Beyond the Sea

If someone told me a few months back that I'd be standing out in public singing karaoke, I'd have thought them hallucinating on K.

I mean, aren't crappy crooners the reason why impromptu bar fights actually break out? Only so much a rowdy gang of inebriated thugs can take with a croaking frog on stage before broken beer bottles and dismantled chairs start flying.

Thug #1 : Bloody get off the stage, you talentless cow!
Thug #2 : The fucking pitching's all off!
Singer : How dare you insult me!
Singer's sugardaddy : Don't say that about my precious girl!

And in the midst of all that outraged machismo, a drunken melee ensues. All because a misguided wannabe rock star took to the stage.


No encore?
So yeah, I try not to endanger myself by hogging that particular spotlight. Not in public anyway.

But my friend Gregarious Gaia assures me that it's not so. Seems the gal has given an unwilling captive audience a couple of impromptu serenades - and miraculously escaped unscathed each time. Of course the fact that Gaia's a curvy six-foot goddess might have helped weigh the scales in her favour. If I'd braved the stage, I'd probably be hot-footing it out moments later with enraged boos, broken plates and rotten tomatoes following in my wake.

But when we both heard about the existence of a boat bar out in the bay, we just had to check it out. Our party girl Gaia especially. We were forewarned that the venue's just a little out of the way, quite a bit dodgy and obviously meant for the less discerning locals.

Imagine your average Chinese junk with dozens of indigent immigrants squeezed cramped into a sardine can and you'd have the bar! Rickety rattan tables with vinyl covers and bowls of Ngan Yin peanuts to munch on while the television screen played the odd Cantonese drama serial. Appropriately lit up by dozens of traditional oil lamps - the ones backlit by images of sultry Shanghai sirens of old!

And oh yes, they had a karaoke machine.


What would a Chinese joint be without that important prerequisite! Since the place turned out to be somewhat empty after a rainstorm, we took advantage of the situation ( emboldened by a potent mixture of alcohol and seasickness ) and commandeered the lone machine.

Only to find it woefully lacking in English songs. Apart from Celine Dion, Michael Jackson and a couple of boy bands, we didn't have much else. So to the chagrin of the reluctant listeners who slowly trickled in, Gaia and I took the stage to belt out some Backstreet Boys and Westlife. Thankfully the burly patrons were constrained to keep their weapons outside.

Otherwise being thrown overboard for inadvertently butchering a Top 40 hit would have been the least of our problems :)

Braving the Frontier

Once upon a time, there was a young city slicker who finally opted for a change, heeded the call and decided to pack his bags for the frontier. Tired of the hustle and bustle of city life, he wanted to return to a simpler way of life. Finding a piece of paradise out at the edge of civilization, he started to build himself a home. Braving marauding bears, dangerous rattlesnakes and even the odd hedgehog, our aspiring hero slowly shed his citified ways, adopted denim and even developed a reasonable tan.

All while ekeing out a living in the frontier.


I wish I could quit you!
Doesn't spend too long on his cold and lonely homestead though before he's desperately writing back for a mail-order husband to join him. Demands are plenty of course - some fancy clothes, a decent cabin and a wildflower bouquet! But after several seasons of planting crops such as corn, carob and cotton, the passing mailcoach leaves behind a gift. One sexy ranch hand ready to start a new life with the hero.

Love blooms and they're soon spending every evening dining together at the ring of the dinner bell.

Two cowboys in love on the frontier? Certainly not my autobiography about life in the back of beyond. Sounds like the extended What If version of Brokeback Mountain but it isn't. It's actually an episode of Frontierville. Part of the game involve completing missions such as clearing the grassland, raising the chickens - and oh yes, getting married. Seems the game actually allows the option of choosing a spouse of the same sex.

Gay marriage on Facebook! Hell, you could have knocked me over with a feather. Who knew! If that isn't growing acceptance of homosexuality, I don't know what is.

The naughty possibilities seem endless! Imagine visiting your friendly yet studly neighbour to plow his fields! So many choice ripe cherries to pluck after all. :) Imagine the horror of the religious fundamentalists as they panic hysterically over the homosexual agenda.

But that obviously doesn't interest me as much as the next step. After all traditionally what comes after marriage? Wonder if the game allows child surrogates / adoption!

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 :)

One Night Stand Shirt

Certainly an object no footloose fancy-free bachelor can do without. Especially one who intends to do the dirty.

We all know the rules of the game. When it comes to a one-night-stand, we go in - and then go out. As soon as the act is done, preferably before breakfast is served if possible. But most of us don't have the luxury of coming to work late - and that hasty walk ( sprint? ) of shame through a strange neighbourhood usually leads us straight to the office.

Where we have to try our best to bury all evidence - lest we draw the curious gazes of the office gossips.

So what do we do? After all we fellows know that regular slacks can last a few days at the most - barring some unforeseen accident at the cafeteria. Socks and shoes are no problem as well. Briefs / boxers can be easily dispensed with if needed. Running about commando for one day is still somewhat acceptable.

But the shirt. Especially the working shirt that's a uniform for us average joes. Few bosses would allow an employee to strut about with his shirt wrinkled, mussed and untucked. Every single crease, dirt and smudge would appear on the unforgiving lines, practically a screaming red alarm announcing the sordid details of the night before.

So yes, you do need a One Night Stand Shirt.


Sandy : No, no, I'm a good boy I am!
Like the one hanging incriminatingly in Slim Sandy's car. Just waiting for luck - and that fortunate fellow - to come knocking at his door.

Paul : And what's this?
Sandy : A work shirt?
Paul : Hanging here by its lonesome on a weekend?
Sandy : Just in case.
Paul : It's a One Night Stand shirt, isn't it?
Sandy : Umm... no...
Paul : Umm... you're lying?
Sandy : No... no... I'm not...

With Sandy's fair cheeks flushed a flattering pink, he doesn't make a very convincing liar. Still, at least he's practical. No doubt he has a ready toothbrush and prophylactics tucked neatly into the front pocket!

Bo Peep and Her Black Sheep

Not surprised the particular Bo Peep I know lost her black sheep.

During my weekend back up north, I managed to catch up with a few of my cousins - the notorious Richie Runt included.

Every family has a big black sheep after all. Well, a runt in his case. Falling short of the academic of his other perfectionista cousins, Richie has descended into a path of flunking grades, juvenile truancy and gambling dens.


Richie : So this is how you're gonna keep me out of trouble, cuz?
And who could blame him with a flighty mama like that! Came up to me with happy, happy news, practically clapping her hands with glee.

Bo Peep : Ooh, my son Richie has turned over a new leaf!
Paul : Sure it's not the other side of the same leaf?
Bo Peep : Oh so funny you. I meant that he's changed for the better. Studies harder, concentrates more.
Paul : Good news then.
Bo Peep : Especially since he moved down a class.
Paul : He moved down a class?!
Bo Peep : Yes, far too many notorious gangsters in the class above. So many thugs you won't believe. So he just had to move.
Paul : To a lower class?
Bo Peep : Yes, the headmaster suggested it.

Good God. Richie Runt can't even top a class of uncouth two-bit hooligans? Troublemaking boys who spend their time skiving off from class to apply their brand of juvenile delinquency to the unwary suburbs?

And here's the mother so terribly pleased over his supposed 'achievement'. No wonder Bo Peep lost her black sheep way back in elementary when Richie started hanging out with the wrong crowd. Soon enough he's out baa-ram-ewe-ing with the rest of the big, bad, black flock.

Despite having quite a smart-aleck mouth, Richie isn't all that bad a kid. Just needs a little nudge every now and then to set him on the right path. Isn't it time someone brought him back into the fold with a hard disciplinary rod?