Goodbye Boys

Anyone of you who has ever been a scout - no matter how nominally - would appreciate Bernard Chauly's Goodbye Boys. Even the poster of the movie itself had me stopping for a second look since it featured a bunch of fresh-faced boys clad in the immediately recognizable scouts uniform - not because I'm a drooling child / scout perv ( though some of the thankfully legal actors looked particularly yummy ) but because it brought back funny little memories.

Not gonna reveal the whole plot over here but it tells the simple, uncomplicated story of a gang of pimply, testosteroney boy scouts out to fulfil a King Scout requirement, all with different contrasting personalities and races - possibly as written in the Federal Constitution :P - making a grueling 5 day journey through the dusty tin-mine deserts of Kinta Valley. Just like one of the protagonists says, when you're a kid that age, everything seems larger than life after all.

Unsurprisingly - especially for anyone who has ever been on a trek such as this - all sorts of hilarious misadventures ensue. Made my own pilgrimage ten years back ( OMG has it actually been that long! ) and even now, I can almost recall the bitter squabbles as we lost the way despite the reputable map, the incessant complaints from the stragglers about the blistering heat and the sheer boredom. Even my tie-scarf was drooping at the end of the day.


It's getting hot in here - and not in a good way...
By now I know half of you must have fainted from sheer disbelief over the fact that I was actually a dyed-in-the-wool, bonafide scout - but it's undeniably true. Right now in luxurious air-conditioned comfort, I swear I wouldn't dream of repeating that particular episode of my life ever again - especially since during that period of time, not only was I permanently sunbaked to a dark brown, I was also covered in freaking leeches and mud half the time. Damn medicinal purposes and all, but I'd still gladly toast those slimy suckers. Oddly enough, endless marching and camping out in the dirt definitely didn't count as my favourite activities. Even now the thought of barely sanitary makeshift latrines / dugouts and the ever-miserable kitchen duty ( imagine growing teenage boys ravaging their dinner plates ) makes me cringe. And through it all, I never could understand exactly why the boys were all so desperately gung-ho about getting campfire dances with the Convent guides. :)

But there were some memorable times... singing mindless repetitive lyrics ( Ging Gang Gooli anyone? ), eating burnt charcoal / food that we cooked ourselves over a primitive fire, late nights talking with friends over UNO and cards( yeah, my ISO was part of the crowd ), abseiling down a ravine seemingly without a care ( though I held on dearly for life ), leisurely kayaking a canoe out into the Straits ( without fear of stinging jellyfish, capsizing or marauding pirates! )- and having my own insane misadventure with a floating tent.

And no, unfortunately there wasn't any nubile bicurious young scout beside me in that dark tent. Honestly? Back then little innocent me wouldn't even have known what to do with the bicurious dude! Think of being barely 16, brought into the woods at midnight, then left panicked and alone with some canned food, matches and tent equipment. Anyone who's aching to repeat such a jungle adventure, just take my advice and remember the position of the river before you pitch that tent.

And just remember when it rains, the river swells.

Oh BTW out of eight aspiring scouts in the movie, you know there has to be that one cute guy who leans our way, right? :) Small subtle hints ( the better to escape the overzealous censors ) but if you look closely, it's quite obvious.

Preoccupied

Far too preoccupied with my dreadfully dull textbooks - and occasional breaks for Brothers and Sisters - to write anything substantial :) Despite the fact that the exams are already peeking over the window, I do still find the time to catch up with my latest obsession.


Taking a break...
Telling the tale of a Californian family that comes together after suffering a significant loss, Brothers and Sisters is an understated family drama, one of those serious slow-moving shows ( since it borrows a lot from fave shows of yesteryear such as Picket Fences and Thirtysomething ) that takes quite a while to get warmed up. Certainly not everyone's cup of tea but seriously, there are touching little vignettes on the show that simply bring back some wonderful memories. Far from being perfect paragons, the featured Walker siblings all have their own flaws, frequently sniping and squabbling - with the occasional family gossip thrown in since as we all know, the walls have ears in big families.

Hard not to remember the past when... hell, not only does Kevin carry familiar shades of myself ( definitely wealthier, better dressed but hell, we both squire our moms everywhere ) but Tommy strongly reminds me of my older brother. Serious, stolid, grouchy, grumpy, always ready to get in your face... yeah, that's my brother. :)

And did I mention the kissing men?

Excuse me sir, are you a shopper?

Seriously. I know I'm a desperate shopaholic but even I never quite guessed the grave severity of my debilitating mental addiction till today. Perhaps the effects must have crept up subtly - just like the folded stacks of paperbags and collections of pricetags from various stores that have started to mushroom all over my bedroom - with me barely noticing, since surely I don't haunt department stores on a daily basis like an indigent immigrant ogling the tempting goods.

Well, maybe on an alternate day basis at the most. Certainly not enough that the salespersons at British India can wave to me with obvious delight at my imminent return.

Obviously Gay Salesperson : Hey, how are you doing? We told you about the sale, right? By sms?

Golly. I was at point-non-plus for once. Even Charming Calvin was agog - whether from speechless astonishment at my undeniably spendthrift ways or my far-from-obvious infamy, I couldn't tell.

Maybe I do frequent sales once too often since I found that I easily recognized more than a few pieces of apparel - not to mention the pricetags before with their previous sales cuts. Hell, I practically have an indelible mental picture of the whole store even before I walked in. Yeah, I admit I have bought more than my share of linen and home decor from British India - and bargained part of my soul surely knowing the prices there - but then again, I don't actually live there. As you all know I live with Kinokuniya, IKEA and Metrojaya - though for some reason all three don't get along and live as far apart from each other as possible ( and I'm not counting Metrojaya's supposedly hip but sadly unendowed sister MJ ). Seriously. If they need a junior buyer, I am so there - even with minimal wages. There's such a thing as staff discount right?

Even the salesperson's intimidating - and oddly familiar - camaraderie didn't deter me from my main plan. Contemplated getting a fine linen shirt for my brother but thought better of it since somehow my stern, stolid sibling just doesn't look right in sheer see-through linen with frilly epaulettes. He's more the basic lumberjack checks and stripes.

Still, it did mark the beginning of my annual Christmas shopping. I know, I start early since I have to get the tree done all by myself - not to mention the various little seasonal decorations.

Already have the gift for my homebound bookworm dad. Two graphic novels, Pyongyang and Shenzhen by the quietly humorous Guy Delisle. Even my niece has already gotten her stuff wrapped up a week back - since I think it'd be a delight for her to have a visit from Eloise at the Plaza. Can't decide between the delectable Nigella Lawson or the lispy Jamie Oliver for my budding homemaker sister-in-law but I've already got my eye on a piece of jewellery for mom. And maybe even an additional gift of Martha Stewart's Homekeeping Handbook ( certainly a must-have for every apprentice domestic goddess ) which she's been eyeing.


Poor Calvin after a day's shopping with me...
Checked out the record store for other gifts but couldn't find anything I wanted at present - though I do have a rough idea on what to get for Charming Calvin ( who by that time was practically dead on his feet ). Saddened by their lack of a sale, the wicked store people tried to tempt me with Brandon Routh's taut virile body but when I tried to get my covetous hands on him, they told me that the DVD version isn't on sale yet. Dammit.

So I had to settle for seriously underaged meat instead ( fortunately the actors aren't jailbait though since it'd be too gross to perv over kids ). Decided to give local film industry a hand so Bernard Chauly, hope your coming-of-age drama Goodbye Boys was worth forking my money over.

You know. I really do shop a lot.

Late Night Confessions

People these days seem to be peculiarly averse to taking responsibility for their own actions, whether it's blaming their irresponsible parents for some innocuous action in their childhood to arguing that their strained circumstances led to their antisocial behaviour. Talk shows are full of problematic souls seeking salvation. Demonic children go on a killing spree in schools and blame is placed squarely on teen peer pressure, parental negligence and so on and so forth. In time who knows... they might even go all the way back and point the accusing finger at the blameless obstetrician for botching the delivery - therefore condemning the little monster to a life of crime.

Good God, get some freaking balls and take some responsibility dammit. Blame yourself. You did the crime, now do the time.


Take responsibility and let us help you...
Obviously such snivelling cowardly behaviour extends to a certain group of patients who simply refuse to admit culpability. Finding excuses for their foolish misdemeanours, a dramatic few even start spinning fanciful fables that even Neil Gaiman would be impressed with. What did they think during their tearful confession? That we'd drag them off kicking and screaming to the police station?

The I'm a Virgin Scam

Sure, it's easy enough to claim such pure innocence since it'd be pretty hard to prove otherwise - but when you're heavily swollen with child at 36 weeks?! Seriously doubt divine angelic hosts came down from upon high to spread the good news so please don't claim to be the newly minted Madonna with the Immaculate Conception. At least go find Joseph first.

Some claim that they didn't even know that there was a baby in there - some wind or indigestion perhaps. Seriously, that little fetus kicking, twirling and enacting the limbo rock in there didn't give a clue? What was that again, maybe your intestines had a heartbeat?

And they sometimes claim they didn't know how they'd gotten pregnant? Were they conducting their own experiments about the birds and the bees behind the boys' toilets while the desperately inept Biology teacher was stammering through the vague sex education classes we had? True, then again the aliens might have abducted the whole blameless lot and conducted secret experiments - ala Taken. You just never know, maybe some overly virile stud coughed dangerously in the vicinity and they all became infected with child :O If only it were that easy to get pregnant.

Amazingly enough the suitably horrified mothers of such sainted children sometimes claim not to have noticed that their anointed daughters were gaining weight in an alarming fashion. Seriously. Were they born yesterday?

The I'm not an Illegal Racer Scam

It's a schoolnight and it's 3 in the morning. You simply can't be buying supper or whatever ( Nin Jiom Pei Pa Koa anyone? ) for your ailing parents at home. And why are you buying supper with a platoon of similarly dressed grungy looking punks with helmets? Surely they can't all have sickly - yet curiously hungry - folk at home in need of that early morning snack?

Be out. Be proud. You were out trying to score a deal for a skanky chick and a quick buck on an excellent ride. Then the concrete wall came up to meet ya.

Say it. I'll believe ya.

The I'm a Good Girl Scam

Seriously. Get a new scriptwriter. I fervently believe in the right to say no but don't take it to ridiculous lengths please. Reasonably good girls ( with a modicum of common sense ) do not chat up four virile strangers at bus stands and then cheerfully agree to accompany them to God Knows Where Plantation. Come on, a gang of leering uncouth guys who pick up women by the roadside? Do you seriously believe they are marriage material - that one day they're gonna bring ya home to their sainted mama and give you that precious heirloom ring? Do you really think they're only extending an invitation to a convivial platonic game of yahtzee in that isolated lonely plantation?

Please. Seriously, we're not your parents. We might judge but we won't ground you. Just tell the truth. You were plain stupid. Don't make us the dupe.

...***...

Not a gripe but a reminder. Remember the earlier post I did about the sheer idiocy of book banning. Well, a few other bloggers decided to write about it :)

Holy Matrimony!

There was a hilarious incident starring the ill-teamed definitely not star-crossed duo of Fanny Flake and Big Bicep Barry just last night.

Since I was going out for a belated celebratory dinner with Big Bicep Barry, I assumed I'd be left out of my parents' dinner plans, whatever they may be. But while driving halfway to dinner, I received a message from my mother asking us both to join her. Come join us, we have some friends over for dinner. Didn't strike me as odd - nor was it unprecedented - since it wouldn't be the first time she'd asked one of my friends over for an impromptu dinner parties. Even Charming Calvin has come along more than once, though he remained stolidly silent :P

It was only when I bumped into Barry that it hit me - or more like my mom's message hit me. Some friends. Oddly curious since she'd usually mention the other dinner guests unless there was something particularly fishy going on. There was this sudden crazy urge to give poor Barry a friendly warning about his impending nuptials - possibly moments before making a run for it ala Thelma and Louise but there was this wicked little devil inside who quite delighted in the situational farce to come. Still I felt quite like a deceitful Judas as he waved cheerfully across the parking lot, wholly oblivious to his sad fate.

Barry : Hey, long time.
Paul : I'm so sorry.
Barry : Why?
Paul : You'll see.

And he certainly did see, since he was practically inundated by an army of strangers the minute he walked in. Certainly not hostile but definitely an army, and definitely incredibly strange.

Not giving the man enough credit though - since Barry fortunately managed to rise to the occasion by turning on that urbane charm without missing a beat. Obviously unlike antisocial me, his interpersonal skills are well honed from shoving his products on unsuspecting customers :) That smile didn't waver even a bit when the unsinkable Fanny Flake - his future intended if my mom had her evil matchmaking way - sat beside him complaining about the events of the day while flip-flopping her straight jet-black waterfall of hair - very Ju-On / The Ring ( insert name of any recent Asian horror flick ). Although she started out on a bad note by raging helplessly against the injustice of being cloistered in a small town ( hey, Malacca is fabulous and now recognized as one of the most sustainable cities in the country ), she managed to curb her terrifyingly revolutionary stance in time and sobered as the night went on.

Fortunately since I was this close to jabbing her with a fork.


Big Bold Black Barry...:)
Still, the girl needs an Oprah makeover so desperately. While Barry was looking particularly dashing in black that day - or suitably pumped up since he'd just popped by after gym, Fanny looked like she'd been thrust into an ancient washing machine, run into a spin and left to dry. I know there are zealous feminists out there who wish to eschew any artifical affectation only to depend on their raving natural God-given beauty but trust me, unless you're the divine Angelina who'd look good in a burlap sack, a touch of M.A.C. wouldn't go amiss. You know the saying what God didn't provide...?

Since Barry's charming affability didn't fade even a little, I didn't quite guess that he was miserably discomfited until later that night when we managed to steal away to check out the riverside.

Barry : Okay. What was that all about?
Paul : You know and I know.
Barry : OMG. Seriously? That's Fanny Flake?
Paul : Yeah, you're on my mom's hitlist too.
Barry : Tell her I'm married.
Paul : Too late. She knows you're not. You admitted as much at New Year's.
Barry : I have a slutty Vietnamese mistress and a lusty lovechild.
Paul : Unlikely.
Barry : Well, she wouldn't know that.

Still, fortunately the big guy had a sense of humour and he managed to laugh it off. Otherwise I'm sure I'd probably be lying somewhere in the murky depths of the river after he'd vengefully tossed me in. :) Not sure how he's planning to deal out his payback though.