Pink Packets

It's that time of the year again. The time of red packets, mandarin oranges and ... yes, the dreaded family reunion dinner.

At least for the sole unmarried gay bachelor.

Rather than feast on scrumptious delicacies washed down with copious liquor like the rest of the partying cousins, we're usually chained to the interrogation chair while being subjected to the harsh unflattering spotlight and the even harsher examiners ( who are not subject to flattery ).

But we all get used to it. Being subject to excruciating torture by the specialized family Gestapo on a bi-annual basis, we've all developed partial resistance to their tried-and-true interrogation techniques. Doesn't mean we don't try to escape from the chair as soon as we can!


Maybe I could hide behind here till the 15th.
Leaving the next cousin to take the heat.

Past few years though I've been starting to feel a bit nostalgic when it comes to the Chinese New Year. Like I mentioned some time back, my overly generous dad used to pass around red packets to all and sundry - even the odd passersby with a kid sometimes got one on the fly. Not to mention the annual lottery ticket draw for his boisterous students with some receiving stacks of cash and the rest getting pieces of parchment paper detailing good wishes for the new year.

I found it peculiar ( my dad's always been an odd duck ) yet sweet. A tradition that I'd like to carry on. So when a friend of mine asked for a red packet, I found myself smiling.

It's family tradition that red packets are given to everyone single regardless of age by the ones married - ostensibly the elders of the family. Seems like a simple rite of passage into adulthood for me. But as a gay bachelor, we've - for obvious reasons - always been on the receiving side of the annual red packet parade! Honestly though I've always wanted to hand out red packets of my own. And shucks, isn't it time to start giving them out? Feel odd having my younger cousins ( who are honestly several pay scales below me ) bashfully handing me red packets.

So why should the gay boys be denied all that? Always been a conservative traditionalist but maybe it is time to bend the rules just a little.

Perhaps we could turn ours pink instead :)

But with new traditions, we'd have to make new rules. Now then who'd be eligible to hand out pink packets?

School Spirit

Today when my colleagues were busy comparing the merits of various schools in the vicinity for their precious tots, the first thing that actually came to mind was to suggest my own alma mater.

Or any mission school within range.

Surprised to find myself showing so much school patriotism. Guess once a La Sallian... Though not many of the mission schools are left. And the few left can hardly be considered mission schools - what with the last La Sallian brother principal taking his leave a couple of months back. Though their legacy remains with the school and its students, I doubt the La Sallian schools would remain the same without their stern presence. Say what you will but the presence of the strict white-robed principals stalking the halls with canes behind their backs certainly helped add a note of sobriety to what would otherwise be a boisterous all-boys' school.

Speak softly and carry a big stick certainly seemed to be the school motto back then. There were still moments when the boys went wild though :) Though the experienced brothers always made sure to rein us all in before havoc ensued.


Boys will be boys!
Rather than send my kids to a generic brand school ( Tmn XYZ III Secondary or Tmn ABC Seksyen 7/7 Primary anyone? ), I would gladly hike through miles of traffic just to send my children to a traditional mission school - despite the fact that Shameless Shalom insists such places are a fertile breeding ground for homosexuals.

Nor do they breed bible-thumping Christians.

Contrary to ridiculous popular belief, missionary schools do not indoctrinate or convert students to Christianity. There isn't a baptismal font just after the school gate spraying instant conversion on unwary students! Instead the brothers taught the students a healthy respect for all religions. If not for the discreetly placed crosses in the classrooms and the first friday prayers attended by the Christian students in the chapel, I doubt anyone would even take it for a mission school!

And for the freakish religious naysayers who insist that the crosses and statues be removed in a bid to dechristianize mission schools, I have to wonder why they feel so threatened by such iconic religious figures. Is their faith evidently that easily swayed?

*Ahem* Where was I?

Look, I won't say that the mission schools instilled a strong set of moral values in me ( since that would be pretty hypocritical for me! ) though they did try their best! But I would say that it instilled in me a sense of brotherhood - a keen sense of kinship and camaraderie that I have sadly never found in any of the other institutions of learning I've been to. Though our students come from all races, colours and creeds ( a fair microcosm of our country itself! ), I think most of us are proud to call ourselves La Sallian boys.

And yes, I would like my son to say the same one day.

The Case of the Missing Pink Parcel

Seems like not only did the Christmas party provide a suitable perch for the cooing lovebirds to share some heat in the wintry cold ( causing all and sundry to dry-heave after ), the cosy intimacy also provided the perfect seasonal setting for a secret crime of passion. With the usual gaggle of gay boys gathering around the hearth for turkey and egg nog, you can expect the ensuing drama with the breakups and betrayals, the greets and gropes.

But I forgot to mention the bit about loot and larceny.

Gifts were exchanged amongst the guests during Christmas - yet one went missing. A pretty pink parcel all precious and ready to be presented only to be found missing from under the tree the morning after. Noticing the parcel ( meant for the sadly absent Zany Zinedine ) shockingly unaccounted for, Jaunty Jared immediately raised an alarm.


Rounding up the usual suspects!
As the sleepy suspects were rounded up for questioning the morning after, most only managed to stutter through patently false alibis hoping to lead the investigation astray.

Paul : What pink box? That doesn't match the green and gold Christmas theme dammit!
Calvin : What box? Is it Christmas? I am sleepy.
Graham : My nipples aren't talking!
Janvier : Hic. I was drunk.
Nate : It was cold. I went into the study.
Felix : It was cold. I went into the study.
Shane : Oh woe is me!

Certainly curiouser and curiouser.

Especially since the study was deathly cold yet neither Neonatal Nate nor Fabulous Felix ( who had barricaded themselves in there ) seemed in much danger of imminent hypothermia. No doubt Janvier didn't seem all that inebriated but the endless multiple personalities could have helped the shockingly efficient redistribution of alcohol. And could Genial Graham be hiding something underneath his oversized tee ( that hid even his perky nips! )? Despite threats of torture, the rest of the guests weren't talking.

Obviously finding the possible culprit wasn't going to prove an easy task but there's nothing I love more than a challenge. Time we got out our deerstalker caps and our smoking pipes. The game is afoot.

Yeah, Scorpios do love that touch of mystery. I mean, doesn't everyone? Loved the hell out of my mini sleuthing kit as a kid. Even played the boardgame Cluedo endlessly as a child - though I'll admit I played it only to flirt with the hunky blond suspect, Col Mustard. And that's the original slim, sexy military version not the current pompous, overweight colonial explorer! Anyone playing the yellow token must have been wondering at my desperate pursuit.

Now that the Case of the Missing Pink Parcel seems to have fallen into my lap providentially, how could I possibly pass up a chance to play the role of fav teen-girl snoop Veronica Mars?

Now who had it in for Zany Zinedine and his pink parcel?

Skipping Beats

Trust me, doctors are a dull, dreary lot. You can't expect much from bleeding-heart zealots who have sworn to spend their lives locked up in hospitals to help the rest of humanity.

Then you have me. Somewhat a lil more off-center than usual. Lots of people have told me with some trepidation that I don't fit nicely into the square pegholes that doctors are supposed to - and I actually take that as a compliment. Seriously. Why would I want to blend into the Gungho Ginny gang?

So while the Ginnys were busy discussing arrythmias and airway adjuncts, I was taking my time scoping out an old friend. Turns out Yummy Yee has grown up some, hung up his shingle oh not too far away from here and dropped by the hospital for a quick refresher.

And boy oh boy, seems like the gangly intern has turned into a man. And quite a cute one too.


Even hard at work, theres always time for a flirt!
What better time to catch up than over a course of quivering mannequins and electric paddles?

Yee : Hope I put the paddles on correctly.
Paul : If not, do I get to paddle you instead?
Yee : Time to set the machine to charge.
Paul : Oh yeah charge me up baby.
Yee : You're gonna get us punished.

Of course this was all in a hushed sotto voce so no one else heard it. Scandalous. Bet the Ginnys were all busy wondering what I was whispering to have Yee all flushed up.

But I'll never tell.

The Elves and the Sockmaker

We've all heard of the charming fairy tale of the Elves and the Shoemaker. All about how a friendly team of elves help out the kindly though poor cobbler with his shoemaking - and how their favour was well repaid in kind. Sweet parable for the gullible rugrats of course.

But I bet you've never heard of their naughtier cousins - a far more obscure yet far more hellacious sort of imp - the Elves who are in league with the evil Sockmaker. A wily, secretive lot, they creep out in the dead of night only to gnaw out holes in the heels of the socks. All at the behest of the greedy Sockmaker - no doubt a heartless corporate exec busy churning out cheap disposable socks from sweltering sweatshops in third world nations.

How else would you explain the holes that keep appearing in my socks! Certainly a sign of wrongdoing! Haven't you checked through the sock drawer only to note in dismay that almost all of them have holes in them!


Now to hide the rest of my clothes!

Seriously. Don't blame wear and tear. Don't blame shoddy manufacturing. Don't blame the cockroaches.

It must be the elves! There's always a hole in either the right or the left but never both. Diabolical, ain't it? Swear there's a method to their wicked madness.