Loft, Lobsters and Loot

Some of you must be asking so what did I do on the second day? Spent most of my time on the island today actually, which gives me a brief half hour to update since wifi spots abound here.

1) Loft

Waiters galore
Morning was a visit to the Loft, supposedly a trendy, upmarket dining concept. Think overpriced food court :) Still, the food was great, the view was excellent ( had a lovely panoramuc view of the North Channel ) and the service was sublime. Sublime meaning some droolsome young waiters in tight black pants of course ( unfortunately unlike the ones above ).

And did I mention they have free wifi?

2) Lobsters

Or sea creatures at the least. Think crabs and lobsters. Think seashells and mussels. And think in large amounts. Still happily ensconsced in communal living, my extended family doesn't order anything in small amounts and the plates literally overfloweth. Certainly a feast worthy of a mrauding army - which actually correctly describes the barbaric carnivorous lot that I'm related to :)

None of the crabs made it out alive , especially with my brother and my cousins hard at work sucking out every last succulent morsel of flesh. Getting heartily bored of the eating process, I made it out of the bustling seafood village and made my way to the mall.

You can't be expecting me to go fishing again after yesterday!?

3) Loot

Of course like any good counter-revolutionary, I just had to pay a visit to the local DVD pirate. Sure, the sophisticated KLite pirate can easily satisfy all my needs but lately with all the draconian raids going on, he has been lying low. Possibly keeping to his wine, women and song in some outlying pirate shack. Fortunately up North the sly, dyed-blond pirates seem to be a little more elusive to the unfriendly authorities since quite a number are still operating freely in these waters.

But isn't it the case that whenever I finally make it to the friendly DVD pirate, I find that I can't think of thart particular movie that I want to see?

Hairdressers, Hooks and Heels

For those who think that small towns off the beaten track are dull, slow-moving places, you wouldn't be far wrong. Of course that's also part of the charm which is why I always find it such a relief to find myself back in the old coffeehouse staring at the grandfather's clock as time itself seems to tick just a little slower than most.


Hell, what do I do next!!
Leaving me with so much more time to play with that I usually fill my hours here with dozens of activities. Back in the city, it's tiring enough to even make it for a movie! Over here, I have cousins who actually go for complete spa treatments, shop for a new dazzling ensemble before dinner and a movie.

Now, what do you have to say for small towns now?

Still, I didn't do any of that today. Though my female cousins all made appointments for a spa treatment today. Not sure exactly why since we're scheduled for some sweaty cemetery housekeeping this weekend. Maybe they intend to appear as ravishing as possible while picking grotty moss and weeds off beaten gravestones.

1) Hairdressers

I did get a haircut though, although that hardly counts. Have to admit that the hairapy service given here surely goes above and beyond the norm.

Not only did I get a haircut lasting almost half an hour oddly enough, I also got a cup of tea, some edibles and also a post-haircut massage that... well, if I overtipped just a little bit more I think I could have gotten an erotic Dance of the Seven Veils from the overenthusiastic hairdresser / wannabe masseuse. Halfhearted neck massages are fine by me and seems to be the norm but the slutty small town stylist didn't see fit to stop only there and though I managed to keep my expression straight when she reached lower down my back, when her scarlet-tipped nails started going below the belt I almost jumped off my seat.

I don't think I ordered a brazilian wax! Does it count as sexual harassment when the customer is molested?

That unusual incident didn't sour my small town weekend though since I found it ultimately hilarious - and certainly worth blogging about. Couldn't help telling my cousin Macho Mike though since he seemed to be the only guy around with the girls all off primping.

2) Hooks

Macho Mike would be my stolid, bovine-like cousin who'd easily pass for a linebacker with his placid grunts and tank-like shoulders. When I started telling him more about the Dance of the Seven Veils, he gave another one of his unintelligible mumbles again and handed me his rod.

No. Come on, it's my cousin. Nothing as wildly inappropriate as that but a plain fishing rod. Seems like the man had decided that it was time I took up a manly sport - rather than my normal unmasculine pursuits such as shopping and disco-dancing.

Not gonna describe the whole horrific experience since I found it absolutely nightmarish - and I slept through half of it anyway. I mean, how interested can I be watching nothing nibble at my bait ( which Mike thoughtfully provided with the requisite creepy crawlies ). Still it was pleasant sitting by the muddy creek under the dappled sunlight as I closed my eyes with mellow Jack Johnson playing on my MP3.

3) Heels

Of course even as I write this, my evening is not done. Why heels? Well after the spa treatments, my pretty cousins all in a row came down in their fuck me heels for a night out. Lispy Lori even managed to squeeze her assets into an illegal dress that would shock even our incorrigible granny. Fortunately I have several younger male cousins cast in the same vein as Macho Mike who'd serve as proper bodyguards.

Haven't finished yet - though I begged off for a few seconds to blog. Last I heard there was talk of going for sangria and tapas.

Scent of a Woman

Rather than the usual daily mall-hopping, we decided to do something a little different today. Took a walk instead through the cobbled streets of 18th Century Paris, braving the noxious smells of the muddy river mingled with the sweat and stench of the unwashed masses as we shoved our way through bustling traders, bourgeois merchants and snooty aristos holding their noses high.


The beautiful and the ugly
And oh yes, as we edged our way through the periphery, we also noticed an unusually lean, hungry-eyed perfumer going by the name of Jean-Baptiste Grenouille peddling his wares even while he eyed a sweet virginal redhead making her way through the crowd.

Charming Calvin swears that I'm misjudging the perfumer - those evil eyes! - but God knows what he actually intended to do with her.


But I just wanted to make sweet smelling potions!
Perfume : The Story of a Murderer tells the story from the point of view of our strange, enigmatic perfumer whose incomparable sense of smell and inexplicable lack of a personal scent isolates him from the rest of society. Almost maniacally obsessed with the layered sensory world he alone inhabits, he develops a single-minded obsession in life to distillate the preservation of the perfect scent, characterized by a ravishing yet distant redhead he'd once fallen for. Think spectacular visual feast as the historical smells and sights of Paris as well ( both the beautiful and the ugly ) as rural Grasse in Provence are brought to literal life. :)

Unfortunately as we learn from Grenouille's increasingly unstable acts in collecting his own essential oils ( think blunt trauma, unwilling victims and boiling cauldrons as our obsessive perfumer cuts a homicidal swath through the ladies ), not all are content to only stand and stare ( and smell, in his case ). Although our peculiar anti-hero protagonist is pretty hard to root for, I find myself a little unnerved by the fact that I find it easy enough to predict - and even imagine the monstrous things that he did.

Damn if I'm not turning out to be a little Hannibal Rising.

Honestly though I think a very fine line separates us supposedly sane folks from the would-be criminally insane, hopefully locked up in padded cells muttering Clarice in their disturbed sleep. Stray but a little from that line and bloody mayhem ensues since I believe that every man, given the right provocation and with the correct extenuating circumstances, wouldn't hesitate to kill. Of course some need a little less provocation than others.

But it's still just shocking how such a tiny shred of conscience ( and perhaps unshakeable faith ) can prevent us from committing the heinous acts that we ponder about silently in our heads.

Then again, perhaps I'm the only one with the wicked intentions :)

Rear Window

What do you get when you look out your window?

Never actually asked myself that since for years I've always been the guy with the unenviable rear window. Made sense since as a younger kid, I usually took the back room which inevitably faced the alley. Not much of a view, I'm afraid, apart from staring directly at the closed window shutters of the house behind. Or else at the stray cats fussily picking on the leftover garbage tossed out the back.

Fortunately no mysterious murders with shockingly silhouetted scenes of bloodied stabbings or even hastily disposed bodies carried furtively through the back door. Certainly wouldn't want to know what everyone else did last summer.

Fortunately these days I've graduated from all that with an enviable view of the street from my pseudo-balcony. Even have the view of several trees offering shade.


Ah, you're the perv watching me!
Given me a whole new hobby these days turning me into one of those busybody snoopy neighbours you see only on Desperate Housewives. Not that I have a gorgeous built stud offering me man-candy pay-per-view directly opposite ( that's the young hunk next door ) but it's interesting watching poignant little vignettes of life playing just outside my window, even as I type this.

Good fellas making plans for later that night, talking about it at the porch while they rev their pimp mobiles in anticipation. Tired housewives brushing their hair at the dressing table while counting the mind-boggling number of chores still left undone. The exhausted partner desperately slapping himself awake to keep up with the latest sports scores even as the remote dangles off his hand.

And me, the semi-conscious physician, keeping watch as the world goes by.

Beercan Boy

Something interesting happened last night.

No. It had nothing to do with ten wet naked marines, a cramped shower and hungry little me.

What happened was a phone call, an impatient man and a broken heart.

My ISO : Hey, you free?
Paul : Not really. Anything?
My ISO : You're lying around at home doing nothing, aren't you?
Paul : Stop reading my mind, bitch.
My ISO : Dinner in twenty. Beercan Boy extends his invitation.

Okay, I admit my friends and I do have an appalling tendency to give awfully unflattering nicknames to everyone and their mothers. Several discreditable names have gone through our roster from Bad Handbag Lady to Stained Underwear Guy. Don't even want to know what they call me when I'm out of earshot. Fag Doc? Saint Wicked?

But I digress.

FYI. Beercan Boy is one of my old schoolmates who actually lives really close by - nice sweet bambi-eyed guy really - but we rarely get the chance to meet, me being busy with love and career ( and a demanding boyfriend ) and Beercan Boy being embroiled in various entanglements with his on-off-on-again girlfriend. My ISO and I coined the name for him six months back during a wedding dinner when Beercan Boy appeared all heartbroken, woozy and alone - shockingly without his high school girlfriend. I say shockingly because for years back in school, Beercan Boy and his sweetheart, Anorexia Alice were the nauseatingly annoying, attached-at-the-hip together-forever Richandamy couple of the school.

Seems like Anorexia Alice decided to opt for a sexy, foreign hip replacement leaving Beercan Boy miserably bereft with a broken heart and a beer bottle. Needless to say, he spent the dinner getting awfully drunk - and spent the drive afterwards getting awfully sick.


One too many beer cans
Hence the name.

Despite our heart-to-heart talk that night six months ago, Beercan Boy didn't seem to have entirely gotten over his failed affair. Possible retrograde amnesia a result of the hurled up liquor along with eight courses of bad Chinese wedding dinner. And possibly a sudden relapse when he saw Anorexia strolling happily together with her new hip replacement, seemingly oblivious to him - the walking wounded.

Still, a limping friend in need.

Of course my far from tactful ISO was brutal as could be. As was I. I know as friends we should sympathize like Oprah, let him vent his troubles and hold his trembling hand. Maybe even shed empathetic tears with him while offering dark chocolates and Rocky Road. But we already did that six months back. And we're guys. And that's just not us.

And probably Beercan Boy didn't need all that liberal talkshow lovin' since he was the one who called us.

We gave him tough love. And without sweet, sweet alcohol to numb the pain either.

My ISO : Breakups are crap and we all hate it. But it's over. She's moved on dammit.
Paul : And it's time you did as well.
My ISO : So stop mooning and hanging over her.
Paul : What he said.
Beercan : You're gonna give me the plenty of fish in the sea comment.
My ISO : Well you're not exactly a trout but I'm sure some tuna's gonna go for you one day ... if you're lucky.
Paul : Perhaps a guppy.
Beercan : You're both assholes.
Paul : Who are sticking you with the dinner bill.
My ISO : Really? Let's get dessert!

A friend in need indeed.