Saturday, January 31, 2009

Groaning Tiger Hidden Dragon

Let's talk about porn.

Or at least my ISO and I were talking about it during the party. Good boys talk about the disastrous state of the economy and the Middle East. My ISO and me, we talk about the current state of porn.

Walk into any gay sex store abroad - of course not in conservative Malaysia! - and you'd find something peculiar. And I don't mean the oddly painful-looking cockrings. In between stacks of DVDs with appropriately salacious titles ranging from the Raiders of the Lost Arse to Lord of the G-Strings, you'd find a shocking dearth of Chinese gay porn.

Really. Look hard for the sons of the yellow emperor in the store and you won't find any.

Now why is that? Where are the joys of the cut sleeve and the bitten peach? For a vast country with at least half a billion boys - and a much-talked about history of randy emperors bedding a thousand and one concubines, I find it unusual that the Chinese are so surprisingly puritanical these days! Can't be from a lack of hunger for Asian meat since slender Thai pretty boys, humping Pinoy studs and scandalous Japanese athletes ( catering to all manner of indescribable fetishes! ) abound in the gay porn genre.

Surely there's a burgeoning market out there for Chinese gay porn?

No porn please. We're Chinese!

Seriously. Won't you be interested in Shaolin Studs in Kungfu Hustler or Enter the Dragon ( the uncensored version! )? Perhaps even deliciously sweaty gang members in Triad Erection I and II? Or what about the slightly amorous Outlaws of the Marsh where the banished heroes slaughter their adulterous wives and concubines only to make their escape to a mountain retreat where everything looks like a martial arts version of a gay resort.

And did anyone else think that in the movie Red Cliff, Zhou Yu had far more sexual chemistry with Zhuge Liang than his own wife? A sly homoerotic tension that even the historians in the past had captured in the phrase 瑜亮情结?

Zhou Yu : What are you doing in my bedchamber playing with the arrows? Have you come to shame me again by proving how sadly ineffective my stratagems are?
Zhuge Liang : Far from that, powerful warrior. You wrong me. Though I've collected a thousand for you, the only arrow I'd want to get shafted by is yours.
Zhou Yu : Only my arrow? Wouldn't you rather try my Fisting of Death?

I know. Lame conversation. But you can hardly expect two brawny studs with ginormous wangs to come up with witty one-liners! Half their blood supply's already left their brains by that time.

Wednesday, January 28, 2009

Gong Xi Par Tay!

You can imagine the surprise on my face when I woke up this morning to find out that I'm hosting a party.

Mom : Hey, what do you want for the party?
Paul : Party?
Mom : Yeah, the party you're throwing tonight.
Paul : I am throwing a party? How much did I drink last night?

Fortunately it turns out I hadn't lost my memory after a drunken bender that ended with me inviting bedraggled pubcrawlers to my place for a spree! The party was all my socialista mom's fault. Somehow in between a brief two-minute conversation with some friends, my mother managed to suggest, plan and invite a score of strangers to an impromptu new year dinner party.

Raise a glass
Par-tay! My compliments to the hostess!

Ever since she was a child sighing over rainbows and stars, my mom has always held sugar-spun dreams of becoming the perfect social hostess throwing elegant soirees and dinner parties for the select crowd. Unfortunately her antisocial children preferred to consort with uncivilized ragamuffins who tended towards mamak cuisine rather than cucumber sandwiches.

Certainly doesn't serve to dampen my mother's bubbly enthusiasm for an instant party! Without receiving a yea or nay from me, she immediately delved into her Perfect Hostess Book to find the page on How to Throw a Surprise Party in Half a Day!

According to her, a convivial party with happy guests attracts good chi for the new year. I'm not inclined to disagree. So it was down with the green Christmas cheer and up with the flashy reds of New Year. Household makeover all in an hour.

And to think my ISO and I used to gatecrash parties in our horrid schooldays! Now I find myself so lazy to attend that my friends practically have to drive by in armed vehicles, tie me up and toss me in the trunk to drag me to their parties! Don't even talk about school reunions.

So you can imagine how I feel about hosting another :) So I called up my long missing-in-action ISO ( actually seconded to work elsewhere ) for advice.

Paul : You'd better come. Bring a dish.
My ISO : Come where?
Paul : My party tonight. You've been busy for months. Don't give bloody work as an excuse again.
My ISO : Heck, chances are I'd get laid off. Will a fruit basket do?
Paul : Make that five fruit baskets.

Well that covers the dessert.

Damn, three hours to go. And now for the main course. Does anyone know where I can find roasted chickens and tossed salads in a hurry?

Tuesday, January 27, 2009

Chasing the Lions

Reunions this time of the year is usually whirlwind of relatives, red packets and revelry - interspersed with the traditional fireworks and lion dances that signify the Chinese New Year. At least for me.

And though the ear-splitting din can be quite an irritant, I have to admit I actually miss having firecrackers around. At least for once a year, it does add to the near-crazed atmosphere! Recordings of the familiar sound just doesn't cut it. Fie to the anxious naywayers but I lit dozens of crackers in my time and never lost a shred of skin.

But bygones.

So this morning I got my seat on the upper storey of the coffeeshop with my niece and nephew, all eagerly awaiting the lion dance. Usually by the second day of the new year, we'd be busy hurrying back to the city already - but since we'd all taken an extra long break, we figured we'd stay around for this occasion at least.

Lori : Why are you sitting up here?
Paul : Waiting for the lion dance?
Lori : Gonna wait a real long time then. We haven't had them for years, babe.
Paul : WHAT?
Lori : Somehow never got around to calling them.
Paul : But that's serious bad juju! Misfortune!

Came as a shock to realize that we haven't had lion dances over in the coffeeshop
ever since my grandpa died. Has it been that long? Surely from some oversight ( and not from overweening sentimentality as you'd have thought ) since we actually had it annually as kids. Hardly a Chinese New Year went by without the lion dance storming down our front porch to climb up the steep ladder for the red packets dangling from the upper storeys. The sudden flash of red and yellow. The clash of the cymbals. The beat of the drums. The laughter of my cousins.

On the move
The lion takes a peek.

Seriously. No lion dance? How sacrilegious. My grandpa must be turning in his grave.

Suddenly struck with nostalgia, Lispy Lori and I decided to go hunting for lions in the neighbourhood to lead home. All armed with a pocketful of newly minted cash fresh from the red packets. Barely completed two blocks when we heard the familiar crash of cymbals and drums heralding the lion's appearance. Hurried to the shop at the corner only to find the lion already up the pole to the first floor in search of its treasure.

As usual amongst the lion dance troupe, there's always one delicious hottie, all tall, tanned and toned. Must be all that hopping, jumping and leaping in the sun. Certainly builds up a really nice ass.

Let's not even talk about the biceps from all that endless drumming.

So you can tell which one I actually approached to come by that afternoon.

Paul : Come over to my place when you're done.
Hottie : No problem, sir. Right after I finish my performance here.
Paul : Oh you're looking really good. How much by the hour?
Hottie : Up to you guys to decide.
Paul : I'm sure you'll be worth every bang for the buck. If you perform really well, I'll throw in a special tip just for you.
Hottie : Yes, sir!

Unfortunately he had to be all of an oblivious innocent 17. And also my cousin Richie Runt's schoolmate. So I deferred my plans of shoving dollars into his black pants.

And brought back a lion.

Sunday, January 25, 2009

Signs and Portents

Tomahto. Tomayto.

The people in the island up north claim it's thrift. Everyone else smirks, points and calls it stinginess.

Had a brief taste of it just today when I went for my usual walkabout of the inner city. Where else would you have people ordering extra thick coffee only to dilute it with plain water to make two cups? Where else would you have folks bringing their own eggs to add to the fried noodles to avoid paying extra?

And today you had a girl who poured the coffee from the buffet table into her flask.

Paul : Maybe you'd like to take the tea as well?
Girl : Oh I don't take tea.

Seriously. Sarcasm is wasted on the lackwits.

Fortunately my family's not in the least like that. Despite the fact that all economic portents indicate a bad time ahead, my family still splurges on the annual reunion dinner.

On the move
I foresee difficult times ahead.

The great depression of this century might be here already but that doesn't stop us from having one final bash before the credit crunch. So bring out the red, light the fake crackers and strike those cymbals since we're all gonna need some prosperity this year!

Funny thought I had. Traditionally a married couple would go to the man's side of the family for the reunion dinner. So what happens if the couple's gay? Do they toss a coin?

Saturday, January 24, 2009

Mahjong Romance

Seriously. Like the things you find out at a family reunion!

Never expected to find out such a thing about my soccer mom aunt but hello, it seems that in her wild days, she had more than her share of parting, drinking and gambling.

Even more than her own wild daughter, Rebellious Reina.

Hell, she even met her future hubby gambling.

Odd since we've never had mahjong sets at home. Since my surprisingly puritanical grandfather was against gambling in any form ( possibly seeing many a good man fall prey to the evils ), she was expressly forbidden to take up mahjong tiles. So as a form of adolescent rebellion, my aunt turned into a mahjong queen at the behest of her mean queen galpals.

And during one of her casino nights, she met her husband.

On the move
Care to pong with me?

Romance over a mahjong table. Playing pussyfoot under the tiles. Obviously there's something terribly sensual about chickens, bamboos and circles - since somehow or other between pongs and gossip, she managed to land a husband amongst the players.

You can imagine how the rest of my cousins stared.

Like eew. Isn't that like a Lust Caution page straight out of an 1920s Shanghai serial?

Thursday, January 22, 2009

Midnight Walkabout

*yawn* Didn't get all that much sleep last night. The baby kept waking me up. At least I've gotten a brief taste of what it's like to be a parent.

Oh yeah, that's right. A toddler. Rambling Raoul that is. Charged with babysitting duties that night, I had him curled up in bed right after the primetime news - per his mother's orders. Since he didn't make a peep of protest ( much as his guerilla sister would ), I assumed he was fine with the proposed curfew.

At least that's what I hoped.

On the move
Secret rambles!

Thoroughly expecting to find him sound asleep by the time I crept up close to midnight, I found him doing the walkabout instead. Seems the lil fella likes to do most of his adventuresome ramblings in the wee hours of the morning. And though he doesn't articulate as well, it was clear from his expressive body language - and some babbled babytalk - that he would prefer to have a companion on his spiritual travels.

Paul : What are you muttering about in the night? Get to sleep, kid.
Raoul : Mr Boss, I want to walkabout. It's time for me to walkabout.
Paul : You're too young for a walkabout. Ae you holding a didgeridoo? Get to bed now!

Obviously he was already searching for the dreaming in his walkabout since he paid me no heed. Following in his ancestral songlines, he walked all over the bedroom to scratch at the door, tap on the window panes, tug at the sheets - all while maintaining an endless ( though entertaining ) string of garbled monologue. With all that chatter and noise, I was obviously not getting any sleep.

Certainly no stranger to the midnight walkabout with my bouts of insomnia. Unlike my brother ( and now Charming Calvin! ) who falls dead asleep the minute his head touches the pillow, I stay awake for hours wandering up and down the darkened hallways thinking increasingly confused thoughts.

Kids at 2 in the morning. What you gonna do?

Wednesday, January 21, 2009

Peter, Paul and Gory

There are folks who look up to saintly paragons like Mother Teresa, seeking to emulate her humanitarian efforts. Then there are the materialistic fellows who wish to follow in the footsteps of real estate barons such as Donald Trump in amassing skyscrapers.

Then there's me. I've never actually had someone I could idolize. Sure, plenty of bodacious hunks to fantasize over - but certainly none I'd like to be myself. Hell I wanna fuck them not be them!

Today though I found Peter Brown.

In Josh Bazell’s debut novel Beat The Reaper, his protagonist's a stressed out physician walking the streets who finds himself mugged in the very first chapter. However the seemingly mild doc in scrubs turns the tables on the unfortunate thug - snapping his elbows even while detailing how the various elbow joints are fixed with ligaments. Then he proceeds to choke the life out of the assailant - only to desist at the though that he might have to resuscitate the fella.

Damned Oath!

You know, that damned Hippocratic Oath. Such a bother wasting a trache.

Seems that Dr Peter Brown isn't just any plain physician. Eight years ago - prior to the hush hush witness protection program, he was better known as Pietro 'Bearclaw' Brnwa. A violent remorseless hitman who preferred body breaking rather than healing hands. As evidenced by the hapless mugger, Peter hasn't changed all that much. So when Peter finds a dying patient in the hospital who recognizes him from his misbegotten past life, all hell breaks loose.

Think Mafia hitman turned cynical physician. Isn't that just the perfect combination for me? Some days I do feel like tearing heads off myself. And now here you have a guy who tears out his fibula just to stab his enemy? Damn, you gotta adore a man with such cojones!

Move aside Wesley Gibson. You've got nothing on Peter Brown.

And he's a doctor. *swoon*

Paul : So damned irritated at work now! Just feel like screaming!
Peter : Who made you mad?
Paul : You see that resident over there?
Peter : The one with the blue striped tie?
Paul : Yes.
Peter : Oh yeah he's an arrogant bastard.

[ insert chaotic moment as Peter leaps over the counter to land on the hapless resident to throttle him as the nurses shriek ]

Peter : Done.
Paul : I think he stopped breathing.
Peter : Are we supposed to resuscitate him now?

Such a wildly cinematic novel obviously screams Hollywood! And before you know it, they have Leonardo DiCaprio lined up for the role. Kinda odd to see him playing the role of the physically imposing Bearclaw though. A brawny fellow who takes out a room of armed assailants with a broken chair?

Making the ward rounds!

Doesn't that scream Jason Statham or Hugh Jackman to you?

Monday, January 19, 2009

Outlaw In-Laws

Finding it a little bit disconcerting to realize just how much of a control freak I am!

Case in point - the in-laws.

And I'm not even talking about mine - but Beercan Boy's in-laws. If you'd recall from my last post, our haplessly straight hero had finally found the rebound girl of his wet dreams. Our Damsel Dimwit, built, bountiful but not necessarily bright.

Obviously everything Beercan was looking for in a damsel.

It soon became clear however that Damsel Dimwit had actually bred true from a pair of equally proficient parents. From what we carefully gleaned from Beercan's meagre description - or at least it was inferred, the simian parents had barely made it through the evolutionary cut and could hardly string syllables together in a coherent sentence.

Oh really. Tell me more about the Dimwit family.

God, I am mean.

Lack of brains and steady income didn't stop the parents from starting a fly-by-night business though. Which judging by the current economic climate isn't such a bright idea after all the need for a quick loan. And who else would they hit up ( if not a reputable bank! ) but their prospective son-in-law, Beercan Boy! With no significant loan strings attached, it turns out that Beercan is flush with ready capital.

Beercan : So what do I say?
Paul : You don't really have much of a choice in the matter, do you?
Beercan : But what if...
Paul : What better way to take control! Have stipulations in the contract up the kazoo. Keep them under your thumb! Make them your slaves!
Beercan : Huh?
Paul : And I shall not be dark, but beautiful and terrible as the Morning and the Night! Fair as the Sea and the Sun and the Snow upon the Mountain! Dreadful as the Storm and the Lightning! Stronger than the foundations of the earth. All shall love me and despair!
Beercan : You are scaring me.

Scared me too. Who knew I had such megalomaniacal dreams. I even had the evil dictator ( so loved by Cantonese serials! ) laugh down pat.

Sunday, January 18, 2009

Pink Packets

It's that time of the year again. The time of red packets, mandarin oranges and ... yes, the dreaded family reunion dinner.

At least for the sole unmarried gay bachelor.

Rather than feast on scrumptious delicacies washed down with copious liquor like the rest of the partying cousins, we're usually chained to the interrogation chair while being subjected to the harsh unflattering spotlight and the even harsher examiners ( who are not subject to flattery ).

But we all get used to it. Being subject to excruciating torture by the specialized family Gestapo on a bi-annual basis, we've all developed partial resistance to their tried-and-true interrogation techniques. Doesn't mean we don't try to escape from the chair as soon as we can!

Maybe I could hide behind here till the 15th.

Leaving the next cousin to take the heat.

Past few years though I've been starting to feel a bit nostalgic when it comes to the Chinese New Year. Like I mentioned some time back, my overly generous dad used to pass around red packets to all and sundry - even the odd passersby with a kid sometimes got one on the fly. Not to mention the annual lottery ticket draw for his boisterous students with some receiving stacks of cash and the rest getting pieces of parchment paper detailing good wishes for the new year.

I found it peculiar ( my dad's always been an odd duck ) yet sweet. A tradition that I'd like to carry on. So when a friend of mine asked for a red packet, I found myself smiling.

It's family tradition that red packets are given to everyone single regardless of age by the ones married - ostensibly the elders of the family. Seems like a simple rite of passage into adulthood for me. But as a gay bachelor, we've - for obvious reasons - always been on the receiving side of the annual red packet parade! Honestly though I've always wanted to hand out red packets of my own. And shucks, isn't it time to start giving them out? Feel odd having my younger cousins ( who are honestly several pay scales below me ) bashfully handing me red packets.

So why should the gay boys be denied all that? Always been a conservative traditionalist but maybe it is time to bend the rules just a little.

Perhaps we could turn ours pink instead :)

But with new traditions, we'd have to make new rules. Now then who'd be eligible to hand out pink packets?

Saturday, January 17, 2009

School Spirit

Today when my colleagues were busy comparing the merits of various schools in the vicinity for their precious tots, the first thing that actually came to mind was to suggest my own alma mater.

Or any mission school within range.

Surprised to find myself showing so much school patriotism. Guess once a La Sallian... Though not many of the mission schools are left. And the few left can hardly be considered mission schools - what with the last La Sallian brother principal taking his leave a couple of months back. Though their legacy remains with the school and its students, I doubt the La Sallian schools would remain the same without their stern presence. Say what you will but the presence of the strict white-robed principals stalking the halls with canes behind their backs certainly helped add a note of sobriety to what would otherwise be a boisterous all-boys' school.

Speak softly and carry a big stick certainly seemed to be the school motto back then. There were still moments when the boys went wild though :) Though the experienced brothers always made sure to rein us all in before havoc ensued.

Boys will be boys!

Rather than send my kids to a generic brand school ( Tmn XYZ III Secondary or Tmn ABC Seksyen 7/7 Primary anyone? ), I would gladly hike through miles of traffic just to send my children to a traditional mission school - despite the fact that Shameless Shalom insists such places are a fertile breeding ground for homosexuals.

Nor do they breed bible-thumping Christians.

Contrary to ridiculous popular belief, missionary schools do not indoctrinate or convert students to Christianity. There isn't a baptismal font just after the school gate spraying instant conversion on unwary students! Instead the brothers taught the students a healthy respect for all religions. If not for the discreetly placed crosses in the classrooms and the first friday prayers attended by the Christian students in the chapel, I doubt anyone would even take it for a mission school!

And for the freakish religious naysayers who insist that the crosses and statues be removed in a bid to dechristianize mission schools, I have to wonder why they feel so threatened by such iconic religious figures. Is their faith evidently that easily swayed?

*Ahem* Where was I?

Look, I won't say that the mission schools instilled a strong set of moral values in me ( since that would be pretty hypocritical for me! ) though they did try their best! But I would say that it instilled in me a sense of brotherhood - a keen sense of kinship and camaraderie that I have sadly never found in any of the other institutions of learning I've been to. Though our students come from all races, colours and creeds ( a fair microcosm of our country itself! ), I think most of us are proud to call ourselves La Sallian boys.

And yes, I would like my son to say the same one day.

Friday, January 16, 2009

The Case of the Missing Pink Parcel

Seems like not only did the Christmas party provide a suitable perch for the cooing lovebirds to share some heat in the wintry cold ( causing all and sundry to dry-heave after ), the cosy intimacy also provided the perfect seasonal setting for a secret crime of passion. With the usual gaggle of gay boys gathering around the hearth for turkey and egg nog, you can expect the ensuing drama with the breakups and betrayals, the greets and gropes.

But I forgot to mention the bit about loot and larceny.

Gifts were exchanged amongst the guests during Christmas - yet one went missing. A pretty pink parcel all precious and ready to be presented only to be found missing from under the tree the morning after. Noticing the parcel ( meant for the sadly absent Zany Zinedine ) shockingly unaccounted for, Jaunty Jared immediately raised an alarm.

Rounding up the usual suspects!

As the sleepy suspects were rounded up for questioning the morning after, most only managed to stutter through patently false alibis hoping to lead the investigation astray.

Paul : What pink box? That doesn't match the green and gold Christmas theme dammit!
Calvin : What box? Is it Christmas? I am sleepy.
Graham : My nipples aren't talking!
Janvier : Hic. I was drunk.
Nate : It was cold. I went into the study.
Felix : It was cold. I went into the study.
Shane : Oh woe is me!

Certainly curiouser and curiouser.

Especially since the study was deathly cold yet neither Neonatal Nate nor Fabulous Felix ( who had barricaded themselves in there ) seemed in much danger of imminent hypothermia. No doubt Janvier didn't seem all that inebriated but the endless multiple personalities could have helped the shockingly efficient redistribution of alcohol. And could Genial Graham be hiding something underneath his oversized tee ( that hid even his perky nips! )? Despite threats of torture, the rest of the guests weren't talking.

Obviously finding the possible culprit wasn't going to prove an easy task but there's nothing I love more than a challenge. Time we got out our deerstalker caps and our smoking pipes. The game is afoot.

Yeah, Scorpios do love that touch of mystery. I mean, doesn't everyone? Loved the hell out of my mini sleuthing kit as a kid. Even played the boardgame Cluedo endlessly as a child - though I'll admit I played it only to flirt with the hunky blond suspect, Col Mustard. And that's the original slim, sexy military version not the current pompous, overweight colonial explorer! Anyone playing the yellow token must have been wondering at my desperate pursuit.

Now that the Case of the Missing Pink Parcel seems to have fallen into my lap providentially, how could I possibly pass up a chance to play the role of fav teen-girl snoop Veronica Mars?

Now who had it in for Zany Zinedine and his pink parcel?

Thursday, January 15, 2009

Skipping Beats

Trust me, doctors are a dull, dreary lot. You can't expect much from bleeding-heart zealots who have sworn to spend their lives locked up in hospitals to help the rest of humanity.

Then you have me. Somewhat a lil more off-center than usual. Lots of people have told me with some trepidation that I don't fit nicely into the square pegholes that doctors are supposed to - and I actually take that as a compliment. Seriously. Why would I want to blend into the Gungho Ginny gang?

So while the Ginnys were busy discussing arrythmias and airway adjuncts, I was taking my time scoping out an old friend. Turns out Yummy Yee has grown up some, hung up his shingle oh not too far away from here and dropped by the hospital for a quick refresher.

And boy oh boy, seems like the gangly intern has turned into a man. And quite a cute one too.

Even hard at work, theres always time for a flirt!

What better time to catch up than over a course of quivering mannequins and electric paddles?

Yee : Hope I put the paddles on correctly.
Paul : If not, do I get to paddle you instead?
Yee : Time to set the machine to charge.
Paul : Oh yeah charge me up baby.
Yee : You're gonna get us punished.

Of course this was all in a hushed sotto voce so no one else heard it. Scandalous. Bet the Ginnys were all busy wondering what I was whispering to have Yee all flushed up.

But I'll never tell.

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

The Elves and the Sockmaker

We've all heard of the charming fairy tale of the Elves and the Shoemaker. All about how a friendly team of elves help out the kindly though poor cobbler with his shoemaking - and how their favour was well repaid in kind. Sweet parable for the gullible rugrats of course.

But I bet you've never heard of their naughtier cousins - a far more obscure yet far more hellacious sort of imp - the Elves who are in league with the evil Sockmaker. A wily, secretive lot, they creep out in the dead of night only to gnaw out holes in the heels of the socks. All at the behest of the greedy Sockmaker - no doubt a heartless corporate exec busy churning out cheap disposable socks from sweltering sweatshops in third world nations.

How else would you explain the holes that keep appearing in my socks! Certainly a sign of wrongdoing! Haven't you checked through the sock drawer only to note in dismay that almost all of them have holes in them!

Now to hide the rest of my clothes!

Seriously. Don't blame wear and tear. Don't blame shoddy manufacturing. Don't blame the cockroaches.

It must be the elves! There's always a hole in either the right or the left but never both. Diabolical, ain't it? Swear there's a method to their wicked madness.

Monday, January 12, 2009

Gay or Asian

Breeder boys would stereotype the homos as the lisping, limp-wristed nancies who flamboyantly strut by with an exaggerated swish.

Of course the girls know better.

These days the gay boys have diversified. In fact it's hard to differentiate the aspiring metrosexuals with their perfectly coiffed curls and their manicured nails from some of the true gay boys these days. Short of flashing a generous boob to get a response, the girls only have a couple of hints to clue them in.

Such as the infamous Gay Clone look - or at least our localized prepped-up Asian version. Carefully spiked hair, collared tees ( with the collars nattily upturned ), knee-length khakis with cloth belts and athletic shoes with short socks. Bonus points if matched with an ear stud or a duck-bill cap.

Come on, do I look gay to you?

When they proposed the theory to me, the Lushes claimed that it worked almost 76% of the time. Would have laughingly dismissed the theory off-hand - except I thought about it, looked around me and realized that it was so true! Seriously. There's a virtual gay army. Starting to wonder whether it's a standard uniform handed out with the feather boa and the pink passport these days!

Certainly worked like a charm when Submissive Sandy got tagged from a mile away. Even without the giveaway limp wrist, the hints provided by his uniform were enough that a sister managed to sniff out the lone fag in a herd of wandering breeder boys!

Just from his popped collar alone.

Of course the gay-dar dings twice if you catch them sashaying down the street in pairs - the oh-so-distractingly-cute pair of gay boys who happen to look like cum-copies of one another. Another benefit of a gay relationship? You get to double your wardrobe so not only do you get one but then you have two fellas with the same tastes in clothes.

God forbid the tees have a matching slogan. Top-Bottom. Pitcher-Catcher. Now that would be 100% definite.

Sunday, January 11, 2009

God Manwatching II

Just to prove to you that there is a God - for all our naysayers out there.

Chris Evans
Oh yeah I have a brother.

Chris Evans has a gay brother. Just see what the man has to say from an excerpt of his interview in Advocate.

'Yes, I do have a gay brother. I’m down with the gays. Mostly I’m hanging out with him and his gay buddies, who are fucking hilarious. They’re the funniest people I know. They’ve invited me out to gay bars before, and I said, 'Look, guys, I’ve got to draw the line there.' That’s where a photo will get taken, it will run in magazines, and before you know it, I’ll be living down the gay rumor for the rest of my life.

[My brother looks like me], but he’s about an inch taller and about four shades tanner than I am. He’s a very fit young man. Believe me, he does quite well for himself.

Taller, tanner, fitter, younger. Sounding better each time. Guess God took time off to improve his already stupendous work in Chris :) Just take a look at what God made in Scott Evans.

Saturday, January 10, 2009

Don't Stop the Music

The dearth of culture and arts in our country shouldn't come as a shock to all, I'm sure. With the numerous constraints and bureaucratic red-tape placed on the performers, it shouldn't be surprising that most of them feel literally straight-jacketed. Though change is coming slowly but surely with indie acts sprouting up here and there about town, our country's still a very long way from encouraging.

Like poor Rihanna trying to make it to our conservative, prudish shores! Picking Kuala Lumpur as one of the destinations on her concert tour of Asia, Grammy-winning artist Rihanna obviously plans to show us how a good girl goes bad!

But even before she's started selling the tickets to our concert, the rest of us are already hit with a note of trepidation. Disturbia! Will her concert actually make it to the stage? Or will the usual god-fearing rabble rousers threaten to mar the peace with their endless protests? Get your umbrellas out, folks. I expect it to rain religious zealots.

Rihanna and Adam Levine
So Adam, you think my concert will go through?

Isn't it tragic that we already expect the concert to be cancelled due to our country's strictly Victorian rules? Under government guidelines, a female performer must be covered from the top of her chest, including her shoulders, to her knees.

Obviously makes any good girl wanna go bad.

Seriously doubt Rihanna would want to perform in a shapeless burqa. Or behind the delicately latticed screens of a harem. Though I'm sure the brainy babe from Barbados could flout the archaic rules if she wanted to by prancing about in a figure-hugging leather catsuit - since it does cover all the important bits.

Honestly think the overzealous rabble rousers should give it a rest. Let's make it simple ( since complex sentences might confuse the addlepated fools ) for our self-appointed moral guardians.

You don't like her songs, just don't come to her concert. You don't like her dressing, just don't come to her concert. You can all remain in your religious places praying for our immortal souls while harping about licentiousness corrupting the youth. Don't stop the rest of us from enjoying it. We don't mind getting corrupted. Why should you care?

Could I put it any more plainly? Yet again I gotta say this... Jangan jaga tepi kain orang lain. I don't like rap, heavy metal or nasyid. You don't see me making a fuss, do you?

Got a question existing for the authorities though. Why are we pandering to these mindless fools ( who should be in rehab instead )?

A final word from Rihanna herself.

Thursday, January 08, 2009

Baby iBlair

We have a new baby.

Or at least Charming Calvin has.

Like any expectant father, I didn't have as much input into this blessed baby bargain other than a lazy nod at its inception.

Of course the proverbial stork didn't drop by our doorstep unexpectedly! Been quite a while since Calvin started dreaming of having it. Ever since a couple of my friends started having babies of their own, he's been hankering for one of his own to teach, to nurture and to love. The one year he spent in Beijing only underlined the urgent need to fulfil his budding parental instincts ( not to mention providing the necessary infusion of capital! ).

So we'll get the baby?

Parenthood isn't something to be taken lightly. I figured it was timely to wait till we were ready but Calvin was insistent enough.

There were plenty to be had in the market of course - legal or otherwise - but Charming Calvin decided to take the safer course by waiting patiently while the necessary bureaucratic red tape was negotiated. The man doesn't believe in shortcuts. After reviewing various bits of literature, friendly advice and also his conscience, Calvin decided to make the daring leap.

Calvin : I need to get it.
Paul : This is a big step. You know you can't turn back. You sure you're ready?
Calvin : I can take care of it. I'm sure.
Paul : Doesn't come in that many colours.
Calvin : I'm happy with what they have! It'll be mine! We'll love it!

So the baby was left on the doorstep, wrapped up in its leather vinyl bassinet. All black, shiny and surprisingly lightweight.

Despite its shockingly varied functions.

That's not the baby I ordered!

And we got it from Machines at a bargain. The iPod Touch he's been waiting for. And though it might be chips and bytes out of a developing third world nation rather than his own flesh and blood, it doesn't make him any less attached to it. Even just yesterday I caught him cradling the iPod Touch while cooing inane babytalk. Could have sworn the lil baby protege sang Celine Dion's My Love in return.


He's calling it baby iBlair.

Though not particularly huggable, at least the baby's cute in addition to being intelligent. So how about some cigars then?

Wednesday, January 07, 2009

Medical Freaks

If you need any further proof that medical doctors are freaks, look no further.

And I'm not talking about me.

Case in point, I have Gungho Ginny. Or at least one of the many - interchangeable! - sadly desperate workaholic Ginnys that seem to hatch out of clandestine experimental clone pods in the dark, dank basements of medical school.

Or aliens. I still haven't decided.

And they all come complete with a sad lack of social life.

Where are they keeping the damn Gungho Joes. I could reprogram them!

Of late the busy bee bureaucrats in the civil service have come to realize that the days of leave allowed to the peons seem highly extravagant! Confusion reigned till they decided to allow the government employees the right to choose whether to retain their current annual leave entitlement or to have it shortened instead by five days. One reason for the reduction was that civil servants already had too many days off with the public holidays, and that many did not finish their annual leave.

I'm sure there are some cushy sectors of the civil service languishing in such luxury - but there are weeks when I've worked 7 days straight without rest ( with sadly lacklustre pay! ) so there's no way I'm relinquishing the only lil meagre perk I have left.

So it seemed like a moot point to me at first. Till I bumped into a fellow Ginny in the hallways.

Paul : Stupid question innit?
Ginny : Definitely. Everyone's gonna choose to have less days instead.
Paul : WTF. You want less? You want to work more days?
Ginny : Yes. What would you do during your leave days? Better to go to work.
Paul : What the hell are they feeding you!
Ginny : Well the folks in the private sector have much less.
Paul : And to compensate, they are paid much more. Have you seen your paycheck lately?
Ginny : Well it's not terribly fair to the private sector.
Paul : Fair? No one's stopping them from joining the civil service.
Ginny : That's true. Honestly though I just don't know what to do with my leave.
Paul : Holidays. Shopping. Recreation.
Ginny : I don't do all that. Better I go to work.
Paul : Are you pre-progammed to say that by your nefarious creators?

See. Medical freaks. I toldja. There is stern dedication to the work and then there's overzealous insanity.

Aliens or clones, you decide.

Tuesday, January 06, 2009

Kutu II : Lady of Lice

Unlike the previous talk about kutus of the investment scheme sort, this post really is about lice. Nasty lil blood-sucking critters you'd find creepy-crawling all over the sad, abandoned vagrants on the mean streets. Just takes that one good-hearted samaritan to stumble over the poor fella and extend a hand to help.

And then we'll have homeless specimen #1213 dumped into our care. Otherwise known as the Lady of Lice.

Whereupon the nurses will come together as one.

Really. Whatever tragic consequences had led her to this point, this messy, dishevelled itinerant with lice in their midst seems to act as a rallying point to the starched-up matrons of nursing! It's an event all by itself. Each time the emergency alarm goes up and the sisterhood answers ( a couple of brothers these days! ), they all start marching along towards the insensible patient with shavers, scissors and soap.

Starting to suspect there has to be a Florence Nightingale Rulebook circulated amongst the older nurses ( probably handed through the generations in clandestine midnight meetings ), no doubt with the front page exhorting the golden rule that Thou shalt not suffer a Lice to Live! How else would you explain the senior nurses acting almost in tandem upon the unsuspecting soul as if in tacit agreement! As a dedicated team, they descend upon the hapless vagrant en masse, shut the curtains to prying eyes and precede with the relentless medical makeover.

Although I'd much prefer if this was the result of their work...

More hindrance than help, the curious doctors are adjured to stand clear as they attend to their work. I've seen their magic at work so I just stand by while the interns crowd around the rails trying to peek.

It's a hysterical scene shockingly reminiscent of the bath scene in My Fair Lady. The one where cooing flowergirl Eliza Doolittle is forced to shed her shabby genteel trappings at the behest of the redoubtable housekeeper amidst shrieks of horrified indignation! As the patient is liberally doused in a potent mixture of bleach, chemical solvents and industrial soap, torn clothes, bits of hair and lice are flung out at regular intervals along with suds and bubbles.

Then with a final copious dusting of minty talcum powder - rising like magic pixie dust to the air, the show's done. And then lo and behold, a new patient - the true Lady of Lice all cleaned and scrubbed with her hair fashionably styled - stands bemusedly in the place of the unbecoming hobo earlier.

Even her cheeks bloom rosy pink.

Now who says the nurses don't have magic of their own.

Monday, January 05, 2009

Dilberts of the World

Always enjoyed a spot of Dilbert with my morning coffee. That lil biweekly comic strip by Scott Adams offers me a peek into the compartmentalized corporate world of engineering drones, nasty assistants and management stiffs. A Kafkaesque world that would otherwise be completely alien to me.

Although I do have plenty of engineer buddies ( including Charming Calvin ) who actually punch in their 9-to-5 over in that bureaucratic cubicle-hell! Though they assure me repeatedly that the comic strip doesn't lie all that far from reality, they don't seem all that eager to share their humiliating Dilbert experiences. Unlike doctors who are willing to spill anytime over java. Starting to wonder whether there's a clause in their contracts forbidding them from talking about work.

Thinking about work...

But the more I delve into the Dilbert universe ( and the more I see of my complacent friends! ), the more I'm inclined to agree. Dilberts do exist. By and large, most of my friends seem happily content to remain unquestioning cubicle rats herded around by inane, pointy-eared bosses!

Like Alice, I'd have cheerfully given them the Fist of Death instead.


Look, I'm not particularly ambitious myself. Forget about job satisfaction. Hell, I'd probably prefer mending shirts and baking tarts at home to slaving it endlessly at the hospital.

But since the perky 1950s housewife option seems closed to me at the moment, I'll continue giving my very best at work. And every once in a while, I'll still have these crazy dreams. I want to be the head of the department. I want to be the prominent expert in my field. I want to make changes in the departmental policy.

I want to rule the world.

Yes just like the conniving Dogbert, I do have the occasional megalomaniacal delusion.

Which my friends apparently don't share. Odd. Don't they feel an irresistible urge to overthrow their bosses in a devastating coup? Don't they want to rise to the absolute pinnacle of their respective careers?

Or do the ubiquitous cubicles actually sap ambition?

I believe my friends might be Dilberts.

Sunday, January 04, 2009

The Flycatcher

A friend of mine Salacious Sal has a problem that most of us wouldn't mind having.

A boyfriend far too attractive for his own good!

I know most of you would be wondering where's the problem in that - since a lil man-candy accessory just goes with everything, right? Well, that's all true but let's not forget everyone else seems to want a sample of the hot merchandise as well.

Paul : So what's the problem?
Sal : Well the boyfriend has all these flies around him!
Paul : Flies? Does he smell? Is he rotting?
Sal : No. Man-flies! 苍蝇!

His irresistible pheromones seem to draw folks from near and far hence the many persistent admirers flitting about the man. A fact which my friend Salacious Sal isn't terribly amused with - calls them pesky flies 苍蝇 to his honey. Swatting them off would be easy enough but fending off these unwanted pests starts to get difficult when you're dealing with raffish man-sized paramours who won't take no for an answer.

Maybe the flies are afraid of the light?

Just a spray of pesticide isn't gonna work on these bugs.

Despite the frequent assurances from the said cutie boyfriend, I can see why Sal would feel a tad threatened by the attention. So would I actually. Who could blame him? All you'd need to do is slip just once with one of the flies buzzing about eagerly for a taste of that sweetness.

Even I wouldn't mind a brief lick myself :)

I'd have considered weekly threesomes ( with a different fruitfly every week! ) but from the look on Sal's face, I doubt he'd like that salacious idea. Of course throwing jealous remonstrances wouldn't work either. Even a possessive Scorpio like me would know that. Crazed irrational hysterics would probably drive them farther apart!

But rather than ignore the looming threat, I'd keep the flies close at hand. Hell, I'd be best buds with the most persistent ones! A twist on the old adage of keeping your friends close but your enemies ( in this case, the buzzing flies ) closer. Then I'd work my hardest at getting the flies happily paired off to cut down the competition.

Saturday, January 03, 2009

Going Australia

What if I were a cattle baron in the Australian outback during the initial years of the 20th century?

I think I'd have been quite as conniving as any villainous mogul, trying to squeeze out the rest of the landowners to maintain a monopoly on my goods and make as much profit as I possibly can. Lies, cheating and manipulation would be the name of the game. Even bumping off some of my closest competitors ( dropping them into billabongs for the crocs ) wouldn't be an anathema to me - though I'd leave it as a last resort.

I doubt the prim lily-white aristocrat Lady Sarah Ashley would approve of me.

You're looking to hire me?

Especially when I try to steal her hunky Drover - played by a suitably buffed Hugh Jackman - to man my fields. And maybe even my bed. Though as a notoriously wicked baron I'd probably have conned a couple of dozen local hunks into my bed already to satisfy my voracious sexual appetites.

Paul : I see you've been behind on the payments.
Hunky farmer : Swear I'll pay you back, sir. With the recent drought, the land's not been as hearty as it should be for quite a while.
Paul : How terrible. Maybe it's time to pack up and leave.
Hunky farmer : Don't foreclose on us. Everything I have is sunk into this land. I've got a sheila at home with a child to pay for as well.
Paul : Maybe we could work out an agreement. Meet me at the main house tonight.
Hunky farmer : Oh thank you! Yes, sir.
Paul : By the way, tell your wife you won't be coming back till tomorrow.

Bedding all the eligible men in town, surely I'll soon be the scourge of the territory in due time. Of course those who talk ill will soon serve as the main course for the pet crocs I mentioned.

Things happen differently in Australia however. Our Lady Ashley arrives fresh from England only to encounter the stifling heat of the Northern Territory to salvage the cattle station left by her recently deceased husband. Soon she finds that the only way to make Faraway Downs profitable is if she transfers a herd of cattle to Darwin to make a sale.

And to do so, she'd need the hunky Drover I mentioned earlier to herd them.

Of course to dispell any illusion that this is a plain romance, our lady also encounters numerous obstacles to her ambitious plans - from her main rivals, the conniving manager Mr Fletcher and the arrogant cattle baron King Carney to the pesky World War II raging in the horizon. Along the way our intrepid ( though childless ) heroine also finds the time to combat racism by mothering a young half-caste Aboriginal orphan called Nullah.

And muddle through the classic Over the Rainbow. Despite forgetting the lines to the song, her valiant singing still manages to win the heart of the Drover. Damn skinny lily-white blonds.

Did I mention the Drover takes a particularly salacious shower while at camp? Though it's barely five seconds, it's certainly worth every penny of the movie ticket.

Thursday, January 01, 2009

( Twenty ) Seven Month Itch

Really. Has this show been going on that long?

Well maybe. Then again maybe not since we never actually set a debut date for our relationship.

They say all the world's a stage and all the men and women merely players. As little children, we grow up watching our parents. Almost subconsciously, we derive our cues from them on the future roles we play and how we work to maintain a relationship. So it's simple enough for the boys and girls out there with a visible heteronormative lifestle ready as a copy to emulate. Just get married, build a home, play the mommy and the daddy.

Like playing house, not everyone gets it right the first time around. But at least someone's done it before. Whether you're playing violent one-upmanship sex games like the Tudors or cooing nauseating lovey-dovey words like the Waltons, just tune in to an old rerun if you forget the lines.

Opening scene?

But for the lil boys busy imagining the GI Joes making out hot and heavy in their tents, what roles we play in the future isn't written in any script we know. Two macho guys playing house couldn't possibly fit into the stereotypical 1950s family model after all with the inevitable quarrel over who's wearing the pants ( or the frilly apron and dress ) in the family. There are no role models and stereotypes to play with so we're mostly coasting along ad-libbing and making up our own lines as we go along.

Hence the occasional mid-season cancellations. Also known as the inevitable breakups.

So despite the fact that there's the occasional hit and miss episode with bad acting on both sides, I'm pleased that my show is still going on strong. Although sometimes Charming Calvin and I seem to have been paired together by the worst casting directors possible, we seem to have found our own odd chemistry.

Although we both initially signed on the show with far different expectations. I wanted a partner and a co-star in my vehicle - not to play the supporting role forever pandering to the proverbial diva in perpetual search of adoration.

Calvin obviously had other terms on his contract. No doubt he wishes for a more appreciative lover instead of the rather unaffectionate cold fish ( who doesn't do mawkish sentimentalities ) he'd gotten as a co-star. And at heart, Calvin's a gregarious Leo always ready to seek pleasant company while I'm a somewhat antisocial Scorpio forever in need of solitude to brood over whatever nefarious plot I've concocted. I might seek out a select group of friends but endless crowds of acquaintances inevitably bore me.

But we've compromised, hashed out the differences and worked out new agreements. So in my opinion, this is one show that just keeps getting better.