Doing Nothing At All

Unlike most, I prefer to take my Netflix fix slow - so rather than frantically binge-fest over the newly streamed episodes, I basically drag them out painfully anticipatorily into a couple of weeks. An episode a week basically. Reason why it took me so long to finally see Clay Jensen figure out the entire thirteen reasons given by his tortured paramour on what drove her to put a permanent period to her life.

One specific cause of which is obviously our quietly ineffectual Clay himself. Hardly a spoiler since he received the iconic cassettes right in the beginning of the series. You would think someone like Clay would hardly cause a ripple, no?

Something I've noticed since high school myself; quietly reticent fellows such as Clay who tend to blend unobtrusively into the the general background without causing much of a scene. Unassuming, unpretentious, unnoticeable; till sometimes they don't even seem to be involved in anything that's happening around them.

Or prefer not to be.

Seems very little reason to irrrationally aggravate me but it does.

Maybe I shoulda done something.
Coulda Woulda Shoulda. 

Do they actually think doing nothing actually helps anyone? How many times have we seen people hang back from a potentially ugly situation, trying not to dirty their hands? Not realizing that backing away with their arms folded is almost as bad as causing the incident to happen in the first place.

Oft repeated statement that I've always found inspirational.

The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men should do nothing.

Sound familiar, David? 

Oh My English Again

No, this won't be a rant on how young Chinese Malaysians are deliberately eschewing the English language - and even our national language - for whatever misplaced reasons in their naive lil minds. That impassioned diatribe will come along one fine day when I'm finally rational enough to type one out somewhat legibly.

Mostly this has to do with our Ambiguous Aaron - and his dubious command of the language. One would assume that having English as his first language - mayhap his one and only - would automatically place him in the hallowed ranks of prodigious English scholars! Failing that, at least he would have a somewhat passable standard of English.

At least that's what one would like to think.

Thus far, I've let more than a few of his grammatical faux pas slip by without a word since :-

a) I'm not your fecking teacher and I heartily dislike faultfinders
b) I'm not that great myself so why am I pointing out mistakes
c) It must have been a slip of the tongue

Usually I just shrug dismissively and think, surely no one gets that wrong?

Did he just diss the grammar of Shakespeare?

But then came the day when he then decided to diss the Bard.

Yes, William Shakespeare himself. Though I'm far from ye high-and-mighty literary connoiseur, do not ever, ever critique the grammar of Shakespeare in front of someone who spent part of his high school years going through the various tragedies and comedies. Atrocious, Aaron called it, which obviously put me into a flame.

Don't diss the Bard.

Then lo and behold, Aaron spelt the word chilli wrong.

Aghast. Me. In our food-obsessed nation that's about as simple and elementary a word as apple. Before I could falteringly ask for a repeat, he blithely spells it wrong again. Twice in a row, surely it's not a typo, says I. Ever the skeptic, I immediately question myself. Perhaps I've been wrong my entire life and it's actually spelt that way? To the dictionary I promptly ran to check the word out only to prove myself right.

Dammit, he made me doubt myself!

Perhaps in the upper reaches of the Ganges? In some obscure, forgotten corner of South America? Again I desperately search across the length and breadth of Google to find more information only to reaffirm my earlier understanding of the word. Nope, still spelled chilli. Yep, even in Mexico. Well sometimes it's chili.

But never chilly.

Take Me To The Movies

Or maybe not as the case may be for Diffident David.

Those who know me well would know that one of the Chinese dialects that I can speak, at least relatively intelligible to most native speakers, would be Hokkien. Commonly spoken up north in Penang, where almost everyone converses in the native speech including the local neighbourhood Indian tradesmen, and also further south amongst certain enclaves like Malacca and Klang. However like many other less crucial dialects such as Hakka and Teochew, the heavyweights of spoken language such as English and Mandarin have threatened to overwhelm their already dwindling significance.

Even my own brother has started speaking the most peculiarly accented Hokkien ever.

Hmm who do I speak to then? 

As a consequence, it's nigh impossible these days to find little children who can actually carry an entire conversation in a local dialect these days. A serious problem faced by the directors of the local film You Mean The World To Me when they searched for child actors who could speak Hokkien dialect competently. Pretty sure most of you would have missed the movie but You Mean The World To Me tells the semi-autobiographical tale about a director who returns to his hometown to shoot a film about his own family.

Ever ready to support a locally made film, even more so that rare Hokkien film, I was one of the first to attend the screenings here and really glad to say that I enjoyed it immensely. Certainly jumpstarted my terribly rusty Hokkien ear since I hardly speak it here these days. A few words I immediately knew the meaning of once I heard it spoken in context but nearly impossible to recall several minutes later.

Even more heartening to the LGBT folks watching, there's a small, almost imperceptible hint of homosexuality that you'd probably miss if you blinked a little too hard. Obvious enough if you'd picked up the hidden cues along the way but sufficiently ambiguous enough to slip past our increasingly bigoted censors. After all there are so many ways one could interpret that revealing little scene.

Though even that insignificant bit seemed worrying enough to cause Diffident David some fright.

Paul : So didn't you bring your parents to the cinema?
David : I kinda changed my mind.
Paul : Why?
David : Umm.. I was worried they might suspect.
Paul : That you speak Hokkien?
David : No. The gay thing.
Paul : The gay thing is so vague I might have dreamt it up.
David : But...
Paul : If your parents picked up on that tiny glimmer of questionable information, they definitely would know you're gay.
David : Umm...

So rather than coax his demurring parents to the cinemas, David tried his best to dissuade them for fear of inadvertently outing himself. Sadly a loss of two seats at the screening.

Push and Pull

First-time crushes are always a bit hard to deal with. 

Perhaps a little different for me since I've always favoured the ... let's call it the Attila the Hun Method of Courtship; that full- on rampaging barbaric assault with lots of wanton pillaging and ravishment after. Simply put, it's all about 'You're hot. Let's fuck.'

Definitely very little time left for coy sophomoric mating games which I find a bloody waste of time. And if the unfortunate object of my affection doesn't share my lustful feelings, then it's just a quick farewell handshake with no harm and no foul on either side. Life's far too short, no? 

More tapping, less talking!

Don't worry if you're feeling terrified and ready to run for the hills. Obviously I'm in the sad minority when it comes to my tempestuous courtship style; undoubtedly quite a handful of well-favoured yet painfully meek villagers have already been scared off into said hills by my overly aggressive approach. Sad lack of cojones that. 

Of late though I've had more of a chance to observe some of my other friends at work, even a few who lean towards a more unusual method of courtship. Perhaps what I'm starting to term the passive-aggressive style started by the acne-riddled freshman boys back in high school; you know the brash unthinking sort who reach out to tug on that special girl's braid hoping to get noticed?

Tim : Oh man, she's so pretty, I can't believe she isn't the prom queen. Just look at her. 

Then the very next instant when his dream girl finally arrives, our friend here abruptly makes an about-face and does quite the opposite.

Tim : Gosh she's so vain. Always all about her looks. Though there's not much there to work with. 

Like what the hell, man.

Though the inherent drama of the persistent push and pull does provide quite a lot of script fodder for Hollywood rom-coms, it doesn't translate all that well into real life. On the big screen, there's the sizzle of a well-written repartee between the warring couple but in reality, it's just insults and abuse hurled both ways which does little to promote any sort of lasting relationship.

Hair pulling? Rock tossing? Name calling?

Really, how does that schizophrenic love-hate personality work on that dream girl? Short of being a freaking narcissistic queen, she's quite obviously going to think he dislikes her immensely. Perhaps it's time to lay off the sophomoric push and pull for something a little more traditionally adult? Flowers and chocolates maybe?

Be Our Guest

Undeniably stereotypical though it is for a gay man, musicals have always been a thing of mine. From the more current favourites such as Hairspray and Book of Mormon to the more relatively obscure ones like Brigadoon and Showboat, I've loved them all equally.

Well... almost. A handful do get a special place in my heart with memorable showtunes that I  know by heart and have sung a dozen or more times all alone to myself and infrequently to quite an unappreciative audience. After all how can you possibly not tag along with the mutinous Sister Maria as she hurries up the oh-so-picturesque hillsides of Salzburg to break into song?

Or even that funny girl Belle as she walztes into the village waking everyone up with a hearty Bonjour?

Though of course our imbecilic censorship board did try their level best to spoil our chances of ever seeing the live-action retelling of the animated classic Beauty and the Beast due to their oddly homophobic stance. Just a little change, small to say the least, a little tweak in the tale that outed our suddenly homo-possible Le Fou - which our censors all feared might tempt the entire gullible audience into a heaving den of orgiastic iniquity. There really was something there that wasn't there before. Kill the Scene, they said! Kill the Scene! Irreparably foolish indeed?

Le Fou : Wait a minute, you didn't know I was gay?
Gaston : Even my horse knew. 

Yes, if only the Enchantress had seen fit to turn the imbeciles into monstrous beasts for their extreme prejudice.

But then as everyone knows - seeing how the news of the hasty, uncalled-for censorship propelled our nation into international disrepute yet again, then somebody bends ... unexpectedly. Almost magical, you would say.

Though I've always been dubious of live-action remakes since it's already been done beautifully before, I found myself immediately moved by the simple scene where Emma Watson wanders through her little village as our Belle to lament over her provincial life. Unfortunately as I realized several moments later, not everyone shares my ardent enthusiasm for the show - and even fewer knew the words to the songs.

Shocking.

Of course that didn't stop me from belting out Be Our Guest with the suave Lumiere - though I sensibly refrained from standing up for an encore. Like she had done more than two decades ago, our brilliant and brave Belle won me over irresistibly. Even better now that she made sure she didn't just stand by while her Beast was taking his undeserved lumps from the resident villain.

And yes just as our homophobic censors feared, the hints that Le Fou is most certainly gay have become far more overt - though still subtle enough that you can blink hard twice and miss it - but hey, we already knew all that even way back in 1991. Took him almost two decades but Le Fou finally realized he deserved much better than the abusive narcissist Gaston, even with his biceps to spare.

High Snobiety

For those of a certain age fortunate enough to view the sweet romantic comedy Pretty Woman about a down-on-her-luck hooker with a heart of gold who finds love, which subsequently catapulted the then relatively unknown Julia Roberts into international fame, you'd certainly have recalled a particularly memorable scene where she's disdainfully denied service at an upscale atelier due to her tawdry skank-on-the-make attire. Understandably she finds herself quite distraught after receiving such pompous condescension from the snide saleswomen.

Unhappily the world is still an entirely visual place and almost everyone - yes, even you - judges relative strangers based on their appearance since let's face it, only a select gifted few can read spiritual chakras at first sight. In our dismally futile bid for a more egalitarian society, very few take to heart the old-time adage of putting their best foot forward and instead step out in their crappiest flip flops hoping to make a good first impression.

That doesn't work. Even Julia Roberts couldn't make it work. So dress to impress, people!

But I digress. Back to the snotty salespeople.

Though I've heard secondhand stories about the horrific experiences at some of these uppity boutiques, I've been blessed enough to have had only the nicest sales service at most. Undoubtedly if they'd been able to gauge their customers well enough, they would probably have known from a quick glance that I can be quite the malignant bitch if provoked - hence their apparent good behaviour. In fact, some of the salespeople are so uncommonly attentive that I find myself almost guilt-ridden for not recklessly splurging on their products.

But just when I am starting to think it's pure urban legend, it actually does happen and Diffident David of the tee-shirt, shorts and flip flops fame finds himself at the receiving end of just such bitchy snobbery.

David : I didn't buy anything. 
Paul : Why not? The bags looked terrible like I said? 
David : No, the salespeople looked down on us. 
Paul : Oh dear, one of those snotty stores? Which one? 
David : No, I forgot the name. They make leather bags. 
Paul : Louis Vuitton? Prada? 
David : No!
Paul : Goyard?
David : Think it was Crumpler? 
Paul : Crumpler?! Now I'm judging. 
David : The sales people? 
Paul : No, I'm judging you. 

Let's try our best to ignore the tragic fact that it happened at... of all places, a Crumpler store. Really. Looked down the nose by the salespeople at such a hipster utilitarian store?

Oh dear.

Surely the epitome of luxury and elegance!

Ready to mollify my indignant friend, I said I was of course appalled at the terrible Turkish treatment he had received - and all too ready to enact a vicious Youtube meltdown at said store by toppling down all their sturdy, robust backpacks.

At the same time though, there's no denying this little gleeful voice inside that can't help but be wildly elated. Obviously I didn't need to search for more motivation to dress well. You really can't wear flip flops everywhere, people. Even the Crumpler store wouldn't serve you.

And that's saying something.

Memoirs of A Concubine

Surely it was inconceivable that her very own sister, intricately tied to her by heavy bonds of blood and family, could have concocted, compounded and carried out such a malicious scheme solely to sully her reputation in the eyes of the other concubines in the Inner Court. The imperial concubines, supposedly the epitome of courtly elegance, so exquisitely bedecked with silk and pearls - and yet only too quick to abandon all semblance of civilized poise when the slightest opportunity arose to tear down the reputations of their supposed 'sisters' in court. 

Waving away the palace maids that hovered around her anxiously, Concubine Jing paced the floor of her inner chambers while trying to distract herself from her recent troubles. Right on top of her writing desk lay a red lacquered box which she opened to reveal an old letter. Wasn't it only less than a year ago that her kind older sister had written out a perfectly worded invitation begging for her attendance at court? 

Perchance her own star had risen too fast at the unanticipated expense of the other concubines? When it came to the emperor's ever changing affections, there were some who whispered that even the formerly radiant shine of her sister's elaborate Phoenix crown seemed to dim beside her very own lowly concubine tiara. Just a meagre pearl less than the size of her nail adorned that seemingly inconsequential tiara but even that modest gleam seemed to have drawn the lustful eyes of the young emperor - and apparently the jealous wrath of his newly enthroned empress. 

Not the king but hey, a hot prince is always welcome. 

As Concubine Jing unfolded the letter, several dried leaves tumbled out. Rosewood petals. Extremely rare plant indeed - and yet half a leaf was it took to generate an extreme reaction that could lead to death, epecially to someone like her sister who was allergic to it. The germ of a plan immediately came to Concubine Jing.

Was that why she had packed the fairly innocuous leaves along so many months ago when she'd first entered the palace? 

Pardon the wishy-washy pseudo sentimentality but I can't help it especially with Charming Calvin whiling away the afternoons watching what I sneeringly dub Classless Chinese Concubine Catfights.

Unsurprisingly, more than a millenia worth of Imperial China with all the drama, intrigue and scandal contained therein has apparently provided near endless fodder for the Chinese television script writers; even spinning off a particularly trashy genre based purely on the clashes, confrontations and catfights of the imperial harem of the Inner Court. For those unfamiliar with classical Chinese mores, think a purely all-female Game of Thrones with perhaps a dash of Gossip Girl and a dollop of Scream Queens; all dolled up in the lavish intricacies of Imperial Qing Empire concubinage.

Usually with the overarching theme of a good girl gone bad. Way, way bad.

In fact the series called The Empresses in the Palace received such worldwide notoriety that even entertainment giant Netflix has co-opted the hit historical drama - although it was compressed from several dozens of complex episodes to a measly six. Nonetheless the heavily edited version managed to condense most of the pernicious schemes carried out into their pertinent bits without the dull monotonous concubinage chatter.

Simple actually. See wicked concubine. See her plan. See victim drop dead from a myriad of nefariously ingenious ways. See wicked concubine smile.

Apparently quite a few of my friends assume this would be entirely up my alley, not knowing my oft-mentioned preference for sweet, sappy romances with a definite happy ending. Watching the main protagonist - usually innocently pure as driven snow initially - being browbeaten repeatedly by the villainesses before having her abruptly transform into a monstrous bitch simply isn't my kinda show. Usually find such weak-willed doormat characters highly deserving of repeated abuse.

Honestly I like my bitches downright nasty right from the beginning.

Spoilerphobia To Cliffhangers

Spoilerphobia is becoming a real thing these days.

Sadly increasing in victims day by day despite the faithful reassurances from their friends, many of the unfortunates carrying this contagious disease wail endlessly over symptoms that range from being deathly afraid of the inevitable reveal of the suspenseful plot twist in a blockbuster horror film to near daily anxiety dealing with the perpetually leaked stab-murder plotlines in the weekly Game of Thrones. To them spoilers would literally be the coming of the apocalypse heralding the end of the world. Infected with the unfortunately incurable spoilerphobia, hapless patients come up with various coping mechanisms to deal with the ever-persistent encroachment of the internet into their lives.

I should know - since quite a few of my friends have been grievously taken by the disease; the handful who shriek hysterically at the merest hint of a spoiler during a regular conversation. Some childishly shut their ears chanting lalala mantras to deflect spoiler arrows while the persistent few hike themselves up to a mountain hermitage to avoid the inevitable. Fortunately none have vowed vengeance on the woeful announcer with whispered murder threats unlike the more advanced sufferers of spoilerphobia out there.

Me, I always find any plotline that hinges purely on a single spoiler - isn't really all that worth reading or watching after all. The appeal shouldn't lie solely on the power to deal that shocking whammy but how the subtle plotlines weave together to that particular scene; so that it essentially warrants a second or third viewing.

In fact I sometimes rush right to the end just to get a vague impression of how the entire story comes to an end. Really, if the majority of the characters I care about end up butchered mercilessly anyhow, why would I inflict masochistic punishment on myself by persisting in such lachrymose tragedy?

You know this really isn't going to end well.

Instead I hate cliffhangers. Not only when it comes to our general entertainment but when it deals with normal everyday conversations. Don't you just hate it when someone tells you something but leaves it hanging?

Friend : Oh I've got something to tell you.
Paul : What is it?
Friend : Maybe tomorrow la. Not so important now.
Paul : Do you want me to stab you with a fork?
Friend : Later la. 

Seriously. Give me a cliffhanger and I'll want to hang you over a cliff.

After leading me on with such scintillating conversation, now you're backtracking instead? Could you just spit it out already? What's with M. Night Shyamalan and keeping me in suspenseful teeterhooks? Unsurprisingly it's always the patients with spoilerphobia who display the vexing tendency to leave with cliffhangers. 

Fuck Marry Kill

Surprisingly very few have heard of it! Though I count myself as probably the last person to hear of a growing fad, it turns out there are some far worse than me. Even something as old as Fuck, Marry, Kill. Simple enough since it basically it offers a hypothetical scenario with three options to choose - whether to fuck, marry or kill.

And no, there are no two options for one. You have to choose. And I mean Mad Madison.

Since we usually have a mixed group of straights and gays ( not to mention those still in hiding / confused / etc ) whenever we meet, it does come up with the most eye-opening conversations. Along with the inadvertent outing.

Paul : Let's start with the Avengers. 
Grizz : Oh I'll start with -
Shawn : Hold on! Who are we gonna pick? There's only one woman on the team so far, well unless you count in the Scarlet Witch. 
Grizz : Oops yeah. 
Shawn : Bet you didn't catch that, bro.
Paul : Bet he didn't.

Like I said the last time, we are starting to wonder how generally sensible folks can't even tell that Grizz is a full-out gay bear. It's as glaringly obvious as the various shirtless bear parties - chock-full of hairy growling beasts in skimpy Speedos - that he openly posts up on Facebook.

But back to our game! For some inexplicable reason all Engineer Girls tend to want to marry Robert Downey Jr. Definitely not me though! Simply can't stand the snarky, pretentious Ironman so that would be the first I would push off a bridge. Make that aggressively drop-kick off a bridge!

Of course fuck Chris Hemsworth as Thor. I mean, would anyone even the slightest bit inclined towards men say no to the brawny blond godliness of Chris Hemsworth? Fun times on the bearskins for sure. But that arrogant Norse god machismo could get a tad grating at times so definitely not for marriage of course.

Imagine waking up to this!

And of course I would marry the dreamy Chris Evans as Captain America. Was there any doubt who I would choose? Despite what most might think, I like my men a tad serious, polite and old-fashioned so who else better than a soldier straight out of the 1940s? The ability to fill out a tight tee with those awe-inspiring pecs and tear off wood blocks with his well-muscled bare arms is just a welcome bonus.

Allura Returns to Deceive

I've always been a tad cynical.

The more outwardly saintly a person appears, the more suspicious I get. Smiley Sunday Samaritans toting portable Bibles and brollies make me wonder if they're hiding rotting corpses in their backyard. Righteous bearded clerics in their heavy robes ranting about the greatness of their religion only has me checking whether there's an armed Uzi and a heavily pregnant tween hidden behind them.

These are the ones I always keep an eye out for.

Just like the seemingly righteous Princess Allura - who has finally crawled out of the darkest depths after making her disappearance nearly ten years ago. Unsurprising since she basically killed off everyone she knew including her poor hapless fiancee. Just because.

Apparently though bad pennies keep turning up since the murderous princess from the game Trapt has made a return in Deception IV : Blood Ties. Though she now goes by the even more deceitful name of Laegrinna.

The inconsequential change of name certainly doesn't make her any less wickedly vicious. Though she might play the innocent victim all dolled up in a frilly lil dress, don't be fooled by her gentle placidity - seeing as she can barely physically defend herself - for she lays the most horribly sadistic traps known to man.

Or woman.

Not even pretty-boy looks are enough to save her unfortunate enemies. If she had little qualms eviscerating her much lamented fiancee, I doubt any of the others would fare better.

Trust me, not a ride you want to be taking anytime soon. 

This girl is a monster.

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?

How To Get Away With Murder

So what would you do if you killed someone?

Which is exactly the premise of How To Get Away With Murder, the latest hit television thriller by the astonishingly prolific Shonda Rhimes. Though judging by the increasingly unhinged reactions of the hapless law students involved with said corpse, they would probably find it very hard to get away with anything much less than petty thievery.

Even with the subsequent bonfire, burial and beyond. But who could blame the unfortunate foursome? Especially when the details are yet to be revealed in this thrilling drama.

After all when we find ourselves figuratively buried under relentless pressure, each of us individually emerge with surprisingly different reactions. With a dead body and a possible murder investigation held over their heads, the law students provide a decent tableau of predictable human reactions to shockingly extenuating circumstances! One pathetically crawls back into a weeping catatonic shell, one understandably freaks out into a full-blown hysterical panic attack, one forcibly takes over the entire fraught situation - and the last one remains almost preternaturally calm in thought examining her moves.

It could be renamed How We React To Stress.

And yes, there is a sexy, smart and scheming stud reputed to be able to do things to a man's ass that would make his eyes water. 

Faced with similar circumstances, don't know what I would do myself but I hope that I would be able to handle the situation calmly. After all it wouldn't be my first time handling dead corpses - nor facing them in the eye.

Reminds me of a certain simulation course we once attended where we were all put into untenable situations under the watchful supervision of our consultants behind a camera. Initially presenting with quite simple everyday problems at work - portrayed by our devious peers, the case progressively deteriorates into nightmarish scenarios straight out of some devil's medical textbook. Everything that could, goes wrong basically. Truly worthy of a television medical drama - just short of the prerequisite manmade / natural disaster which probably would have cropped up if our supervisors had known how to successfully reenact those.

And we get to watch that all - and our subsequent panic attacks - on television after the taping. It was quite the harrowing experience.

Back then, I did manage to remain super calm. Watching myself on camera, it was like an outer-body experience where I seemed almost like an unflappable android coolly handing out orders as chaos reigned around me. Of course I knew deep inside I was practically overwrought wanting to tear my hair out in frustration.

Just like the law students when faced with a corpse.

Makes me wonder how my friends would fare. Somehow I find that my friends would all be placed under the morally good category - despite the fact that I'm .... a tad ambiguous when it comes to certain issues. Come to think about it - though I really hope he doesn't, I have a funny inkling Charming Calvin might sink rapidly into a meltdown.

Paul : Let's go for a drive. 
Calvin : At this hour? Where? 
Paul : Just around.
Calvin : What is that thing behind wrapped up in a carpet?
Paul : Some dead body. 
Calvin : OMG. I think I'm about to throw up. 

Read the Rulebook

Let's just agree on this. Rulebooks are indescribably boring. Though bespectacled engineers worldwide would undoubtedly challenge that fact!

Why engineers, you say? Well, from the few that I've carefully observed, namely my brother and my boyfriend, Charming Calvin, they both seem endlessly obsessed with diligently poring over the smallest, most insignificant minutiae listed in the encyclopaedic rulebooks. No sooner is the game box unpacked that they are desperately grasping for the rulebook.

And now we have one of the fellas in my newly formed gaming band, Sober Sam, who does pretty much the same - incidentally also a member of the engineering brotherhood! Wise to his ways, his gregarious wife, Kitty Kat, agrees with me and finds those traits equally amusing.

Kat : Let's have some tea while we wait. 
Paul : Still reading the rulebook? 
Kat : It will take a while. 
Paul : So we can't bend the rules even a bit? 
Kat : Definitely no modifications at all. 
Paul : No die rolling unseen?
Kat : Nor challenging moves recanted!
Paul : That's going to be problematic. 
Kat : Why? 
Paul : I foresee losing badly in the next game. 

Still doesn't stop us from occasionally backtracking on our moves. Or giving that lopsided die just that helpful nudge. Or whispering formerly secret stratagems to the presumed enemy. Which drives poor Sam - so cautiously methodical - endlessly batty as we twist the otherwise fixed rules into a braided pretzel.

I swear half the fun is watching his barely stifled frustration.

Sam : Though you manage to survive the fall off the balcony, you arise in the courtyard only to find yourself surrounded by a cadre of black armoured guards.
Paul : You mean I can't seduce them?
Sam : No!
Paul : Not even the hot captain?
Sam : I didn't say there was a hot captain. 
Paul : There always is.
Sam : It's not in the rules. 

Yes we love them for reading the rulebooks - and painstakingly explaining each tedious principles to us. Though our imbecilic understanding certainly tests their rapidly thinning patience. Poor Sam. When you're left with rulebooks the size of the Almighty Bible, seems almost like a chore to go through each and every tiresome chapter. Left to us, we'd probably just play along with some illogical, hastily fabricated guidelines! 

Sam : So there are three moves. You first take a card, then you move and then -
Kat : What did he say?
Paul : I no understand. Did he say three? 
Kat : Did you see the pretty pictures on the cards?
Paul : Still admiring the mini figurines. 
Kat : Should we paint them?
Sam : Are you even listening?
Kat : We can't play along as we go?
Sam : No!

Wouldn't blame him if he gives us a whack with the rulebook one of these days!

It's All A Game

Board games have always been a family thing for me - from the all time classic favourite of Monopoly to the more recent Game of Life that my brother received a couple of Christmases back. Leaving the games behind during the move over to this side of the Big Puddle definitely curtailed such family-friendly activities.

At least till I bought my niece a storytelling game last Christmas called Once Upon a Time. All began quite innocently with a snowflake that began the story. Irresistibly charmed by the storekeeper who kept my niece happily entertained with her animated storytelling antics - and more than a little intrigued by the ongoing fables theme, I immediately purchased a set for myself as well. After all I do like to spin a tale.

Returning here to find a group of like-minded comrades with a heretofore hidden penchant for gaming only added to the resulting flurry of interest. Didn't take very long after that before the relentless game-buying snowballed into a veritable avalanche of board games that threatened to bury the living room hall.

Soon we were spending the weekends practically knee-deep in medieval peasant farming Agricola-style, escaping sinking islands ala Atlantis and hunting down grunting zombies in Zombicide fashion.

Friend : I think I saw two zombie runners go by.
Paul : It's okay. Let's keep really quiet and remain out of sight. 
Friend : So are we here for food or water?
Paul : I ran out of hair gel. 

Along the way, I came to the realization that I enjoy basic cooperative games rather than the wildly competitive ones. Trying to outwit, outlast and outplay everyone else on the table just seems terribly exhausting. After all this years, it seems I've finally managed to lay my old ambitious, cutthroat kiasu self to rest! Such a blessed relief to know that I won't tumble into an insane spiral of bubbling resentment each time I lose at a game.

Which is more than I can say for the rest of my friends.

The increasingly intense weekend game-playing appears to have woken up the sleeping dragon in our Diffident David. Possibly in a bid to distract himself from the doomed love affair, David has been drowning his sorrows in the gaming extravaganza. Minutes tick by as he deliberately plots his next nefarious stratagem, all the while busy rubbing his hands in glee over stealing our turn or burning down our districts.

Paul : Wow, you sure do like to win. 
David : Umm. But it's a game and we should play to win. And I want to win. You don't like it? Maybe I should stop playing and -
Paul : Hold it. 
David : But I -
Paul : There is no need to fall into hysterics. I just said you like to win. It's a character trait, not a flaw. 

Replacing love lost with a frenzied need to win? I half expect to find him stroking a fluffy white cat soon. 

Days of Future Past

As we grow older, we tend to compartmentalize the many friends we find along the way. Though we might deny it vehemently, our tastes and interests do change with time - as do our chosen coterie of companions. A select few remain but all the same quite a number just languidly fade into that forgotten facebook notification that crops up rarely.

Fortunately comicbooks have always remained a lifelong friend - someone I've known quite as long as I've recognized alphabets. And somewhere along the way while I graduated from Archie to Avengers, I came upon someone who appreciated the pulp fantasy world quite as much as I did.

Rather than the instant digital comics that appear almost instantaneously on the iPad these days, those were the times when we had to wait patiently for the monthly print of each comics, standing in line at the specialty bookstore just to get the next available copy. And my ISO sometimes bought an extra one just in case I missed out on that issue.

Wolverine : I'm the best there is at what I do. 

So many were the evenings we spent in his messy dorm room talking about the complex merits of a British telepathic aristocrat melded into a Japanese ninja assassin. Or the sheer tragedy that the most populous continent could only come up with the likes of our underutilized Karma and Sunfire, the hackneyed island-nation stereotype of Madripoor and the lamentable super team called Big Hero 6 ( soon to be made into a movie shockingly enough ).

Or the various devious ways we would entrap the handsome virile Nightwing into all sorts of undeniably lewd propositions. Ah, those were the days.

Which is why he had to be the first I had to call upon finding out that my favourite character had finally returned to the X-Men franchise - even if it was for a fleeting blink-and-you'll-miss-it cameo in X-Men : Days of Future Past. After all who else could understand my lifelong appreciation for Scott Summers?

Paul : He's back!
My ISO : Not the Messiah?
Paul : No, my favourite X-Man!
My ISO : Scott the weenie? Didn't we kill him off already? 
Paul : Well they tried their very best but it didn't work very well. Even you have to admit the X-Men : The Last Stand came up with a deplorable way of killing him off. Aren't you glad he's back?
My ISO : Hey, you're the one with the boner for Scott, not me. I would rather fuck the furball anytime.
Paul : Logan? Even with the hair spikes?
My ISO : Oh yeah come to me daddy. 

Obviously we would have made far different choices as Jean Grey. 

Misfits, Madmen & Misanthropes

Supposedly May brings flowers but over here it just comes across as a burning tropical heatwave that wilts even the hardiest blooms. So lazy sultry afternoons are upon us again, those sweltering hours of the day when the blazing sun burns till late in the evening, the boiling road steams up a dubious mirage and even the mad dogs stay hidden in the shade.

Never have I been more glad for electricity and air-conditioning. Recovering from my springtime malady and then having to face this sudden blast of hellish summer heat is almost too much. Fanning ourselves with paper fans on the verandah, we've chanced upon an old past-time.

Yeah, card games.

Though not the old card games of yore such as go fish and parcheesi. No, these days, we're more into Gloom.

Damn this tropical heat. Let's get some Gloom here. 

When the sun's burning bright right outside, it's so much more fun to imagine a place where the sky's dark and gray, the tea is served cold and a new tragedy lies around every corner. Sometimes brought upon by your closest neighbour. Which isn't all too surprising since after being dealt with a hand of the cards, we're usually playing with the unfortunate lives of the most miserable motley of misfits, madmen and misanthropes.

Then we start the game by hurling our own gloomy characters into the most lamentable events ever from being tortured by toddlers to being vexed by vampires. The more tragic, the better. Hence the name of the game. Think Happy Families crossed with Lemony Snickets.

Of course I tend to get quite attached to certain characters. While Fabulous Felix loves the rolling high life with the accursed aristocrats of Hemlock Hall, I have become quite enamoured with the dramatic dilettantes of Le Canard Noir! Honestly an entirely tragique brand of bohemian artistes ranging from a misunderstood model to the consumptive courtesan, none of whom would look even a smidgen out of place on the Moulin Rouge.

There's even Rosseau, the patchwork painter with a hearing impairment due to an overly generous gift to his paramour.

And might I say I think James de Winter, the penniless poet, kinda adorable in his own way? Reminds me a little of the woebegone Christian in the movie. 

GBF

Times certainly have changed.

With our equal rights advocates pressing forward with their demands in many developed countries - and quite a few developing ones - and even gay marriage gaining traction, it comes as no surprise that homos are suddenly the undisputed flavour of the month. Even a blatantly homophobic, religiously conservative country like ours has gay all over the front page. Notwithstanding the infamously neverending sodomy case that keeps getting dredged up every couple of years.

Though the government-sponsored reports are always frightfully negative, it nonetheless shines a spotlight on us like never before. At least for now.

The next most-wanted accessory for the modern girl on the move - the GBF

So is it any wonder that though the attention might be hugely unwarranted and highly undesired, we've become exceedingly notorious? Seems like almost everyone wants to know about the gays.

Girl : Hi, can I ask you a question?
Paul : Ask away. 
Girl : OMG are you gay?
Paul : Yes.
Girl : Like for reals?
Paul : Yes?
Girl : That's like totes incredible! Like I so wanna have a gay best friend!
Paul : OMG! Yay!

At least that's my reaction. Or perhaps it's the reaction of the lost generation of boys who spent their high school years miserably huddled in the proverbial closet worried about the negative reaction of their judgemental peers. So to be accepted wholeheartedly with little condemnation sounds like a vivid technicolour dream!

That's what I initially thought would be the usual reaction but these days with homosexuals going mainstream, the gay boys are actually whining over giggly girls going after the next big thing. Some might disagree but I think on the whole, the younger generation is getting a whole lot more tolerant of dissimilar mores. And it turns out the GBF is the next big trend - Gay Best Friend in case you're wondering.

But the new gay boys ain't having it. Supposedly wanting them as a GBF reduces them to the demeaning status of a shiny accessory to complement their glittering circle of socialistas.

And the boys don't want to be objectified.

Like seriously?

That Gay Play

Imagine getting your kit off on stage under the bright unforgiving lights before a packed crowd of extremely judge-y, critical gay men ready to chide, castigate and condemn every little blunder or bungle. Pretty sure that's enough to give even the bravest, ballsiest bad-ass a serious case of the jitters.

Though one of the newbie actors did seem a bit discomfited, the rest didn't seem to have any problems shedding their clothes - quite often enough to give the rest of us severe body issues! Since yes, you gotta have the expected comely eye-candy quotient in a gay play - so right from the very beginning, we had abs and pecs galore in a man buffet.

Evan Siau and John Tan, you've both made me doubly invested in my gym time. 

Which is exactly what I expected from a Chinese play titled People Like Us, recently showing at KLPAC.

Stories of a gay nature aren't all that common especially in these increasingly conservative times so I made sure to book me a ticket. Gotta represent yo! Of course I corralled my Ching Chong-conversant Charming Calvin into joining in case I didn't comprehend a single word of the play.

What I didn't expect was a surprisingly funny well-written script - kudos to William Yap - juggling several man-on-man relationship issues with a fabulous supporting cast. I'll admit I came with serious misgivings about the quality of the production - not to mention distinct doubts about the subtitles since the play was in several Chinese dialects - but they certainly surprised me.

Basically a story of three gay roommates and their individual problems therein - from a committed monogamist struggling with a long-distance open relationship to a relative virgin desperately seeking someone to love in our days of superficial homosocial apps. Not forgetting the prerequisite commitment-phobic playa on the prowl showcasing his enviable abs and pecs as I mentioned earlier!

The entire cast taking the time to snap a pic for posterity - or at least Instagram. 

With a small conspicuous PSA warning bit about the ever-prevalent dangers of anonymous sex, what with the chilling spectre of HIV ever present.

But thankfully it closed with a suitably happy ending which came as a relief after years of watching other mindlessly melodramatic homo-tragedies.

Admittedly an extremely gay congregation over there watching, oohing and aahing each time the handsome actors stripped off an article of clothing. Barring the ubiquitous gay nightclub, I doubt I've ever seen so many flaming homos fluttering in one area. Amazingly spiffy Ching Chong cuties all of them, quite as many perky pecs spilling out of cleavage-baring tanks in the audience as there were on stage! Quite apparent you needn't go that far to find someone on Grindr or Jack'd that night since most would easily be within a 200 metre radius.

Play certainly kept us all well entertained all through the night. A bit shaky on John Tan's part but he's new - and the role did call for a bit of awkwardness so I think it meshed really well with his nervous fish-out-of-water character. The supporting cast were all great - bringing on lots of laughs - as I mentioned earlier. No problems with the language since I understood most of it - and the promised subtitles were more than adequate.

Great enough that I'm hoping the writer gets to writing the sequel immediately as he promised. Definitely save me a seat for the next show!

The Boy With The Bread

Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents. 

Many Christmases ago - almost twenty five to be exact - I picked up a tattered old hardcover titled Little Women ( spoilers ahead but if you haven't read the beautiful classic by Louisa M. Alcott, shame on you ). Until now the initial paragraph still rings as clearly and plaintively as it did when I first read it that rainy evening in December.

Of course then we had the original Little Women love triangle - a controversial subject that still draws impassioned rhetoric till now. In that first flush of impetuous youth, I never could quite understand why the main protagonist, our raging proto-feminist Jo March refused point-blank to commit herself to the handsome, passionate rich-boy-next-door, Laurie. Instead she seemingly settled with the far less personable, more sober and methodical Friedrich Bhaer. Seemed like an unreasonable cop-out by the author back then.

For the impressionable kids born this heavily computerized centurywho would probably eschew paperbound books, the relevant example would be Katniss Everdeen of Hunger Games fame picking stolid baker boy Peeta over fiery revolutionary-miner Gale.

The Boy With The Bread

To pick someone completely different rather than someone of like mind and thought?

Took me years to understand the reasons why but with reasonable hindsight coupled with both age and some minuscule measure of maturity, I can finally nod my assent. With my ex-boyfriend, I've had all the intense raging fire I could handle. Just like me, I picture my ISO as a spirited ball of flame, all energy, fire and life blazing through the many obstacles ahead - certainly sparked each other off plenty - but when we clashed as we often did despite sharing so many similarities, it seemed as if all that was left was bitterly scorched earth.

Simply exhausting I'll admit.

Whereas when I think of Charming Calvin, I do feel a steady sense of calm. Sure our stolid fellow does teeter and wobble at times with his incomprehensible botherations ( body image issues much? ) but I have high hopes that he'll be rock steady enough for me when my flame threatens to sputter out.

So that's why, despite vastly differing personalities, I've grown to understand the choice of the German professor.

And the boy with the bread. 

Just Can't Wait To Be King

As our aspiring lion king Simba would put it.

Something I used to think myself as well. Ah, the things I would do if I were king!

Then I started playing the highly addictive, terribly complex Crusader Kings II - the type of grand strategy game so intricately byzantine in nature that it takes several aching hours just to read through the inch-thick manual. And that's before even starting the staggeringly confusing in-game tutorial detailing the dozens of minute political moves possible.

But I managed.

Basically you're the unenviable paterfamilias of an obscure titled family out at the far edges of the European chessboard - if that's what you desire of course - with every intention of enhancing the reputation and prestige of your dynasty to rival that of the Borgias or even the Tudors. Full of political intrigues and dynastic manipulation... by hook or by crook.

Turns out it's not that great to be king.

Really, some of the ignoble Machiavellian decisions made would have been nearly unthinkable in real life. Monstrously calculating more like.

Dedicated family man definitely won't be in the cards. Far too busy conquering neighbouring counties and plotting mayhem with the local nobility, it leaves little time for playing cards with the numerous children. And let's face it, it gets increasingly hard not to see them - as well as the rest of your extended family - as helpless yet marriageable pawns to be sold off to the highest bidder for that advantageous alliance.

Marrying my jinxed half-sister off again for the third time is getting boring. Fortunately the French brought delicious man-candy to the wedding. Man, that Duke of Bordeaux is damned gorgeous. Maybe I should fabricate a claim on his lands, invade with overwhelming force and then make him my unwilling sex slave. 

In less than a day, I'd denounced my barren queen, had her imprisoned - then divorced, and then married her exceedingly fertile half-sister who then presumably had her ultimately poisoned. Then my only legitimate son and heir who refused to have himself married, found himself unwillingly stripped of his titles. After a disheartened letter of dismay hastily despatched to me, my unfortunate son realized my ambitions of having him married to a foreign Duchess only to find himself crippled and maimed after doing battle in her name hundreds of miles from home.

Which left me with my dimwitted bastard son who I hastily legitimized much to the horror of my family. But so terribly foolish and idiotic was he that I found it easier to have him speedily assassinated - rather than to have the vassals revolt over his ill-bred stupidity - the moment my new wife found herself enceinte.

Not exactly a paragon of virtues. Seriously, decay of moral values much.

Homosexual characters abound but as of now, I have not been able to manouevre them into lustful immoral relationships. Damn. You mean I can't have a horny royal in charge of buggering all the hunky manservants? Bring a hopeful nation down to its heels just to bed the handsome deposed prince?