Point Zero

A mother finds herself in a vaguely incestuous affair.
A girl finds herself in love with her sister's fiancee.
A whore gets herself a makeover from an aspiring director.
A virgin gets himself a guardian angel who just happens to be gay.
An actress finds her chance at stardom.
A dancer finds the love of his life.

And it all happens on a small circle barely two feet in diameter somewhere on the streets of the Puerta del Sol in Madrid called Kilometre Zero.


Or Km.O as it's termed in the movie.

Always been a sucker for spicy screwball romances that occur due to alarmingly misdirected meet-cutes. One feel-good Spanish movie I've actually been searching for quite a while - though for some reason the dvd pirates keep handing me an obscure war-time film from Iraq.

And does it exceed my expectations? It certainly does! Is it of any gay interest? But of course! Seems like the sweltering heat on Madrid's hottest day is getting to everyone. Not only do we get to see a sweet average joe - a schoolteacher no less - fall head-over-heels for a sizzling Spanish dreamboat but we also have a straight groom-to-be bumping horns with an audacious gay confidant.

Which reminds me I better start looking for Spanish lessons somewhere close by.


A meet-cute in progress. Guess who's gonna get lucky tonight.

Of course not everyone meets their future partner after mistaking them for an internet hook-up. Hardly that memorable.

Far from that actually. Evidently Charming Calvin seems to have forgotten the first time we met! Though I haven't. Fortunately we have a thing called a blog these days. Pretty sure almost everyone has forgotten what it stands for but it's actually short for weblog. So yes, I get to commemorate this date.

No funny chat-up lines. No unlikely coincidences. Just a simple appointment where Calvin came down by train to meet me straight after work. Standing at the bus-stop with his impossibly dilapidated workbag ( fortunately retired! ) and a gift-wrapped present in hand. One striped cream and chestnut tie that I still wear to this day.

Did we have fireworks in the sky? Did we have weeping violins in the background? No. Shame to admit but no, I didn't fall in love at first sight. Didn't even fall after the prerequisite two hours given by romantic comedies. But I did find a nice rhythm going with Charming Calvin - something certainly worth risking that second date for.

How about that for a meet-cute?

Party Like It's 1997

Halfway through my Gilmore Girls marathon, I realized that I have a significant void in my past. As Rory Gilmore rang in her 21st with much aplomb, I tried to think back on what I did but drew a total tabula rasa when it came to my own birthday party. What did I do way back then?

Surely I celebrated some. At least a lone cupcake with a sad candle? Hell, it's more than a decade ago but surely I'd remember some details.


Now this is the kinda birthday I would remember.
Unless it was damned boring of course. So sickeningly dull that I blanked it from my memory. Maybe I knitted woollen mittens on that day.

Paul : Why didn't I have a 21st birthday party?
My ISO : Sure you did!
Paul : Was it a nice dinner with a cake?
My ISO : Oh yeah, you did that with your parents. Then later you came out with us.
Paul : Are you sure? Why can't I remember it?
My ISO : Because you're senile. And ... umm.. because you were passed-out drunk.
Paul : You're lying.
My ISO : Knew you would say that. I have pictures to prove it.
Paul : It could have been London.
My ISO : The 21st candle is imprinted on your forehead.

Trust my oldest friend. Glad to see that someone does remember.

Hmm. Which reminds me that I need to blackmail him for the photos.

My Style

So what do we do on long weekends over here? Apart from the odd outdoor excursion of mountains and caves which isn't something I would go for, there's not much for a dedicated urbanite to do around here. Seems like I've exhausted every possible avenue of retail possible here from the native markets to the occasional weekend jumble sale held by the expats.

Seriously. We desperately need a new mall here.

Fortunately the internet means we're never really left all alone - whether you count that as a blessing or otherwise. And it's almost impossible to get bored with the millions of websites at our fingertips.

When I have way too much time on my hands, my mind tends to wander. Even started to think of decorating options for my office. Though I don't have much of a choice since the entire operating theatre - and my office - is painted a horrid sickly pastel green. Seriously makes me think of mould. And they have that matched to dull, lifeless gray office furniture. But I shall prevail. Hoping a light shot of orange and a flashier shade of green would bring the place to life.


I think the floor needs a carpet. Maybe in a shade of green.
As it turns out I really am Blair Waldorf incarnate when it comes to decorating. I'm an Elegant Classic. At least that's what this interior decorating quiz says.

Paul, you are an Elegant Classic.

You have a refined sensibility with an appreciation for history and tradition in your furniture and your rooms. You value beauty, things that are well crafted, and family heirlooms. You are visually sensitive and understand how symmetry and a formal layout give order to a room, and hence your home is refined and calming. You are not taken in by the trends of the moment. You go for things with a timeless appeal, and appreciate old-fashioned virtues like manners and handwritten notes and making a home that is welcoming for others.

You value creativity. You are stylish and fun loving, and can be an inspiration to others. You have a natural sense of drama, and you know you have to be willing to take risks—whether with colors, finishes, furniture choices, or ideas—for your home to stand out. Your home can be happy and lively and the place all of your friends want to be.

After letting you pick from a range of differently styled rooms and furniture sets, it then extrapolates the style that you'd go for. So go try it, find your own style at Homegoods.

Bridge of Silence and Sighs

Certainly no need to travel all the way to Venice to admire the infamous Bridge of Sighs. After all I have my very own Dirge of Sighs over here - chanted by our chief mourner Nervous Nancy. Out of all my junior colleagues, she seems to be the most problematic at the moment - hence her recurring status on my blog.

So how does she sigh? Let me count the ways.

Nancy : I have this case. Sigh.
Paul : Yes?
Nancy : This patient just got admitted to the Emergency Dept with a complaint of... ( insert some horrible untreatable malady here )... Sigh.
Paul : So what are your plans?
Nancy : ...
Paul : Hello?
Nancy : Sigh.
Paul : Hello? What are your plans?
Nancy : ... I might do... umm... Sigh.

If only I had a penny for every sigh. Seriously. How do I solve a problem like Nancy? A flibbertijibbet! A will-o'-the wisp!

Though certainly much too serious to be a clown.


Paul : So how do we solve a problem like Nancy?
Eve : I'd like to say a word in her behalf, Maria makes me laugh.
Paul : Many a thing you know you'd like to tell her.
Many a thing she ought to understand. But how do you make her stay and listen to all you say.

Wonder if Nancy even notices that she sighs at oddly inopportune moments. Almost reminiscent of Tourette's. Even caught her doing so during a hospital presentation making her sound like a sadly melancholic speaker lamenting the loss of her slides. Had the counsellor asking me whether she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Frankly I have no idea. With all the moaning and sighing, all I hear from her are hmms, hehs and sighs. Nancy claims to be trouble-free though I seriously doubt it.


At least I do know who I'll be sending on a stress management course :)

Secretary for Hire

Didn't really hit me until today that I might be in charge one day.

Certainly makes it sound as if it's some uncertain date in the far misty future - rather than by the end of the month.

With the previous head of department still hanging about the hallways before taking her final leave, I still have a bit of leeway. The bulk of the administrative duties are still efficiently carried out by her - with the trifling remainder being slowly trickled down to me. In comfortable stages.

Rather than an entire avalanche.

Till today when I got handed the unenviable task of preparing the annual budget and financial forecast for the next year. Seriously. Crunching numbers might be the domain of other more mathematically-inclined Chinese fellas ( just like my brother ) but didn't I join medical school just to avoid such pointless accounts? Could there be anything more tedious than going through criss-crossed bills, dusty invoices and endless numbers?

Could that be the real reason why our bosses are always so crabby come quarter day?


Bloody accounts!
Even the astonishing number of zeros behind each sum didn't serve to keep me titillated for long. One million's quite the same as another when I can't use it for my own selfish personal gains.

Unlike my disastrous experience with accounts in high school however, I just hope the numbers actually tally this time. Imagine having to depend on unmathematical me for a bit of financial planning! What a horrifying prospect. I can't even balance my own accounts.

Paul : Dammit. We need to find enough cash in the department just to pay a fucking accountant to sort all this out.
Nurse : Or a secretary?
Paul : Yes, a sexy one sitting on my desk.
Nurse : In a short skirt?
Paul : More like one with broad shoulders and a loosened tie.
Nurse : Oh.
Paul : Now that's one number I wouldn't mind going through again. And again.

Still - after struggling with an ancient calculator old enough to pass as an abacus - I managed to turn the accounts in before the allotted time. Maybe I could get my new personal assistant to come check.

How I Became a Mullah

Looked at myself in the mirror today and still couldn't find the resemblance.

Seriously. Didn't I get mistaken for a porn-obsessed sexual perv just a month back? When did I suddenly turn into a turbanned and mustachioed religious cleric?


Then again it was dark, I'd grown a beard and I was eating kosher food.

Mullah : Excuse me, good sir. Would you like to try this CD?
Paul : That's a nasyid CD.
Mullah : Really great. Sung by a band of god-fearing brothers. It will strengthen your inner spirituality.
Paul : Mother of God.
Mullah : Peace be upon you too, my brother.

This close to replying in kind - except I was too tongue-tied to come up with an answer. Despite his shoving the religious items at me, my religious inclinations weren't in the least bit swayed. Didn't feel any urge to toss my Bible out the window. Even my crucifix remains intact, albeit in a lil box by my nightstand. After all if your religious beliefs are apt to waver significantly after a persuasive spiel, they weren't all that strong in the first place.

Obviously not everyone thinks the same.

Thanked the peddler politely but shook my head to say no. Now isn't it fortunate how wonderfully tolerant I am? If the roles were reversed - say a naive bible-toting preacher innocently selling traditional hymns to a Muslim - I can already imagine the crazed jihad-like uproar that would ensue. Torches and pitchforks I swear.


Maybe if they looked as good as Mormon boys, I might reconsider!
But I guess it's interesting that I actually got mistaken as the aspiring mullah with four submissive wives and twenty hopeful children.

Talk about diversity! Interracial mixed marriages have become so common here that it's almost impossible to peg someone's racial heritage just from one look. Even the stereotypically fair Chinese here have turned permatanned like the mocha-skinned natives. Which is wonderful. Perhaps that's the road our country should be heading towards rather than headlining race and religion on our identification cards to further divide us. Just a thought.

May we all be mistaken as mullahs one day.

And vice versa.

Don't Stand So Close

Very few things make me squeamish. Okay, maybe torn hands dangling by the ligaments. And possibly tapeworms.

But ever since I came over here, I've found another bit to add to my list of ickiness. Or at least things that make me go ick. Enough to make me squeal like a sophomoric girl.

Lizards. Seriously. To call this lil hamlet the Lizard Kingdom could only be an understatement. These wet slimy creepy-crawlies seem to peer out of every nook and cranny in the building with their wickedly sinister eyes. Let's not even talk about their slithery tongues and the eerie snap-clicking sounds they make. No doubt the sweltering heat of this baking seaside village only helps the deceptively small reptiles proliferate in shockingly large numbers.

Obviously just waiting for me to run wildly amuck and start vacuuming the entire heinous lot into a bag for the hospital incinerator. Just the thought of a multitude of nests clustered behind corners makes me itch for a flaming bazooka. Cleansed by holy fire!


It's payback time, bitches!
So you can imagine the painful consternation on my face when I found one in the cabinet just as I was clearing it. A lizard adhered to the edge of the cabinet. Upside down. Not moving. Practically posing for the runway with it sticky webbed palms akimbo.

Who knows. Maybe it had a heart attack. Do lizards even have hearts?

Paul : OMG.
Felix : What is it?
Paul : Look at that!
Felix : OMG. Eeew. Why is it not moving? Is it dead?
Paul : Why don't you go ask it?

Could have sworn I let out a manly yelp but to Fabulous Felix - also in attendance - it was a high-pitched shriek of girlish horror. Seriously couldn't get the broom out fast enough.

The resourceful Glee members came up with just the right song for the occasion.


Don't stand so close to me.

Gay Man Scorned

Jealousy.

It's an ugly, selfish emotion that has crept up on the best of us. Even knightly Arthur himself wasn't spared the sly, green-eyed demon when Lancelot made the moves on his queen. Jealousy certainly drives men to certifiably insane lengths. But to chop the heads of anyone vaguely suspicious, assassinate entire families and order castrations?

After all, how else would a resentful sovereign - with all the power solely in his hands - react to such a betrayal?


At least in dynastic Korea, he does. At least that's what the visually stunning historical epic Frozen Flower suggests, ostensibly based on a true story from the Goryeo Dynasty in Korea. Where a homosexual ruler - with an enviable bevy of beautiful boy-toys - realizes his inability to sire a legitimate heir could signal the end of his reign. Trying his best to shake off the dominance of the neighbouring Chinese empire, the king bides his time by playing the puppet ruler, even consenting to a dynastic match with a Chinese consort.

But that's as far as his sacrifice goes. Balking at the thought of sexual relations with his queen, he hatches up a scheme with his devoted bodyguard-lover. Rather than lie down, close his eyes and think of Korea, the ingenuous king orders his slavish boy-toy to render that one last service for him. Of course you can imagine that such a ridiculously improbable plan to have his devoted bodyguard-lover impregnate his queen would be doomed to fail. Especially when the bodyguard-lover finds the charms of the queen quite as alluring.


The King and His Bodyguard!
Simply put.

King : I want to be king. Damn the overlord. But I need an heir to maintain legitimacy.
Queen : Come sleep with me.
King : No. How many times have I told you I'm gay! I'd rather you sleep with my boy-toy.
Boy-toy : Yes, my liege. Though I won't enjoy it.
Queen : Umm. Alright.
Boy-toy : You know what, I was wrong. I'm actually enjoying sex with you. Variation on a theme.
Queen : Thank the lord I'm no longer a virgin! Baby, fuck me harder.
Boy-toy : Now I'm torn between two lovers!
Queen : And I might be getting pregnant.
King : Bloody hell. I am getting jealous.

Apparently that's when all hell breaks loose. Seriously, hell hath no fury as a gay man scorned. So desperate is he to get his bodyguard-lover back that he commits a vicious string of atrocities from mass beheadings to castrations.

Despite being touted as a shockingly controversial movie for depicting a gay romance, don't expect too much homoeroticism from it! Though the bodyguard-lover seems to have more chemistry with the king, he keeps going back for more with the horny queen. Trying to pander to the largely heterosexual public, there are dozens of explicit shots featuring the lusty queen ecstatically performing her breeding duties with the shockingly willing sperm donor. In comparison there's only one pathetic sexual interlude/quickie between the king and his erstwhile bodyguard-lover.

So does the bodyguard-lover prefer the king or the queen? Hard to tell when he's brutally impaled ( and not in a good way ) at the end. Draw what conclusions you may from the last significant look he shared with the king.

Nice however to see a powerful gay man risk it all for love. Despite the fact that the king could be so utterly foolish at times! Rather than risk his boyfriend straying, why didn't he just join in the fun to keep an eye! Hasn't he heard of threesomes? The king should have turned the breeding session into something so coldly clinical with written cues that the boy would need an overdose dose of viagra just to perform.

And doesn't he already have an entire harem of men ( interchangeable Korean pretty boys really! ) at his disposal?

Old Porn Becomes New again

Just today, I stumbled across an old porn film that I first watched years - and years back. An incestuous lil gay porn that involved three virile, highly adventuresome ( and shockingly inventive ) brothers. Certainly brought back a wealth of cum-soaked memories of my initial brush with porn.

Sure, all-boy schools are rife with heterosexual porn! Seriously, forget about mindless government censorship. Magazines and videos furtively passed around the back over hushed giggles with centerfolds of pomelo-shaped titties and gaping-wide vaginas aplenty to spare. Tried my best to appreciate the sensual possibilities of a busty broad lying on a haystack - but even then I had to resist the unmanly urge to yawn.

Much preferred the amateurish drawings of a naked man in my biology text instead.

Maybe I already had an inkling about my sexual proclivities back then. However there didn't seem to be all that many opportunities coming my way to confirm my budding theories. Hardly any magazines available. No videos in sight. The internet still in its relative infancy. Way back before we actually had gay torrents freely available, there seemed no easy way to lay my hand on a handy source of porn.

At least till I found my way to my cousin's flat in London. Practically a bachelor's pad with my cousin a high school student ( and his parents away minding their Chinese takeaway ), it seemed the perfect place for a porn extravaganza. Hell, Trusty John even offered me his Blockbuster card to rent a few videos out.

Providential.


Damn, wouldn't mind having some porn right about now!
Trying my utmost best to look impossibly nonchalant, I made my way unhurriedly to the gay entertainment section in the Blockbuster store. Ah the vagaries of youth. I'm sure the store clerk had a nasty chuckle watching the nervous ingenue trying to keep his cool in the restricted section.

It was like gay porn heaven. In every form, position and fetish possible ( and some inclinations even I shudder to contemplate! ).

You can already guess the title I took. But it wasn't the only one. Think a crazy splurge on gay porn. Practically covered every naughty fetish availble then. Had to furtively sneak it into my coat as I walked into my cousin's apartment.

John : So how was the dvd store? Great right?
Paul : Umm. Yeah.
John : So what did you get? I brought out some popcorn!
Paul : Umm. You wanna watch too? Aren't you going to class?
John : Still a while more to go. So what do you have?
Paul : Umm. An art film?

Seriously. Shit.

Had to make up all sorts of implausible excuses just to get rid of the poor fellow. Practically gave him a kick to send him on his way. Was it that hard for him to take a hint?

Sure Trusty John seemed surprisingly mature for his age but hey, he's still a susceptible minor at only 16 years! Had a feeling he wanted to sneak a peek as well - hoping that boobs would be the main attraction - but I wouldn't want to sully the poor kid with nightmarish images of incestuous buggery. Had a feeling even then that unlike me, our breeder boy John actually leans towards the heterosexual side of the Kinsey scale.

That Dirty Lil Scorpio

Seems even the fates are conspiring against us. Feel terribly victimized with our already tattered reputations slandered and besmirched by those who don't know better.

Seriously. We might sue.

Bad enough that the horoscopes tend to place us at the murkiest of ends. If you're disbelieving of the entirely perverse nature of those born in the month of November ( and the few of us in October ), look no further than my workplace.

By a new initiative recently engineered by the bureaucrats up above, the nurses have been placed into different teams in charge of certain sections of the hospital ward. Then cleverly tagged with the names of horoscope signs to promote harmonious teamwork. Aries got the waiting room. Sagittarius got the changing room. Even Taurus got the pantry.

Somehow by the luck of draw, the Scorpios got the Dirty Utilities Room.


Oh, is that the Dirty Utilities Room!
Really. Somehow it just makes sense. Dark, dank and secluded backroom of the hospital where obviously everything dirty gets tossed. Or was it cleaned? Rumoured to be used for the occasional illicit make-out session.

At least from what I heard.

Take A Slice of Pork

With an education partly based on the misguided teachings of Islamic-inclined tutors, there has been much argument on the feasibility of consuming pork. Supposedly it's unclean, unworthy and contemptible - at least in their eyes.

Having rebellious students like us, that particular exhortation only inspired an immediate backlash of pork-infested feasts following their lectures. Seriously, haven't they read about the temptation of Eve? Of course their supposedly evidence-based teachings seemed to be proven right with the recent swine flu scare a few years back.

Which led to people steering away from pigs in droves.


Oh, for a slice of pork!
Let's not even talk about the skinny socialistas who flee from the thick gelatinous layer of pork fat dripping in oil. Or my similarly pork-fearing mother-in-law :)

The poor maligned pig.

So it was with some amused relief that I found out that not all of us think that way. In fact for some, pork is evidently a panacea for all illnesses.

Only learned that when a hypochondriac aunt of mine decided to seek traditional treament - read snake oil salesman - for her mysterious heart ailments. Repeated arguments for her to stay away from such predatory crackpot mediums seemed to have no effect.

Aunt : So what do I do for my problems, doctor?
Quack : The first commandment. Thou must taketh vegetables and fruits.
Aunt : I have been doing that.
Quack : Verily thou must partake of steamed chicken. Kampung chicken only.
Aunt : Yes, doctor.
Quack : Behold this my most important commandment! Most importantly, thou must eat pork!
Aunt : Eh?
Quack : Have pork and ye shall be healed, my sister!

Obviously Charming Calvin - a staunch advocate of pork-consumption - would be pleased to learn that.

Cure for acute pulmonary oedema? Evidently we don't really need diuretics and beta-blockers anymore. Just a slice of pork a day will do. The astonishing image of patients in the cardiac care unit voraciously munching on endless quantities of bakuteh boggles the mind.

Wonder whether it comes in a pill.

My Ten-Dollar Weekend

Start cracking those books, kids. Cutting coupons to buy groceries simply isn't fun. If there's a valid argument for studying smart to get into an economically viable course such as geology ( forget about medicine which is purely altruistic! ), it's that being poor actually sucks.

Seriously sucks. With my finances at low ebb after the Shanghai tsunami and the annual Christmas blowout just around the corner, I've been tightening the belt just a bit. Not forgetting the small fortune I've spent redecorating my new pad.

Yeah, my accountant's been calling non-stop.

For this month I might actually owe the credit card monster which is a scary thought since I have been pretty good about regularly covering all my expenses. Borrowing from my trust-fund baby ex seemed a possibility but I decided to save that for the times I actually need to outrun the creditors ( or ah longs are they are called here ). Even thought of having a garage sale. Pity I can't sell the pumpkins I'm growing on Farmville.

Fortunately I had my brother's endless lectures on financial frugality to remind me so I knew exactly what I had to do.

So I decided to scrimp and have my ten-dollar weekend. Fortunately I already have all the mundane essentials covered from laundry to housing rent ( cardboard boxes are hard to get! ) so I only needed to spend the remaining on supplies for the weekend.

So what do indigent bachelors ( well, sort of ) get up to on weekends?


Be charitable dammit!
Stay home obviously since petrol for the car costs! And it would stop me from giving in to the sudden impulse shopping bit. With Christmas decorations already up here for the past month, it would definitely be safe to avoid them. After all I already have my super-cheap economical Christmas tree at only thirty bucks.

Definitely no eating out for the day of course. Fortunately I have a surprisingly well-stocked pantry. You know those week-old leftovers? Just nuke them, pray hard that salmonella's only in the imagination and dig in. Nothing like mooncakes and peanut butter jelly cream crackers for lunch. Of course I try to splurge a bit for dinner which means my regular three-dollar kolok mee and tea.

Actually that only comes up to less than three so I can actually eat twice on a good day.

Then of course I accept any freebies given out. There's nothing quite like depending on the kindness of strangers! And with Fabulous Felix testing out his new oven, it's easy enough to just over to his soup kitchen. Of course standing in line with a rusted spoon clanging on the metal cup tends to lose its charm - but what's the poverty-stricken to do!

Care for a donation?

Once Upon an Ex-Gay

Seriously. Forget about saving the whale. Forget about saving the orang-utan. Forget about staying away from shark's fin soup. We have an even more endangered species quietly disappearing from the earth.

Yes, you heard it here first. Gays are going extinct.

All leaving in desperate droves after caving in to sociocultural pressures to join the ex-gays happily ensconsced in nameless suburbia. Not only did Smiley Sam cross over to the heterosexual side a few months back, I just found out another friend of mine followed in his reversion wake.

Straight into a wedding. With a woman.

Friend : Did you know Simple Seth's getting married?
Paul : That's great. Finally. Hopefully married to a woman and not to the blow-up doll he purchased on the internet?
Friend : It's a woman!
Paul : You sound surprised as well!
Friend : Wait. You didn't know he was gay?
Paul : OMG. Seth was gay?

Oh yeah, I also found out Seth's gay on the same night I found out he turned straight.


Last time I do anything gay, I swear.
Fact is I always thought Simple Seth was happily heterosexual. Unlike the rest of raging queendom, I don't agree to the maxim that every other man is gay until proven otherwise.

And after all, Seth repeatedly insisted that he was straight, even after being starved, beaten and interrogated for hours under a painfully bright spotlight. Throughout the years in college, he doggedly carried on with his heterosexual crusade, maintaining his breeder boy values - despite the fact that it was obviously hypothetical since he never actually dated anyone remotely female.

Despite the fact that all the rest of us in the gang - from Eye Eddie to Doubting Danny to me - somehow turned gay along the way. I blame the water supply in the dorm, always looked suspiciously murky.

Despite the fact that he stubbornly remained seated in a Dutch sex cinema eventhough two horny fellows were going at it incessantly onscreen ( with another dozen or so busy groping in the subdued audience ). Sweaty, hairy-backed, grunting fellows so impossibly soaked in testosterone that it would be impossible to mistake them as women.

Even if Seth had flunked anatomy. Which he didn't.

Supposedly Seth broke down with his secret gay confessions one drunken night far away from the rest of the gang only to have the information leak my way several years later. Obviously finding out the rest of us had turned gay must have scared him off homosexuality.

And now that I finally learn he's gay, he's gone straight. Figures.

Pride & Prejudice

We come to love not by finding the perfect person but by learning to see an imperfect person perfectly.

Surely it has to be greatest of compliments to be likened to a dashing figure of romance such as the incomparable Mr Darcy from Jane Austen's tour de force Pride and Prejudice. Even sweeter to have it come from your peerless boyfriend. Seems Charming Calvin sat through an entire weekend of the BBC television remake - after obviously giving up on ever finishing the print version - and was reminded of me. No wonder he wanted me to pen something appropriately snotty for the blog a while back.

Yet Scorpios are certifiably nuts. Bet half the drooling psychos throwing themselves onto padded walls are born in November.

And unexpected compliments do make us highly suspicious. As in bring out the binoculars and secret spy camera suspicious. Scorpios could probably find hidden menace in an interview with the late Mother Teresa.


Did I hear someone referencing dashing British gentlemen?
Time alone here had me thinking about Mr Fitzwilliam Darcy. Sure, our fine gentleman turned out to be surprisingly perfect in the role of knight in shining armour at the end of the book but wasn't he an arrogant, condescending prick in the beginning? Wonder whether he meant I was the Mr Darcy before or after the miraculous transformation.

Or was it because the taciturn Mr Darcy kept his feelings close to the vest? Or was it the way Darcy trotted faithfully into the lil village to make fun of the provincial yokels? Or is he saying that I love to butt in like Darcy did with his friend Bingley and Jane?

Or waitaminute, Calvin also caught Bridget Jones's Diary before that. Does he mean I look good in a reindeer sweater?

Farming at the Touch of a Button

It's almost midnight on a weekend and I'm still busy in my garden patch planting my pumpkins and squash. Sweat is dripping off my brow as I plow the soil - manually by hand since I can barely afford the shockingly expensive tractor. The pink cow's probably ready to be milked by morning. Which gives me about 6 hours of sleep before getting up at the crack of dawn to tend to the cows.

And harvest the wheat.

Fortunately it's all at the touch of a button. Despite my little foray with gardening, I don't do perspiration.

Unless it's sex with a sexy post-juvenile gardener on the muddy ground.


Could I help plow your fields?
Fortunately we have Farmville since the sweltering heat here is killing every green thing I shove into the ground. Or it could be the endless dust balls choking them.

Obviously a yearning for the pastoral life since it seems like I'm not the only one harvesting tulips at inordinately late hours. Half the online facebook world's doing it as well - more than 62 million actually - tilling the land and harvesting their vegetables on Farmville. The other half is reputedly making Farmville art, arranging hay bales and farm plots to resemble expressionist paintings.

Seriously. Mona Lisa in brown hay bales.

Addictive enough that folks are even leaving early from their dinner dates to check on their pattypan squash.

The game starts off simply enough : Land is handed out in plots where seeds can be planted, harvested and sold. Crows and bugs can attack but fortunately neighbours can step in to help. As the finances improve, things can be purchased from the market from basics like rice and pumpkin seeds to the truly superfluous, like elephants and hot-air balloons. If only I could hire fresh-faced country boys to help out in the fields.

So hey, go give me a tree.

A Fishwife's Tale

Ever been on the wrong side of a crazed rant meant for someone else?

Virago : You sir! I have things to tell you!
Paul : Umm. Hello strange lady?
Virago : You boss true? I have many things, oh many things to say.
Paul : Umm. You came to the right place?
Virago : Go tell that bitch intern of yours that she's not fit to scrub my toilet!
Paul : Umm. Duly noted.
Virago : Unprofessional she is. Terrible!
Paul : Could you speak a little louder? Think they didn't hear you in Timbuktu.

As calm as she looked before, who could have known that I'd be jabbing a hornet's nest!

Angry would be putting it mildly. Judging by the throbbing vein on her wrinkled forehead, I half imagined I'd have to save her from an impending stroke. And she went on for at least ten minutes after that though in a slightly lower decibel.


Before the crazy comes in!
For a fellow who comes from a pseudoWASPy family where we barely raise our voice above a whisper during a conversation - other than my toddler nephew who insists on speaking in an entirely audible yell all the time, you can imagine what I thought to have this relatively ferocious virago harangue me in public. Short of stuffing her mouth with tape, I doubt we could stem the overflowing dam of frustration. Even then I was this close to yelling 'shut the fuck up'.

Come on, the patients in the clinic didn't come here for a floor show.

Fortunately it wasn't about me in the slightest. Though I do pity the one it was intended for. To think that the crazed termagant had years of pent-up frustration ready to explode at a moment's notice. Curious to see who else made her insane hit list.

That she-devil was this close to running amuck. Probably would have if I'd continued poking her with a sharp stick. Makes me wonder whether I actually transform into an unreasonable shrew when goaded. Seriously doubt it though. Get so much quieter the angrier I get so I usually don't participate in screaming matches.

For the Love of GPS

Some boys prefer sappy love songs and poetry.

Some boys prefer wine and roses. Some boys prefer leather and chains.

My proof of love comes a litle differently in the form of some good old GPS action.

Remember when I talked about the nifty car Charming Calvin purchased a while ago? Otherwise better known as charming outdoor decoration? Well the lil automobile that could doesn't move all that much, it might as well be an ivy-laden pergola.


Umm... I think I might be lost!
Till I took my leave of Calvin of course. Seems that his surprisingly independent car has been making the rounds lately. Of course I immediately pictured Calvin mapping out his route the night before with charts, maps and alternative paths. Mr Spontaniety he ain't.

So when I wondered blithely how to get back home while I was in the city ( with my car in the boondocks )...

Calvin : I'll drive you.
Paul : You're driving?
Calvin : I said it.
Paul : Wow. You said that without a single hint of passive-aggressive rancor.
Calvin : I now have GPS.
Paul : Global Positioning System? The one that costs a small fortune?
Calvin : My new baby. iBlair needs a sibling.
Paul : Wow. iBlair's barely walking yet.

At least we've somewhat resolved the big yellow taxi issue. Or totally avoided it.

So not only did Calvin manage the drive ( probably much against his principles! ), we were also accompanied by a deep-voiced basso profundo who gave us directions all the way. Our roundabout choice of routes confounded the poor GPS - who had to recalculate every five miles - but it finally managed to point us in the right direction. Oddly enough though the GPS fellow tried impressions with every change of language. Could have sworn the Hakka-speaking impresario sounded distinctly feminine.

In Omnia Paratus

Not all friends should mix.

Another argument for keeping parts of my life separate and compartmentalized? I suddenly came to the realization that a large number of my friends - at least the ones I regularly share discourse with - are all affiliated with one another. Not only do we have an entire newsletter online keeping us informed of our goings-on every day, we also try our best to get together at least semi-regularly.

And that's all great.


Who should I call?
But like all friends, we do have our little squabbles. Far from the monumental handbag-slugging, hair-tearing catfights of Serena and Blair in Gossip Girl but it's close enough.

So you can imagine how impossible it is when you're feeling a lil pissed with no one to vent to. Not royally pissed that you need to demand am urgent confrontation at high noon but just angry enough to need an outlet. Over something so silly and embarassingly inconsequential that it needs just a quick queer rant to get over.

So who do you call?

School buddies are scattered all over and my uni mates are crazy busy at their respective hospitals. Without the prior history, my junior colleagues over here won't understand the conundrum so I'm stuck with my Lego figs to talk to.

Paul : I'm a psychotic bastard.
My ISO : Tell me something I didn't know. Wait, you called me just to tell me this?
Paul : I'm pissed.
My ISO : Did you miss your stale coffee this morning?
Paul : Let me vent, bitch.
My ISO : Can I skim through the daily news while you rant?
Paul : Yes. Forgot the papers today so butt in with some of interesting headlines.
My ISO : When you're done, can I then bitch about brainless clients?
Paul : Take a number.

Yes. In lieu of a newspaper, ex-boyfriends are surprisingly good for opinions and headlines. Not to mention the occasional comic section.

Stealing Light

*Shhh*

Speak of it to no one but it seems as if I've been breaking the law.

Thoroughly unbeknownst to me, I've actually been living on borrowed electricity. Well, borrowed as in my shady contractors have connected the power line without informing the source. Oddly enough, the said electric company doesn't seem to be in any hurry to correct the problem.


Let there be light?
Even when I found it timely to inform them a month ago that the power bill hasn't arrived in my post box for several months! Rather than call out the dogs, the call centre only told me to twiddle my thumbs and wait in the most cheerful manner.

So I decided to pay them a visit only to meet Neon Ninny - the surliest customer service personnel ever. With my insistent questions eating into her regular afternoon siesta, she was probably this close to frying me with an electric tazer. You can imagine how frustrated Ninny got when I pestered her to scroll through her lists for my account.

Neon : Seems like there's no registry of your application in our system, sir.
Paul : The forms were filled up three months ago.
Neon : But it's not in our system, sir. I checked twice. There should be no electricity at your place. It was cut off a year ago.
Paul : Oh. You mean the lamps I've been using are powered by magical moonlight?

Obviously that spark of humour didn't serve to amuse the sour-faced puss. Ah, the customer service in Miri. The envy of no one. Only slightly friendlier than uncouth barbarians blithely bashing skulls at the borders.

Far from offering any help, Ninny seemed more inclined to turn herself off. So I threw a minor bitch fit. My enlivening tongue-lashing certainly made her face light up like a neon light. Certainly gave her an electrifying shock.

Fortunately her immediate supervisor - who came running with apologies - proved far more benign.