Musical Chairs

You never quite forget the partners you had in school.

And I've had more than a few. Never could stick to one partner for long. Turns out I had quite a scandalous reputation as the garrulous chatterbox back in the day so the harried form teachers had no choice but to switch me around every new semester amongst my classmates. Quite like the veritable class ho, I played musical chairs with the boys never quite sure which eligible bachelor I'd land up sitting right next to.

Oh yeah. Unlike the single seats clearly advocated in US television dramas, we are usually seated in pairs over here in Malaysia. So through the hands of fate and the malicious finger of the schoolmarm, that partner's the unfortunate fella you're inevitably linked to for at least a semester sharing lives, loves and endless piles of homework.

Not to mention the occasional rubber. And no, that's not sharing the occasional prophylactic - though I wouldn't have complained much! Isn't it peculiar that we call erasers here rubbers? Never quite gotten out of the habit.


Sharing a rubber?
Think of it as an unconsented marriage. Still, your partner's the guy you're stuck with for a semester so you either learn to live with it. Or kill each other after. Since I'm a peaceable fellow, I've usually gotten along with them despite the wild variations I've gotten in terms of partners - from tough curse-spewing ah-bengs to deliciously straightlaced mathlete hunks and everything else in between.

And curiously I got in contact with two memorable ones this week.

The ah-beng mentioned wasn't that much of a surprise since I've kept in touch with Bastard Beng for quite some time. What surprised everyone else in the class was the fact that we got along like a house on fire - me, the goody-two-shoes class monitor and Beng, the rough, spitting brawler who skipped classes monthly at a whim. Picking him out of the Chinese-speaking pool, no doubt the teacher was hoping that we'd find absolutely nothing in common!

Typical wannabe gangsta in school, Beng accidentally knocked up his long-time girlfriend right after school, did the honourable thing by getting married and settled down. Now occasionally he calls me up for a chat where we discuss his schoolgoing children and the secondhand cellphones he hocks.

And then there's hot mathlete Sexy Sanjeev - though he didn't think much of his sculpted looks back then. Hell, he was more involved with complex mathematical equations to even notice that I spent more than half the period gazing at his long-lashed brown, brown eyes.

Yes. That was how innocent I was back then. Doesn't mean I didn't glance occasionally at his tight ass ( with a blush! ) and wonder what his briefs would look like. On my bedroom floor.

Bet he'd be shocked if I told him that when I buzzed him today about a dental appointment. Wonder whether I could get him to drill anything else. Always something damned sexy about the dentists' chair.

Analyze This

Oh look at this. Curious about what kinda blog you have? And perhaps even what kinda blogger personality you are? Check out the typealyzer. Obviously a cute play on the word of type and analyzer.

Just key in the address for your blog and you'll get a look. What I got was this.

ISTP - The Mechanics
The independent and problem-solving type. They are especially attuned to the demands of the moment are masters of responding to challenges that arise spontaneously. They generally prefer to think things out for themselves and often avoid inter-personal conflicts.

The Mechanics enjoy working together with other independent and highly skilled people and often like seek fun and action both in their work and personal life. They enjoy adventure and risk such as in driving race cars or working as policemen and firefighters.


Firefighters?
See. I knew it. Fun and action eh? Why doesn't that surprise me? I've always wanted to work with policemen and firefighters. The hotter the better. Ring the alarm!

Mommy Kissing Santa Claus

What's the first thing any sane parent would do once confronted with their son's confession that he's gay?

Hysterical homophobic rants with threats of physical abuse? Well... fortunately not in all homes. Actually the best parents usually shift the blame to themselves first before pointing crazed accusations. Really. Whenever someone comes out, there's always the usual hue and cry before the prerequisite self-blame for the unimaginable fact.

Son : Mom, I'm gay.
Mom : OMFG. What did I do! Was it my cooking?

Seriously mom, you didn't do anything. But if you did, hell, you'd only have yourself to blame, right?

Not sure how they actually come up with that particularly erroneous conclusion but perhaps it has something to do with the nature versus nurture argument. Obviously most parents still have the archaic idea that homosexuality is a learned trait. Like we could actually teach cute boys to turn gay.


Could you teach me, kind sir?
Wouldn't Chris Evans be gay then?

Scratching my head trying to think of a particularly traumatic incident in my past that could have turned me gay. Mommy kissing Santa Claus? Cross-dressing perhaps? That inadvertent day-shopping trip? The absence of a father?

Nah, I didn't have all that.


Ken says hi to GI Joe.
I however had a Ken doll. Seriously. Not sure what possessed me at the primary school age to demand that sorta toy ( but the fact that my neighbour had dolls aplenty could be a factor - after all I needed at least a token to join in the masak masak games ). So yeah I did have a doll. A Doctor Ken doll with a white satin ( satin?! )doctor's jacket that flips around to become a tux. Didn't even dignify the doll by calling it an action figure.

After all, Ken didn't get all that much action.

Unless Gi Joe dropped by.

So yeah, mom, the doll made me gay.

Or a doctor. I haven't decided which.

The Scooby Gang Past Midnight

I got woken up by what I'm starting to term the Scooby Gang at some ungodly hour this morning. Any other intern who'd dare do the same for no valid reason ( other than a dire emergency! ) would have been chewed up and spit out. Yet at that unseasonable hour, I got a call from a far from sober Strapping Shane demanding a meet up with him and the rest of the Scooby Gang.

Dropping by to see me at the hospital at 3 in the morning.

You can imagine my reply.

Shane : Hey, can we drop by?
Paul : WTF. Only reason you should call at 3 in the morning is for a near-death situation.
Shane : I'm not near death.
Paul : Trust me, you will be.

Okay. So I'm not so charming at that hour.

Not only is sleep my prrrreeeecious but hello. Just rolled out of bed, my hair's in a mess, I have bad breath and I'm clad in hideous scrubs. No self-respecting gay man - even a bad one like me - would dare show himself in public. Much less come down to meet a bunch of raging lesbians :) For shame! I'd probably risk losing my pink passport!

BTW yes, that's the Scooby Gang. A rag-tag group of raging lesbians and ... relatively laid-back fags ( well, in comparison! ) involved in a sacrilegious blog full of passionate rants to disseminate facts about homosexuality to the world. Think Velma and Shaggy with better fashion sense. With a big dawg or two as well.


The Scooby Gang out to save the world!!
BTW Velma and Shaggy are to the right.
And yeah, I'm in the Scooby Gang as well. Perhaps I'm Scrappy.

Surprised that we haven't all met yet - since we made contact only through our online alter-egos - the Gang decided to make it official by congregating at the Marketplace. Unfortunately I couldn't make it since I was at work. Certainly didn't deter the Scooby Gang from calling up after their inevitable pubcrawl. The Scooby Gang changed their minds soon enough after noticing how crabby I was at 3 in the morning. My apologies to the Velmas :)

So I made up for it later by taking Strapping Shane and Delish Dom for an early breakfast instead. Yes. Dom & Sum for DimSum. Since the raging lesbians had called it an early morning, the boys were kind enough to wait up for me to totally dish about their night. So much so that I'm already getting curious about the missing Velmas.

So when is the Scooby Gang meeting up again?

Shrug and Agree

How does freedom die?

Not the way you'd reasonably expect with guns and bombs. Usually it's stealthily given away bit by bit, inch by inch without barely anyone noticing. And it's all for our own good.

First they tell us to stop doing supposedly unhealthy practices such as arcane methods of meditation / exercise for fear of corrupting influences. We shrug and agree since it's for our own good.

Then they censor movie and books to shield us from perfidious degenerate thoughts. We shrug and agree since it's for our own good.


What kinda inappropriate dressing is this!!
Then they tell us to dress appropriately for our gender to ward away unwanted harassment. We shrug and agree since it's for our own good.

Then they separate cafes / stores / cinemas according to gender for our own convenience so we don't feel intimidated. We shrug and agree since it's for our own good.

Then they tell us to stay home during certain hours of the night to be safe from harm. We shrug and agree since it's for our own good.

Then they keep us away from schools and universities since unhealthy wicked practices are being spread there to divert us from the true path. We shrug and agree since it's for our own good.

Then they extend the curfew hours to keep us home. We want to shrug and agree but we know it's wrong. By then we want to raise a protest but it's already far too late. The gates are shut. And we are all cabinned, cribbed and confined.


Why are we cabinned, cribbed and confined!!
And it all happens just because we shrug and agree.

So listen to the near-prophetic words of lil Marji in Persepolis. Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Deck My Halls

Anything more domestic than decking the halls with Calvin?

I know. Kinda early to be putting up all the Christmas trimmings but I can't possibly let the department stores ( and Jaunty Jared! ) beat me to the punch, could I? I usually tend to go a bit crazy over baubles ( so pretty! ) so let's not even discuss the sinful amount I spend on trimmings every year. My credit cards are burning!

So with numerous goodie bags filled with green and gold trim, I dragged the merry loot back home this weekend to redecorate. But of course I had to canvass for help since it's a bitch putting up a tree all by my lonesome.


How domestic is this!!
Turns out Charming Calvin has a very... scientific way of putting up a tree. :) More science than art - possibly with set mathematical formula that each and every bauble has to be 5 inches from each other, with no large baubles being next to each other. No two similarly hued decorations can remain in the same niche ad well. Go figure out that complex equation.

Engineers.

Good for stringing the lights though :)

Me, I toss the lot together, then sit back with a quick prayer and enjoy the view.

Then I rearrange the lot again. To his abject horror. Random impulse shocks and confuses the methodical fellow.

But obviously Charming Calvin doesn't have much in the reserves of stamina. After hanging a glass bauble or two from a branch, he's already ready for a kit kat break. Although I have to admit I'm pretty picky about the position of each and every single bauble.

Paul : To the left. To the left. No. To the right. Down to the corner. Over to the left again.
Calvin : I need my hot chocolate now.

Yes. I am a controlling bitch. Now where do I put these boughs of holly?

Overwhelming Circumstantial Evidence

The endless twists and turns of the legal system have always piqued my curiousity and I'll admit that I actually toyed with the idea of taking up law once upon a time. If medical school hadn't come knocking on my door, I might have traded my white coat for a white wig instead. Seeing my friends in legal firms living the designer high life now, I wonder whether I'd made the wrong choice ;)

Fortunately the Legal Beagle's always good for a quick consult.

You see, I've always wondered how our boys ( and some who claim they are! ) are caught with the good old sodomy charge over here in our country. Start a little hue and cry over some alleged raunchy mansex - and the obliging authorities come running with their batons and handcuffs. Wouldn't it be a little hard to prove that two fellas were carrying it on short of an incriminating webcam being placed in advantageous spots?

Well it isn't that hard. According to my sources, seems it's an easy enough conviction to carry out with enough circumstantial evidence. Seriously. Turns out there's a funny concept called 'Overwhelming Circumstantial Evidence'. Don't you just love sexy legalese? That's when the circumstances in which the persons were found can only possibly lead to one conclusion.

For example...
Two guys found naked, on the same bed. Used condoms on the floor. Lube on the bedside table. And medical examination shows one of them has had anal intercourse in the past 24 hours.


This isn't what it looks like! He's checking me for hemorrhoids!
Although the boys might not have been caught in the act ( since they would have presumably disconnected at the very least to answer the door! ), there would be sufficient grounds to convict for at the very least, gross indecency or at worse, the antiquarian Section 377A offence.

Idiotic Victorian laws aside, this overwhelming circumstantial evidence clause certainly had me thinking! Yes, while good boys everywhere dream of T & A and that awesome pimped-up ride, Scorpios are always busy thinking of nefarious methods to carry out the ultimate fool-proof frame-up of their dearest enemies! And I believe I've found the simplest way. Though I haven't found suitable foes yet.

Two unsuspecting fellas ( preferably both homophobic male rednecks ) could have been slipped a couple of roofies mixed with some tequila shots. Toss them both naked in the same bed at some sleazy rent-by-the-hour motel. Then sprinkle some used condoms and salacious gay mags about.

Certainly plenty of circumstantial evidence about for a charge, don't you think?

No wonder there are plenty of fellas out there crying sodomy.

Shoes of Steel

December marks the end of the year - and for most of the 9-to-5 fellas who work hard for their money the rest of the time, it also signifies the time to let their hair down at one of the many dinners, parties and soirees in town. Certainly reason enough to dress in your best since the year-end ball is always the time to sparkle.

And to glam it up to the max. Time to call up the fairy godfather for a dazzling makeover and some Swarovski slippers. Even too much of a good bling can be forgiven this time of year.

At least that's what I thought.

Seems like it's only an excuse for the engineer Steel to drag out a worn hand-me-down from her cluttered wardrobe for a dust off. Although Charming Calvin has made plans to attend the same function, he has steadfastly refused to go around squiring a tragic frump eventhough she's a charter member of the Calvinettes.

So Steel had to go shopping.

Despite being dragged - nearly kicking and screaming - down the various highstreet boutique stores in town, Steel remained adamant about dresing down in her ragged Doolittle flower girl best. All the prettiest party frocks in town failed to move her hard, unglamorous heart. Not expecting her to go crazy in a Prada store but she could definitely afford something mid-price range! But all the Truccos and Principles in the world couldn't change her mind.


She doesn't want to buy a new dress!?
Obviously this girl had no intention of turning up as the belle of the ball.

I'm shocked.

Certainly not my intention to win Prom Queen but I'd try to give her a run for the money. Or at least shop for a pair of new shoes.

Short of turning up in shockingly inappropriate Cantopop inspired couture, guys don't really have much of a choice for a black-tie event. But the girls have a choice of dozens of designer gowns in hundreds of eye-catching shades. Certainly would be a point of envy for me but even that wouldn't make me go drag.

But their heels might.

Though I'm starting to fear that Steel might go to the ball in unceremonious flats ( despite having mountains of shoes! ). I think even Charming Calvin would find it hard to acknowledge her as a friend then :P

Grown Up Christmas List

It's that time of the year again. Kinda a yearly tradition for me. I know I'm obliged to release this to my friends and family so I might as well share it with you guys online. Did the Christmas List the year before as well.

Hate to come up with a list since it robs me of the surprise - but I'm bowing to family pressure. Turns out I'm surprisingly hard to shop for - since I tend to buy the things I want ( the second it comes out on the shelf! ) so it's hard to find something I haven't purchased if I'd wanted it. Dangerous shopping for me since chances are I'd already have it.

And if I haven't purchased it, I'm probably not that into it. Unless it's astronomically priced - Bruno Maglis boots? Tiffany cufflinks?


How about a nice jacket or two?
So even Charming Calvin's scratching his head right now wondering what to get me. He's not the only one. Let's face it, I do have some other friends who don't seem to know what I want for Christmas. And Captain Underpants so doesn't count. Neither do glow-in-the-dark anatomically correct skeletons.

So rather than come up with a stereotypically girlish whine of an answer...

Boy : So what do you want for Christmas?
Girl : But you should already know me! After all this years, how can you not know me?! Don't I mean anything to you?

Yeah, I don't do that. :P So I've decided to come up with the Christmas List ( with further additions once I think of 'em ).

DVDs

Mamma Mia! The Movie ( Two Disc Special Edition )
Monarch of the Glen Season 2 and 3 DVD
Brothers & Sisters Season 2 DVD
Mirage of Blaze OVA : Rebels of the River's Edge
Antique Bakery DVD Vol 1

Books

The Adventures of Tintin: Collector's Gift Set
Daemons are Forever by Simon R. Green
Too Many Curses by A. Lee Martinez
Slay and Rescue by John Moore

Toys

Nokia E90 or some generic Blackberry
Lego Cafe Corner 10182, Green Grocer 10185, And Market Place 10190 Collectors Set
McFarlane Toys : Sawyer Lost Figure
Fate/Stay Night : Rin Tosaka Action Figure
Melancholy of Haruhi Suzumiya : Kizumi Itsuki Action Figure
Spain Barbie Doll
Jazz Diva Barbie Doll
Empress of the Golden Blossom Barbie Doll
Isle of Lewis Celtic Chess Set




So Christmas lists are important. Should have learnt my lesson from years back when I bought a festive gift for a cutie high school crush of mine - Sexy Sanjeev - only to find that he'd intended to give me the same. Imagine the embarassed chuckles when we both opened our presents to see the same CD! Coincidentally we bought each other Mariah Carey's Christmas album. Till now I hear this song and I see his handsome, stubbled face.

So what would you want in your stocking this Christmas? Seems like my friends will be doing a Secret Santa deal again in a bid to economize. Wonder who's gonna be mine.

Happy Feet

Deep inside the tropical jungle of condominiums and shoplex, there lies a hidden, secluded enclave of huts where an infectious rhythm of drumbeats has started to play. Almost in unison, tribal dancers troop out in black and white eager to showcase their practised moves, clapping their hands and stamping their feet to the accompanying beat of the drums and the whooping audience.

No boiling pot full of pale-faced pre-colonial explorers though.

Only chocolates and coronas for the guests of the tap-dance extravaganza.

And we were all there to lend support to one of our own. One of the Lushes, Fabulous Fiona. Yes, it seems that our girl tap-dances in between clothes-shopping and picking up eligible fellas from various transport routes. A real Samaritan, this girl.

I find tap-dancing simply amazing. Not only from the fact that a variety of sounds can be made only from fancy footwork - but also from the fact that the dancers seem to have legs that move independently of their bodies. Really! Look ma, no joints! Frankly I'd have my legs twisted into an undignified pretzel if I did the same.


Even the dancing baby penguin would laugh at me.

Was gonna comment that Happy Feet always reminded me of the sleepy Charming Calvin but turns out he was much too engrossed with the tap. Who knows, he might be signing up for classes soon.

Happy feet wasn't exactly the drawing factor for me though since the Lushes and I were clearly distracted by the droolworthy audience instead. Obviously girls predominated the dancefloor so the cheering crowd had boys aplenty as well! From brothers to boyfriends - to some we half-suspect are possible gay buds. So I scoped out the other guys in the crowd from Drummer Dude to Tap Twinkie.

And yes, to my very own Dimple Dreamboat - who looked a tad like my once-upon-a-time wet dream Yummy Yee. Though he looked utterly bored ( seemed to have been dragged there kicking by his fearsome momma ), his teasing dimpled smile managed to save him from pure vanilla good-boy blandness.


You know I'd rather be at home, right?
Hell, I'd have done him right on the tap stage with the resin on.

But I just might get stomped on by the enthusiastic dancers. And those steel-soled shoes look awful painful.

Quite obvious after comparing notes that the Lushes and I share distinctly varying tastes. While I clearly fell for the clean-cut boys, it seems that Shameless Shalom has a wicked fetish for rough, brash tradesmen :) Certainly matches her recent rock chick look.

A Juvenile Tea Party

Since the White Rabbit mistook the time, the Mad Tea Party has been postponed till better climes. The fact that the Queen of Hearts - now a role solely given to the Tradimum of Lanky Lex - is sweeping around the palace grounds wailing 'Off with their heads! is reason enough to lay low for a while.

So instead we decided to tail a lil girl and her classmates on a school trip. My niece Chatty Carmen actually. Seriously. Bringing three dozen active, rambunctious tots on a whirlwind tour of the city isn't a task I envy.

It's more like a nightmare.

Back when I was in kiddiegarten, we did pretty much the same touring biscuit factories and local sights. Right now I'm amazed at the intrepid nature of the teachers. Half of us could have been accidentally squashed by runaway buses while the other half could have trooped unerringly straight into an open drain! Not to mention the occasional straggler being scooped up by unscrupulous kidnappers.

Still the teachers over at her kiddiegarten did well enough trying to keep the tiny tots in order. Despite the occasional wail of protest.

The fact that half the parents came along obviously helped.

Turns out that Chatty Carmen is quite the apple-polisher surprisingly. Despite her revolutionary guerrilla tactics at home, over in school she seems to be the perfect law-abiding citizen. Shades of a future class monitor? Of course I played pretty much the same role back in school - so much the better for hiding my more serious crimes since how could anyone suspect sweet lil me?


See that boy? Go fetch!
But she dropped all that good girl pretense when she dropped by the toy shop. Then it was all coy flirty gal as she scoped out the hottest boy in the toy shop and moved in on him. Seriously. It's shocking how fast she moved. The small fella didn't even stand a chance. In moments, our lil Lolita was already building a house with the pint-sized Romeo.

A Lego house that is.

Barely five and she's already dating the hotties. I was immeasurably proud.

Of course what's real estate and commitment compared to the perfect white wedding? Since she'd already found her future mate, Carmen knew that the perfect dress was the next thing on her to-do list so off she flew to the bridal section for the gowns. Really. She moves fast, this gal. Picked out a chic white gown with embroidered baby pink roses that would have made Vera Wang blush with envy and insisted on getting it.

But due to parental objections to an early shotgun marriage, Carmen was denied the gown of her dreams - leaving her utterly despondent.

So of course she's getting it for Chrismas from her uncle.

Santa Baby

You'd better watch out.
You'd better not cry.
Better not pout.
I'm telling you why!

Cause Robinson's has the right idea to get their cautious customers ( in our uncertain markets ) to loosen their purse strings a little! After all why bother hiring a grumpy old fuddy-duddy in a fat suit when you can have a hunky Santa and two naughty Santarinas traipsing the market halls handing out candy? Nothing like a shiny, sparkling facade to draw the crowd.

Or twin pecs with pink nipples perky enough to make Rudolph's red nose twitch with envy.

Rather than huddle up in endless layers to ward off the winter chill, our own tropical Santa has seen fit to leave his smooth muscled chest bare and his six-pack on display. Certainly no belly that shook when he laughed like a bowlful of jelly! In fact this hunky Santa was scrumptious eye-candy enough that more than a few mommies ( and daddies? ) wouldn't have minded kissing Santa Claus underneath the mistletoe that night.

Santa : How about some candy for you?
Paul : How about licking some sugar off you instead?
Santa : Would a candy cane do?
Paul : Only if it's hard enough.
Santa : Sure it's hard. Real hard.
Paul : Been an awful good boy so hurry down my chimney tonight.

Of course I did no such thing. Wouldn't want to land up on the wrong Christmas List!


Hurry down my chimney tonight!
But hunky Santa did offer hard candy. Certainly jovial enough though as he passed around toys and goodies ( What? No Christmas discounts? ) from his sleigh to kids from one to ninety-two. Tiny tots with their eyes all aglow will find it hard to sleep tonight.

I don't blame them.

Of course I doubt the shopkeepers would allow me to cart the fella home wrapped up in a festive bow - even if that's on my grown-up christmas list. Despite the fact that I've been nice all year round.

So I guess I'm gonna be one bad boy for the last month of the year ~ just to get hunky Santa to drop by with some last-minute punishment. Certainly wouldn't mind checking out the partridge in his pear tree.


Time to stock up on gifts with the year-end sales starting. So tell me, have you been naughty or nice this year?

Brothers In Arms

My brother's moving to greener pastures.

At least metaphorically. In truth probably more dry, dusty climes than green. Somewhere in the near future, he's thinking of moving the entire family over lock, stock and diaper.

Still not sure what to think about it! Never ever thought about living apart from my brother. Though we've never been particularly chummy, for the past three decades he's always been there. Kinda like a part of me. Possibly a sore ache somewhere at the back of my neck but hey, I've grown accustomed to that sore.

I'd miss it if it wasn't there, ya know!

Probably because we're so much closer in age but he's always been just a... brother to me. Not older. Not younger. Though he's always tried to pull the authoritarian regime over me, I've always been pretty much a guerrilla rebel with dozens of wily anti-totalitarian tactics up my sleeve. So it's a nice balance.


What did you do now, squirt?
Though my mother insisted that he keep an eye out for me ( since we were in the same school ), I don't particularly see the need. Certainly never had a need to look out for me when I was young. I was quite a peculiar kid blessed with a pretty smart mouth - and fast nimble feet - so I was alright though I accidentally stumbled into a handful of scuffles. Doubt he ever saw a need to offer a helping hand ( fist? ) since I could do that myself, thank you very much.

I wouldn't have minded him helping me out with the downpayment on my car though :P

Not the best of buds but he knows my secrets as I do his. I know where he keeps his stash of girlie porn while he's obviously figured out my homosexuality. Probably known for a good long while. Like any Scorpio, he's good at keeping secrets.

But what always amazes me is his... surprising support for me on the rare occasion. Though he's the most rigid, conservative fella around ( shades of the young Republican going down the traditional route of the family man! ), shockingly he's the most obvious advocate of gay rights in the family waving the rainbow flag vigorously even during our most casual breakfast conversations.

Brother : Gay men should have the rights to get married dammit.
Paul : Huh.
Brother : They should be able to adopt!
Paul : Huh.

And then he's off on his lecture campaign.

Maybe he's trying to show some solidarity for me. Maybe he's trying to prod me into a confession. Maybe he's secretly a member of PFLAG. But here you have this straight married man shouting support for gay rights while the avowedly homosexual brother stares at him in bemusement.

I know. Bad gay man.

So yeah, I'll miss the lug once he's off.

BTW my family reads the papers together on weekends. Since I'm the youngest, as usual I get left with the entertainment section.

Kutu

One of the amusingly quiant past-times that you see around the hospital - shared especially amongst the female nurses - is this.

Kutu.

And no, we're not talking about crabs. Not even going there! You'd be forgiven for thinking that kutu here actually means lice.

In fact kutu is an ancient form of profit-sharing where the ladies pool together their meagre resources into a fund where each particular member gets to dive into on regular intervals for a monthly spending spree. Don't even know how the name started but I figure it might have something to do with the fact that lice sucks a drop from each of its unwilling benefactors while it grows slowly into one big fat gooey bonanza.

Not sure how this game started - possibly some bright spark during the colonial days - but it has been going around ever since forever in the hospitals. Walk around the wards and the lockers and you'd see notices of the latest kutu scheme being carried out.


Are they playing kutu?
I know my math is not the greatest. In fact it sucks. But I believe if the ladies would diligently stuff their own earnings into their own piggy bank, it would amount to the same thing. When I ventured to suggest such an investment scheme to the nurses, they stared at me as if I'd said something ultimately sacrilegious.

A few even lifted their handbags ready to bean me.

Obviously you don't mess with the kutu.

Or it bites.

Kinda like crabs.

Will Work for Coffee

I'm yawning.

Seriously. It's barely after lunch and I'm still yawning. Deep inside - despite the general advice that sleep is beneficial, I think most highly-strung kiasu physicians actually look upon extreme lethargy as a form of weakness. That they actually despise.

Trust me though I'm trying to overcome that particular trait. I like my sleep. Even then I'm usually not the perpetually yawning sort. These days however we're all barely keeping awake.

Of course it doesn't help when the hospital's depriving us of caffeine. Why else would you find a gaggle of sleepy-eyed doctors early in the morning staring woefully at the pantry table only to find the bag of caffeine shockingly bereft.

As it has been empty for the entire week.


Some coffee please.
Only to weep silently as we're handed our meagre milo and tasteless cream crackers. None of which helps to keep us awake.

Isn't there an unwritten rule out there that doctors only work for caffeine? Why are they denying us our basic rights? Really, could there be some malicious sadist out there doing a study on the effects of caffeine withdrawal? Has the prices of coffee risen despite the tumbling share markets? Are the coffee-growing nations forming an embargo ( in league with the coffee store chains! ) against our country? Has there been a nationwide fatwa banning the drinking of coffee in case it causes widespread licentiousness?

Sorry. It's the lack of caffeine.

Househunting

So what were we up to this weekend? Turns out to be a quiet one as Charming Calvin and I actually went around house-hunting.

Yes, how domestic is that? Since Calvin can't possibly be paying exorbitant rent for the rest of his adult life, I figured it's time he invested some of his hard-earned Beijing yuan into a house of his own.

Coincidentally there's a housing development exhibition in town so we dropped by for a look. Much less of a crowd these days - no doubt due to fears of an imminent recession. Though unlike the tumbling share markets, the real estate prices here don't seem to have taken a drastic nose-dive at all, remaining shockingly exorbitant instead since apparently none of the recession-hit executives have opted for that final plunge out of their penthouse balconies.

Unfortunately.

Though Calvin has already refused point-blank to move into any such apartment ( even if there were any to be had at a crying bargain! ) I think I could safely hide rumours of the late owner's tragic demise from him. Of course that's after I hire a motley crew of bomohs, shamans, priests and exterminators to clear the space!


Don't worry. I'm not that crazy.
There'll be a twice weekly cleaning service.
Came as a surprise to me that apparently the developers do appreciate the purchasing power of the pink dollar since none of them even blinked an eye over two men wanting to share a home together. With the sales team baying at our steps, I found myself a little swayed by a nifty lil place called PJ8 and a laketown villa in Puchong. But despite the enthusiastic spiel of the salespersons eager to make a sale, Calvin remained unmoved since he's obviously set his heart on a certain apartment block down one of the bylanes of Jalan Ampang.

Though I marvel at the number of studio apartments they tried to hock.

Me, I like plenty of space. So I can't possibly live in a tiny, dank closet under the stairs with crawlspace enough only to be shared by Harry Potter and his pet owl. Doubt I could share a studio apartment with Calvin. In the event of a plate-flinging domestic quarrel, are we supposed to strut off in a fit to opposite ends of the room only to glare lividly at the walls with arms crossed?

Impossible. I need at least a sturdy door to slam ( and a room to hole up in while I gather my strength for the next rip-roaring argument ).

And if I needed any further indication that my brother already knows about our relationship, I got this peculiar message from him while asking for pointers on real estate investment.

Brother : Househunting together? How romantic!

Now, my older brother doesn't do sarcasm so I have to assume that's wholly genuine! Not surprised though since despite his blockhead manner, he's really not that obtuse.

A Mad Tea Party

Since Lanky Lex's unexpected coming out with the expected repercussions, the entire brotherhood has been busy circling the wagons to offer hot chocolate, moral support and spiritual succor for the newly outed fella. However rather than repel all critical invaders, we're attempting to thwart their counterattacks by preparing a fabulous lil coming out party for them instead.

Yeah, when the going gets tough, the gays go party :P

Tea party that is.


Time for a cup of tea!
After all the invaders aren't the enemy. And we've only his Tradimum ( or better known as the Traditional Mum ) to deal with at the moment. Ostensibly the tea party would present a more sedate, conservative view of gay life rather than the sensational wild sex parties and alleged sodomites that have been in the headlines lately.

No wonder you're late. Why, this watch is exactly two days slow.

A rather civilized tea party with crumpets and scones.

Not to mention the prerequisite midamilo.

And what exactly is midamilo - a term that Janvier helpfully dreamt up! One of the patented drinks that the night nurses - in strict collusion with the some doctors - used to serve in the late evenings to irksome chatterbug patients. One good dose of warm milo ( our fortified chocolate drink ) with liberal lacings of midazolam ( a benzodiazepine ). You can imagine the combination of sedatives and chocolate would be just perfect to soothe the understandable anxieties of our Tradimum.

Why is a raven like a writing desk?

Presumably this mad tea party is where I get to dress up in an eccentric top hat laughing incessantly to myself as the Mad Hatter! Dashing Dan as the White Rabbit of course ( though he tends to sleep as much as the Dormouse! ) with Charming Calvin as the cheerfully grinning Cheshire Cat. Not sure who the rest will be playing but I'm sure Zany Zinedine would look just regal in a patterned red and white ensemble as the Queen of Hearts. Bet he'd just love to saunter diva-like with a bejewelled royal scepter screeching 'Off With Their Heads!'.


The Hatter is here. Time to party!

So Alice drops down the rabbit hole!
And just maybe Lanky Lex could come in a big blue frock and a black headband pretending to be innocent Alice lost in the wild, wacky gay wonderland. :)

Or would that role be played by his bewildered Tradimum?

Intimidation

Am I all that intimidating?

Trust me contrary to popular expectation ( and malicious character assasination reports ) I'm about the sweetest fella around. But with just one look, I sent three sleepy house officers scurrying away with their security blankets into the cold dark night. I don't think I'm that monstrous, am I?


Eh. Not that intimidating.
Then again, I did give them a pretty chilly lecture earlier - after they paged me four times for the same incident. Perfectly alright the first time, answered the page pleasantly and hurried to the patient as I listened to the summary from the stuttering houseman. Not sure why he was stuttering though but I managed to get the gist of the tale.

Turned out not be as dire as expected and I solved the matter in a few minutes. Then as I was explaining a brief procedure to the patient, they paged me again for the same.

Paul : Hello, yes, you paged me?
Houseman : Yes, this is the patient who...
Paul : I'm seeing her now.
Houseman : Oops. Sorry.

Then they paged me twice more for good measure. Starting to feel like I was getting medically punk'ed if that was possible. Obviously the housemen in that ward don't communicate amonst each other.


Are they playing some kinda prank?
By the third page, I was getting irritated.

Paul : Yes, did you page me?
Houseman : Yes, this is about the patient who...
Paul : Bed 4 Ward 9. I know. Mrs X. Look in the ticket and you'll see my notes.
Houseman : Sorry.

So you can imagine the reply I gave to the fourth page.

When I finally turned in for a brief snooze at some ungodly hour of the morning, I switched off the lights and turned up the covers. So all the housemen could see when they peeped into the dank, dimly-lit cave were my eeriely blood-shot eyes over the covers.

And a deep growl - since I was battling a sore throat.

Intimidating?

Dangerous Duet

My family's not very high on emotional outbursts. Rather than descend into rip-roaring bitchfests with screams, slaps and sobs, we tend to opt for terse but civilized discussions over the dinner table.

Preferably over a cup of tea.

Chinese WASPs, I call it. Or Suburbanized Anglophile Chinese SACs? Since we're basically a freakishly different breed, we really need to find a term to differentiate us from the Chinese-educated Heartlanders so to speak. Of course they would derogatively jeer us as heretic bananas.

Of course, anything would be better than being differentiated as the whisky or the pu-er tea clans!


Dammit. The neighbours are bickering again!
Don't have to look far for heartlanders or emotional outburts though. The neighbours live just behind us. An elderly couple with their grandchild - shockingly prone to screaming fests in the early mornings and the evenings. Possibly enacting such dramatic scenes due to the lack of Cantonese dramas at that hour to sustain them.

Mother : Where are my glasses, you bastard!
Father : What?!
Mother : My glasses!
Father: WHAT?!
Mother : MY FUCKING GLASSES!
Father : IT'S BEHIND THE ARMOIRE, YOU OLD BAT! YOU DON'T HAVE TO YELL!

Screeching away their dangerous duet every morning at the loudest decibels in pidgin Mandarin to an ear-splitting crescendo as a climax, occasionally joined by their junior soloist to produce an absolute cacophony of noise. And here I thought my worst neighbours were the obsessive karaoke freaks.

Lest you think I'm exaggerating, it's a daily occurrence that happens in the mornings just when I'm trying to get in an extra hour of weekend snooze. You can imagine how irritated I am. If I had WMDs to spare, there'd be a rather sizeable crater right behind my house where the neighbours used to be.

Can't imagine doing the same back home. Though we love to flout the rules, my soft-spoken grandmother would probably give us a quick rap with the wooden ruler for screaming like uncouth fishwives. Raising our voices is a simple no-no in our household.

And we live in a coffeeshop.

Just a Question of Love

Procrastination.

Take it from someone who has become somewhat of an expert when it comes to procrastination, it actually becomes worse the longer we put unpleasant things off. Certain problems should be ripped off instantly - like the proverbial itching bandaid - rather than to allow it to fester interminably.

You see, I've carried this heavy burden for almost 15 years now - ever since my first clumsy adolescent gropes at a party with my classmate. For the past few years of course I've been slowly unloading part of the weight by coming out to most of the friends I know. After all, a problem shared is a problem halved.

Or at least that's what they tell me.


Isn't it about time?
Lately I have been thinking of telling the parents. An understatement since I've been wanting to tell them for years. Honestly, I don't know how I could have kept it a secret for that long. If secret is what you can call it since I've been particularly open about most aspects of my life - would be pretty deep in denial not to suspect I'm a raging homo! Still I hate lying to myself - and to them - about who I am. I'm proud of who I am and not particularly ashamed. But the longer we delay, the lies seem to pile up and it becomes ever more difficult to come clean.

Subterfuge seems to have become almost second nature.

Of course then I'll have Charming Calvin starting with his disastrous coming out story again. Primitive brainwashing techniques, psych referrals and hoodoo cures, they are all in there. Then the mindless accusations and tearful recriminations.

Scary. A tad too much hysterical drama even for for a gossip guy like me.


But just when I'm about to reveal the quantum of my deception, my friend Lanky Lex beats me to the punch as his mother inadvertently stumbles upon his secret. Forget about the congratulations. Let's just say finding out that your son is gay isn't exactly welcome news to gladden a doting mother's heart. At least not a conservative Asian mum.

Gotta call him now since I fear in his desperate despondency he might steal away to hitch-hike with only his lil violin and some dumplings in a tattered cloth satchel.

Raiding Parties

Forget about San Francisco. Forget about Sydney. Forget about Amsterdam.

Hang on to your tanktops, sequins and feather boas, boys! Seems like the gayest place in town these days is our very own fabulous little island of Penang. How else can you account for the nigh impossible number of gay parties being raided over there? Even caught a few boys with their pants down this very weekend making the headlines.

Imagine the numbers of parties not being raided! :)


Now that's what I call a party!
Well, either that or the island has a highly overzealous vice squad! Guess robberies and murders must be getting really scarce in Penang with the peeping tom coppers conscientiously conducting pointless raids on an almost weekly basis. Surely they must have other petty crimes to prevent rather than stopping a coterie of sweaty towel-clad gymbots from giving each other a good wank.

All I know is the robbers and murderers can hurt me ( badly! ) - whereas party skanks who fuck around can't. Rather than spread war, destruction and mayhem, they are spreading love. At least commend the folks for using condoms - supposedly found littering the premises! But I doubt our righteous do-gooders would be mollified. Probably the hundredth time I'm repeating this but what goes on behind closed doors, I don't wanna know.

And I shouldn't wanna know.

But obviously the sanctimonious morally-superior authorities love to pry. So what I suggest for the boys who love to play is to find an exclusive beach bungalow to rent on a weekly basis. Then rotate places by the month. Lead the local gestapo on a merry goose chase. Imagine sending clandestine invites with that secret scarlet pimpernel stamp on the missives.

We seek him here, we seek him there,
Those Frenchies seek him everywhere.

Is he in heaven?—Is he in hell?
That demmed, elusive Pimpernel.

Even our own nosy Chauvelins would be driven batty.


They moved again?!
Really curious who tipped off the boys in blue though. After all, such exclusive invitations are only circulated amongst those in the know. So other than busybody neighbours annoyed at the inexplicable slurping noises, who else would have an axe to grind?

Now who's the narc each time?

Frenemies of the Past

What is it about old frenemies?

Bet most of us have them. Classmates who have been with us along the peripheries of our cronies since we were all schoolboys in blue shorts. I had Boastful Bart. Not exactly bosom buddies though not exactly bitter enemies either. More of a rival of sorts. So if you're a true-blue Gossip Girl fan, you could make the comparison that he was the Serena to my Blair.

Though I never wore a glittery headband - no matter how much I might have wanted to! But the eerie observation remains true enough since Boastful Bart no doubt thought I was a sarcastic bitch while I told everyone within hearing range he was an overbearing, pompous blowhard! No matter how often we were thrown together in the classroom or during extracurricular encounters, our conversations remained brief, terse and usually - thankfully - cut short by some welcome diversion.

Bart : Now how about this project? No need to tell me. I already have this idea to start a multimillion corporation to fund a housing development...
Paul : How ambitious! Might I remind you, Mr Trump, that this is a school project to be done in a week. I don't think we need to hire management staff, three bitchy secretaries and a cleaning lady for this.
Bart : Well, we already have a bitchy secretary.
Paul : And the cleaning lady.

At least from the bits that I recall.

But a few years after school when we met on more neutral ground, I realized that we'd both grown up! Oddly enough we'd both ventured into the same field hence our awkward meet-up in a hospital. Bart had matured far beyond his judgy-judgemental ways and I'd lost quite a bit of my snarky edge. Reason enough that we could share more than a meal together in Melbourne without automatically sniping at each other. Rubbed along quite tolerably surprisingly for a few days.

Just short of a bromance.


A new bromance?
That was almost an entire decade ago. Last I heard he was happily married with half a dozen kids somewhere Down Under. Though I wondered briefly who the lucky woman was, Bart was miles away from here where I wished him good luck.

Or at least that's what I thought. But just yesterday during a YKLS production - while watching a particularly androgynous Bulgarian bride try to fend off the affections of two warring suitors to the tune of a jazzy Svatba, I saw him. Particularly appropriate music for the moment as I turned to my left and noticed someone familiar crouched in a corner. It was either Boastful Bart had returned to haunt me or a damned good doppelganger.

The chorus of Bulgarian bridesmaids certainly agreed with my chaotic thoughts as they hummed and howled to the unexpected meeting.

So what is it about old frenemies? I didn't know whether to rush forward in seeming camaraderie or run behind a pillar to hide! Obviously he didn't know how to react either since we spent an entire hour glancing around trying to confirm each other's identities. Even had a five minute eye showdown as we stared at each other in abject curiousity. Walked like him, talked like him, certainly look a helluva lot like him.

Short of knocking up some girl in primary ( and which girl could stand him back then? ), good ole Bart couldn't have had a son this old already, could he? Had Bart actually mastered cloning as he'd planned to the last time we met?

Never did find out who he was by the way since I fled the scene after the show.

Angel of Death

Everyone hates to be the bearer of bad news.

And that includes doctors. Unfortunately listed in the purview of our work, we are generally expected to relay devastating life-changing news to our patients - and their assorted relatives - on a daily basis. Otherwise also known as dumping a pile of crap-shit on total strangers.

Patient : Doctor, can I go home now?
Doctor : Not unless it's in a hearse.

Or that infamous army joke rehashed.

Doctor : Everyone with their mother still living, step forward. Not so fast, Mr X.

Yes. We make sick jokes. It's one of our patented coping mechanisms. Otherwise we'd be far more... loopy than we already are.

Of course it doesn't make the job of bearing bad news any better. Guess it would take a true sadist to enjoy dropping a ton of bricks over the next unsuspecting fella. And generally folks such as these tend to clear of careers in medicine! So unsurprisingly many idealistic gung-ho doctors shy away from telling the horrible truth, desperately trying to see the glass half full even when it's already near empty. After all wouldn't that be seen as a failure of modern medicine?


What? There's nothing we can do?!
Which is wrong. It's not a failure. Rather I call it admitting our limits. Sometimes there just isn't much that we can do. We're not God. And we shouldn't go around playing God either.

Doctor : No worries. The surgery will be successful, there shouldn't be any complications. You'll go on to live a wonderful life.
Patient : Really ah?
Paul : You want to know the real truth? The tumour has spread everywhere. Your kidneys are failing, your liver is gone and your lungs are taking a semi-permanent vacation. There's even a tiny lump in your brain. Your chances of surviving this operation is very low indeed.

Reason enough I'm always the one chosen to deliver bad news at work. The Angel of Death seriously.

Me, I'm a proponent of tough love. I believe the patients deserve to hear the worst from us. After all, who else is going to lay all the cards out on the table for them? Moral support and encouragement they can already receive from their relatives / friends / spiritual advisors. I think what they expect from us is the honest truth especially in regards to their medical condition.

No matter how painful it can be.

For the more fragile ones, I might try to cushion the blow by offering some small sliver of hope ( and there always is even in the most dire circumstances! ) but that won't stop me from delivering the punch.


Hmm... I've got some bad news for you but I think you might have already guessed it?
Say what you might but hardly anyone keels over dead from bad news. A tragic swoon or two perhaps but that's about it. Now let me tell you about the ones who drop after being handed the unvarnished truth - especially after being fed sugary sweet honey half-truths before!