Hows of Hospitality II : The Gay Uncles

Munching on endless mandarin oranges, feasting on seasonal delicacies and tossing firecrackers would be how most of us would spend the entire fifteen days of the Chinese New Year; but let us all not forget that the most important part of the time-honoured celebration would be the reunion of family members from near and far. Yes, whether or not we actually enjoy their continued presence in our lives - though I'm stodgily old-fashioned enough to believe that could be the time to foster closer familial ties if possible.

We can choose our own family these days but that doesn't mean we should give up entirely on the ones we were given. If you've never actually made the conscious effort to know your close relatives, how can you possibly just turn your back thinking they won't be kindred spirits?

But fear not, this isn't going to turn into a raging diatribe on conservative family values.

Let us hope the three gay uncles had a fabulous new year party all on their own!

It has more to do with the three gay uncles I mentioned a while back. Not even my own uncles but the ones belonging to Diffident David. Perhaps not all gay but elderly bachelor uncles they all are. Since the older generation has gone, it should come as no surprise that the bachelor uncles all have their own reunion dinner separate from the rest of their family.

Coming from a terribly inclusive family, I find it utterly shocking to say the least. Can't imagine what my late grandfather would have said if this had happened in our household! Turn in his grave he would!

Paul : Don't you feel for them? Isn't there a shred of empathy somewhere? 
David : Why? 
Paul : They are gay. 
David : They aren't gay. 
Paul : Nonetheless, they are single and alone. There is basically no one else for their reunion dinner. 
David : So? 
Paul : Aren't you asking them over? 

Sadly, you'd have thought the appalling lack of hospitality I mentioned only extends to random acquaintances but apparently it extends to extended family as well. Hoping that he'd changed his mind during the new year turned out to be futile since they weren't invited over for the reunion at all.

Maybe next year?

The Unwanted Matchmaker

With the annual Spring Festival inching its way around the corner, more than a few of my singleton friends would undoubtedly be arming themselves for the relentless pellets of presumption heading their way from meddling relatives, near and far. Me, I've learned to accept it with grace as part and parcel of the entirely Chinese celebration along with the oranges and the firecrackers - but in these days of easily bruised strawberries, such intrusive interrogations seem to have become entirely taboo.

Even a simple query on the status of their marital relations or lack thereof would earn a whiny blubber. So could this be the end of the ever kaypoh matchmaker?

Which would be quite sad actually. Amongst my friends here, I've understandably earned an unfavourable reputation for being the dreaded matchmaker. In almost every social situation with someone new, the first question I would ask is the dreaded one most Asian kids would already know.

Are you married?

And if they are happily single, then the generic follow-up questions on the reasons thereafter and the ever-ready list of eligible bachelors or bachelorettes available in a ten mile radius with their contactable numbers. How the original Tindr worked before cellphones if you're wondering. Before any singletons start proclaiming their love for a single life, let me say this - there is no need to have an eternal flame in your life but that doesn't mean you have to stop searching for that weird and wonderful spark either.

Really.

Pretty sure I've stepped on more than a few toes - and horrified some of the more hypersensitive strawberries around but to that, all I gotta say is toughen up. Seriously. If such teensy inconsequential questions already leave you flailing about in agonizing suspense, you're going to have a lot more troubles in the future. The previous generation - yes those kaypoh aunts and uncles - managed to deal with such unwanted intrusion so why are you so weepy indignant over so little?

Yes, I have little patience with wimps.

But why my peculiar obsession with dating? Simple actually, because we couldn't do it for a really, really long time. All throughout high school, we sat twiddling our thumbs on the sidelines just watching while everyone else - sometimes including the boy we liked - paired off into couples on their first dates. Obviously we all have a tendency to cherish that which we never actually had.

For my single heterosexual friends out there, you really don't know how very lucky you are. No matter how many doubts and worries you might have about the frightful perils of dating, that wouldn't even come close to the mountains we have had to climb as a gay man. Not only do we have to manage all the dating demons that you have, we also have our own peculiarly gay problems to contend with.

Lovey dovey gay couples still aren't all that visible here. 

Such as the fact that despite the strides that have been made in may other places, over here we're still pretty much an ostracized community.

Yes, it's difficult to make that first move. But perhaps you have taken for granted just how easy it is to go over to a bar and slide a drink over to their latest amour. At the very worst, you get a polite rejection. There's no worry that the targeted fellow would send his balled fist across the table instead. There's no worry that the homophobic waitress would dump the tray on the both of you during a date. There's even less worry that all hell will break loose and you'd be attacked by a mob of pitch-fork wielding haters.

Takes A Village

Bringing up a child is no easy matter. Even with two parents around, it's an unenviable - usually thankless - task that takes up endless time and effort.

However lately we seem to have forgotten that the upbringing of a child isn't only wholly dependent on the already overwhelmed parents. Lest we forget it takes a village. Problem is the modern villagers these days seem to think the entire hardship of childrearing shouldn't be their burden to bear.

Even when the child is a part of the family.

The children return to Castle Borgia. 

Something I find difficult to fathom. Especially when it comes from Benedicta Borgia. Seems like the new year brought a real nian 年兽 to their door.

Calvin : Actually we spent the new year babysitting a monster. 
Paul : Not the monsters from under the house? 
Calvin : No. 
Benedicta : You wouldn't believe how obnoxious the child was. Screaming and wailing all day long.
Paul : Well you should have reprimanded the child. 
Benedicta : How could I? 
Paul : How could you not? 
Benedicta : But it's not my child. 
Paul : She's your niece. 
Benedicta : Still not my child. 
Paul : She's part of your family. A quick scold would have sufficed. 
Benedicta : What would the parents think?
Paul : They should know better. 

And if they think otherwise, really I would have given the parents a stern lecture as well.

Despite being seemingly conservative Confucian, the Borgias surprisingly don't seem to hold to all that many traditions and attitudes. Apparently even a niece doesn't count entirely as part of their own. Which I find odd since in my own loud boisterous family, my uncles and aunts - possibly even random unknown elderly folk who aren't even vaguely related - would have walloped me swiftly if I'd stepped over the line. Certainly kept us all in check.

Something I've been doing as a crotchety uncle these days as well; so far, none of the rugrats have defied my evil eye.

Actually cross the line and I would have threatened the proverbial cane. Never believed in sparing the rod. Steadfast child educationists might screech in horror but really, have their namby pamby methods actually produced a finer, better behaved society?

New Year Doldrums

It hasn't been a very good new year here.

Fear not though; nothing untoward has happened. Just been feeling a bit... off lately.

Have I fallen prey to the same seasonal malady like the rest of my peers who find themselves utterly disinterested with the unique charms of the festive season? Doubt it since I still find the time to decorate the house in bold colours of red and gold along with the mandatory spring couplets wishing luck and prosperity at my front door. There's even a papercut diorama of a Chinese lion dance on the cabinet.

Even play the occasional drum-and-cymbals Chinese New Year anthems without cringing.... too much. 

But this year hanging up the red lanterns does seem to be a bit more of a chore than usual. More a matter of habit than pure enjoyment. Perhaps the elders are right to say that the Chinese New Year celebrations were made purely for the young. All the flash, the colour, the noise - all seems to be geared towards celebrating the brash and the bold. 

Everything seems a bit darker this year. 

And admittedly without my brother and his family - who have moved way down south making it harder for them to confirm their attendance year by year, it has become quite a little drearier. Let's not even rehash the increasingly distressing political news in our country. 

Friend : Eh how long will you be back? 

Paul : Probably just a couple of days. 

Friend : So short ah? Why not take longer wor? 

Paul : Really, after the third day of new year, exactly what do you do? 

Really, there's only so much mahjong and kuaci you can take in after one week!

Sigh. Guess I am turning into a regular Scrooge this time of year. So do they have an equivalent for 'Bah! Humbug!' in Chinese? 

Calvin's Red Packet

Although my cousins have known about the existence of Charming Calvin in my life - quite evident from all our lovey-dovey pictures hand-in-hand together in exotic locales, very few have actually attempted to discover more. Some like Lispy Lori have just accepted the fact that he's my boyfriend with very little persuasion; others like Lanky Lacey barely even blinked.

Surprisingly the most reserved fellow of all, Macho Mike, was amongst the curious few - which prompted an unusual conversation on our family chat group a few months back.

Mike : Oh so this Calvin, he's a good friend? 
Paul : Yeah. And more. 
Mike : What does he do? 
Paul : He's an engineer. 
Mike : Well that's really good. 

And that was it. I have no idea exactly what he was trying to unearth about Charming Calvin - was that his idea of a subtle interrogation? - but he seemed satisfied with the minimal explanation given.

Handing out questionaires didn't seem to be the usual way though. Obviously attuned to my sexual proclivities after our one scandalous summer in London, my shockingly canny cousin Hard Rock Harriet didn't even need any explanations. Catching me in one of the darkened alcoves back home, she pulled me aside and handed me an envelope.

Harriet : Here. 
Paul : Is this a bomb?
Harriet : Of sorts. It's a red packet. 
Paul : For me?
Harriet : Yes, I give to my younger siblings. 
Paul : There's more than one packet.
Harriet : One for your Calvin. 
Paul : My Calvin?
Harriet : Yes, your Calvin. 
Paul : Oh. 
Harriet : Bring him over to Hong Kong next time. I want to meet him!
Paul : Oh. 

Oh.

Like w-what just happened?

Small brief poignant moment that left me speechless. Definitely Hallmark-worthy. At the rate my cousins are coming around, looks like I really will have more guests on my side if we did have a wedding.

Gripes of Work

We all gripe about work. Even those in what we erroneously assume would be the cushiest of positions would have the most seemingly frivolous grievance about their job. While we would probably dismiss their concerns, for these embittered souls their woes are certainly real enough.

That's why it's called work. Otherwise it would be a paid vacation.

Though I am comfortable enough in my new position, I still dislike being on-call seemingly forever 24/7. Terribly irksome. Rare though I get called after office hours but each time it happens, I do get more than a little frustrated. Expect the unreasonable hissy fit whenever I receive the dreaded call.

Hmm... I think he's working much less than me!

With all my cousins at least with a foot in the working world already, it's common to air our grievances aloud over the common dinner table. Call it a game of Who Has the Worst Job. Usually the doctors in the family have a generous lead since let's face it, we do work terribly crappy hours. Even the paragon of perfectionistas - our very own Hard Rock Harriet - can whine dreadfully after a cup of chrysanthemum tea.

Harriet : I find so little time for myself these days! I seem to be at work all the time!
Paul : Yeah, I just wanna do nothing at home during the weekends. 
Harriet : But you're always on Facebook!
Paul : The workplace has wifi!
Harriet : Don't you work office hours only? 
Paul : Actually it's less than that. Maybe three to four? 
Harriet : I hate you. 
Paul : But why!
Harriet : I work twelve hours a day including weekends. That's not including oncalls. 
Paul : OMG. 
Harriet : Yes, now go pour me some tea. 
Paul : Now I love my job. 

Certainly gave me a whole new appreciation for my job. Even the occasional 3 am calls doesn't seem so bad anymore.

About the hours she works, I'm starting to wonder whether Harriet actually bonded herself to an inhumane gulag or the paediatrics service. In her case, guess there's not much of a difference. Think my domestic servant actually works less hours than she does!

Baa Baa Black Sheep

'Have you any wool?'

Turns out his parents aren't giving him any. Proverbial bags of wool - or money, in this case.

As always, Chinese New Year is a great time to catch up with friends and family, spinning sensational stories new and old over mountains of kuaci and rivers of oolong tea. Though tales of triumph are always welcome, we all know it's the salacious scandals that always get our ear; from ludicrous adultery to the occasional blacksheepisms.

Said the Black Sheep... 'Now how should I most infuriate my parents today?' 

Yes, I just made up a word but when it comes to the black sheep in the family, Richie Runt, we'd need an entire chapter devoted to his peculiar anachronisms. Rather than reveal a new shining coat of wool with the coming of spring, Richie has instead returned with his usual dour black.

Paul : I heard Richie's taken a job. 
Lori : Yeah, as a sales promoter. 
Paul : That isn't code for ah long, right?
Lori : God I hope not!
Paul : That's a relief. Guess we don't have to bail him out anytime soon yet. Why isn't he attending college then? 
Lori : His parents refused to send him since he only wants to be a deejay. And Richie refuses to study anything else. 
Paul : He wants to be a deejay? That's certainly new!

Okay. It's not the deejay bit that has annoyed me.

Look, lots of talented musicians become extremely successful disc jockeys. But I am pretty sure they worked very hard to perfect their craft; collected records, sampled tunes, mixed their own music etc. With the wonders of sound technology and the various nifty applications these days, amateur deejays can practically do everything on their own - even up to publishing their own songs on public platforms such as Youtube and Soundcloud.

Isn't that what you do when you have such a dream? Back in school when I dreamt of taking up graphic design; I sketched, I drew, I painted, I took part in competitions, I did posters for schools plays and musicals etc. Not a day went by when I didn't have a pencil in hand waiting for a quick doodle.

Unlike what little effort Richie has made to achieve that hypothetical dream of his. When questioned further, he didn't seem all that enthused about his sudden decision either. Not only were his disinterested grunts particularly lacklustre, he didn't even know much about the skills needed to be a proficient disc jockey.

It's like Richie suddenly woke up one morning with a petulant childish whim most guaranteed to drive his conservative parents up the wall. Is it any wonder Bo Peep didn't give in to her black sheep?

团圆 Reunion

While others might decry the smarminess of the bright, brash and bold Chinese New Year, I practically revel in it. After all it only comes once in a year - and without all that fiery pizzazz, it certainly wouldn't be the new year that we know and love!

Certainly a hectic trip this year as I only had slightly more than five days to fit three cities into the packed itinerary. Think Penang, Kuala Lumpur and Malacca. There were times I felt as if we - including my brother and his family - were all on a frenetic tour speeding from one must-see destination to the next with Waze as our guide. But it was worth it as this New Year definitely was cheerier than the last.

And we have the kids to thank for that.

Yes, the tiny tykes from the years before - all the promising progeny of my various cousins - have grown up enough to appreciate the fun and merriment that comes with the Chinese New Year. All the people, all that colour, all that noise - come to think about it, the festival must be tailor-made for kids! Rather than the anxious toddlers of before who would squeal at the raucous sound of firecrackers, this year the surprisingly intrepid kids are organizing fireworks displays right behind our family home.

It is as scary as it sounds.

Reminded me of the times we used to do the same as guileless children. Now we're the responsible adults watching over the frenzied rugrats tossing sparklers this way and that.

And trying to keep them from burning down the hapless neighbour's wooden house.

Certainly wouldn't mind lighting his cracker

Although we had some unexpected help from my niece from Hong Kong.

Niece : This is very bad, almost illegal I'm sure! We should play in the park instead! We could start a fire! 
Cousin : There are no parks here. 
Niece : The fireworks could fly into a high-rise building!
Cousin : There are no high-rise buildings here. It's okay. It's not that dangerous. 
Paul : Is she always like that? 
Cousin : Yeah she wants to be a policewoman. 
Paul : Figures. 

BTW my shockingly law-abiding niece is barely even five. And she translated her admonitions into Mandarin and Cantonese in case none of us understood what she meant.

Mystery of the Disappearing Great Grandpa

Any family reunion is always a time ripe for intense interrogation, intimate interviews and the eventual spilling of clandestine secrets.

Though my taciturn grandmother has proven remarkably hard to crack, despite my best Russian spy techniques. Bribing her with roasted peanuts or plying her with sweet wine doesn't seem to work at all.

Till now none of us have been able to unlock the secrets of her surprisingly mysterious past. With conservative Confucianism still prevalent in China back then, for a mere girl to receive such a surprisingly accomplished, well-rounded education back in the turbulent 1920s certainly hints at a relatively comfortable liberal family. Yet my enigmatic grandmother hardly speaks of her murky past - and never of her family - even after being persistently prodded for answers.

Even on her frequent visits back to China, she never ever returns to her hometown, not even in passing.

What shameful secrets lie in the pictures from the past?

What we know of her only begins when my hopeful grandfather came knocking on the door for her hand in marriage. And even so what made her family desperate enough to send her so far away to what must have seemed a plague-infested tropical hell with an unlettered country bumpkin with very little to recommend him?

Highly suspicious. I've always wondered myself. Would have asked my far more pliable grandfather but the only way of contacting him is through the ouija board.

So several weeks back, one of my more enterprising aunts put up a picture of my grandmother holding up an ancient red-lacquered plaque detailing the innumerable exploits of her presumably eminent family. Most importantly the commemorative stele bore the words 三代五尚书，七科八进士 which means that her illustrious ancestors managed to pass the imperial examinations with flying colours and were frequently promoted to state ministers.

Aunt : I have finally found the family secret.
Paul : We're secretly descended from princes, pirates or paupers?
Aunt : Neither. Grandmother's family. Take a look at this picture. 
Paul : That's it? Was hoping they were a village of secret ninja-like assassins, or perhaps an ancient royal family betrayed and hunted down by their enemies.
Aunt : You do have a great imagination.
Paul : If not, why is grandmother keeping her illustrious family a secret? What bad times came upon the family? Why hide all this? Why has she never returned even once to her village? I bet she killed someone.
Aunt : No la! Anyway if she wants to know, she'll tell us!
Paul : Better tell us soon! What if she left behind a secret family in mainland China! We could intermarry with them in the future!
Aunt : Choi!

That wasn't the family secret. We already knew she came from a relatively distinguished reputable family. It's what happened after that which is kept hidden from the rest of us.

Ashamed possibly of her father - our missing great-grandfather? Or maybe her indolent ne'er-do-well father gambled the dwindling family fortunes away? Or he was the overly enthusiastic royal executioner who chopped off one too many heads? The possibilities are endless. 

What Happens to Old Kopitiams When They Die?

With her more well-bred, educated ( though somewhat mysterious ) background, my sensible grandmother has always revered education as her personal pantheon. Despite having some ill-formed doubts, my working-class grandfather, not knowing any better and far more awed by the intelligentsia, obviously capitulated easily when it came to schooling their numerous progeny.

Like the majority of earnest, diligent Chinese immigrants back then, they've always hoped for their prolific descendants to study hard to graduate as doctors, lawyers, engineers etc. Climbing the social ladder so to speak. So even with the meagre earnings from the family coffeeshop, all my uncles and aunts managed to scrape through high school - and yes, the peers of my own generation consequently got browbeaten into returning with, at the very least, a university degree.

Leaving the unfortunate family coffeeshop as the inadvertent victim of their own success, you would say.

Since now, the old coffeeshop seems to be sadly languishing in need of urgent direction. Hardly the money-spinner it was in the post-colonial heydays, the metal grilles of the gate lie open on a daily basis but few customers trickle in, more from the dismal lack of dishes on the menu than anything else. Literally a coffeeshop these days since that's almost all that's on offer these days.

A cup of coffee anyone?

Overly educated with books and degrees, few of us pampered college boys can handle the zealous back-breaking work required to run a simple coffeeshop. Mixing a simple cuppa wouldn't be that difficult for me but I doubt I could handle more than that. Not that my conservative grandmother would even hear of such a thing.

Paul : Maybe it's time one of us came back to run the coffeeshop. 
Grandma : Good God WHY!
Paul : Someone has to! It's a family legacy. 
Grandma : I didn't send you all to college and university just to return here to roast coffee beans!
Paul : You'd be surprised at what we're learning at university these days. 
Grandma : Don't even think about it! It's such awfully laborious, time-consuming work!
Paul : But -
Grandma : You work with your brains, not with your hands. In air-conditioned carpeted offices not the sweltering kitchens.
Paul : Trust me, my brains don't work that much actually.
Grandma : Put it out of your mind, we shall just leave shop as it is. 

Like many other similarly abandoned coffeeshops around the older quarters of town. Old downtown kopitiams left behind as the younger generation moves on to easier, more profitable enterprises.

Of course unbeknownst to her - probably much to her horror - some of my more entrepreneurial cousins and I have started coming up with ambitious new proposals on how to refurbish the coffeeshop and make it work. Artisanal coffee maybe? Perhaps even a stylish bed & breakfast?

Smiles of Fortune

Abundant prosperity certainly seemed to be the order of the day back home from the endless array of dishes

Not to mention the surprisingly muscular, tanned forearm that wrapped around my neck as I leaned over to get another bite of red wine chicken. Normally having such manly biceps curled around me wouldn't be reason enough for me to squeal but at the family reunion dinner, it certainly gave me reason to nervously jump from my seat.

Turns out my hot somewhat-cousin Preppy Phillip, who makes the occasional rare disturbingly titillating appearance, was back for the reunion dinner as well. All six feet of hale, healthy hail-fellow-well-met affability.

Nigh impossible to focus on what he's saying when I keep looking at his chest. Damn.

With me thinking of nefarious reasons to climb over the wall into his bedroom for the night. Thank God for old style coffeeshops with flimsy wooden partitions to split the various rooms.

Paul : Damn, hot cousin back.
My ISO : That Preppy Phillip fellow? 
Paul : Yes!
My ISO : So you're gonna share some brotherly love this time?
Paul : Don't tempt me! And he has no girlfriend at the moment. Odd. 
My ISO : Who knows, he might have seen the light! 
Paul : Not gonna listen to you. 
My ISO : Maybe he's on Grindr now! Bet he looks good shirtless. 
Paul : Dammit. Now I am curious.

It was worth a try. And I am a snoop anyhow.

Hard to tell from homosocial apps such as Grindr especially when most closet-cases keep their identities and faces carefully hidden - nevermind the fact that their entire ripped torso remains bared to the world. One particularly scrumptious fellow with astonishingly perky pectorals turned out to be mere metres away and I kept stealing glances at Phillip wondering whether it was actually him.

Under that tight red tee, his chest certainly looked sculpted enough.

Thought of sending a message but something stopped me. A gay cousin? If homosexuality can be linked to genetics, there would be a higher preponderance of it recurring in a family! Ever wondered whether you had a relative who was gay?

The New Year Miracle

If you'd recall, a week ago I was pretty bummed, to say the least, when I realized I wouldn't be returning home for the coming Chinese New Year. Certainly cast a dismal cloud over the entire week making me crabby as hell at work - since that was the main culprit preventing me from participating in that annual spring exodus home.

A little hard finding a locum replacement when everyone else I knew - who could do the job - would be heading back to their hometowns same as me.

Damn, knew I shouldn't have packed that many oranges. 

Till someone stepped out from nowhere with a peculiar proposition. Covering a couple of places at one go? A bit chancy. A bit insecure. A bit perilous. But it was the only offer on hand.

However my staff turned out to be unequivocal in their support.

Paul : Don't know whether I should. A bit risky no?
Miranda : Just go ahead. Not like anyone else is gonna be around at work. 
Paul : True. 
Miranda : Even if you stayed, no one would be appreciative of the sacrifice anyway. 
Paul : Even more true. 
Miranda : And you always said family comes before work.
Paul : True. Fuck it all, I am gonna get the tickets now. 

Didn't need any more convincing, that's for sure. So that's why I'm going home.

Happy Chinese New Year to you all! 

Diet of Oranges & Crackers

There are times when I actually despair over the sheer superficial shallowness of my fellow gay brothers. Sigh.

Sure, I like to look good. Hitting the gym regularly to get down to my fighting weight ( and to hopefully avoid the much dreaded myocardial infarction ) does have its little benefits. Dressing well and suiting up happens to be one of my sweet lil pleasures in life. However that doesn't mean I check myself out in every mirror I walk by.

Neither do I dedicate my life wholly to the body beautiful. Unlike Mercurial Marshall who has started counting calories these days.

Paul : Wanna go grab a bite for dinner? 

Marshall : Can't do that for the next few weeks.

Paul : What? You're not eating dinner for the next few weeks? 

Marshall : Only till Chinese New Year. Just gonna stir up some salad at home. 

Paul : A diet of twigs and leaves for Chinese New Year? 

Marshall : Yeah.

Paul : You're not trying to squeeze into a red qipao are you? 
Marshall : No!
Paul : How would nibbling nuts and berries showcase any prosperity?

Marshall : But I'd be able to wear my red tank top and white shorts.

Paul : For the reunion?

Evidently yes since Mercurial Marshall has been subsisting on meagre bird feed for the past few weeks.

A diet for Chinese New Year? Now I've heard of everything.

Fags of a Feather

They do say that discretion is the better part of valour.

Certainly rings true when it comes to the budding homosexual hiding his shameful secret in the deep dark dimensions of the proverbial closet. Sometimes there really is not much room for boundless valour in the restrictive confines of our highly conservative society.

I don't look that obviously gay, do I? 

Which gives rise to an entire battalion of silent gay comrades in the verdant fields of Miri. All highly discreet. All shockingly macho. All surprisingly deep-voiced. All living in fear of the accidental unmasking. Makes a celebratory new year dinner with them fraught with incipient danger as the likelihood of inadvertent exposure increases with intimate association. Fags of a feather and all that.

Paul : Isn't red the prevailing theme for the dinner?
Friend :  That colour's just a bit too daring! Too shocking!
Paul : But gays love themes!
Friend : Don't say gay!
Paul : And red is great! You prefer to blend into the drab nondescript bleh surroundings? 

And that was only the beginning. Basically all the much-touted guidelines for gay men were taboo. V-necks had to be covered up. Speaking with air quotes was out. Hand-waving was a definite no-no.

And God forbid you speak in a high-pitched tenor.

Felix : OMG! That is super fabulous, girlfriend!
Friend : Shh. People might be looking.
Paul : And get my evil stare in return. 
Felix : They'd be frozen dead.
Friend : Just tone it down a little.

Since everyone else was trying their best to butch it up, for once Fabulous Felix and I felt like the gayest, most out advocates in the city. A peculiar feeling since we usually tend to blend into the unassuming crowd without our feather-laden, neon-tinted drag outfits. Contrary fellow that I am, I tend to become even more obviously stereotypically gay when specifically asked not to.

Discretion can be the better part of valour. But I'll admit it can be highly irritating as well. 

The Silent War

Nothing says Chinese New Year more than the gleeful handing out of red packets along with inappropriately probing questions on whether that steadfastly single someone's finally tying the knot!

Much to the utmost dread of the gay community here; who mostly deal with such horrific family reunion hurdles with staunch denial, persisting antagonism or perpetual absentia. Some even start making up increasingly preposterous excuses to avoid going home for the reunion.

Obviously I have been on the receiving end of the red packet interrogation this past three decades or so, embarrassingly so I'll admit. Especially when it has become quite apparent that my net worth seriously outweighs the elderly relatives who still dole me out spare change in the red packets. Almost impossible to refuse that wrinkled old aunt who presses that special red packet into your hand with renewed prosperity wishes for the year to come.

Which is why I usually reciprocate by singlehandedly subsidizing the family meals for the next few days. And the occasional pink packets for the really young kids.

Sorry lil kids but only oranges from Uncle Paul this year. 
Blame it on the fiscal cliff. 

But it's the younger cousins, those who are junior to me and already married in the heteronormative fashion, who sometimes irritate me with their assumed smugness.

Cousin : Do better next year yeah.
Paul : Compared to who? You?
Cousin : Well yes! Time to get married like me!
Paul : Please, that wouldn't take much effort. My boyfriend is a worth a dozen of that spoilt little princess you married. That pampered primadonna who currently holds your baby as if she were handling soiled garbage. 

Many are the times I've wanted to respond with a scathing rejoinder but for the sake of familial harmony, of course I keep mum. So I satisfy myself with the occasional eye-roll whenever the lil princess acts up in an unseemly fashion. Like when she squeals horrifically over the toddler spitting up on her designer dress. Or falls into a heady swoon from the sultry tropical heat.

Okay, maybe I do snicker a little as well.

And yes, I do feed the baby sticky chocolatey stuff to smear down her dress. Never said I was perfect.

You Look Fat

Think almost everyone would recoil from such a straightforward matter-of-fact comment.

Politically correct Anglophiles would probably squeal in horror over the opprobrious effrontery. For us plain-speaking Asians - only when it comes to family you understand, it would probably be just another shockingly brusque greeting at the dreaded reunion followed by the typical probing questionaire under the blinding interrogation lamps. Forget about political correctness or positive reinforcement. Think we can agree that elderly Asian relatives never are shy about offering their unsuitable ill-timed critiques.

Me, I'm not worried. Desultory comments, especially those concerning how I look, usually doesn't faze me much. Basically my prodigious self-worth is not inherently tied to my below-average looks.

And yes, I know for a fact that I have lost a couple of pounds.

Though the blench, cringe and drawback from such an inappropriate comment always makes me smile. You Look Fat. Why are so many of us disproportionately affected by such superficial judgements? Why do we even care what other people think? Gets much worse if you even attempt denigrating someone's looks.

Paul : Gosh, that's an ugly kid. 
Snow : You can't say that! All kids are beautiful.
Paul : Have you seen this troll? Look again.
Snow : Stop it, you can't say that.
Paul : It's the truth. 

And there's nothing wrong with it. I'm pretty ugly myself and I don't see the big deal about it. Beauty really is skin deep, in fact probably only millimetres deep. Cut us all up and we don't look very much different from that sculpted six-pack male model on the billboard.

You mean I'm ugly? And fat?

Doesn't make the kid any less. Doesn't make him or her less talented, less intelligent, less anything... just not as physically desirable as we would all hope - or at least not as close to the recommended standards of beauty dictated by the all-important arbiters of taste at Madison Avenue.

So what's wrong with a bit of tough love? Even when they say it, I don't think our decidedly inapropos Asian aunts and uncles mean it as a derisive slam. It's just a matter-of-fact, like claiming that the sky is blue or the clouds are white. So you're ugly. Or fat. Like our straight-talking, far more pragmatic Asian relatives would say 'So what though, just accept the indisputable fact and move on, will ya? Find something else to be good at.'

New Year Predictions

Oftentimes it doesn't actually come true but who can possibly resist listening to the yearly predictions? Based on the ancient Chinese astrological charts, the renowned masters usually come on stage to deliver their scholarly predictions for the different zodiac animals around this time of year. 

Better luck with work and business this year? Guess they should have added the fact that an unbalanced overemphasis on career would probably mean far less time for the home and family.

Which is why I'm not going home for Chinese New Year.

Never thought it would bum me out but it certainly has cast a disconsolate pall on my everyday activities for the past few days. Draping Netherfield in auspicious red banners and lighting up the decorated lanterns just isn't the same now that I know I'll be spending the festival day itself here - all me, myself and I. Possibly weeping as I peel my one and only mandarin orange. Blame damned unceasing work at the hospital and a serious lack of locum tenens to provide cover for me.

Orange for one anyone? 

Marking the first time in my more than three decades of life that I have not successfully returned for the Spring Festival. Curses!

Paul : Dammit, I can't go home for Chinese New Year! *sob*
Calvin : Well I'll be back home anyway. We can see each other.
Paul : But there will be no reunion dinner for me! My Fuzhou red wine chicken! *sob*
Calvin : Can't provide you that but I can offer you some Hakka delights.
Paul : Is that a kinky sex proposition?
Calvin : No. 
Paul : What is it?
Calvin : Why don't you join my family at the reunion table?
Paul : What?!
Calvin : There would be some of my relatives there of course. But not too many, maybe four or five tables.
Paul : What?!

Certainly never saw that coming.

Trust Charming Calvin to come up with the right thing to say as a serious distraction. Me? The controversial persona non grata making a late appearance at his family reunion with fifty of his indignant relatives sitting in judgement? Not to mention his seething mother, the antagonistic Madame Borgia, balefully scrutinizing me from across the table?

Even I couldn't predict what awaits me there.

Black Sheep Returns

Chinese New Year is a time when the family gathers at the ceremonial altar to pay their respects to their distant ancestors, hoping to be showered with future blessings especially when it comes to the next generation.

Guess we must have missed that particular benediction this year since it seems the black sheep in the family has started to live up to his name. After several generations of dull, nondescript law-abiding citizens, maybe he figures it's time we had some notoriety to shake things up!

A while back I made an ominous prediction that we'd probably have to raise funds to bail out my prodigal cousin one day - and it looks like my cousin Richie Runt is doing all he can to turn that into a self-fulfilling prophecy. Unsatisfied with merely extorting protection fees from even smaller runts, it seems that Richie has set his sights a bit higher by resorting to a bit of petty thievery instead.

Seriously don't know which is worse.


Dammit, how else to distinguish myself from the rest of my upstanding cousins! Maybe with a suitably colourful rap sheet? Maybe if I rob a bank?
Didn't take long after the reunion dinner before Lispy Lori pulled me aside to fill me in with the sordid details.

Lori : We think Richie Runt has been stealing from the coffeeshop till.
Paul : WTF. Are you sure?
Lori : Yes, we have proof. We didn't believe it ourselves until we saw the evidence. Video-cams and all that.
Paul : I hold him down, you break his arms and legs.
Lori : Wait, there's more.
Paul : So you brought it to the attention of his parents?
Lori : That actually made it worse. Well, you know his mother.

To compound to the nearly insurmountable problems faced by Richie Runt, his mother - the erstwhile Bo Peep - has not only lost any semblance of control over her black sheep, it seems she has lost her head as well. Rather than proffer any solid evidence to counter the supposedly erroneous accusations, our increasingly agitated Bo Peep instead forced her son to kowtow before said ancestral altar to proclaim his unsullied innocence.

While she provided increasingly shrill whines and wails to accompany the hysterical dramatics. Weepy Korean drama heroines couldn't possibly hold a candle to her imagined pathos.

Lori : Made her son Richie swear on the graves of his ancestors that he had never done any such thing on pain of having his limbs summarily broken.
Paul : Wow. Drama. Make cuts on their wrists to prove their innocence too?
Lori : Wish they had. I only thought it happened on television.
Paul : Evidently it's based on our family. Wish I was there though.
Lori : With your temper, you'd probably have strangled them both.
Paul : Quite likely. But I'd have taken a video of the ensuing hysterics for youtube first.
Lori : Sell the video instead so we can save the money to bail him out one day.

At the rate Richie Runt is regressing, I think that might be a strong possibility. Since he's turning eighteen soon, even juvenile court isn't going to save him anymore.

Prosperity Colours

Hopefully by the time you're reading this, I'd have found my bright canary yellow shirt.

Ever since my cousins and I started earning our very own paychecks, we have started this tradition of dressing up for Chinese New Year. Buying snazzy new gear from head to toe isn't just for the kids anymore! And each year, we tend to stick to a particular theme to match.

Much to my everlasting dismay, someone picked yellow this year as an homage to our family name!

Bet none of you would be terribly surprised but this town isn't exactly a renowned mecca of fashion - actually quite the opposite - so finding a reasonably dapper man's shirt in a shade of yellow is almost impossible. Turns out men's shirts here are only available in the usual conservative blacks, blues and greens.

And unfortunately everything else less conventional turned out to be unashamedly tacky... with metal hooks / zippers / rubber implements.

Or it's a yellow golf tee.

Unless I want to dress up as a Taiwanese pop icon ready for the stage or a golf course caddy, I figure I'd better head back home to find a better fit.


Dammit, maybe if it's dark they won't notice it's not exactly yellow.
So to all who are heading home for the reunion, have a Happy Chinese New Year!

Dragon Comes Knocking

Since both arrive around the new year, I call them fraternal twins.

One is quieter, gentler, more subdued with just a touch of sparkle and glamour around her. While the other is bold, brazen and brassy with a whole lot of flash. One has silent nights with perfectly decorated trees full of tinsel and gold, with tables full of brandied puddings and roasted turkeys galore. The other has raucous days with far flung relations reunited at the table, with firecrackers popping and cymbals clashing.

Doesn't make one better than the other, just breathtakingly different and I love them both equally.


Do we even have to choose?
However dedicated fans of the classy Noel decry the innate tackiness of Spring, staring aghast at the jarring shades of gold and red that adorn her, shutting their ears to the discordant tunes that she adores.

Paul : Can't wait! The Spring Festival is coming!
Buddy #1 : Ugh, why do you like it?
Paul : Why wouldn't I!
Buddy #1 : If given the choice, I would extend Christmas and hold off the Spring Festival for as long as possible.
Buddy #2 : Everything about Christmas is calm and peaceful, while everything about the Spring Festival is noisy, intruding and tacky.
Buddy #1 : Like our relatives..thankfully. Most of us only see them once a bloody year!
Buddy #2 : Don't forget the horrible tok tok chiang music!
Paul : But all that blinding tackiness makes it unique!

Fine. I can see how gay men would find the family reunion synonymous with the Spring Festival extremely exasperating - especially with the endless probing questions from the nosy relatives. Over here, Christmas can be spent with a select group of like-minded friends but come the Spring Festival, there's simply no escaping blood relations.

But apart from that inevitable aggravation, surely the Spring Festival offers quite as many reasons to love it!

Tacky? I'll readily admit some of the tasteless bling associated with the Spring Festival 春节 - or Chinese New Year - is almost impossible to incorporate into any quietly tasteful home decor. Brilliant scarlets and flashy gold in the living room all year long immediately brings to mind the gaudy tastes of a nouveau riche Chinese towkay.

And surely no one can listen to the cacophonous Chinese New Year songs 24/7 throughout the year without turning certifiably insane.

But celebrated only once a year for fifteen days with all that crazy pomp and ceremony - isn't that the very reason we all love the Spring Festival? Plastering the entire house with auspiciously red paper cuttings? Having the entire rambunctious family gathering at one table to duel over dumplings and meatballs? Waking up early the next morning to dress in our spanking new clothes to receive the cherished red packets?

Honestly I don't think I'd like the Spring Festival half as much if it were celebrated in hushed, subdued moderation. Replacing the dissonant Chinese New Year songs with a reverent carol would be nigh sacrilegious! Even right now I have the strident songs blaring from my laptop speakers - and will probably do so till the day itself.


The fact that it's loud, lively and lusty is why I love it! So bring on the cymbals, the drums and the crackers. In fact I think I'll have a party of my own to celebrate as well!