Bastard Brothers

Seriously.

When did all brothers turn into wimps?

On television I mean. Isn't it a formulaic plot point on soap operas ( apart from the weekly trysts, mysterious monthly murders and the occasional amnesia ) that the long-lost brother turns out to be a devastatingly gorgeous fellow with a dark dangerous secret? Virile hunk who emerges suddenly from the rolling waves in a skimpy thong to the astonishment of the rest of the cast as the season cliffhanger?

Hunk : Hello, I'm the new hunk in town.
Paul : Ooh.
Hunk : And I'm your brother.
Paul : WTF!
Hunk : And I shall charm and seduce you into my bed before I reveal the shocking secret to everyone in town - including the heartless parents who abandoned me!
Paul : Fine. What are we waiting for? Let's get on it. Maybe have wild incestuous sex a couple dozen times before you tell them, okay?

Brotherly incest? Eh. Not like I'm gonna get pregnant with inbred monsters.


They sure don't make long-lost brothers like they used to!
Now wouldn't that make you tune in?

Obviously that's not how the casting folks over at Gossip Girl and Brothers & Sisters think. Somehow or other they've picked shifty-eyed, pallid, bookish Twilight freaks who hang about in dim bookcafes browsing suspiciously through dusty volumes. And when they're not hatching flimsy plots even the Famous Five could see through, they lurk around aimlessly in the background like shapeless ghosts.

And they want us to maintain interest in these junior Hannibal Lecters?

That Gay Doctor

So much for trying to keep my cool at work.

An article casually tossed my way this morning already my blood boiling. Just when you think gay tolerance is on the rise, something like this crops up to prove that homophobia is obviously still alive and well. Guess no amount of antibiotics is gonna kill that germ.

The article tells the story of a man who would refuse the treatment of a gay doctor. Here, lemme give you the synopsis of the conversation overheard at the watercooler.

After learning that his colleague had been treated by a lesbian doctor, this man then announced, 'I would never go to a homosexual doctor.' Obviously not content with the silence that greeted his reply, the man proceeded to make two points: First, he clarified and said he wouldn't feel comfortable having a homosexual doctor who was a man, but wouldn't mind a lesbian doctor. He explained that he would constantly think that the doctor would be 'checking out his stuff' for other reasons than to 'turn and cough'. Secondly, he said that he would be afraid of catching 'ya know, gay diseases'.

Seriously. Quite obvious that there's no cure for homophobia.


Can you tell that I'm gay?
But would it contravene my Hippocratic Oath if I were to refuse point-blank to treat this contemptible fellow? There has to be a clause in case of extenuating circumstances. In fact I might feel safer standing several blocks down since the tempting urge to strangle him with my trusty stethoscope might prove irresistible. And then perhaps leave him to the tender mercies of the much less sympathetic gay nurses and attendants.

Look I accept the fact that patients should be thoroughly comfortable with their chosen physicians - for whatever plausible reasons. I've even held my cool when certain religious conservatives insist on allowing only female physicians to examine their guarded womenfolk. Even then they usually accede to our wishes - and a male attending - if none can be found on the premises. At least they can be reasonable.

Which is more than I can say for the nitwitted homophobe above. Can't imagine what I would do if confronted with just such a situation. Talk about seeing red.

Bigot : I don't want no gay doctors.
Paul : And how do you know I'm gay? Why, I could have sworn I left my pink feather boa back home.
Bigot : But you might want to check out my stuff.
Paul : What stuff?
Bigot : This stuff!
Paul : That little thing? Oh please.
Bigot : But I might catch gay diseases.
Paul : Isn't it amazing that an increasing number of women are getting HIV these days? Wonder if gay men are inadvertently fucking them. Oops, I fell into your vagina?

Doubt I'd be able to finish such a gratifying speech since I'd probably have leapt clear across the table to throttle the fella. For times like these, it would be good to have a boyfriend like Peter Brown to do the dirty work.

Still I would like to wish good luck to the fellow. After years of stealthy observation, I've come to realize that a sizeable number of my colleagues are actually gay. Let's not even start counting the nurses :) So if he refuses to be treated by a fucking faggot, I'm afraid there might come a day when he might run out of options. These days, it's quite possible to have the majority of doctors - and attending staff - on duty in a hospital all avowed homosexuals.

So with all card-carrying members of the pink squad about, what will our unfortunate bigot do? Short of a hasty transfer to the nearest medical centre ( with confirmed straight doctors! ), he would be short of options. Self-medication perhaps? Fancy removing that bleeding tumour with a blunt knife and a bottle of rotgut? Perhaps sticker-plaster that fractured femur?

Rebel Without a Cause

Teenage rebellion.

Some suffer through with a whimper, some burst out with a shout - but we've all gone through those crazy years of loudly churning hormones. Mine was surprisingly sedate in comparison. Figured I'd already rebelled enough by turning queer, I didn't need to add junkie, skank and school dropout to my list of sins. So no, my liberal parents never really had the opportunity to read me the riot act.

Hell, I never even had a freakin curfew.

Same goes for my brother. Though I seemed to think rules were made to be bent, I doubt my straightlaced brother ever broke any rules in school! Bet my parents were a tad disappointed that we both ended up pretty okay to say the least.

Certainly would have made it tough for a third sibling if we'd actually had one. Perhaps that's fortunate since he or she would be living up to impossible expectations! Not only would I be riding him hard, my older brother would probably be torturing the lil fellow with hours of additional homework. And daily nagging.

And possibly a noogie or two per day to keep him on his toes.

Poor kid.

So I could definitely sympathize when a friend of mine returned after a stint abroad only to find her younger brother changed from what he was previously. Raging testosterone had changed the chubby angel into an ill-mannered, hot-tempered tweenager with mood swings, dubious hairstyling choices and a tendency to slam doors.


Rebels without a Cause!
What my teacher-parents would term the middle class syndrome - an unfortunate effect of streaming classes academically. These lost, demoralized kids are caught in the middle - not quite fitting in with the overachieving school elite in the upper classes and yet not mentally challenged enough to mesh with the simpler folk in the lower classes. Just the perfect recipe for juvenile delinquency.

Of course when I met up with James Dean Jr, I could see what my friend meant by acting out. Seriously an aspiring lil Chinese gangsta with the spiky hair, the grungy checkered shirt and lackadaisical attitude to spare. One glance was enough to tell me that the dubious posse he'd fallen into could only be interested in skipping classes, hocking contraband dvds and hooking up with impressionable ah lians.

And gelling up their hair into impossible heights reminiscent of the karst pinnacles of Mulu.

My initial response would be to spank first, talk later. Though handing him the Turkish treatment would be wrong of course. For rebellious boys his age, I doubt a decent caning would even leave a discernible dent. Sparing the rod would be wise since I think all he needs is a keen watchful eye and a firm hand to guide.

After several minutes of observation, I found the black sheep far from a lost cause. From the horror stories I'd heard, I half expected him to curse in six different native languages, toss chairs about and spank waitresses as they walked by. Certainly didn't display any of the irrational habits I'd expected and he turned out to be quite reasonable for his age.

No, he's not irredeemable. Especially with a sister who cares.

Though maybe a trip to a reputable hairstyling salon wouldn't be amiss.

Seriously. How lax are schools these days? Doesn't the discipline teacher give razorcuts to recalcitrants anymore?

I Have Confidence

You know the song.

Rebellious novitiate fresh out of the convent needing a confidence boost as she marches out to see the world in the shape of a captain with seven children.


Obviously the rhyming lil ditty managed to hand her the right pep. Really. What's so fearsome about that! Only wish I could inject that same verve into my junior colleague.

Recently transferred over, Nervous Nancy has her flustered moments. Wait, that's not right. Our Nancy has her calm moments. The rest of the time, she's usually scattered, twitchy and jittery. With her nervous qualms, I seriously don't know how she made it out of stressful housemanship without turning quite batty. Don't anxious house officers like that get eaten for breakfast?

Daily work in the wards has become a reality game of watching her teeter back and forth over the edge with nail-biting indecisiveness. Even deciding which ward to begin with has become a momentous judgement fraught with unseen difficulties!

Oh what's the matter with her! Oh I wish she would stop all her doubts and her worries.

Paul : What will you do?
Nancy : Umm. I-I don't know. The patient... I'm not sure what...
Paul : You have to make a decision.
Nancy : Umm. Maybe. Possibly. Umm.
Paul : Time's ticking.
Nancy : I just don't know! Umm. Uhh.
Paul : Think!
Nancy: I can't I can't I can't!
Paul : Okay. You gotta take a chill pill.

I was this close to humming the theme song to Jeopardy.


To be or not to be.
That's my indecisiveness talking!
Can't help but feel sorry for the tough love treatment though. But what can I say! Crazy emergency situations ( something we deal with everyday ) need rapid quick-fire responses.

Trying very hard to imagine Nancy leading a resuscitation. And the mind boggles. Does she waver over the selection of drugs as well? Does she stop to ponder over whether to apply the defibrillators? Does she give an instruction only to withdraw several stressful moments later? Do the resourceful nurses take over before Nervous Nancy falls into a nervous breakdown of indecision?

Nervous Nancy claims that she has never been particularly sure of herself. Perhaps I could teach her, she says.

And I find myself staring at her agape. Honestly though, me teach her? I doubt I'm all that confident myself! Hell, timid and shy and scared am I of things beyond my ken! Yet I shrug on a sleek, shiny coat of self-assuredness when I get ready for work. Seriously no helping it. In the dog-eat-dog world of medicine, the nurses, the attendants and my other colleagues sense human weakness - and they will pounce. Hardly any choice but to appear shockingly competent at least.

So I find myself wondering how exactly to teach such a thing! How do you find the courage you left? Perhaps a song and dance? Perhaps dress her up in borrowed curtains with a snazzy flowery bow?

So do we inject confidence intravenously? Or is there a pill?

Lonely at the Top

When they said it's lonely at the top, they obviously meant it.

Transferring to a new workplace is one thing. Quite another to transfer over with the imminent prospect of being the boss in three months. Far more comfortable with the role of rebellious rabble-rouser for the struggling proletariat, it's taking a while adjusting to life as part of the stodgy establishment so to speak. Can't very well egg the workers to rebel when I'm part of the wicked administration.

Several things I'm learning the hard way these days. Winning Mr Congeniality at work isn't as easy a task as I initially imagined. It's difficult finding bosom buddies amongst the junior colleagues when you're seated in the big swivel chair at work. After all no one wants to be friendly-chummy at the water cooler with the fella who's gonna hand you your key performance index. Don't even think of bowling nights with the crew.


Lonely!
Lording it over the lowly peons might sound great at first - but then you're expected to deliver your first scold. Hurling abuse at a fellow colleague would be simple enough but imagine giving a stern dressing down to a man literally old enough to be my father.

Eve : But he deserves a brief reprimand at the least.
Paul : Yes he does. I'm thinking of how to politely word one.
Eve : Just whale away!
Paul : I'm at least two decades younger. If I started browbeating him at work, I might as well twist his balls in a vise and then crush them. In public.
Eve : Okay. Ouch. When you put it that way.

A painful task my fiery officer Ebullient Eve obviously would love to volunteer for. But hell, he's old enough to be her granddaddy!

But I guess you can't delegate such irksome duties to the subordinates, no matter how willing they may be. Imagine the humiliation of having a callow kid ( what I must resemble to this crotchety middle-aged fellow! ) read you a blistering lecture about work duties. Certainly need more than a little tact to do so.

Without inadvertently causing a myocardial infarction.

Maybe I'll distract him with a compliment before reading him the Miranda?

Drunk Separation

We all deal with separation in different ways.

I leave home for the wilds of Borneo and turn into an obsessive Martha Stewart turning shabby chic into objets d'art. Turns out I leave and Charming Calvin becomes a raging alcoholic :)

And I can tell you our boy gets really happy when he drinks.

Calvin : This is a drink. I like drinking. Drinking makes me happy. Happy days I like to talk. Talk and drink. That's what I do. I like math too. See I can count.
Paul : You are so drunk.

This time however Calvin outdid himself by getting inebriated enough to attempt modelling stunts straight out of a Tyra Banks How To manual. Even the famed tummyache pose. You know, leaning forward clutching their concave stomachs. I would show some shots of his Next Top Model debut but I think he'd probably strangle me after.

So despite what he says, Calvin does get hopelessly drunk. More often than not, he flips from his quiet placid self into a giggly talkative fool. Ranting along happily while downing ever increasing amounts of alcohol. Drunk Calvin is a fun Calvin.

Can't be that good for his ailing liver though :)


Kids, don't try this at home.
At least not yet.
These days I hold my drink a little better. Or possibly I've learned my lesson about the evils of drinking. Getting just that little buzz is enough to curtail my liberal libation.

After all everyone recalls bitterly their first encounter with the notorious firewater! Mine was during a high school party. Peer pressure anyone? An alky virgin at about 15 where I got thoroughly soused after a couple of lousy beercans! Lame-o, I know. Fortunately my alcohol tolerance grew better with practice - though I still have a couple of hazy memories of drunken college nights. My ISO wasn't all that good at saying no to alcohol. Neither was I.

Ah, the nights of worshipping the porcelain god in dubious places after getting gaysted while trying manfully ( with a damned hangover ) to swallow aspirin the morning after.

The follies of youth. Good thing we found better ( and sweatier ) ways to get that high :)

Love Sucks

Two sexy vampire brothers haunting a perfect little town, both hoping to score with the heroine of the show. Of course one brother wants her heart. While the other would prefer her bleeding heart served with a glass of Chianti.

At least that's the initial premise of the Vampire Diaries.


Cue the blood and gore. And the frantically screaming victims.

Victim : OMG. A vampire's chasing me so I might as well run down a dark lonely highway into an ever gloomier cemetery!

Like the terribly forgettable Twilight with the endlessly sappy Edward Cullen, I'm sure the squealing tweens would be busy swooning over the lickable vampire duo, Stefan and Damon. Even their names have a certain exotic panache attached. Giggly sophomores out there would probably write the names of the brothers in blood in their frilly pink diaries.

Yet the only guy I can bother to think about is the ex-boyfriend. The sweet, upstanding boy-next-door type ignominiously dumped by the spunky heroine even before the opening act. I'd date him in a second.


Seriously. Would you dump this!
That angry, brooding antihero vampire sort? Those desperate watching-over-you stalker moves? Seriously, I'd probably need hypnotic compulsion to even consider dating them! As they sulk heroically over dinner while agonizing over their horrible undead lives, I'd probably just feel like driving a stake through them.

Paul : Eeew. You brought me on a date to a damp, foggy cemetery?
Vamp : It's where I live.
Paul : Surely you can afford better. Aren't vamps all freaking rich? Was that a rat crawling across the dusty floor?
Vamp : Why should I bother about such mundane things? I shouldn't indulge myself when fate has turned its back on me! I'm young. I'm hot. I have superpowers. I hate myself!
Paul : Stop whining. Get a fucking undead life.

Unfortunately the ones we see these days are usually straight. Poor girls.


Man-on-man fang action!
But seriously post-Anne Rice, where did sexy homoeroticism go in all these ghoulish tales? Not even a single token gay amongst the entire bloodsucking crew of the Vampire Diaries. Surely some desperate vamp must have feasted on same-sex flesh in a dozen lonely centuries! Do I have to depend solely on the Lair to provide delicious man-on-man fang action?

That Cina Kebun

Over here in the wilds of Borneo, folks of Chinese descent are generally considered to be wealthy. After several months of close observation, I haven't found otherwise. Judging by all the obvious accoutrements of the nouveau riche on display here from the glitzy sportscars to the overblown mansions, the industrious Chinese here have certainly made it good.

Of course that's a clear blanket generalization on my part. There's still a sprinkling of far less fortunate proletariat who actually need to work for a living.

In the fields.


Don't mind this Cina Kebun coming to till my fields!
Or at least that's what I'm told by my trusted subordinates. The natives here have segregated the Chinese here into two main groups - either as a scion of the obscenely wealthy Chinese towkays or part of the underprivileged bourgeouis Chinese, otherwise known as the Chinese farmers.

Cina Taukeh Or Cina Kebun.

Solely based on skin colour!

Paul : Wonder why the Chinese kids here are incredibly dark complexioned! I blame the scorching sun.
Nurse : Hardly! Those are the Cina Kebun.
Paul : Kebun as in farm?
Nurse : Yes. Cina Kebun are usually darker than the towkay.
Paul : So they are fairer?
Nurse : Can't get tanned sitting in the Mercedes.

Simple logical explanation for them being a shade darker than the rest. So evidently due to my relatively fair complexion - and my apparently snotty manners - I've been resolutely boxed into the towkay group.

Despite the fact that I'm practically out there tilling the fields on a daily basis. Metaphorically speaking of course.

Don't get quite as much sun as the Cina Kebun though.

Plight of the Pretty Boys

See that guy?

The tall gorgeous specimen of young manhood - marvellously presented in a skimpy tank top and skintight denim - that just walked through the club entrance. Catching his scent, all the preying hawks perched at the bar immediately swivel around to keep their eye on the succulent new meat. Free cocktails, welcoming come-hither smiles and the odd sexual proposition immediately flit his way.

Almost impossible not to envy such fellows.

Even harder to sympathize especially when they gripe and moan about seemingly inconsequential problems. From recurring breakups to cheating boyfriends who don't love them, from minuscule pimple breakouts to imaginary cellulite on their taut stomachs, these pretty boys seem to have troubles aplenty.

Don't we all!


I'm more than my gorgeous abs!
But let's face it, these fellows already have one leg up on the rest of us. After all in our shallow superficial world, good looks do count. So what do they have to complain about? Seriously. Try being short, fat and dumpy for a change. At least that's what I - heavily influenced by my green-eyed prejudice - used to think.

Till I had a quick rethink after being slammed with an epiphany from one of the pretty boys.

Paul : Seriously. Why the endless angst?
Boy : Because no one takes us seriously.
Paul : But it must be nice to be lusted after. Handed free drinks and handbags.
Boy : By the party fellows who chuck us after we're used up like cheap Kleenex?
Paul : Wow.
Boy : We are fucking disposable!

Seriously. A revelation.

Took me a while but I actually found it quite true. Many of the pretty boys I do know - at least peripherally - have actually been through numerous relationships only to end up discarded like the aforementioned tissue. Or else they do the crunch-and-toss. Doubt their boyfriends last longer than a roll of wipes.

God forbid, do I actually feel a tiny shred of sympathy?

Resident Hothead

Isn't age supposed to mellow us? At least that's what I thought.

While I always fancy myself the cool sensible fella, it seems that I might be wrong. Just when I was teasing my junior colleague, Ebullient Eve, for having a shockingly short fuse, I was quickly brought down to earth by Kool Ken.

Paul : Ah the fury of youth! Eve certainly does fly off the handle easily!
Ken : Kettle calling the pot black?
Paul : Hey, I'm not that ...
Ken : Says the angry man. Didn't you fly up into the boughs during the meeting when they suggested the department transfer? I thought you were going to leap across the table to strangle the them.
Paul : Of course not. I did consider throwing my coffee cup at him. But I needed my caffeine badly.
Ken : Or the other day when you stalked all the way to the ward to rant at the intern?
Paul : Seriously. She wrote the shortest clerking history ever for a patient. It was pratically a telegram. At least I resisted mightily the urge to throttle her.
Ken : Watch that blood pressure, dude!

Okay. So I'm not exactly the spirit of zen.


You gotta chill, dude!
Didn't take me long to realize that actually. Compared to my uber-cool, laid-back colleague Kool Ken, I'm practically the resident hothead wielding a blowtorch. Almost nothing fazes the fella, possibly not even the threat of nuclear attack.

Despite my trying to keep a low profile - and present a generally smiling face to all, it didn't take long for the devilish horns to appear. But it's hard to keep my cool in certain insupportable moments!

And seriously. That exasperating intern? Talk about a brief history. It couldn't have been more than two sentences with the presenting complaint completed in five words or less. I would have appreciated at least some sort of a premorbid history especially for an octogenarian who has been in and out of hospital periodically for the past decade. Surely that must have had some impact.

How could I not hit the roof?

Tried my best not to bite her head off and slowly walked her through the methods of presenting a proper clinical history. Even the fact that she stared inanely failed to incense me - though a nurse passing by claimed that the vein on my forehead seemed to be throbbing fit to burst.

Let's not even talk about the department transfer.

Sinead's Hand

With religious conservatives gaining momentum in our country, equal civil rights ( and obviously gay rights ) seems to lie terribly far in the misty future. Much less any thoughts of ever achieving gay marriage. Probably a doubtful speck in the distant horizon. Tolerance is as much as we can hope for sometimes.

A sobering thought. But we persevere as always. Probably as gay men have always done through the centuries of homophobic repression. Not only persevere but we prosper as well.

Why the sudden renewal of interest in gay marriage? Well I am at that uncomfortable age where my heterosexual peers have all settled down ( reluctantly or not ) with a passel of squealing kids, where weekends are spent at organized barbecues with child-friendly facilities, where dinner parties and daycare nurseries have become the main topic at the water cooler. Probably a position I would have been in if I had been born straight.


Who's your daddy?
Though I might be accused of pandering to the heterosexual norm, I actually find myself envying them. Suburban picket fences with 2.6 schoolgoing kids and a dog? That's me.

So yes, I admit I have been spending time going through adoption blogs amd surrogacy programs. Though I haven't yet set up shop with Charming Calvin, it's always been a goal of mine to have a child. Perhaps not today but maybe a couple of tomorrows to come. Probably not one of my own flesh and blood - unless I get the wherewithal ( and the small fortune ) to travel to India for a surrogate mother. From what I've heard from the local grapevine, finding an indigent orphan in the interior regions would be the way to go.

Some would say it's as improbable a hope as that faint mirage in the horizon - but hey, we all have dreams.

As do our boys over in Ireland. So for the naysayers against gay marriage, all they have to do is take a look..


A simple yet effective ad.

Got Milk

If a bullet should enter my brain, let that bullet destroy every closet door.

Talk about an inspiring line.

And it comes from Harvey Milk as he taped his last testament woefully thinking of the numerous death threats he'd received. No doubt foreseeing how things would end for him.

Took me a while but I finally got down to watching the much-lauded movie Milk based on the life of this extraordinary man - the first openly gay man to be elected to public office in California as a member of the San Francisco Board of Supervisors. Not an easy task especially with the religious conservatives galvanized by the likes of Anita Bryant opposing him. His subsequent assasination ( not a spoiler since the movie begins right after news of his death ) and the response to it made permanent and unquestionable the full participation of gay and lesbian people in the political process.

And Milk did it all after the age of 40.

Life certainly begans after 40.


Surprisingly relevant to the homosexual cause in our country now - especially since the movie begins with a brief montage detailing the struggles of gay men back in the early 1970s as they battled homophobia on almost every front. Gay bar raids, regular street arrests and back alley beatings. Sound familiar?

Rather than shamefully retreat into the closet to hide, Harvey Milk decides to come out and do something about it. Drag the queers out of their dingy bars and reorganize them into a solid front to march for their rights in public. Talk about a bold move!

And the young gay people in the Altoona, Pennsylvanias and the Richmond, Minnesotas who are coming out and hear Anita Bryant in television and her story. The only thing they have to look forward to is hope. And you have to give them hope.

Hope for a better world, hope for a better tomorrow, hope for a better place to come to if the pressures at home are too great. Hope that all will be all right. Without hope, not only gays, but the blacks, the seniors, the handicapped, the us'es, the us'es will give up. And if you help elect to the central committee and other offices, more gay people, that gives a green light to all who feel disenfranchised, a green light to move forward. It means hope to a nation that has given up, because if a gay person makes it, the doors are open to everyone.

Inspirational. Makes me wanna rush out to purchase billboards, protest signs and soapboxes. About time we had a Harvey Milk of our own, don't you think? Things have to change after all. Whether big or small, we gotta start our own little revolution.

Of course interspersed throughout the wildly changing political scene is a sweet love story. That between Harvey Milk and Scott Smith. The true backbone of the story - just like the ever loyal Scott who seems to be right there for Harvey through all his ups and downs.


Hot guys in the seventies!
What's a gay movie without a couple of hotties? Played by the extremely fit James Franco who takes a naked swandive into the pool in one pivotal scene totally upstaging everyone else with his tight creamy bottom. Seriously. Who cares about swinging votes when you have one hot fella stripping by the poolside. Too bad he doesn't see fit to strut around the pool providing some eyewash.

And I haven't even talked about the sexy pizza delivery boy yet :)

Kanye What?

Figures. Just when I said that rap music's pretty cool - after listening to Glee's awesome rendition of Kanye West's Gold Digger - one of their own has to go and fuck things up. Certainly doesn't take that long for one of them to fall from grace.



For guys who can't see this, lemme give you the gist of what happened. During the recent Video Music Awards, rapper Kanye West stormed onstage during Taylor Swift's acceptance speech for the Best Female Video award and snatched the microphone from her only to announce belligerently that Beyonce should have won instead.

Seriously. Bad form? Talk about playing to the stereotype of the boorish, loud-mouthed rapper-thug.


What Taylor should have done to him.
Like any good ole country girl, Miss Swift should have beaned the uncouth bastard with her moonman award. Right before grabbing her paw's shotgun to give him a mouthful. But obviously the poor girl's far too genteel for such tasteless shenanigans.

Obviously Kanye finds that he has to pander to his gangsta fanbase - why else continue with these completely unprofessional on-stage rants? I'm sure there will be dozens of ill-bred, loutish oafs who will applaud his churlish actions. And you can be sure he'll have a handful of brainless booty-swinging bimbos all ready to giggle and stroke his machismo.

Kanye : Taylor probably never saw it coming.
Bimbo : Ooh, baby. That was so strong. So manly. So sexy.

Believe me, plenty of nitwitted skanks think this way. How else would barbarous louts reproduce?

Really. It simply amazes me that such an unconscionable bastard can command such mindless adulation. Would you ever date such an egoistic fella with obviously zero consideration for others? Chances are he'd probably treat you just the same way. If not today, someday soon. Drop him like he's ( not ) hot!

Kanye Who?

Gotta admit I've never been much of a fan of rap. Listen to most everything else from country to jazz but somehow rap music always makes me wince. Perhaps it's the crude verses frequently slipped into the improvs. Perhaps it's the inherent association with the violent gangsta lifestles of disenchanted inner city youths.

Perhaps it's just that I dislike their overly exploitative videos full of booze, boobs and bling.

Still I've been recently converted to the pack. Before you start jeering, just hold on a minute and take a listen to what Will Schuester and his students in the Glee Club have done to the song Gold Digger by slick rapper Kanye West.


Seriously. Doesn't it make you want to become a Gleek?

These kids are lucky enough to find a teacher that enthusiastic! If I recall mine back in school, half of them could barely stand up ( stricken with arthritis, broken ankles and failing hearts ) and the other half were far too busy calling up their remisiers to find their fortune. Certainly too busy to attend to their students.

Although we did have a pretty good music mistress - who fit exactly the infamous stereotype of the oversized operatic diva! Seriously. A voice that shatters glass. Wait till the fat lady sings. And this huffing-puffing soprano had the unenviable task of schooling a gang of rowdy boys to sing in a choir. Ever tried forcing a bunch of adolescent boys ( with post-pubertal voices breaking ) to reach that Mariah high note?

Diva : Reach for the high! Sing from your diaphragm, boys! Like meeeeeeeeeeeeeee.....
My ISO : I think I just saw her vocal cords.
Paul : The mouth that swallowed Atlantis.
Diva : What's that noise? Quiet! Now, follow me again. Sing! Like meeeeeeee.........
Paul : Like seriously.
My ISO : Umm, Mrs Diva. I think the kid at the corner just fainted from lack of oxygen.
Paul : That Madame Butterly wannabe's not gonna make it to Broadway.
My ISO : Well, fame costs and here's where you start paying with sweat!


Oh yeah, come make me sing.
Perhaps the more robust ( and clearly not soprano ) Mr Schuester would have had better luck.

I'd certainly be ready to listen to his instructions. A sexy teacher who looks that good and moves that well! Don't you just wanna grab a cane, rip that preppy plaid vest right off and shove him onto the teacher's desk? As a student I'd probably be all over him offering to polish that apple of his everyday.

Paul : I've been a bad boy, Mr Schuester.
Mr Schuester : I don't think students are allowed to crawl up on the desk.
Paul : I'm naughty. Spank me a little with that cane of yours.

Scissors-swinging Smurfette at the Swanky Salon

Like my girlfriends' husbands, my hair is endless stubborn, totally unmanageable and hopelessly straight. All attempts to tame it seem to have failed miserably. Without a serious hedge trim every few weeks, my hair usually ends up in thorny spikes all over my head.

But with the hiked-up prices for goods and services here, it comes as no surprise that even a simple haircut costs a small fortune. Certainly given me a rethink about my career path with the exorbitant fees these frou frou hairstylists charge! Why go to medical school when you can charge an arm and a leg for clipped sideburns?

So as I stumbled out of the swanky salon ( after hearing the inordinately expensive price of chopping my crop ), I made a quick beeline towards the school of hairdressing right opposite. Seriously, thank God for aspiring students.

Sure, you get the failures once in a while but every once in a while, you do bump into an A-star student. A Vidal Sassoon wannabe.

Me, I got Scissors-swinging Smurfette twice.


Time for a trim?
Certainly an overachiever desperate to please her hapless customers. Not only did Smurfette leap into the sidewalk to accost me, she practically stabbed me with her freakishly sharp shears as she waved them around adjuring me to come in. Shoving me into a conveniently placed chair, she immediately fished out an apron to drape over me and dumped an entire bottle of shampoo on my head.

Then despite the fact that I tried to dissuade her, she insisted on continuing with the prerequisite head-squeeze. Seriously. Does anyone actually appreciate getting a what amounts to a noogie at the salon? Despite her puny size, Smurfette was certainly undaunted and tried her best to crush my skull with her misguided massage techniques.

Her childish enthusiasm amused me though. Even the way she knotted the towel around my head to resemble a tengkolok ( traditional Malay headdress ) rather than the normal twist was cute.

Smurfette : OMG. I got your shirt wet, didn't I!
Paul : I walked here in a shirt and tie. The temperature here's hotter than hell. Of course I'm wet.
Smurfette : It can't be sweat. I must have drowned you while I got your hair washed!
Paul : Relax. It's sweat.
Smurfette : So sorry I got you wet! Take off your shirt and I'll get it dried!
Paul : I shall do no such thing.

If I'd taken umbrage, no doubt she would have kowtowed to ask for my forgiveness. Our chirpy lil miss tries so hard. Of course all her feminine charms are wasted on me. Sadly I'd probably appreciate her enthusiasm more if she resembled a virile six-foot hunk.

Wonder whether I trust her to highlight my hair.

Sleepdecorating

Yawning quite a lot at work these days.

Not that I'm necessarily overworked since I've never been quite as idle before. With shockingly competent deputies at hand, it seems I've been rendered nearly superfluous. Certainly a leisurely stroll in the park compared to my last hectic job.

But don't tell anyone I said that :)

So it has left me plenty of hours to kill. While my placid boyfriend would probably advocate hours of bedrest, I simply need to get busy. Idle hands are the devil's workshop after all. Freakish when left to my own devices, I start planning all sorts of shockingly complex DIY projects for the home and for the office. Cheap, serviceable knick knacks cobbled together from the various thrifty dime stores around. Enough projects to fill up most of my waking hours.

And as it turns out, a couple of my sleeping ones as well!


Man, I really should paint the walls!
Ever got up in the middle of the night with the sense that something was missing? That something needed to be done?

Well this morning I woke up in the middle of the night simply energized. Just had to get straight up and paint the guest bedroom. At half hour past midnight. And that's not counting the last night that I rolled out of bed to rearrange the charming footstools downstairs in the living room. And then repotted the overgrown houseplant that threatened to spill out on the hallway console.

Then I painted pink cherry blossoms on the guest bedroom lamp.

Before wallpapering the bathroom mirror.

Seriously. Worked up a sweat even before 5 in the morning. Certainly not the best reason to sweat in the early hours but since there's a lack of sexy studs in my bed, this will have to do.

Hence my endless yawns now. And my desperate need for caffeine.

Mr Smith Goes to Miri : The Paint Job

Since I'd already given him free room and board for his stay here, my Insignificant Other ( or my ISO ) had no choice but to help me paint the kitchen walls. Originally painted in a ghastly red hue ( a terrible botched experiment! ), the kitchen walls taunted me mercilessly each night as I came down to get a drink. Supposedly touted as a sweet melon red, it looked as if the fruit had gone terribly bad. Simply had no choice but to rid myself of it.

With my ISO's reluctant ( and distinctly complaining ) help.

Far from the harmonious co-existence that reigned while I painted the dining room with Charming Calvin, the unenviable task that took an hour had us both trading barbs and jibes from across the room. Seriously. No subject too sacred for us to poke fun at from his warring parents to my lamentable attempts at housekeeping. Anything to distract us from the tiring work at hand.

And the stifling summer heat.


A lil bit of home improvement!
Halfway he even offered to blow me rather than sweat through the arduous paint job.

An offer I almost took him up on except I was covered in sweat, dust and varying shades of golden yellow. Far from sexy.

My ISO : I'm on holiday dammit! How did I ever get roped into this! Must be a hundred degrees out there!
Paul : It's your good deed of the month. Get painting, slave!
My ISO : Save me from such menial work! Fucking forced labour! And what is this bloody infernal heat!
Paul : Don't remind me. 7th level of hell, I tell ya.
My ISO : Holy Mother of God. If we fucked on the dining table, would that distract you from the hideous wall?
Paul : You kidding me? The ghastly red wall would still be there in front of me.
My ISO : Dammit. Blindfolds?
Paul : Hmm. Maybe.
My ISO : But you're right. The red is appalling. I might have to blindfold myself too.

So the poor fellow was conscripted to paint.

Even so he had to suffer the ignominy of a guest bedroom decorated in pastel pink with a dash of chocolate brown. Since the room had been prepared to host my mother in the near future, I have to admit it leans towards the feminine. Not sure how my ISO's rampant masculinity survived the insult :)

Mr Smith Goes to Miri II

Forget about Daiso.

Over here in this city of tight-wad towkays, pinch-penny frugality rules and thrifty dime stores abound. Which explains the serious lack of quality retail stores since few would survive in this parsimonious environment! Don't expect high street shops here. Country folks here like their things cheap and serviceable.

Possibly to compensate for hiking up the prices of everything imported! Everything from furniture to branded goods. Even the damned newspapers cost more here.

So ten-cent outlets have thrived here with dozens opening their doors to the great unwashed in the past few years. Previously I might have turned up my nose at such tacky outlets but in such a hostile retail environment, a dedicated shopaholic has no choice but to fall into line. Nothing else but bargain stores here. Hell, I'm halfway to being converted into a die-hard fan.


Wife : We aren't taking the cab?
Husband : Of course not! We're gonna save by walking!
Shabby chic takes on an entirely new meaning when all the furnishings in my house has been purchased almost at a steal. Seriously. I could host a show on interior decor for less than a hundred. Ready-made curtains at only a fraction of the cost. Throw pillows at slightly more than 5 bucks.

And I also get rebate on top of that.

Reason I have all their store cards from Supersave to One Stop Save. Obviously saving is a priority here.

Something that quickly earned the disgust of my visiting ISO.

My ISO : What are you doing?
Paul : Cutting coupons? Gets me a 20% discount.
My ISO : Good God.
Paul : And ta-da! An additional rebate with my membership card!
My ISO : You need to leave this place now.
Paul : Look. Buy one free one. How can you resist?
My ISO : Out!
Paul : But honey, we cain't afford the good stuff! What will lil Wally and Beaver have for dinner!
My ISO : Why, they'll just have to starve. Move it, June Cleaver!

With the bargains around, guess I don't have to beg, borrow or steal anymore.

Maybe I'll do all my Christmas shopping here!

Mr Smith Goes to Miri

Go spread the news everyone. Paul's Cosy Bed & Breakfast in the city is finally open for business. Unfortunately there are some who are all too ready to take advantage of the early bird offers.

Namely my ISO ( or my insignificant other as you will ). Not only did he surprise me late in the evening with a call just as I was getting ready for my weekly movie matinee, the call was made from the local airport. Barely ten minutes after his plane touched down.

With no warning.

Hell, I could have been mountain-climbing in Mulu this weekend!

My ISO : You in?
Paul : Yes. Gonna start my movie marathon.
My ISO : Good. Don't start yet. Come pick me at the airport.
Paul : Very funny.
My ISO : You hear me laughing? You called. I came.
Paul : WTF. I called you more than a week ago! You're really here?
My ISO : Yes.
Paul : For all you know, I could be abseiling up the Pinnacle!
My ISO : Right...

Obviously he knows me better.

So I stashed all my DVDs, rushed up to fluff up the pillows in the guest bedroom and then left to pick him up. Unsurprisingly he didn't look in the least bit dishevelled despite being crushed with the great unwashed for two hours in the economy flight.


Room and board?
And like any city boy who manages to make it here out in the boondocks, the first thing he mentioned was the enviable size of the airport.

Paul : I was shocked at the size as well.
My ISO : They sure like them big here!
Paul : Size matters after all. And they have traffic lights as well.
My ISO : You're fucking kidding me! It's almost civilized!
Paul : I know! I haven't even told you about the Starbucks yet.
My ISO : Saw that in the airport. Amazing. Expected them to dine on the trees. OMG. Is that a mall?
Paul : I know! I expected lil sundry shops!
My ISO : Reminds me of Malacca.
Paul : Twenty years back?
My ISO : Exactly.

Monstrous. I know.

Still, my first guest. Wonder how I should charge him.

Green Boxer Briefs

Seriously need to get laid.

Almost jumped on a pair of green boxer briefs. And bit it off the cute owner.

So how does this happen? Simple enough formula if you think about it. Just add weeks of celibacy with hours of boredom. Then sprinkle a persuasive hunk of a drug pusher.

Drug pushers. Really, we doctors are always dead jealous of these clever folks who come by to peddle their medical merchandise. Not only do they come in all sleek and glamorous in suits and ties, they also come in right at the moment when we're looking our sheer drabbiest. Ugly Stepsisters, I swear. Drenched in sweat, blood and other bodily gunk, with our dishevelled clothes shockingly askew after squabbling with staff and patients, and with our hair sticking up at all ends after scrambling from one emergency to the next.

Doctors calm and collected? Nah. Mostly shellshocked-tired by the end of the day.


You mean you wanted shorter boxer briefs?

So we never look as perfectly kitted out as the snazzy drug pushers who come by. Like this fellow Green Boxer who came by today. Not only did he resemble a lithe collegiate student, he was also all rosy-cheeked, youthful and shockingly enthusiastic about his products.

And about his home state. Something that he waxed lyrical about even as he changed to leave the operating theatre.

Boxer : It's a wonderful place. You'll love it here.
Paul : I wouldn't be so sure about that! Maybe tolerate.
Boxer : But it sounds like such a wonderful opportunity! Gives you the time to truly appreciate the wonders of Borneo.
Paul : I'm really appreciating it right now, I tell ya.

Which was true since he'd stripped down to a pair of green boxer briefs just about then. Doing a helluva lot of appreciation right about then.

And I suddenly had this uncontrollable urge to bite his tight ass. Seriously. So whatever the boy was raving about - something about the beauteous natural wonders of Mulu - went straight out of my head as I wondered about the equally arresting natural curves of his behind. Forget the Pinnacle. We already have our own phallic symbols right here I'd like to explore.

Boxer briefs. You don't see them that often. Briefs are the usual that I see around here - with the occasional smattering of boxers. But rarely boxer briefs.

Hmm. Memorable.

Where is the Love

Right. So now the Muslims have been allowed to come out and play.

Or at least attend the Black Eyed Peas concert here - which must come as a relief to the hard-rockin' Muslim partygoers out there.


I hear the parties over there guys!
Prior to this, the government had earlier barred Muslims from attending the proposed concert citing religious concerns. The concert ban follows a recent crackdown on alcohol consumption among Malaysia's Muslim majority. All because the unfortunate show was sponsored by the the Irish beer giant Guinness. At least the bureaucrats ( pandering to the religious conservatives ) haven't resorted to the old scream tactics such as touting provocative lyrics or immodest costumes as a reason to ban a concert.

In fact an overzealous official at the Ministry of Information, Communication and Culture even spouted the catch-phrase of the year.

Muslims cannot attend. Non-Muslims can go and have fun.

Be a heretical non-muslim kafir. Get drunk. Have sex. Go to concerts. Have fun.

The rest can stay home and pray.


Seriously. I know which one I wanna be.

Lex : Boom boom pow this! Only non-muslims can attend.
Paul : Shut up! Don't phunk with my heart. Really?
Lex : Ain't no monkey business! We should all go. Gone going!
Paul : Let's get it started then! Since we're godless, morally bankrupt heathens, we can commit all sorts of shocking sins there!
Lex : And eat roast pork!
Paul : And drink Guinness. Pump it!

After hearing the earlier news about the ban, I was all ready to join the sinful non-muslim crowd clamouring to purchase the hot tickets ( despite not being all that much of a fan ). Hell, an opportunity to let my hair down without morally superior bigots watching over us? I am so there.

Then the wet blankets changed their minds. Judging by the sudden reversal of the ban, obviously the officious bureaucrats have realized the error of their ways ( if not spurred on by the anguished outcry of the moderate Muslims ).

Seriously. The mind boggles. How could they possibly enforce such a foolish ruling? Have a religion-dar to detect the Muslims hidden amongst the audience? Shower the participants in alcohol-drenched Guinness Stout as a stern warning? Organize a bloody pork-fest right at the entrance to keep the Muslims at bay?


An old gay-friendly ad titled Mess that I love from the fellows at Guinness.

Chinese Whispers

As kids, most of us have played a variation of this childhood game called Chinese Whispers. Starting with a whispered phrase, the rumour is passed on with cumulative errors till the last unfortunate announces the misquoted on-dit to the rest.

Though most of us have far more politically correct terms for Chinese Whispers. Ostensibly named for the historical fact that the garbled chatter of the Chinese with their various tonal dialects confused the hell out of the largely European explorers back in the seafaring age.

Of course the game gets blown out of proportion when the players aren't informed of the rules.


Waitaminute, aren't we here for a funeral?
Bored silly at home - and recovering from a cataract surgery that has curtailed her obsessive reading habits, my grandmother has taken to calling up her numerous relatives according to an alphabetical list. Unfortunately she calls home at ill-timed moments only to have my maid Dorota answer. Ever heard a sing-song Chinawoman speak to a Javanese maid? Chicken and duck talk, I swear.

Grandma : Hello!
Dorota : Siapa?
Grandma : Where is everyone? How inconvenient to have everyone out! I shall have to try their offices next.
Dorota : Father go out to get cut. Cut. Cut.
Grandma : Good gracious!

Unsurprisingly a brief conversation. Yet from the lil bit of information gleaned, my grandmother immediately leapt to the erroneous conclusion that my father had somehow undergone an operation. Note the emphasis on the word cut. So she sent out an emergency distress signal. Hence I was suddenly deluged with thousands of messages from my uncles, aunts and cousins regarding the doubtful state of my father's health.

With technology so advanced these days - and my octogenarian granny a budding technophile, even my brother far away in the Middle East received the smoke signals.

By the time I read the news, it had been so blown out of proportion that I half imagined my father lying ashen on his deathbed awaiting our return. Which irritated me somewhat since he ( or my mother ) should do me the courtesy of at least informing me before abruptly shuffling off this mortal coil.

Irrational, I know.

Paul : Good God. Answer the damned phone already. Are you dead? Should I go dryclean my black suit?
Dad : Why would I be dead?
Paul : Aren't you being cut up? Everyone assumes that you're hooked up to drips for emergency surgery.
Dad : Wow.
Paul : Go call grandma. She must be burning paper money for the wake by now.

Back in reality my obviously hale and hearty dad - totally oblivious to the fact that everyone in the family had gone crazy ballistic - had actually gone out for a haircut.

Without his cellphone.

Now you know why they call them Chinese Whispers.