That Bump on Christmas Morning

There was a bump just before Christmas.

And unfortunately, it wasn't a sexy Santa creeping down the chimney with a big package all tied up in a thong just for me. I wasn't that lucky.


Fuckity-fuck. A fender bender.
If you've been driving for a few years there's a good chance you've experienced it too, that sudden sickening crunch of a fender bender! Well it happened to me just as I was leaving for lunch. Just that split second of distraction to admire a brand-new attraction ( damn that restaurant ) was enough for my car to slid forward into the next during a standstill.

You'd expect the entire motley crew of passengers in the backseat ( and I had more than a few ) to start a raving ruckus but no. Civilized bunch surprisingly. All my trusty wingman could do was whisper sotto voce in my ear.

Calvin : Stop. There's a car in front of you.

Though he's a mild-mannered soul, perhaps that was the right time to shout a warning. Had me thinking it was a whispered sweet nothing. Obviously I didn't listen. So with a slid and a bump. And that sickening thud that signals a car crash, I had an accident.

And though my lawyer buddies would be screaming deny all responsibility with written disclaimers, I claimed all wrongdoing the minute I stepped out of the car. All the time praying hard that I wouldn't meet an irate road psycho.

Turns out the owner of the other vehicle wasn't at all surprised. Seems he'd been in one too many unfortunate events to quibble over such a small misdemeanour. The father of two didn't resemble the deliciously ripped hottie I pictured above at all but I'd take all the little mercies I could get by then.

Obviously my mechanic was only too glad to see me.

How time changes though. It was the inconvenience that actually irritated me more than the cost of repair. Not saying the repair bill won't sting my wallet of course but I know this little dent won't break the bank. Fortunately.

Better my wallet than my bones. Or the ones I love.

But it was definitely a bah-humbug for the day before Christmas.

Two Gay Boys, A Girl and A Calamity

You know how they say you sometimes get what you wish for? Well I wanted life in this lil town to be more interesting.

Turns out I did get my wish. Of course interesting over here means I'm standing alongside a storm drain with my broken-down car idling by the road while a mini storm threatens overhead.

Fortunately I had company. Fellow exiled urbanites Fabulous Felix and his shockingly resourceful pal, Piratin Patty. A Miss Independent herself, Patty looks as good climbing up metal platforms in muddy boots and stained overalls as she does strolling the streets in skirts and Manolos.

Thank God for that.


Umm. Do I have to get out and push?
Since left to my own devices - and possibly Felix's - I'd probably be wailing piteously by the roadside while waving the red triangle for help. What's a gay guy supposed to do with a car breakdown!

No doubt in this dangerous vice-ridden town, we'd have been mugged and left for dead as well.

Surely you don't expect me to peek under the hood and attempt a MacGyver, do you?

You know how I am with my cars. Pathetic. All I know is that a car has an engine that drives the four wheels to move forward - and that's about the extent of my meagre knowledge! Embarassingly enough, the things I know about the combustion engine wouldn't even begin to fill a quarter of a post-it. Hell, I wouldn't even know how to name half the things under the car's hood.

Back home I'd have started scrolling through the list of reliable mechanics that I know but over here, I wouldn't even know where to begin! And don't even suggest AAM since I doubt they have coverage over here.

Well for us we had Piratin Patty along. When life gives you car breakdowns, you start looking for Patty. Who not only knows her way around the engine - at least that's what we hope - but she wields a heavy spanner quite handily too. Despite having alarmingly thin wrists! Hurray for women's lib.

Patty : Maybe if we cut of the supply from the battery to the engine. It could just give it that added kick.
Paul : Which one's the engine?
Patty : You're pointing at the battery.
Paul : Okay. That's the engine?
Patty : Yeah. Failing that, we should look for cables to jumpstart the car.
Paul : I'm not expected to hop around am I?

But after poking around the inner workings of the engine, even Patty was at her wit's end.

Fortunately when all else failed, she had dozens of helpful boys ready to lend ( her ) a hand at a moment's notice. Thankfully one of them was a full-fledged mechanic :)

Greased Lightning

Seems like it's that time of the year again.

For owners of vehicles - and that would mean quite a number of grown-up boys out there ( unlike some who insist on taking the public transport forever and ever i.e. Charming Calvin ), regular visits to the mechanic for car servicing remains one of the burdensome chores that we must all bear. Like all man-made machines, every car has its own peculiar idiosyncrasies.

Mine decided to fritz out the air-conditioner this morning. Therefore making the trip to the mechanic imperative especially in the sweltering summer heat.

No doubt the old bugger was rubbing his hands with glee at the thought. Coincidentally it seemed that my regular mechanic had a particular talent for air-conditioners on strike and told me he'd have them at the table talking terms soon enough so I sat me down with some old magazines and enjoyed the view of the dank, grimy workshop.


Hard at work under the hood...
My pot-bellied mechanic disappeared into the back, yelling some brief unrepeatable orders to his proteges. Oddly enough though there were hardly any female mechanics that I could see. No Rosie Riveters around these parts, that's for sure.

Women's lib certainly hadn't extended its reach here - and for once I was glad especially when I saw a particularly tempting specimen clad in stained blue jeans stalk out of the back with spanner ( or whatcamacallit ) in hand. Looked at me with some recognition in his eyes, claimed to be a student of my father's and extended his greased paw in greeting.

Mechanic Jr : I've found the problem, sir.
Paul : Call me Paul.
Mechanic Jr : You see the compressor coil gadget thingie has been hitting the engine piston gizmo. You hear that clanging sound? It comes from here. See this?
Paul : I see darkness.
Mechanic Jr : No, look here. That fancy metal doodad under that revolving doohickey?

Mechanic Jr used the proper words of course but I'll be damned if I can recall since I was too busy gazing at his perky pecs. Of course I'd also hoped that he would have left me at hello - leaving me to drool over the post-adolescent man-boy in peace but after noticing my growing excitement, the enthusiastic Mechanic Jr had an inexplicable need to explain the entire convoluted workings of the automobile to me.

Honestly, it's like a secret language that only adult ( heterosexual? ) males can understand, an esoteric combination of meaningful nods, shared pseudo-laughter and occasional mumblings about mysterious thingamajigs. Not to mention a number of brotherly pats on the back.

No doubt akin to the lengthy conversations I have with my puzzled patients as I tentatively describe the workings of the human cardiovascular system.

I probably resembled one of those dumb, nodding dolls you find on jittery dashboards. Poor Mechanic Jr seemed so engrossed with his detailed commentary that I hadn't the heart to tell him that all I wanted to do was play with his gearshift.

Mechanic Jr : So I think we'll have to change this electromagnetic thingamabob.
Paul : Not a problem. Now could you just lemme take a look under your hood and play with your buttons?
Mechanic Jr : OMG. Help.

What can I say? After ten minutes or so of indiscriminate ogling, even the greasy youthful mechanic was looking entirely palatable - and I vaguely wondered if the backroom was available for some improviso oil wrestling. Then I recall that he's my father's student ( practically blood brothers in the jaundiced eye of the Confucian Chinese ) and my horrified mind hastily shifted gear.

No need to risk inciting gay panic in Mechanic Jr - especially since he held a pretty big spanner in hand.

Stealing broadband

For those of us who have taken on the burden of adulthood, one of the chores that most of us have as boring, dyed-in-the-wool responsible men - apart from the interminable bills - is servicing the car. The few lucky buggers around the world with excellent public transportation should count their blessings since there's nothing quite as frustrating as getting the car serviced since it involves careful, precise planning ( taking the day off and such ), excellent coordination ( between the harassed mechanic and yourself ) and plenty of dull hours catching up with outdated magazines.

Despite Charming Calvin's enthusiastic praise for the seemingly efficient train service, I have my suspicions. In most developing Asian capitals, the public transportation still needs more than a little ... tweaking ( if not a desperate overhaul ) - and till that happens, speeding around in a personal vehicle seems to be the easier option. And while it does raise my stress levels some ( raising the terrifying spectre of early hypertension ), it does give me some alone time to think.

Still that doesn't make servicing any easier. Bringing the car in for servicing certainly marks another adult milestone since I can easily recall my dad catering to such dull chores when I was a kid.

Over in the mechanics' workshop, one would reasonably expect studly, gorgeous specimens of manhood, all stubbly, sweaty and liberally painted with grease, dressed in only painted-on jeans that has seen better days. Usually offering a free oil check and engine tune-up - while tugging on his burgeoning gearshift.


Could you fiddle around with my gearshift?
Obviously most of those steamy apprentice mechanics have been hired by the gay porn studios since what we find in the workshop is usually far from palatable. What we get instead is a portly uncle with belly overflowing his straining pants leering as he runs his fingers over the car hood and talks about engine thingamajigs. While scratching his rapidly thinning head, the mechanic would be rattling on about the mileage and the oil usage and I'd be nodding away semi-knowledgeably while my curious gaze runs over the workshop searching futilely for a greasy Chris Evans lookalike hopefully stashed away somewhere under the hood. No such luck however. Somehow or rather in the midst of such overwhelming testosterone and grit, any trace of feather boa swishiness seems to melt away leaving a grunting neanderthal in place and even my voice drops an unbelievable octave when I mumble rubbish about horsepower and pumping pistons.

Then I look up again and I see the uncle with an oil-stained finger up his nose. Which is how I usually end up with the outdated magazines mentioned above.

Then I realized that I needed to write up some reports for work and brought out my laptop only to find the wireless LAN blinking away. Hell, who'd ever guess that the isolated workshop acually received wifi - God knows from where. Life's certainly full of surprises and I spent the time tapping away at the keyboard - writing this post - vaguely imagining the uncle drooling over porn sites in between fiddling with carburetors.

...***...

You know what! I take it all back. I'd marry the old portly uncle, fuck the belly.

Hell, he practically left me penniless selling medical prescriptions by the highway. For the amount of money he just made off me - and of course for changing my tyres - I might as well just bend over and let him have it all. :) Might as well marry him. Then of course I'd slowly poison him with my knowledge of pharmacology, take over his shop and hire studly young apprentices to man the shop.