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.

Season of Giving

Christmastime also marks the time when I wait patiently for the elusive mailman to arrive. Especially this far in the boondocks, the mailman can sometimes be our only lifeline to the real world out there - at least that of the material sort. Unfortunately there doesn't seem to be any proper schedule for the slippery fellow who seems to pop by according to his volatile whims and wants.

Honestly Santa would be easier to catch than our unreliable mailman. 

But not only does he deliver the sadly mundane such as bills and solicitations, during the magical month of December he also drops the occasional Christmas card. And of course, my favourite brown paper packages tied up with string -- all bought online the weeks before Christmas.

Unfortunately I couldn't find this on offer. 

After all I still need to send my ISO some coal with his black stockings. Though it also comes with similarly coloured charcoal body soap this year. 

My ISO : It's all black. What the hell did you send me? 

Paul : Coal.

My ISO : So I toss them into the fire? 

Paul : There's only one lump of coal. The rest are soap!

My ISO : Black soap. Seriously?

Paul : Well it's to wash away your evil deeds this year!

My ISO : You didn't get me enough soap for that!

Have to assume my ISO flirts shamelessly with the usually grumpy mailroom workers to get his gifts sent out promptly every year since it usually arrives surprisingly early. Surely he doesn't actually queue up at the post office since that very idea of such patient selflessness on his part boggles my mind. 

Which is why I have a wrapped gift box waiting to be opened very, very 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. 

Part of Your World

When you're in love and thinking of wedding rings, don't ever believe the entire shlock about only marrying the person. Short of performing a Mafia-style wedding massacre or falling for an unfortunate orphan, you will not only be joining hands with a bride, you'll be joining the family.

At least if you're Asian.

And after being privy to the entire clan she is marrying into, I fully understand why Lissome Lorelei had her niggling doubts about the commitment she was making. It was clear that her sea-witch mother-in-law was part of what my ISO begrudgingly used to call the Socialistas. Very little to do with socialism, everything to do with the social scene.

No, the Socialistas are out to outwit, outlast and outplay all the others in the upper crust social scene - basically a cross between Gossip Girl and Hunger Games. Calling them just plain old socialites would be an awful disservice since that just doesn't give them enough of a mean cachet.

Shalom : OMG are they gonna fight?Should we stop them?
Paul : Meh, it was gonna happen eventually. 

My ISO should know. His patrician mother was a card-carrying member as well. And though she thankfully wasn't part of the scene here at the wedding, it was as if she was here in spirit with all the bouffant updos, the heavy mascaras and the conspicuously fake smiles.

And the prerequisite air-kissing.

Lorelei's mother-in-law was all that. And more.

Paul : The mother-in-law looks formidable. Don't think our poison would kill her. 
Shalom : We'd probably need a barrel. 
Paul : Probably what she wants to shove Lorelei in. 
Shalom : And toss her back into the sea where she came from?
Paul : Judging from the terse smiles, the mother-in-law will probably never accept Lorelei into the family.
Shalom : She's looking at Lorelei as if she was an unwelcome sea slug. 
Paul : Doesn't approve of ambitious sea creatures? 
Shalom : Looks like she wouldn't approve of anyone.
Paul : Let's hope for the best. L'chaim. 

With such a peevish mother-in-law, there's certainly no welcome into the family with open arms. Fairytale wedding might be over but I think our little mermaid is gonna be walking on sharp knives for quite a while.

Christmas Carol : Stave Three

By the time I was finally a Form Sixer, I was already dancing merrily down the glorious pink path of my deviant sexuality. Even way back then, the fledgling internet with the familiar bing boing dial-up sound had begun showing me vast new vistas of unexplored gay sexuality - along with obscure signs that things do get better.

Starting then, I didn't see any rational need to be apprehensively coy around the females - since for me, girls were for friends, boys were for fun! Coming out to myself certainly made it that much easier to mingle with the girls. Undoubtedly a bonus in Form Six where classes had mixed genders.

Which did get me invited to parties. Having a popular teenage Lothario for a friend who switched partners several times in a year certainly helped. And if I wasn't sent the invite, I'd still have heard enough about the details through the torrid grapevine to occasionally crash them.

Probably one of the reasons I found myself wallflowering by the punchbowl sipping doctored drinks when I bumped into my ISO. Thumpa thumpa disco music playing in the air, wouldn't surprise me if it actually had been Ace of Base. No doubt it must have been close to Christmas since December seemed to be the month for school after parties.

Though I could have asked some of my close friends to dance, I usually demurred. Not only did I have two left feet which would have been painfully obvious on the dancefloor, I didn't see much reason to slow dance with a girl when I'd much prefer to be grinding with her virile teen boyfriend.

My own gay-dar back then was still in its nascent stage and it didn't occur to me to look too closely on any of the other assembled guests. But just when my ISO walked into my view, it triggered a mini alarm somewhere in my head. Already known him for more than a while but with few gay guidelines to show us the way, it never occurred to me to consider him at all homosexual.

My ISO : What's wrong?
Paul : My bow is askew.
My ISO : Leave it. I'm going to tear it off later anyway.
Paul : Oh.  

Hard enough that I kept hoping to find someone else in school who was gay like me - surely I couldn't be so disconcertingly foolish that I would miss one standing right beside me since forever!

Though my ISO was undoubtedly handsome enough that I would wish him to be so. Then again statistical chances were stacked against me - and I'd had more than my share of achingly painful adolescent boycrushes on straight fellas to know better. No way was I gonna be waiting for a bus that was never coming ever.

No, no, he wasn't gay. That was what I kept telling myself.

But during that party over the punchbowl, I knew things would finally be going my way. It could have been his wicked smile. It could have been that suggestive wink. Or maybe the quick brush of his hand as he poured himself a drink.

Then again it could be the spiked punch but something told me that things were about to get plutonic.

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. 

Sometimes

Sometimes I do miss my ex.

Cheating bastard though he may be, my ISO can be endlessly resourceful. Not only in acquiring patently obscure items, instruments and information - but also apparently incredibly insatiable boy-toys.

Paul : I miss peanut butter and grape jelly. So hard to find here. Expats must be ordering them in crates since you can't find them in stores at all. 
My ISO : Smuckers? How many bottles do you need? Size?

That's as simple as it was. No beating around the bush. No multiple questions asked. No lame-ass excuses.

Since it had been a miserable day, to say I was touched would be putting it mildly. Whether my ISO would actually be able to find a bottle wherever he was didn't matter as much as the fact that he offered instantaneously without question.

Man, how did he know I wanted a jumbo tub of popcorn!

In retrospect, it wasn't all bad between us. Like any other relationship, it had its ups and downs. When my ISO puts his mind to it, the man can be surprisingly thoughtful in so many ways. It's always the simple things. Mashed potatoes on a crummy day. Bailey's ice-cream during a walk in a park. Burnt CDs in my workbag for my drive to work. And recently an MP3 player in the shape of a Lego brick.

Nostalgia much? Guess I don't hate him as much these days.

In The Bleak Midwinter

Some days you just watch a short that triggers a bittersweet memory, kinda like this wonderful locally-filmed clip about long-distance relationships and the futility of it all.

Sigh. Unfortunately not all of us are lucky enough to come home with an origami crane. Me, I returned with a  suitcase full of broken dreams.

Sometimes it's hard to assign blame when relationships fall apart. Don't think it was entirely my ISO's fault nor was it mine. Probably both of us contributed to the inevitable downfall. The gaping distance not entirely breached by the wonders of modern technology ( and by God, we only had really really slow dial-up back then ). The callow carelessness of youth neither relieved by my crazed schedule in med school nor his capricious moods.

And yes, my ISO and I didn't work hard enough to keep the relationship going.

Ah, the things you see in retrospect :)

Here We Come Assailing

I think most would find me quite unflappable. Become so sadly inured to the little horrors of human life, painful little vestiges that pass through the hospital corridors, that very little surprises me.

At least that's what I used to think. Till this morning when I opened the door for the patient only to let out a chilling, blood-curdling shriek worthy of a histrionic scream queen. Well, I almost did. Still had enough presence of mind to bite my lip.

Unsurprisingly very little prepares you for an ex-boyfriend coming in with his pretty young wife, visibly enceinte. If I hadn't taken the Hippocratic Oath to heart a while ago, I might have shoved his heavily pregnant missus aside only to wallop the swinging bastard on his handsome nose.

Yes, I was gonna go Assailing.

But the unrecognizing look on his face gave me pause. Surely after sharing such intimacy as we have had, he wouldn't have forgotten me - short of a lame amnesiac episode courtesy of a badly-produced television drama.

And he called me doctor.

No, my ISO has never called me that. Not even during roleplay.

Definitely not him then, this shockingly identical doppelganger right down to the riotous black curl on the back of his neck. Such amazing similarities that I had to further confirm by checking the name on the medical notes handed to me. Apparently this firmly heterosexual fellow bearing a striking resemblance to my ISO had brought his wife down for a caesarean section.

Who's Your Daddy!

Doesn't mean my ISO got off scot-free though.

Paul : Damn you.
My ISO : And a Happy Holidays to you too.
Paul : Bastard.
My ISO : What did I do now?
Paul : You got a girl pregnant!
My ISO : Me? Lordy, sounds like a Christmas miracle to me. 
Paul : The patient's husband looks exactly like you!
My ISO : Surely not! Take a picture.
Paul : No! But he does look like you.
My ISO : Impossible! Surely I am better looking!
Paul : He's in his early twenties. 
My ISO : So am I. 
Paul : In your dreams. 

Always wondered what I would think if I were to meet my ISO and his new partner, if ever. Though he has forever eschewed companionship and commitment, I wouldn't hold him to his word.

Obviously I would start out screaming - and then a-wassailing.

Answer Me 1997

Contrary to popular expectation, I actually hated school.

At least while I was in it. Not the model student everyone thinks I was. Certainly a near Herculean task for my poor mother to drag me growling, groaning and griping out of my den at some ungodly hour of the morning to head to school. Even worse to have me frowning at the breakfast table mumbling heathenish curses in a dozen unrecognizable languages over the endlessly trivial piles of homework dumped on the pitiable students. Repeated mutters about blood sacrifice must have worried her a little.

By then she must have guessed at the hours I spent staring at the languidly ticking clock waiting for the interminable hours trapped in the gaol called school to be over. The brief freedom of recess was the only respite I had in those days, that and the fleeting seconds in between classroom periods. Or when the regular teacher was otherwise unavailable for the duration due to training courses, seasonal illnesses or ... unforeseen calamities induced by the rare blood sacrifice *cough* hit by a runaway bus.

Yes, I wasn't all that big a fan of school. So it must be creeping senility that has me looking back reminiscing and actually finding those horrible years of schooling almost ...dare I say it... pleasant.

High school antics before the days of facebook, cellphones and broadband

Or it could be my recent viewings of Answer Me 1997 that has me smiling at high school memories.

My ISO : You always get maudlin close to your birthday.
Paul : Yeah yeah old age creeping up.
My ISO : So any ideas on what to get you?
Paul : You know I like surprises.
My ISO : Liar.
Paul : Good surprises I mean.
My ISO : Hmm.
Paul : Maybe you could watch Answer Me 1997 with me.
My ISO : A Korean drama? That's torture.
Paul : And the perfect gift.
My ISO : Revenge, I knew it.
Paul : At least there's no blood sacrifice involved.
My ISO : That I know of!

Ah high school.

Answer Me 1997 is basically a refreshing drama series about friends in their thirties reminiscing about their schooldays during their high school reunion. The good old days when everything seemed so crazy godawful important despite how insignificant it may seem now, so much so I can barely recall half the things I used to get so wildly passionate about. From local pop stars to the school dreamboat. From Dance Dance Revolution to the Tamagotchi.

In retrospect, almost everything gains that nostalgic sepia tone of halcyon days, even the once dreaded classroom bully. Hell, even the loathsome bouncing buzz of the dial-up internet sounds almost soothing with the passing of age.

The Quintessential Heroine

Leisurely afternoons for me are usually spent rifling through the various Korean dramas on the shelf and picking one out to obsess over. Unlike my fanatical mother who impatiently swallows an entire season's worth in a frenzied tv marathon, I usually pace myself with one or two episodes a day.

My ISO : At the rate you're going, are you turning into a K-drama heroine?
Paul : Well I can do the 10 Asian Poses if that's what you're asking.
My ISO :  More like the super goody-two-shoes Snow White heroine.
Paul : Unlikely. Sometimes I can't believe how very wonderfully sweet and patient they are, even in the face of such blatant discrimination by their numerous enemies.
My ISO : No doubt you'd have poisoned your adversaries by the end of the season.
Paul : You underestimate me. It wouldn't take more than two episodes. 
My ISO : But what if the hero finds out!
Paul : Oh please I'd do it with such a sweet smile no one would suspect silly little me.
My ISO : Sounds more like the drama villainess.

Very true. After sitting through dozens of K-drama serials, I have realized that I would never make the perfect heroine.

Sure, being sweet, polite and refined despite all odds wouldn't be that difficult a task for me. Not much different from putting on a perfumed mask for an appreciative audience after all. And let's not forget all the pretty, pretty dresses and the amazing skyscraper heels they get to wear.

Taking aim at the bitches

But to twiddle my genteel fingers while my conniving saboteurs continually attack me with their pathetically juvenile schemes? Gets me hair-pulling frustrated just watching the cloyingly sweet heroines being perpetually abused by their malicious sisters / cousins / in-laws / colleagues with horrific animadversions cast upon their hitherto blameless characters - and all without the timid misses bothering to stand up for themselves! So sickeningly noble. Seriously they are practically masochistic punching bags.


Bitch : Give me your money. 
Heroine : Alrighty. Since you're my beloved sister cousin that I undoubtedly owe my life to, we should share the wealth.
Bitch : Give me your hot boyfriend.
Heroine : Alrighty. You're so much prettier, smarter and richer. I'm sure you deserve such a hot boyfriend.  I am so unworthy. 
Bitch : Give that pretty dress to me.
Heroine : Alrighty. But wait, you can't have the dress. 
Bitch : Oh why not? You found a spine?
Heroine : Oh no! You can't have the dress yet, I'm sure you'd want the matching headband too.

How do they stand being such timid, ineffectual doormats? Even I couldn't be that zen. Mouth off on me once and I'd be able to let it slide. But try it the second time, I doubt I'd be able to sit still without reaching for my pearl-handled blade. Trust me, just touch something that belongs to me and the pretty satin gloves are off.

Dammit why do I always get the villain roles.

Hey La Hey La The Ex is Back

Seriously. The inevitable return of the ex accompanied by the obligatory Jaws theme of deep foreboding has become such a familiar television trope that it should be trademarked!

This time, I'm speaking in reference to not mine but my nurse Miranda Merry's ex boyfriend. Who reputedly cheated on her repeatedly in plain sight, subsequently got dumped royally by an indignant Miranda and then suddenly disappeared from view for several years. With her undeniably headstrong temper, I was starting to think she had secretly murdered him and had his decaying corpse conveniently discarded in one of the many easily accessible dumping spots in town.

Odd how many dark, dank swamps there are around here.


Miranda : A stake? Really?
Paul : You have a better idea?
Barely a week after we started talking about a marriage of convenience, this contemptible fellow crawls out from under the cracks. After two years of being missing in action, he appears begging for a second chance.

Paul : What has he been doing for the past two years?
Miranda : I have no idea. No one has seen him.
Paul : Did he receive a blinding epiphany after travelling the world seeking Eat, Pray, Love?
Miranda : Or developed amnesia after being clubbed on the head.
Paul : Maybe he had an illegitimate child!
Miranda : I wouldn't put it past him!
Paul : Did you accidentally forget that you had a baby with him?
Miranda : I wish. But no. He wants to get back together.

Which has placed Miranda in a miserable quandary since being placed on the shelf - so to speak - isn't exactly her preferred option. But returning to the arms of a lying, cheating scumbag would be hardly advantageous. Last I heard she was even entertaining wild thoughts of tracking down a reputable fortune teller to read her cards.

Second chances? Perhaps several years ago I would have stubbornly held my ground but perhaps the years have mellowed me. Just a tad more forgiving these days. Turning pretty zen really.

Such a coincidental synchronicity with my own previous relationship that I wondered myself what I would do if faced with a similar decision with my ex.

My ISO : Hey I never disappeared for two years.
Paul : Well it certainly seems like you did.
My ISO : Since you cut off all ties, what could I do? Call barring, e-mail blocking -
Paul : Preferable to me strangling you and dumping your corpse in a swamp.
My ISO : True, I do like my neck the way it is.

People do make mistakes. Especially in their callow youth.

After all if it's there's an unfortunate repeat, like I said there are plenty of dumping grounds in town.

Lake District Follies

Life is full of little coincidences.

Having a living room full of couch surfers again - and being the intrepid eco-adventurers they are, most have wondered why we're not particularly enamoured of nature and its like. In fact they seem incredulous over the fact that we really don't care much about the forests around! With glorious examples of mother nature in her tropical best only an hour's away in the form of world-renowned national parks, why haven't we taken the time to visit?

Paul : Me visit a national park? Like eeew.
Felix : I'd rather take a nap.
Paul : But do send me a postcard though.

That of course brings me to my very own infamous travelogue titbit of Windermere.

My ambivalence with nature stems from that happily lost weekend when my ISO and I got stranded in the picturesque Lake District due to a railway scheduling glitch. So young, so idealistic, so in love, so at one with nature.

It was two whole days of staring at lakes, trees and vales. Trudging down endless nature trails just to gaze at clumps of daffodils.

I wander'd lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

The prophetic words of Wordsworth seemed to be like a whispering mantra that nearly drove us insane. Seriously, don't believe all that crap about the beauty of nature. Unless you're a true-blue tree-hugger believer, it's all leaves, grass and muck to everyone else.

Fortunately we had a television to keep us from going completely batty!


Paul : Isn't nature lovely?
My ISO : Fucking fantastic.
Paul : If I see another tree, I might have to burn the place down.
My ISO : I have a match. We might be doing future generations a favour.
So yeah, I do dredge up that weekend quite a bit when folks question my dislike of nature walks. Which is why it surprised me yesterday when I found a postcard from my ISO in the mail! From the Lake District. With a scrawled message at the back.

'Aren't you glad we aren't there now?'

Guess now I just need to flash the telling postcard rather than rehash the entire story!

My One-and-Only Football Weekend

Unlike many of my more athletically-inclined peers, I've never liked football.

Somehow the idea of more than a dozen grown men chasing mindlessly after a fleeing ball never actually drew my interest. Despite the fact that quite a few of them looked quite fetching in short shorts.

I much preferred the rowdier game of rugby where the main idea was to whale on the enemy till they gave up. Or even hockey where we whaled on the enemy with sticks. Not exactly Aussie Rules but those were the days the coach tossed us something vaguely rounded - and the entire class just ran amuck over it. Obviously I ended up plenty black-and-blue with bruises back in school.

Which makes football even less fascinating since the seemingly fragile footie boys wince piteously at the teeny-tiniest injury. The veriest scratch on the thigh seriously. Played up for the benefit of the sympathetic referee no doubt.

And believe me I've looked hard at their perfectly toned legs :)

Of course as I grew older - and started accepting my wildly skewed sexuality, I found my previously rabid aggression levels receding. Hence my graduation to the milder sport of volleyball though I still had a tendency to spike balls really hard. My other classmates stuck as die-hard footie fans - and I willingly participated every couple of years as the bookie ( forever praying hard for a major upset in the game ).


Maybe I'd have converted into a fan if this happened more often!
So how did I end up going to a sports bar on two consecutive nights to watch football?

Blame my ISO.

Not much you can do when a rare visitor comes asking for instant football coverage. In high-definition no less. Hell, I don't even subscribe to the regular sports channel! Fortunately the town's seemingly football-crazy so there's no shortage of venues playing the games live on widescreens. Just had to follow the stink of testosterone and sweat to find a sports bar to go to.

Can't say I've enjoyed the game any more than I did before but I surely did appreciate making a few bucks off the unexpected upsets this weekend :)

The Deaths of Laura Bow

The museum's already deserted with the clock struck past midnight a little while back. There's a sudden chill in the air and I can't help but recall the headless body pierced through the back by a pterodacytyl. A vicious killer's loose in the corridors of the Leyendecker Museum - so it's all I can do not to scream hysterically even as I keep uncovering more corpses in each subsequent chamber. Always one step behind.

Who else will die tonight?
Oh yes, somehow I've managed to get this ancient DOS-based game running on the computer. If I remember correctly, this game used to come in a stack of disks or so to be inserted after each act. And now it fits into such an amazingly tiny file! Seriously I have work presentations that are larger in size.

Such a classic. Ah, Laura Bow intrepid girl detective, I remember her well. Just out of college, this hotshot cub reporter gets quickly entangled in an intriguing Egyptian mystery-murder in the Roaring Twenties. The games that my ISO and I played back in school. How can I possibly forget the number of times we replayed the various scenes in Laura Bow's Dagger of Amon-ra! Seemed almost impossible to surmount the preposterous obstacles without a simple walkthrough ready - though I sternly kept reminding my frustrated ISO not to succumb to that ignoble temptation.


Even an act as simple as crossing the road seemed an impossible task.

My ISO : Muthafucka. We got hit by a cab again.
Paul : Maybe we should make a run for it.
My ISO : The bloody cab's too damned fast. And this is the twenties!
Paul : I blame those heels!
Evidently you're supposed to hail a taxi instead. You can imagine how many times Laura turned into roadkill on her first day before we accidentally stumbled on the required solution.

And the number of insignificant items you have to pick up along the way ( e.g. dinosaur bone, cheese ) to place inside what I've termed Laura's otherdimensional purse. That only makes sense way down the line as you face a bunch of carnivorous rats.


What's a murder-mystery without a love interest?

Oh yes I had such an early crush over dreamy redhead Steve Dorian! Certainly would have pushed Laura into a steaming vat of industrial chemicals to get him. Or perhaps a more elegant death in keeping with the other grisly murders in the game.


Our reimagined Steve Dorian! Buffer than I recall!
Had such a great time reminiscing with Laura that I had to keep my ISO abreast with my replay. Surprisingly his mental faculties still in working order, he immediately recalled the game and picked up the game as well. The internet really has made the world that much smaller!

My ISO : Have you gotten to the museum yet?
Paul : I have! OMG. That man's fallen over a stuffed porcupine.
My ISO : Eeew. Have you reached that French skank yet?
Paul : The slutty Yvette who's after my Steve?
My ISO : I think Steve Dorian spoiled us for other men.
Paul : Oh so true. Feel like stabbing Yvette with a pterodactyl.
My ISO : Think you gotta pry it off Ziggy first.
Paul : Maybe I'll plaster her into a statue.
My ISO : I think someone thought of that already.
Oh yes, did I mention the murders get progressively more gruesome as the game continues? And we used to play the game pitch-dark at midnight :)

Party Like It's 1997

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

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


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

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

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

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

In Omnia Paratus

Not all friends should mix.

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

And that's all great.


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

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

So who do you call?

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

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

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

Mr Smith Goes to Miri : The Paint Job

Since I'd already given him free room and board for his stay here, my Insignificant Other ( or my ISO ) had no choice but to help me paint the kitchen walls. Originally painted in a ghastly red hue ( a terrible botched experiment! ), the kitchen walls taunted me mercilessly each night as I came down to get a drink. Supposedly touted as a sweet melon red, it looked as if the fruit had gone terribly bad. Simply had no choice but to rid myself of it.

With my ISO's reluctant ( and distinctly complaining ) help.

Far from the harmonious co-existence that reigned while I painted the dining room with Charming Calvin, the unenviable task that took an hour had us both trading barbs and jibes from across the room. Seriously. No subject too sacred for us to poke fun at from his warring parents to my lamentable attempts at housekeeping. Anything to distract us from the tiring work at hand.

And the stifling summer heat.


A lil bit of home improvement!
Halfway he even offered to blow me rather than sweat through the arduous paint job.

An offer I almost took him up on except I was covered in sweat, dust and varying shades of golden yellow. Far from sexy.

My ISO : I'm on holiday dammit! How did I ever get roped into this! Must be a hundred degrees out there!
Paul : It's your good deed of the month. Get painting, slave!
My ISO : Save me from such menial work! Fucking forced labour! And what is this bloody infernal heat!
Paul : Don't remind me. 7th level of hell, I tell ya.
My ISO : Holy Mother of God. If we fucked on the dining table, would that distract you from the hideous wall?
Paul : You kidding me? The ghastly red wall would still be there in front of me.
My ISO : Dammit. Blindfolds?
Paul : Hmm. Maybe.
My ISO : But you're right. The red is appalling. I might have to blindfold myself too.

So the poor fellow was conscripted to paint.

Even so he had to suffer the ignominy of a guest bedroom decorated in pastel pink with a dash of chocolate brown. Since the room had been prepared to host my mother in the near future, I have to admit it leans towards the feminine. Not sure how my ISO's rampant masculinity survived the insult :)

Mr Smith Goes to Miri II

Forget about Daiso.

Over here in this city of tight-wad towkays, pinch-penny frugality rules and thrifty dime stores abound. Which explains the serious lack of quality retail stores since few would survive in this parsimonious environment! Don't expect high street shops here. Country folks here like their things cheap and serviceable.

Possibly to compensate for hiking up the prices of everything imported! Everything from furniture to branded goods. Even the damned newspapers cost more here.

So ten-cent outlets have thrived here with dozens opening their doors to the great unwashed in the past few years. Previously I might have turned up my nose at such tacky outlets but in such a hostile retail environment, a dedicated shopaholic has no choice but to fall into line. Nothing else but bargain stores here. Hell, I'm halfway to being converted into a die-hard fan.


Wife : We aren't taking the cab?
Husband : Of course not! We're gonna save by walking!
Shabby chic takes on an entirely new meaning when all the furnishings in my house has been purchased almost at a steal. Seriously. I could host a show on interior decor for less than a hundred. Ready-made curtains at only a fraction of the cost. Throw pillows at slightly more than 5 bucks.

And I also get rebate on top of that.

Reason I have all their store cards from Supersave to One Stop Save. Obviously saving is a priority here.

Something that quickly earned the disgust of my visiting ISO.

My ISO : What are you doing?
Paul : Cutting coupons? Gets me a 20% discount.
My ISO : Good God.
Paul : And ta-da! An additional rebate with my membership card!
My ISO : You need to leave this place now.
Paul : Look. Buy one free one. How can you resist?
My ISO : Out!
Paul : But honey, we cain't afford the good stuff! What will lil Wally and Beaver have for dinner!
My ISO : Why, they'll just have to starve. Move it, June Cleaver!

With the bargains around, guess I don't have to beg, borrow or steal anymore.

Maybe I'll do all my Christmas shopping here!

Mr Smith Goes to Miri

Go spread the news everyone. Paul's Cosy Bed & Breakfast in the city is finally open for business. Unfortunately there are some who are all too ready to take advantage of the early bird offers.

Namely my ISO ( or my insignificant other as you will ). Not only did he surprise me late in the evening with a call just as I was getting ready for my weekly movie matinee, the call was made from the local airport. Barely ten minutes after his plane touched down.

With no warning.

Hell, I could have been mountain-climbing in Mulu this weekend!

My ISO : You in?
Paul : Yes. Gonna start my movie marathon.
My ISO : Good. Don't start yet. Come pick me at the airport.
Paul : Very funny.
My ISO : You hear me laughing? You called. I came.
Paul : WTF. I called you more than a week ago! You're really here?
My ISO : Yes.
Paul : For all you know, I could be abseiling up the Pinnacle!
My ISO : Right...

Obviously he knows me better.

So I stashed all my DVDs, rushed up to fluff up the pillows in the guest bedroom and then left to pick him up. Unsurprisingly he didn't look in the least bit dishevelled despite being crushed with the great unwashed for two hours in the economy flight.


Room and board?
And like any city boy who manages to make it here out in the boondocks, the first thing he mentioned was the enviable size of the airport.

Paul : I was shocked at the size as well.
My ISO : They sure like them big here!
Paul : Size matters after all. And they have traffic lights as well.
My ISO : You're fucking kidding me! It's almost civilized!
Paul : I know! I haven't even told you about the Starbucks yet.
My ISO : Saw that in the airport. Amazing. Expected them to dine on the trees. OMG. Is that a mall?
Paul : I know! I expected lil sundry shops!
My ISO : Reminds me of Malacca.
Paul : Twenty years back?
My ISO : Exactly.

Monstrous. I know.

Still, my first guest. Wonder how I should charge him.