So far, all the doctors seem to be near indistinguishable ciphers with bland personalities? Get a new writer!

Wattage

ACTION pls. Someone hook this fellas up to an epinephrine line fast. We need to pump up the volume and speed up the damned lagging pace. Does nothing happen in the hospital? It's.... like working in an abandoned city hospital during the Raya festivities when everyone's decamped away - and to add to it, somebody had to release a lethargic anaesthetic gas on the rest of the workers.

Watchmen

Really. Get a medical consultant STAT. Like yesterday.

So many things far too mind-numbingly hilarious that any medical personnel watching would be ROTFL. Sure, Grey's Anatomy has its flaws but at least it usually tries to stick to what's happening in the medical world.

Ranting raging star with cameras and crew without the hospital agreement? Never. They'd be gently but forcibly shoved out by our persistent nurses in milliseconds.
Head injury patient with an endotracheal tube left dangling in the air? Possible - if we wanted to perform euthanasia!
Paediatric surgeons delivering babies? Really, are obstetricians obsolete?
Are these house officers all in a single department or do they perform go-fer for all the departments in the hospital?

And finally... a watchman just to ground them to reality. A worldly-wise sophisticate ( at least what I assume Dr Melissa was ) wouldn't simper like a ninny after being asked out by a two-bit Don Juan! Wishful thinking by the writers perhaps but honestly no self-respecting lady would do such a thing. Maybe much later in the privacy of her own room, she might giggle and goggle with her buds but not at work with an unappreciative audience. The house officers are all of 25, they wouldn't simper like silly sophomoric schoolgirls.

Not to mention a world-class neurosurgeon and cardiothoracic surgeon sending their precious progeny to an unnamed, unbranded ( and appallingly common! ) kindergarten? No KUMON method? No Montessori? I'm not trying to be an elitist bitch but seriously, that's not happening in the real world.

Chinese Curses

They say that couples start to rub off on each other after a while.

Believe that would hold true for what I dub Siamese twin couples - to be separated only at risk of death or dismemberment - but does it really happen to everyone else? Always disregarded that particular relationship adage since Charming Calvin and I are miles apart in temperament and humour. Seemed almost impossible that a sober respectable fellow like him would pick up some of my more unsavoury traits.

Nor would I suddenly turn into a Lord of Perpetual Yawn like him.


The Dark Side of Calvin
Till the other day when he blithely mentioned cropping pictures of a fellow colleague. Certainly piqued my ready curiosity especially when it turned out to be shots of Creepy Cruella from his office. Stranded in Beijing, our poor hero Calvin has had to contend with a number of particularly repulsive characters ranging from minor pest-like nuisances such as indecisive clients to the aforementioned Creepy Cruella in management.

Hence the name.

A typical middle management monster, Cruella spends his hours in the office cubicle devising torturous Machiavellian schemes for his unsuspecting colleagues, sending self-laudatory messages to his superiors and then offloading sloppy jobs to his hapless minions. Not forgetting the occasional infamous office cc bullets to incriminate his fellows.

I'd have crushed such a repellent snake beneath my muddy boot-heel long since.

Ever the pacifist, Charming Calvin however tries to stay clear of such annoyances; then braces himself as much as he can when the bullets hit. Till today - no doubt a cataclysmic event occurred to break the proverbial camel's back - when he finally decided to take some action the old-school way ( think BC ) by invoking the family gods!

Our inventive Calvin started writing curses on scrolls of lead.

Finally the man reveals his dark side! Endless rage has Calvin baring his hitherto-sheathed claws swearing vengeance using the dark lessons learnt from his coven of Charmed Calvinettes. Not sure if this change of heart is to be blamed on his mother's malevolent influence or that the fault clearly lies at my door.

Have to admit I find this turn of events disturbing in the extreme. To put it plainly, Calvin invoking curses would be akin to me skipping rope with the singing Carebears! Had me wondering whether to be immeasurably proud of his progress ... or endlessly worried! :)

But what the hell, maybe I should bring him live poultry to sacrifice this fall. Curses look so much better written in fowl blood. Perhaps that would be enough to bring the downfall of Cruella.

Foreign Immigration

Let us not quibble over the matter.

It's obvious that the division chief Ahmad Ismail should be hung, drawn and quartered for repeating seditious statements that pertain to the citizenship of the Malaysian Chinese - likening them to filthy off-the-junk immigrants who will never share the rights of the natives! Is it any wonder that the usually reticent Chinese have raised their hackles in protest?


Are we immigrants still after all these years?
How dare he even question it? Do these politicians even stop to think before they speak? Immigrants most of us might have been a century ago but our decades here have certainly proven our loyalty as a citizen of this country.

A mere slap on the wrist could hardly be called a worthy punishment - since no less than immediate exile to a torturous gulag would suffice for such grievous insult! Although no matter what they finally charge him with, hopefully this precedent serves as a deterrent to any political ingenues seeking to rise meteorically in the ranks by uttering such seditious anti-Chinese rhetoric.

But I have to admit my sympathies go out to the racist fella.

Let us not be so naive in thinking that he's the sole bearer of such Malay supremacist sentiments ( such racist embers usually vigorously fanned during political gatherings ). How is he any different from the bigots who'd tell the Chinese to return to their supposed homeland if they don't like the governance of the country? By chance, Ahmad Ismail is just the handy scapegoat who got collared publically! During the political rally where he allegedly made his speech, no doubt he had a large number of ardent supporters - who although they might not have agreed wholeheartedly to his fiery comments - didn't even bother to raise a single whimper of protest.

So these are the people we should fear most - the silent majority easily swayed into such racial prejudices by a select militant few who still hold on to the concept of supreme Malay hegemony - dismissing the other races as mere troublesome squatters in their land to be deported at the government's behest.

Although if they regard the term immigrant to be an insult, I really have to question the intelligence of such bright thinkers.

Seriously. Are there any true natives in the world any more at the moment? Not even the aborigines can claim to have been a native of their lands since before creation! Surely Adam and Eve didn't multiply in an instant simultaneously all across the world so we must all have been immigrants sometime in the past.

It doesn't take a genius. Short of having a family tree that's rooted to one place for literally eons - and obviously interbreeds endlessly producing genetic dead ends - can anyone honestly say they don't have a single immigrant in their ancestry?

Zinedine meets Mr Sandman

The annual monsoon seems to have reached our shores early this year with almost daily torrential downpours! Though it seems as if rain's not the only thing going down these days.

So hold on to your tickets, lucky touts! Sure Zany Zinedine's long ago V-Card wager should have expired months back - with the spring break coming on to mid-autumn - but let's give our bashful first-timer here a break, shall we? Since then he's been busy being the proverbial clubbing socialite - no doubt flitting around town litely clubbing notorious cavemen with his tiara to drag home to his beautifully styled abode.

For endless months, we assumed that his vintage Dior chastity belt would go out of fashion before one of the cavemen mentioned managed to find the precious key. Obviously trying to fit knock-off ( or even worse last season's! ) Prada and Gucci keys wouldn't work on this particular fashionista!

But when Zinedine drunkdialed me this morning to tell me of his happy news, I was the first to erupt with premature congratulations. After all, it's not just every day that one of us loses his V-card! I believe it should be celebrated by Hallmark with special cards and fireworks. Maybe even a dirty birthday cupcake ( with beefcake ornament? ).


Wait a minute. Is that all there is to it?
So I dragged poor Jaunty Jared - along with injured wrist - along for the big reveal!

Where else but Fogal's to seal such a deal? After all with my pent-up sexual frustration, I knew only a sizzling rack would satisfy me once Zinedine spilled.

Paul : So tell me, who is it?
Zinedine : Who is what?
Paul : The lucky fucker? The debaucher? The casanova? The screwdriver?
Zinedine : It was only a dream!
Paul : ....Fuck.

Anticlimactic much?

Turns out Zinedine's gotten so desperate to beat the wager that his hidden psyche has decided to help by making him lose his virginity in a sex-soaked Freudian dream full of tuning forks and screaming divas. Not sure if that actually counts and I was prepared to counter with several objections until Zinedine forestalled me with the shocking identity of the phantom one-night-stand. Seriously. OMFG.

Zinedine has always been unique.

Still, the lunch wasn't a lost cause though. Once Zinedine had heated up the discussion, I caught a distinctly dreamy Jared performing fellatio on a thick unyielding straw. Interesting. That boyfriend of his is one lucky man.

But I bet you're wondering who is Zinedine's lucky Mr Sandman? Well I ain't telling - it's someone we all know! - but you're certainly welcome to make a guess.

All About S & B

Now I know how Nathaniel Archibald feels.

Though I've griped about his moody indecisiveness, I now know how hard it is to choose between two lovers. Especially when they are as different as night and day. Or Serena and Blair.

Or Shanghai or Beijing. Now that's my question.

Wanderlust calls, my feet are itching to move again and the latest travel promotions have gotten me dreaming about my next destination. Seems like ages since I've been out and about in a distant foreign land! Wouldn't want to go too far though since I'm saving for next year - but I wouldn't want to take a short meaningless hop next door as well.

So China seems to be my best bet - and I've narrowed it down to either Shanghai or Beijing.


Time to go a-rambling.
The grande old dame Beijing's a simple enough choice. After all, Charming Calvin's still in the northern capital - certainly a draw factor! Saves a bundle on accomodation that's for sure.

Gotta admit I'm also dying to have another bite of Peking Duck - with possibly another bid to get a cheaper tibetan stool at the Panjiayuan market :) But I've done most of the sights in Beijing, been to all the places I wanna go - and hell, it's only been a year since my last visit!

Far too early for a return visit, right? Especially when I haven't even covered half the places on my blue list.

Hence Shanghai - that modern miss eager to embrace the bourgeois world of commerce and materialism. Been there a couple of years before but it was such a crazy madcap rush with the tour guides that I hardly had any time to appreciate the place. All I recall are shopping temples, shiny towers and chilly boat rides. Still so many places to see, so many things to buy - though honestly I barely even had the time to haggle for prices the last time!

Paul : Ooh, that lamp looks nice.
Shopkeeper : A thousand yuan.
Paul : Two hundred yuan. Take it or leave it.
Shopkeeper : So much ah. How to survive like that, sir? I have children to feed. But today special price for you. Five hundred yuan.
Paul : Two hundred.
Shopkeeper : Aiya! You're killing me here.
Paul : Oh shit. The bus is leaving. Here take your money, you bloodsucker and hand me that lamp.

Half the fun of bargaining is lost, I swear.

And I never had the time to even enjoy their trademark xiaolong pao there! Apart from tossing a few warm ones into a doggie bag before hotfooting back to the tour bus. Somehow it doesn't taste as good when you're struggling to swallow it while being jolted in a speeding bus ( with passengers chattering at the top of their lungs ) down a busy expressway.

Promised myself the next time I'm in Shanghai that I'd take it real slow. More lazy hours at the teahouses rather than being shoved en masse from one temple to another. More hours at the museums rather than squabbling over knockoff designer handbags and cheap tees. More detailed guidebooks rather than guided tours with loud retired holidaymakers.

Thanks to the wonders of the internet, even found this wonderful quaint hotel similar to the establishment we stayed in back in Tianjin. Coincidentally even shared the same name, Ascot House Hotel. Sure the building's a tad rundown and the service reputedly sucks but can anything compete with that old-world atmosphere!