Bump It Bros

Obviously as a panic response to the faint whiff of homoerotica that comes with getting deliciously sweaty with other men, basic gym culture has developed into a painfully heterosexual beastly creature that relies purely on monosyllabic grunts and macho greetings to survive. Otherwise gay panic would inevitably set in having them all fight or flee whenever an unwary roving gaze catches them even partially naked in the changing rooms.

Me, I usually get my work done and leave without chance for much conversation. Things to do, places to be, that sorta thing. The past few weeks have been a little different though since my time inevitably coincides with this other young fellow. And I don't mean the irregular regular such as Grunt Graham.

Now when I meant young - I mean really young as in young enough to be my biological child - though obviously now old enough to attend college. Over here, the colloquial term for his handsome freshfaced looks would be jambu.

Certainly don't mind bumping him. 

Though my current friends might fail to believe it, I've never been that kinda friendly to all hail-fellow-well-met kinda guy. But since there's no one else present at the gym other than Grunt Graham who's a tad more antisocial than me with his ever-present monster headphones blasting thumpa-thumpa techno beats, there's not much for the boy to do but wave hello at me.

And raise out his fist.

I might have recoiled. See, my usual preprogrammed response when a muscled fist is aimed at my face is to defend myself, before making an appropriately hasty getaway. The first time he did that, it took me a moment before I realized he wanted the usual manly response which was a fist bump. Honestly, I've never even fist bumped my own brother, much less some virile, youthful stranger clad only in shorts.

The only thing I wanted to do with my hand to him was a palm smack to his cute hard ass which admittedly is kinda hard to miss.

Unfortunately that initial fist bump - which I hoped was a one time thing - has turned into a macho greeting of sorts between us. Though as strange and unfamiliar as the heterosexual frat boy act is, I cringe inwardly everytime I do it. Almost like a complicated foreign handshake. Then today he added something else.

Boy : See you later, brah. 
Paul : Umm... bye?

Seriously. Brah?

Samuel and the Gay Doctor

You know those days when in an impulsive fit of rage, you just need to rant and rave irrationally over something wildly controversial only to realize much, much too late that the intended target of your highly unreasonable abuse is right within hearing range? If not right in your face?

Tropes that happens quite a lot in situational comedies, which probably draws from real life since it actually happened just today.

Fortunately not to me.

In the gym that I frequent, there's Stunning Samuel, this young... hell, let's just call him an extremely fit, handsome young fellow because that's what he is. Gorgeous college boy with the perfect toothy smile, fair unblemished face and a sculpted, muscular physique that gets even better each time I see it. Which is surprisingly often since he heads to the weight room during his lunch hour which coincides with my time there.

Believe me when I say perfectly cut six-pack abs all the way.

Dammit do they ever eat fried chicken?!

Genetically gifted in almost every way except for his physical coordination. You see, our poor Stunning Samuel is a clumsy klutz. Items inevitably topple out of his gym bag, weighted dumbbells tumble onto his toes, steps flip over as he steps on, shoelaces tangle before him as he trips over etc. Basically the kinda lame slapstick comedy we expect from the Three Stooges except it's a painful pantomime all on his own.

In fact I've even mended his broken finger when he somehow trapped it between the weight plates several months back. Don't ask me how it suddenly got there. First he was cheerfully waving to me from the weights with a grin on his handsome face - and the next there's blood dripping all over the place. Hippocratic Oath and all that so I had to help.

So unsurprisingly, Samuel found himself in another mishap of his own making when he somehow tumbled and broke his arm. Of course by the time he came around to my door at work, he had already been through the emergency department with a couple of peculiar gripes.

Samuel : Aiyo so glad to see you.
Paul : And this time you did break a bone.
Samuel : Yeah, but the doctor downstairs was gay. 
Paul : He was?
Samuel : Yea la! That gay doctor! And you know what he did!
Paul : You know I'm gay right.
Samuel : What?
Paul : Yes.
Samuel : Oh... umm, but you're different.
Paul : Like how?
Samuel : Just different la.

So now I'm a different gay. Of course Samuel probably had a few choice epithets ready to blurt out before I forestalled him by coming out! After learning about my wicked sexual proclivities, Samuel clammed up and refused to tell me what the doctor did to him! Said it wasn't a big deal after all.

Which has made me awfully curious.

A naughty proposition? Looking at Samuel, I don't think I could blame that doctor.

The Anthropologie

Now that I have narrowed the field of contractors down to two, perhaps it's time to faithfully draw out detailed plans for the renovation of Hartfield! Literally clapping my hands with glee while I say it. While I have the rough sketch already set in my mind - and a finer hand-drawn design in my files, there's still the need to draft out the trifling minor details such as lighting points and window designs.

Which can be a pain sometimes.

But man, I like it that way.

Makes me wonder whether I've wandered into the wrong field of work since I'm far more interested in fabulous window treatments than my actual work. Perhaps I should have thought harder about my initial interest in interior design. Ah, always the road not taken.

Still... having a new home has my creative juices all flowing as I fill up several pages of notepads with ideas and sketches. Pretty sure half of the fanciful frills won't come into actual fruition since there's always a pragmatic budget to watch for - and the lack of proper workmanship here does put a crimp on my fanciful plans somewhat.

Paul : I want the tabletop to be curved in an S shape.
Carpenter : Can.
Paul : A real S-shape, yeah.
Carpenter. Straight?
Paul : S shape. Let me sketch it for you.
Carpenter : Not straight?
Paul : Do you even know what's a curved S?

And... of course after the long, complicated explanation along with the aforementioned drawing complete with size specifications, the trite, unimaginative blokes here would give me the usual hackneyed rectangular tables we see in chain stores everywhere.

Kat : Oh my it looks lovely.
Paul : I asked for a spiral staircase.
Kat : Oh.
Paul : And they gave me a staircase with a shell beach spiral banister. 

Of course my plans are to fill up the rooms ala Anthropologie - which is basically dumping all the rubbishy junk I've carted home from various exotic locales around the world. And believe me, I have quite the enviable collection of whosits and whatsits galore. You want a thingamabob? I seriously have twenty. Finally a place to store all my loves and obsessions.

Though I fear it - even with all the rooms full of cabinets and drawers - it might still not be enough!

Gimme My Happy Endings

Let me reiterate - I love my happy endings in fairy tales. Boy meets girl ( or boy as the case may be ) on an adorable meetcute, falls desperately in love, battles some inconsequential obstacle whether dastardly dragon, wicked witch or inane issues, then finally triumphs with that final satisfying stroll into the setting sunset.

That's the kinda sappy ending I like. Not only in the books that I read but that holds true even for the television serials or movies that I watch. After spending so much time delving into the character of a protagonists and rooting for him or her, surely I wouldn't want anything disastrous to befall them.

Kat : Did you like the movie? 
Paul : Hmm. 
Kat : But it had a wonderful story, it was beautifully shot, the actors were superb. 
Paul : The ending sucked. 
Kat : Oh. 
Paul : Everyone has a tragic ending.  
Kat : Surely there's someone... there is that fellow.. maybe the girl... or the bad guy... 
Paul : Died alone in his lonely hotel. Died during childbirth.  
Kat : Hmm. 
Paul : Dammit. Don't get me invested for two hours only to kill off everyone!

So very true. I know critically acclaimed movies just need to knock off the main protagonist - or abandon him or her in some sad lamentably tragic state at the very end - just to win accolades since we all know jolly happy endings rarely brings home the coveted Oscar these days.

I foresee a crummy ending for all of us in this hotel. 

Just look at the list for the last awards. An accursed hotel where almost everyone comes to a bad end, and that includes the pastel pink palace as well. A promising cryptographer who stumbles out of the closet only to undergo miseries till the terrible end. An army veteran who goes through several trials to almost reach his happy ending only to be shot dead at the very end. A washed-up actor takes his final role in a Broadway play only to end... ambiguously.

Seriously we wouldn't want to be in that story at all.

Best Picture Oscar Nomination Title Sequence - 2015 from henry hobson directing & design on Vimeo.

There are a few less blighted ones but ... oh so very few, and none that have that final happy ending that I would wish for. And people wonder why I rarely go through the entire list of Oscar nominees like I used to!

For me, a great movie is one that I would watch again. And again. And possibly again. So far all of the above I wouldn't watch ever, ever again. Just tell me, have you watched Argo, 12 Years A Slave or The Artist again?

World Full of Sin

When it comes to relationships, I will admit that it really wouldn't be that hard to turn into a bitter cynic these days. Impulsive day-long marriages leading to quickie divorces and then multiple marriages don't exactly bode well for the gravity and longevity of committed relationships. Much less those dreaded final steps down the aisle.

At least that's what I assume is in their dark skeptical thoughts! Not for me though since I have always been a romantic optimist complete with rose-tinted glasses and endless faith in happy endings... all despite my growing decrepitude.

Which is more than I can say for these young debutantes in town. Or the more correct term would be the Dogmatic Duennas from the Draconian Domicile.

Paul : Surely one eligible bachelor here caught your eye!
Mabel : Nary a one. All deutschbags, dunces and dimwits from what I can see.
Paul : Ouch.
Mabel : You don't count! Everyone knows you're a dandy who fancies other men.
Paul : That obvious?
Mabel : Only Sophia couldn't tell. 

Apparently all quite dogged in their demented determination to remain unwed from our Sober Sophia to the more strident Marvellous Mabel. There's a third to this terrifying trio but more on her peculiarities one day. Even the infamously tenacious matchmaker Mrs Bennet would have found them absolutely horrific in their curious disinclination to socialize with single eligible gentlemen - in spite of the many soirees and balls organized purely for their pleasure.

Sophia : There's no urgent need to introduce men to me! When the time comes, we shall get to know each other. 
Paul : Well the time has come so get to know them!
Sophia : I am certain God will bring us together again. 
Paul : Surely you're not depending on prayers for this. God has far more important missions to attend to.
Sophia : Oh you're so funny!
Paul : Look at this list then. Qualities you could want in a man. What would you go for? 
Sophia : Fidelity first of course. 
Paul : What? No intelligence, looks, titles or wealth? Surely a great body? 
Sophia : No, they have to be faithful first. 
Paul : Faithfulness comes first? Who has cheated on you? 
Sophia : No one!
Paul : Then what terrible romantic misadventures have befallen you before that you would insist on fidelity first? 
Sophia : It's just a really bad, bad world out there!
Paul : What?
Sophia : Yes, it's a world full of sin!
Paul : Whoa. 

Well there you have it, out of the mouth of babes. Even a fresh-faced debutante in her early twenties has so little faith in the constancy of love. Unimpressed with the various Germanic Deutschbags presented to her, Marvellous Mabel was only too eager to agree with the disheartening sentiment and picked faithfulness first on her criteria as well.

Faithfulness!

Such a daunting thought for the poor heterosexual bachelors out there! To begin a hopeful relationship with the ladies so cynically skeptical they already half believe that it would fail miserably due to the false-hearted vagaries of men! Doesn't look like there's a prayer of succeeding!

Me, I chose funny, smart and handsome - in that order. 

Cinderfella

Once upon a time in a small village not so very far away there was an apothecary's apprentice named Cinderfella.

Allegedly mistreated, mishandled and misunderstood by all who knew him - the atrocious chief apothecary especially, the poor boy found but little solace from everything around him - till one fine morning when he was delivering a medicinal poultice to a sick villager, Cinderfella saw a notice being put up in the village square announcing a royal ball for the prince's birthday.

Might I say his heart skip a beat?

Oh my is that my Prince Charming? Is he going to rescue me from my life of misery? 

It didn't take the apothecary's apprentice very long to start wishin', prayin' and hopin'. Yes, you see the apprentice had seen the burly young prince once from afar. Oh, so fine and noble the prince was riding his brilliant red carriage to the castle, and so very far from his own lowly miserable station.

Cinderfella : Oh he could never love me. Such a terrible creature like me. 
Godfather : But why would you say that?
Cinderfella : Why fairy godfather!
Godfather : Yes, you shall go to the ball! And find your prince. 
Cinderfella : But I can't!
Godfather : Why not? 
Cinderfella : He's so much better than me! He's a prince. He speaks well. He sings. He enjoys good food. 
Godfather : He still puts his pants on one leg at a time, just like everyone else. 
Cinderfella : I have nothing to wear!
Godfather : Well I shall make an enchanting bespoke suit from silky gossamer threads spun by ink-black spiders in the light of a full moon. 
Cinderfella : But will that make him notice me? What if he doesn't? What if he does? What if the suit is too bright? What if the pants are too tight? What if I break the shoes?
Godfather : And how would that be a problem? 
Cinderfella : What if he doesn't love me? What if I'm not his type? What if he only likes burly bears like himself? What if he leaves me with my heart broken? 
Godfather : What ifs! Pish posh, my dear. Now do you perhaps have a coconut to turn into a carriage?
Cinderfella : What if the coconut breaks down? What if his friends hate me? 
Godfather : Hmm. 
Cinderfella :  What if he - wait, fairy godfather where are you going?
Godfather : You're too much for a first assignment, I'm heading next door to find an easier target for the makeover. Perhaps you have a wicked stepbrother around? 

Almost impossible to find a happily-ever-after in this real life scenario.

Poor Cinderfella and his self-defeating what ifs. So preoccupied with how exceptionally perfect the prince is to try. So busy obsessing over everything that could possibly go wrong that he daren't make any moves. Seriously boys, faint heart never won fair laddie - so you don't get to walk off into the sunset with the prince if you keep finding ways not to.

Really, what if a flying meteor falls to the earth right on the prince?

No doubt if his childfood friend Cinderella had done the same moping over her similarly miserable fate rather than step into that enchanted glass slipper, she would still be communing with her mousy companions in the back kitchen. Instead she grabbed those damned shoes, ran as fast as those crystal heels could take her and made sure she dazzled during her grand entrance at the ball.

Something said prince won't forget anytime soon!

The Line of Bitchery

Though my new friends find it really hard to believe, I am relatively zen now. Or at least approaching zen.

Then again I've mellowed down at least marginally, those who knew me from way back when can certainly attest to that. In fact my ISO, having once upon a time witnessed my escalating whirlwind of wrath descend upon his poor doomed flat much to his neverending horror, would be the first to concede. These days when faced with an untenable situation, at least I tend to bite my lip rather than fall into an apoplectic rage. A singular sign of maturity no doubt!

At least that's what I thought.

Much to their collective horror - and to Sober Sophia's endless dismay, one of the indelible Norms for the Domicile for Dogmatic Duennas has been recklessly broken by one of their own - inevitably inching towards the predicted heinous murder-suicide that the rest of us have been laying bets on. Imagine the speechless feminine outrage ( multiplied per duenna ) over said transgression!

Sophia : Gracious me!
Paul : Oh dear, you mean that was mean? And here I thought I was being absolutely darling.

So I tried to offer a more peaceable solution to their dilemma rather than leap to the rather more grisly resolution the bloodthirsty duennas were all baying for.

Paul : Actually you could do the nice thing and just send out an email to the duennas.
Sophia : Only an email? 
Paul : An email outlining all the errors that she made, perhaps even highlighting them. 
Sophia : Oh my God.
Kat : That's your nice thing?!
Paul : It is!
Kat : Oh my. 
Paul : You mean that's not nice? 
Kat : No, it isn't!
Paul : Oh my, I have been sending out some horrific emails.
Kat : Worse than this?
Paul : Much worse. No wonder they always capitulate.

Faced with such shocking manners over the dinner table, I think Sober Sophia nearly fell into an incredulous swoon. Don't really see her following my egregious email etiquette any time soon.

As much as I've reformed to be a better person ( though I am beginning to wonder whatever for! ), it seems that I have very far to go. Even though I have come down from the awe-inspiring levels of Miranda Priestley, apparently I'm still a sliver above that particularly horrific line of bitchery.

The Secrets of Miss FOMO

Interestingly, FOMO or the Fear of missing out is defined as a pervasive apprehension that others might be having rewarding experiences from which one is absent; a social angst usually characterized by a desire to stay continually connected with what others are doing.

Incidentally a fear we've long associated with one of our dear friends here - no one else but the inimitable Mad Madison. Our Miss Fomo fights for truth, justice and liberty with only one fatal Kryptonite being her inexplicable inability to be left out of missions. Frequently sequestered in her secret headquarters for work of her own accord, she finds herself sending weepy emojis about missing out on gatherings. Not only does that lead her to immediately confess to the most peculiar sins, that fear of missing out also reveals some of her hitherto unknown pastimes from the unexceptionable such as rock climbing to the more novel, at least for her, such as photography.

Paul : I'm sure we've pretty much established that everyone has a hobby.
Kat : Well, not Madison. I think Madison's hobby is work.
Paul : Yeah, work is her hobby. 
Madison : No! I have a hobby! A real one. I like photography.
Paul : Wut.
Kat : Did you just make it up? 
Madison : No! I've always loved photography! Always!
Paul : I've never seen you with a camera. Not once.
Madison : I do! I bring it everywhere!
Paul : An invisible camera?
Kat : Let's give her this one.
Madison : I took a picture of her!
Paul : With the invisible camera?

Yet Madison still insists that her true calling is photography, although none of us have yet seen any tangible proof of such other than five snaps on Instagram. Listening to her describe her lifelong passion, you would almost expect Madison to have several high-end Leicas and Hasselblads stashed in her bedroom, along with a secret annexe remodelled for her personal dark room to develop her sensitive photographic materials.

Now that I've got everything set up, they have to believe me! I am not Miss Fomo!

Could she be our hidden Leibovitz? Knowing how oddly determined our Madison can be, I wouldn't be surprised to find that she has set up a photography studio on main street with her name brightly emblazoned in blinding neon so we don't miss it.

Then this conversation came about just last night.

Friend : So how did you guys all meet?
Paul : Oh I met Felix through his blog.
Kat : Not all of us have blogs though.
Paul : Well I do. As well as Felix.
Kat : Only the two of you.
Madison : Wait, I have a blog too!
Paul : Wut.
Madison : It's always been around!
Paul : Circa 2015?

Really? Where! I have some serious doubts though. Certainly the first I've heard of it despite the fact that she astonishingly stumbled upon the existence of my blog about a month back with nary a peep of her owning one herself. Perhaps our Miss Fomo to the rescue again?