Insecurities

Insecurities.

We all have them. Not only the hideous trolls around but yeah, even the cutest, smartest, most popular prince charming out there in high school. Though some insecurities might not be as apparent or as loud as others, they are always there. Whether it's the low-key anxiety over the lack of looks, talent or brains - or far more embarassingly, foolishly freaking out over the insignificant pimple on that otherwise flawless sculpted ass.

Or perhaps even that friend of mine inexplicably worrying over how the back of his head looks.

Like anyone would fall heads over heels over the back of anyone's head.

But I digress. Only with age do you look back and realize how foolish it is worrying over such inconsequential nonsense - especially when faced with far bigger issues such as the inevitable death and taxes. Millennials might whine that their personal problems can't be compared in severity with others - but really, that gap between your teeth that could hurt your visual appeal is nothing compared to a cancerous tumour that might kill you.

Which amused me today at the gym when I saw this young collegiate hunk checking himself out in the ubiquitous gym mirrors by the showers. Shirtless of course. He's one of those smoothly rosy-cheeked, effortlessly good looking fellows who wouldn't look out of place as an instagram hottie - so it surprised me to see him keep patting his evident six pack in search of nonexistent love handles.

With body image issues so prevalent these days, even he's insecure.

Don't think there's an ounce of fat there.
Maybe the back of the head? 

Since he was putting on a show, I obviously had to give him an audience. Though I would have liked to tell him that he looked fine. Actually, more than fine.

And if he wanted to look for hidden fat, I could run my hands over his taut physique to find them. Helping hands and all that. 

The Old and the New

Yes, it's been a while since I've written.

Not that I've entirely abandoned writing - never that - but these days I've been otherwise preoccupied. You see, I've rediscovered an old love of mine; and that has led me to stray just a little.

Hence the time away. Fear not though, worry warts. Charming Calvin and I are doing perfectly fine - in fact we just came back from a romantic evening walk checking out the budding new cafes in town.

My old and rediscovered love is for the humble lil pencil.

Years back as a child, I was the ultimate doodler. Once I could reasonably pick up that trusty old pencil, I scratched bold graphite on every possible surface I could find. Even now, a quick investigation of my old bedroom would probably uncover some hastily scribbled doodle on the wall in whatever medium I was using back then, from kiddie crayons to pencils. Never too far from some wildly ambitious artistic project!

Always time for a sketch!

Much later when my father was in and out of the hospital, the pencil helped me while away the time as I drew little sketches on the edges of my notebooks. Certainly drove away the incessant boredom at some of my more boring classes. Even more so during the interminably dull lectures in university where the didactic professors would drone on and on about human physiology. So to the pencil I found refuge, doodling caricatures of my crusty old tutors for a laugh.

But as I started the grueling years of my housemanship, I somehow left the pencil behind. Rushing for ward rounds with the prosaic pen in my white coat pocket, there seemed little time and opportunity to sketch. All regrettably sacrificed on the preeminent altar of medicine.

Can certainly afford the most gorgeous pencils these days. Even the best material money could buy. But I somehow lacked the drive.

Till Inktober came along.

For the sadly uninitiated, Inktober is basically an art challenge that prompts daily sketches every day for a month. Nudged along by some of my artsy friends in the art market, it wasn't long before I was spending almost every day doodling according to the prompt of the day. Don't think I've ever been that happy whiling away the hours. Though I might spend ages on just a tiny lil sketch, I found myself far more satisfied with the time used!

Since then I've filled several sketchbooks - albeit really small A5 ones - since I do my best sketches at work. Hanging around waiting for the next crisis to happen seems to be the best time for me to center and calm myself down with a quick doodle.

Makes me wonder sometimes why I left this love behind.

Twitter-Age

Though sometimes I gotta say it can be more like Twitter-Rage.

It's been a pretty busy two months, not only at real work but also in my part-time job helping out at the market. Since the fledgling art market has been doing relatively well since its inception earlier this year, there have been more calls to do it ever more often, ever more loaded etc.

The bigger, better, badder sequel as it may be.

Apparently that also involves getting more hands-on with the market details itself, along with handling the various social media that goes along with the entire programme. Which I find myself gradually drifting into since the other crew members are either too detached, too unavailable or too impassioned. We don't do things in halves over here.

So yes, I have been on social media almost 24/7 lately on all possible platforms from the ever-superficially hipster Instagram to the more staid, traditional socmed of Facebook. 

And yes, also Twitter and Snapchat as well.

Feeling almost millennial. Or even post-millennial sometimes. Despite feeling the urge to lash out most unhipster-like at some of the more exasperating comments asking repeatedly about something that I've just mentioned earlier. Seriously, scroll up people - or read the carefully worded advertisements rather than just look mindlessly at the pretty pictures. 

Yeah I do think it would be a lil too scathing for the easily bruised strawberries these days. Terribly mean some of them can be but they don't take the same insults well.

Oh man, how long can I keep a virtual smile on with all these irritating questions!

Think many have detailed the different personalities that wander into these altogether disparate platforms and I have to agree wholeheartedly. Whereas I've always been a steadfast advocate of the written word - hence my loyal presence here on the blogs - I do admit feeling a certain on-off appreciation for the brusque 180 maximum tweet.

Short and sweet usually, keeping one's thoughts of the day to the barest minimum. Basically a twitter haiku detailing the experiences we have that very day, as compared to the longer treatise required for a blog.

Though of course having something so succinct does give license to some excruciating pellets of foolishness on an hourly basis; mostly without the deeper thought required to expound on a controversial subject into several paragraphs such as on a blog. Takes seconds to type out the nastiest comments in response to almost any subject possible - and with the relative anonymity of the internet - the infamous internet trolls use that much to their advantage fearing no reprisal.

Well apart from the near-immediate return volleys from other retweets and such.

Maybe it's me or was the blogosphere a much more civilized arena?

All About Lube

Just when you think you've heard all you possibly could about Diffident David and his ever fascinating idiosyncrasies, he never fails to surprise us all over again by peeling away yet another thought-provoking layer of high neurosis. By now I should have enough scribbled notes for a little observational thesis on gay hysteria.

It should come as no surprise that he masturbates. Really, I think almost every grown adult male with a healthy sexual appetite breaks out the lube and plays with himself every once in a while. Yes, girls, that's all regardless of sexual leanings and committed affiliations. Think of it as a way of clearing the pipes on a bi-weekly basis, or even on a daily for the more virile amongst us.

And hey, sometimes you just ... got to when the urge suddenly strikes.
Seriously if you're a dedicated purveyor of hot male specimens such as the above, it's hard to resist!

So yes, David beats off as well. Though he obviously doesn't resort to the cheap tried-and-true methods of a hasty handjob since he has the fully functional Tenga ever available at home! Unfortunately for him, diddling with such complex gadgets and gizmos comes with its very own predicaments since silicone sheaths and such needs the occasional grease.

Which is where the lube comes in.

David : I've run out of lube. 
Paul : Just go buy some. 
David : I can't. 
Paul : Eh? 
David : I can't just head to the pharmacy to buy lube. 
Paul : Eh? 
David : I just can't. 

After such an unequivocal statement, how could any of us resist prying?

And there we get another fascinating amalgam of angst, anxiety and apprehension all rolled up into one flat categorical refusal. Interesting how internal homophobia crops up in such sticky situations since there's the inexplicable bone-shaking terror that some strange someone somewhere out there would catch him in the ignominious act of purchasing lube and somehow manage to shame him.

Yes, even that disinterested acne-ridden cashier at the convenience store.

Like wut.

Of course it gets worse as David starts hysterically spinning off into the inevitable What If situations from judgemental colleagues to heinous enemies conveniently dropping by the store just to point their fingers and laugh uproariously at his scandalous predicament. All over buying lube. And here I thought most boys get over their initial jitters from buying condoms and lube a long while ago in high school.

Waiting for the lube to arrive? 

For me, I'd have only one answer for them all. 'I'm using lube because I'm getting off. What about you?' Really, isn't that reason enough to be utterly envious?

If you ask me, to save him the aggravation it would be so much easier to use the spit on hand instead.

The Art Market & Me

Back during my schooldays though I was generally adequate when it came to my academics, few of my classmates would have come to me seeking pointers on mathematical sums or even physics conundrums. Simply put science & math simply wasn't something I was all that interested in and any questions posed to me, apart from those in my homework, would have earned a disinterested shrug from me.

Imagine my animosity towards a particular math tutor who insisted on handing out apparently 'fun' quizzes during our breaks.

It was towards the generally 'arts' subjects, as we would term it here, such as history, literature and art itself that I loved. Brief spells in between classes would have found me either carelessly doodling on the exercise book or sometimes pulling out my latest paperback for a quick read. And like in most any boys' school, there was always the incessant hushed request for the resident artist to draw female nudes.

I'm done with you. Get up and get dressed. 

Didn't take very much for horny teenage boys to get going at that impressionable age so anything slightly more voluptuous than their own childlike stick figure drawings would do. Turned out it wasn't all that difficult for me to sketch sexy sirens in all sorts of slutty situations. After all it was always the naked male figures that made me a tad more uneasy. Kept tweaking the nose of the handsome fellow, kept widening the broad shoulders, darkening the brows... just could never get them right.

And yes, they did make my heart go pitter patter a little. Yes, it made perfect sense in retrospect of course.

But that was all during my high school years. Though I still pulled out a sketchbook every once in a while after, I never did all that much till recently.

With the art market we organized, it was amazing to see so many creative minds under one roof! Don't think any of us walked out of the hall without feeling utterly energized by the crackling ingenuity and inventiveness shown by the many talented vendors who came to show their unique wares. That wasn't even counting the number of brainstorming sessions we had during our painting and crafting workshops which gave me so many budding ideas for creative collaboration from dollies to washi tapes.

Certainly sparked something in me which has me going through several pages of my sketchbook in a day, which is why I've been neglecting this blog for a little while!

How To Get Away With An Art Market

Rather than make a new year resolution that I would probably fail miserably at, I decided to do something far more productive and rejuvenate an art market already present here. After all I've always wanted to run a little artsy bric-a-brac store of my own so why not try out my rusty shopkeeping skills with something a little less permanent, and a tad more substantial than just a pop-up store!

For years on end, I have been a frequent visitor at an annual arts and crafts market here - and yes, I've often wondered often enough why it hasn't become a more regular event rather than only briefly during the run up to Christmas. After all, there seemed to be quite a growing crowd of participants each year. Few could answer me however, though I could easily guess the reason was mainly due to the semi-active participation of a couple of overtaxed expatriate housewives who tended to flit in and out of the town throughout the year.

Hardly the sort to help make the fledgling market a more formally established item on the city's itinerary. 

Which is where we come in. One of the more determined participants, henceforth to be named Tenacious Tiny, corralled some of the more vocal people into a tight band to jointly organize more art markets here. Through Terrific Trish and Trusting Toni whom I've met on and off through the various events in town, I found my way into this group who hoped to bring together the crafters and creators in Miri under one single umbrella. 

Or at least that's what our main objective said!

Though none of them remotely resembled this fellow sadly. 

Despite my initial misgivings, the number of interested vendors in our market idea turned out to be quite significant; with a rare handful heaving a sigh of relief that someone had finally taken charge to make it more permanent. All I could think of was why hadn't they? Guess initiative is harder to find than I thought!

Several evenings of coffee and brainstorming followed between Trish, Tiny, Toni and I as we figured what to keep and what to change about the upcoming events. Thoughts of shifting the market venue to a more convenient location turned out to be far more tricky than we imagined. Not only did Tiny adore the original rustic location in a beach hut bistro, she as a local agoraphobic native didn't fancy driving more than five metres away from her house. Took a little bit of convincing but we managed to divert to another location closer to the town centre. 

Even the dates of the event kept moving around the calendar as we tried to balance the logistics of preparation with the advent of the Chinese New Year. 

Fortunately with Trish ever so adept at computer graphics, we soon had several posters and ads ready to place up around town; which Tiny and I sneakily plastered up at the more prominent junctions in town. Helping with the social media accounts, I found myself embracing the role of a peppy millennial coming up with wildly animated, enthusiastic remarks to accompany our numerous adverts.

Gotta admit there were some days I found myself utterly exhausted from being that vivacious- and wished desperately for a cup of thick black coffee. 

The Mighty Pen

Which for me would certainly be mightier than the sword.

And quite a match for the mighty penis as well.

So why the sudden swift descent into scandalous prurience? Well with the tragically declining standards of English in the country, and the ever diminishing capacity to communicate in anything other than laughable emojis and chat abbreviations, I find fewer people willing to believe in the power of the word. Rather than adroitly employing language to seduce the heart and mind in the venerable art of flirtation, the youths of the Grindr era are far more gratified with the near instantaneous ASLs and the HMUs.

Let's not deny the undeniable allure of a casual, anonymous hookup! Quick, fast, instant gratification. But for anything more than that quickly forgotten romp in the sack, I would need more than a picture of your penis, no matter how wonderfully hung you may be.

And that's where the pen can be mightier than even the penis. Since unlike many out there, I would need words. Soul-crushing, heart-rending, life-changing words; not only whispered out on the spur of the moment but also typed out on the screen or even printed on a sheet of paper. Guilty of epeolatry, I find something close to magic in the clever turn of a phrase.

Something some of my less expressive friends would quibble with.

Though I'm sure even the most heartless ones would feel a slight pang when they hear this beautifully written letter from the Man in An Orange Shirt.

Really wherefore art thou, the Dickens and the Shakespeares of before. Or have the poets of yore also gone the way of the almighty 280 character Tweet.

Inadvertent Proposition

With gender diversity being hailed everywhere from crusty old firms to the uppity gentlemen's clubs, there are decidedly few places left thoroughly doused with a hearty splash of testosterone. Though the number of females marching in have been steadily ticking higher, they are still an uncommon sight in the open gym environment, probably one of the last heaving bastions of outright machismo.

And still fiercely heterosexual.

Or at least that's what the grunting fist-bumping straight boys tend to think.

Changing times however mean their more astute gay brothers know far better; generally finding each other out in the crowd with even the rustiest of gay-dars followed by those subtle nods of cordial recognition. Generally though the gay gymgoers, perfectly at ease with being discreet, tend to blend in perfectly with the rest of the hetero herd, sending out the occasional high fives and bro roars with the best of them.

So covertly concealed are we that some of the straight boys tend to let their guards down enough to blather on loudly about the nitty gritty details of their lives in the apparently safe sanctum of the weight room. Of course I never actually realized how cheerfully unconcerned they could be till this afternoon when I was assaulted with the most lascivious overture I've had in years.

Unfortunately I doubt Delicious Danish meant a single word. At least not in the way I would prefer. Think I have mentioned before how delightfully tempting this young gentleman could be; from the top of his ruggedly shorn head to his meaty thighs. Quite a few would love a bit of this luscious Danish I'm sure.

Care to join me for a little bit of heat?

Though none would have gotten the oddly lewd solicitation I got as we headed to the showers.

Danish : Done with the day? 
Paul : Heading out for an appointment in a while. 
Danish : Oh, I've started up the heat. 
Paul : What?
Danish : Why not join me in the sauna? 
Paul : Wait. What?

Utterly oblivious to the hidden undertones, the blithely handsome fellow just repeated it with a dead-pan expression. Such a wickedly naughty phrase so dangerously fraught with meaning. Not that he even realized, poor fellow, how close he was to being violently shoved into the confined sauna to contend with the carnal consequences of his inadvertent proposition.

Gun Show

Men are visually inclined.

If there's any doubt of it at all, just look at the amount of titillating visual stimulus specifically geared towards men - regardless of sexual orientation - from the ubiquitous flesh magazines to the copious strip bars. Let's face it, it really doesn't take much to arouse the senses for a man after all. Just the sight of a deep cleavage scrupulously exposed, even the flash of a perfectly turned ankle can be enough to set the pulse racing.

As the straight men have their countless titty bars, the gay boys have their own equivalent in the ever-present dancing go-go boys who writhe and undulate deliciously in their briefest thongs to the relentless thumpa thumpa beat of the gay discotheque. For the boys who might wail at the unjustly conservative prudishness here that prohibits such seeming licentiousness, they can take hope in the fact that beautifully fit male specimens bumping and grinding for their visual pleasure aren't only available at the go-go bars.

After all why bother paying for a show when you can get it free at the gym?

Really. Gym boys these days seem to find the overly large locker room mirrors adequate reason enough to pose and flex for everyone's benefit. Raucous runway music and flashing strobe lights notwithstanding. These days not only do I get inadvertently shoved onto a coveted front-row seat to the spectacular gun show, I also get invited to do a little groping. Without even paying the prerequisite dollar.

Though I'll admit I would much prefer sliding that crumpled note into their skimpy briefs.

I mean, would you say no to grabbing his pecs? 

Didn't take very long after exiting the showers to find a post college boy starting the afternoon show in front of the mirrors. I wasn't entirely unfamiliar to this particular beefcake of course since I'd often caught myself drooling behind him while he earnestly performed his routines. Delicious Danish I called him. The man ticked all the right boxes for me from the rugged, faintly stubbled jaw to the rounded shelf of his chiseled pecs.

And that spectacularly curved bubble butt at the back of course.

So finding him flexing in front of the mirrors clad only in black boxer briefs, I found myself transfixed to the spot. Instead of squealing in horror to flee into the shadows though, he beckoned me over instead.

Danish : What do you think? 
Paul : About what? 
Danish : My chest? I'm trying to get my pecs bigger. Bulking up. 
Paul : They already look great. Really.
Danish : Maybe rounder. Fuller. Care to feel it? 
Paul : Umm.
Danish : Come on. Just grab it.

It's rare indeed that sculpted collegiates reach out to pull my hand onto their bulging pecs. My head was already playing the beginning thumpa thumpa refrain to some cheesy gay porn soundtrack. It was with much steely resolve that I refrained from inching my itchy fingers lower down to the hem of his shorts.

Paiseh

Undoubtedly one of Diffident David's favourite words which he uses quite frequently - and I presume what he usually jabbers to get out of doing something he abhors. Not that being paiseh in any way excuses him from said task.

However what paiseh means - taken from colloquial Hokkien - is something similar to a feeling of shame or embarassment; ostensibly intended to display a humble common man reticence coupled with the desperate avoidance of any socially inappropriate behaviour that might cause severe mortification. Though sometimes paiseh does seem more like a fear of being shamed with the ever humiliating loss of face, a peculiar concept keenly associated with local Chinese culture.

Undoubtedly paiseh is a word I've rarely used when it comes to myself since bashful reticence seems vaguely foolish to me.

And with passing age and senility, what seems socially inappropriate in the past doesn't seem to bother me as much nowadays.

Paiseh. Paiseh. What is there to be paiseh about?!

Not so for David who frequently bandies the word about. Sad to say these days the word paiseh apparently covers a multitude of sins as the timeworn excuse to shirk whatever tiresome duty lays ahead. Lazy to host a friend. Paiseh. Unable to run a bothersome errand. Paiseh. Refuse to talk to a stranger. Paiseh.

David : Oh my friend is here with her entire family. 
Paul : Ask her out for dinner then. 
David : No la. 
Paul : Why not? 
David : Paiseh. 
Paul : What the hell for? 
David : Her parents are around. 
Paul : So?
David : So paiseh lo. 

Really.

Embarassed to ask a friend out for dinner with her family? Surely there aren't all terrifying flesh-eating monsters - since they managed to nurture someone who became a 'friend' - so what's the paiseh all about? After I ranted for a little more than five minutes, I realized that wasn't the worst of it.

The word seems to be quite infectious indeed.

David : Alright I finally asked her for dinner.
Paul : And? 
David : She refused. 
Paul : Why the hell for? 
David : She is paiseh. 
Paul : What the hell. 

Perhaps I might understand trying not to impose on a friend but when the invitation's already being offered?! Wouldn't it be far more embarassing to merely decline? Honestly wanted to knock both their irksome paiseh heads together.

The CDinosaur

Even in the sweltering burn of the hellish tropics - namely right here, there are the rare, blessedly cool, rainy evenings when all I want to do is sit with a book in hand while the radio plays my extensive collection of CDs.

Yes, I said it. CDs. Compact Discs for the tragically uninitiated.

What? People still buy CDs? 

You'll be excused - especially if you're one of the brand new Millennials - if you're wondering what the hell I meant by that. Turns out no one I know here actually buys CDs anymore! Like ye olde wound-up cassettes of the past, hardly anyone ever uses the CD players in their vehicles - since their outmoded CDs are mostly used as makeshift coasters or bird repellents.

Wouldn't surprise me if the kids today actually wondered what the heck the shiny discs are. Perhaps we could deceive them into thinking they are shiny metal fascinators?

Look, it's not that I don't have digital music. Despite my sad lack of IT knowhow, I'm far from a total Luddite and I actually have a similarly comprehensive collection of music on iTunes as well. Somehow I just prefer watching the entirely banal act of rifling through the CD cases, picking out the disc of the day and watching it spin on the deck.

I told you I'm peculiar.

After all without said records, what would Corinne Bailey Rae sing?

With the way things are going, guess one day it would be 'Put the iTunes' on? Somehow doesn't have the same ring to it, does it?

Wonder what they would think if people knew I have vinyl records as well. 

Morning Shower

I love morning showers.

Basically any kinda shower. In fact I make it a point to shower religiously at least three times a day, especially with the rapidly rising temperatures in the tropics these days. Apart from the all-important mainstay of personal hygiene, these would be the few times in the day where I can relax and reflect in relative solitude with little interruption. Some of my best ideas come from just laying my head against the tiles as the water rains over me!

Not to mention there's a gentle, almost innocent sensuality in just touching and enjoying the feel of your skin underneath the lather. Of course it's even better when there's someone else to share with - one of the reasons I keep barging into the shower with Charming Calvin despite his unspoken dissatisfaction with another hulking body cramming up the small space. Nothing sexual unless that's what we're going for but it's just tenderly intimate soaping each other up in the shower.

A highly positive change from my childhood days when I emphatically disliked morning showers! Not only did I have difficulty getting up early in the morning, I didn't actually function as any sort of rational human being till at least the third period in school. So you can imagine how I got dragged into the bathroom in the wee hours of the morning. Still my mother would have expected no less than at least two showers in a day, with the morning one a firm absolute.

Maybe having him around would have kept me sufficiently awake for a shower. 

Which is why my mind boggles when it comes to the patients.

Paul : Do you smell something? 
Nurse : Not really. Why?
Paul : Something stinks. 
Nurse : Oh yes.
Paul : What the hell is it? 
Nurse : It's the patient actually. 
Paul : Really? *sniffs* Oh God, you're right. 
Nurse : She obviously neglected her morning shower before coming. 
Paul : Since the beginning of time? Her stench reminds me of the fish market.  
Nurse : Many of them don't believe in morning showers. They believe themselves clean. 
Paul : They would beg to differ if they could smell themselves. 
Nurse : And they are afraid of catching a chill if they shower in the morning. 
Paul : It's the freaking tropics not winter in China. 

Seriously. Get yourself to a shower.

And before you strenuously defend the recalcitrant patient, the lady was definitely fit enough to cleanse herself meticulously before presenting herself to the hospital. Rather than do so, she apparently wanted to fool us into believing her to be the local homeless hobo. Yes there will one day be a rant about hospital visitors who dress like bedraggled tramps.

Obviously not everyone had my mother who dropkicked us into the bathroom as kids every morning for a thorough clean. After smelling the fetid after-effects of a sweaty equatorial night without the benefits of a morning shower, I can certainly understand why.

Immediately after work, I rang up the matron to order an intense scrub for that patient.

Genius In The Old Age

I've always thought of myself as average.

Specifically when it comes to academic matters. Not unlike many other Asian homes, praise was used sparingly in mine, usually coming off as frankly disquieting since it was that rare. Even my Tiger Mom - though shockingly liberal in many other ways - didn't see much reason to rain accolades and applause for every little bud of victory. Though I could certainly sketch better than just an amateurish stick figure, I knew that I would probably never paint the Sistine Chapel.

Which was fine by me since I only saw it as more reason to strive harder. Kiasu lil me. Definitely wouldn't want to be one of those spoiled brats who assume they're the best in everything.

So back in school there were always classmates way better in certain subjects, always the few who scored just the few marks ahead of me. Easy enough to think of myself as average back then no matter how hard I struggled in school.

How wrong I was though. As students in any institution with some modicum of school spirit, we're generally held to believe that our alma maters are the best but it never occurred to me back then that I was in the best class in one of the better schools in the district, perhaps even in the state. There was indeed a higher number of people behind academically than there were ahead of me.

Not so average after all!

It was only after graduation that I realized what a fallacy it was to think that I was anywhere close to average.

And no, I am not tooting my own horn.

Certainly brought home quite painfully to me when one of my colleagues failed repeatedly to spell the word 'ankle' properly. Really. A-N-K-L-E. Perhaps one of the more basic words we learnt way back in sing-along kindergarten along with hand and foot. Then someone who later insisted that the lunar eclipse was caused by the sun coming between the earth and the moon - which I then announced terrifyingly was clearly the coming of the apocalypse.

Not only those memorable lessons of course but dozens of other elementary examples in many other subjects that show just how terribly our education system has fared in our country. And how much we have all failed the students here.

And then just last week when one of Charming Calvin's high school students found himself apparently stumped by an awfully basic math question. 150 divided by 25. Not only did he not know what was meant by that relatively benign question, he had no idea how to even begin executing long division.

Really. And I used to think I'm lousy at mathematics.

Compared to them, I'm quite the freaking genius.

Losing Heart

I'll admit to having a bit of a soft spot when it comes to Marvel's X-Men. Quite like every other gay boy trope, the essential setup of the much feared mutant abominations hiding clandestinely amongst the rest of a nearly oblivious mankind naturally spoke to me.

Insufferable students? Angsty teenagers? Crappy midterms? Universally reviled for their secret selves? All seemed highly applicable way back when I was a closeted adolescent teen trying to keep relatively inconspicuous in the unforgiving midst of hundreds of rabid straight jocks ready to pounce on the peculiar freaks in an all boys' school.

Why, if only I had telepathic powers to hide my presence from them! Perhaps even influence them for the better; volunteering their time on weekends to repair broken school furniture?

And if possible, have the lithe school athletes do a seductive group striptease in the quad just for me. Maybe some extra co-curriculum time behind the church organ at the school chapel. Well, hey I was a horny teenage boy after all.

Still the X-Men managed to provide a safe refuge from the oppressive reality of high school where a at least there a persecuted minority could finally seek solace in each other under the relative protection of Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters. Relative since the school on Graymalkin Lane always seemed just a hair's breadth from complete decimation every other issue.



But in between demonic villains, crazed geneticists and intergalactic aliens bent on wiping them off the map, the merry mutants still managed to have time for fun. So there were campouts, barbecues, date nights - even the occasional baseball game. Heck, one memorable issue had the new mutants breaking rules just to smuggle in gourmet burgers at midnight. Different from many of the other comic books around then, they were after all, at the heart of it, a family of fearsome freaks.

You believed it when one character claimed kinship and brotherhood to another because they spent literally dozens of issues just to get there. There are even single issues dedicated solely to the soul searching of one particular character. Even their relatively obscure spin off teams such as X-Factor and Excalibur had a strong bond of familial ties tying outwardly dissimilar characters together.

Sadly that was all in the past.

Future's not looking too bright for their counterparts in the books. 

Lately - well at least in the comic book world - it does seem as if the X-Men has been losing heart. From a seemingly solid institution with highly experienced teachers dedicated to helping gifted youngsters, the band of misfits these days seem to have spun off in dozens of disparate directions, most of which spell terrible disaster and extinction from powerful whispers of 'No More Mutants' to sterilizing terrigen clouds. Even worse, most days we don't even care much for any of the new ciphers since they all seem vaguely interchangeable with very little in term of personality, powers or history.

When it comes to such a popular comic book franchise, many obvious conspiracy theories abound of course from surprising editorial misadventures to the more shady business dealings. A tragic end for the students of Xavier who battled mistrust, misjudgement and misapprehension only to perish under the mistakes of a prejudiced pen.

Guess you really can never go home again.

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood.

Even with Robert Frost telling us the mundane details, we all know how that poem goes since most of us, as much as we might want to, can't travel in both directions at once. In fact most times there are even more choices available to us which makes the decisions ever more crucial.

After going through the various pros and cons of whatever outcomes possible to make the final decision, I rarely think back on the whys and wherefores after. Short of having a magical time machine readily available, there is very little we can do to reverse a momentous decision already made.

There are times when we stumble onto the more challenging path in life - possibly what everyone else would erroneously label as the wrong turn. Just because the road travelled gets more strenuous at certain junctions doesn't make it wrong.

Still as fallible human beings, we do occasionally indulge in wondering about the What Ifs. What if I'd gone down the other road in the yellow wood? What if I'd found a more beautiful pasture with a Spanish hacienda filled with bountiful treasure and staffed by dark-haired, brown-eyed Adonises? What if? What if.

Oh yeah a bit of Pietro Boselli would definitely make that decision so much easier. 

Isn't it a wonder why we always envisage reasonably optimistic outcomes rather than conceive horrific endings instead? Yes, what if something better had come along - but what if you'd walked down that road only to fall into a dark pit full of snakes and spiders? Ever thought of that?

Maybe it's a pitfall of the job but I've always seen far worse outcomes than whatever I'm facing currently. Really, I could be battling far worse than an irritating pen-pushing bureaucracy.

If only I could turn back time indeed!

Though I might put them onto pen and paper, I've tried not to fixate on alternate realities that could be; preferring instead to direct my attentions to what I could do now. Very little we can do about regret. Instead of focusing on the What Ifs, perhaps change it into thinking about the future. Work towards what you want instead - think about What Can You Do.

Calling for a Consult

Perhaps it's time for a Botox.

If anything, the following events that happened just this morning certainly impressed on me how very dodderingly ancient I am! Immediately brought back uneasy recollections of a scenario that happened when I was a terribly green junior registrar way back when. For ease of reference, our strictly followed medical hierarchy at work - regardless of specialty - goes a little something like this.

Houseman --> Medical Officer --> Registrar --> Specialist --> Consultant

So after a particularly exhausting round at some ungodly hour in the intensive care unit, the senior doctor turns to me to draft out her plans. Let's just call her Jane.

Jane : That should be the plan for the patient. Just write it down and I'll confirm the changes with the consultant on-call. 
Paul : You're the consultant on-call. 
Jane : What? You must have read the roster wrong. That's years away. I'm only the specialist. 
Paul : No, you're the consultant on-call. Take a look at the roster. 
Jane : OMG. 

Yeah, it suddenly just hits you. Like a bleeding sledgehammer right to the face. I could have sworn there was downright panic in Jane's face when it finally sank in.

Damn, you mean we're the consultants now? 

Didn't find it quite as funny when it happened to me though. Exactly this morning when I paid a cordial visit to the colleagues in my previous hospital. Certainly a welcoming bunch with coffee and nasi lemak but I simply couldn't shake these fellow specialists from the infernal habit of calling me boss. Medical peers after all with no need to pull rank in the break room.

Paul : We're all doctors here, you can call me by name. 
June : Actually, no. You remember Ebullient Eve and Nervous Nancy? 
Paul : Sure, they were my medical officers way back when. 
June : They are my badgemates. We all finished our specialty training last year. 
Paul : OMG. 

For us, it would be the equivalent of finding out that the toddlers you used to babysit have graduated college! Didn't I just sign their papers to apply for the training just yesterday?

You mean we're supposed to be the consultants now? I think I need to sit down.

The Hebrew Bible

Think most - if not all - of us have heard of the Bible. Perhaps had someone mention the Book or even quote several passages from it. Maybe you might even have read the first chapter in the Book of Genesis.

בְּרֵאשִׁית, בָּרָא אֱלֹהִים, אֵת הַשָּׁמַיִם, וְאֵת הָאָרֶץ.
ב  וְהָאָרֶץ, הָיְתָה תֹהוּ וָבֹהוּ, וְחֹשֶׁךְ, עַל-פְּנֵי תְהוֹם; וְרוּחַ אֱלֹהִים, מְרַחֶפֶת עַל-פְּנֵי הַמָּיִם.
ג  וַיֹּאמֶר אֱלֹהִים, יְהִי אוֹר; וַיְהִי-אוֹר.

Even with several elementary years of poring through the Bible from cover to cover, I doubt I could tell you what the cryptic letters inscribed above are. Right there before you is what I gather to be the Hebrew version of the first lines in the Book of Genesis! Can't read it at all obviously though I might have some vague inkling on what it means from the translated English version of the Bible!

Which is surprisingly fortunate since it gave me an understanding - albeit a repeatedly translated one - of the Bible itself. Even then I would question each and every line presented to me since there's always a tad of unholy bias in every transcription of the verse. Lost in translation as it were.

Imagine then if I handed the book in Hebrew around to the other staunch believers? Would they just read it verbatim word for word without comprehending its hidden meaning? Or would they demand an explanation - if not an immediate translation?

So you can imagine my ... utter dumbfoundment in finding out that many of my friends have spent the past ten years in mandatory religious classes reciting verses from their own Holy Book without understanding a single word. Not a single word. Whatever little glimmer of understanding they glean from their classes is dutifully delivered by their overzealous cleric only.

With no room for discussion or deliberation.

Which I can hardly blame them since they wouldn't understand the very text that's written at all. Basically it's as if a Hebrew Bible had been handed over to me and all I could do was recite verbatim from it, faithfully memorizing line after line without understanding the exact meaning of the words behind them while my supposedly far more learned priests proclaim the religious significance to me.

Father : It's alright my son. This is all in the book.
Believer : Really, father?
Father : Hush, my child. Go down and genuflect as I taught you.

Didn't we leave all this behind during the Reformation?

I would certainly cry blasphemy. Merely chanting the verses without comprehending the true meaning would be far from what any of the prophets intended I'm sure! What's to stop any of the purportedly well-meaning clerics from misrepresenting what's being written in the books?

Peranakan Memoirs

As much as I've grown to love the simple bucolic life over here on this side of the Big Puddle, it's hard not to miss certain aspects of our life before. The varieties of food available at all hours of the day for one thing.

For another that would be a bit of personality in the city. Coming from a heritage city that boasts of several centuries of history, this town here seems almost ludicrously new. Compared to the seasoned grande dame of Malacca, the town of Miri seems almost like a callow ingenue. Hardly any of the buildings here are very much older than fifty years at the most so it's hard not to stifle a smirk whenever the locals here talk about the glory days of yore.

Wonder if they know that my own alma mater was established several decades before the town had even gained a road to its name.

Hmm... when do I tell her that I might be gay?

Yes, I miss the weekends browsing through the little antique stores, rifling through everyone else's junk hopefully to find my own treasure. Picking through dozens of chipped ceramic Peranakan tiles to find the perfect one - with an eye towards making a coaster. Digging through piles of serveware just to piece together a passably reasonable porcelain tea set.

Over here anything vaguely antique would have to be made slightly more than a decade ago.

Being here has certainly given me more of an appreciation for what I left behind which is why my last few days here have been spent sketching up a storm. Not only am I researching various materials about the Straits Eclectic shophouses back home, I've also started looking up designs of traditional costumes such as the nyonya kebaya.

All of which has given my inspiration and ideas for Christmas which is coincidentally not too far off. Perhaps little hanging beaded shoes for the tree? Or maybe several colourful kebaya clad ladies adorning the tree?

Or maybe I should make an entire diorama of a Straits Eclectic shophouse?

The Molestation Theory

I'm not a narcissist.

Most especially when it comes to my looks. Though my unprepossessing troll-like features rarely causes mirrors to break into pieces these days, I do know that I'm hardly the best looking fellow in the room, not unless the place is utterly deserted. Which sufficiently explains why unexpected compliments on my looks seem to trigger a deep-seated suspicion of the hapless benefactor and their hidden intent.

I've seen some really handsome Adonises, even dated a couple, and I can easily confirm I'm nowhere near the same plane of existence. Oh those supremely godly beings worthy of daily Instagram worship! Well at least when it comes to superficial beauty.

So when I do get the rare admirer, I find myself utterly non-plussed. You see, I decided to frequent a hairdresser a bit closer to where I work as a matter of convenience. Nothing like just running down for a quick haircut without muss or fuss.

Was he gay? I never really thought about it. After all whatever I sussed out with my broken gay-dar would probably be biased by the fact that he is a mildly fey hairdresser. Stereotypical, right?

First time it happened, I chalked it down to a figment of my overactive imagination. Second time, I wondered whether it was his own novel barber chairside manner. By the third, I didn't think it was shared delusion anymore. In fact, it bore close resemblance to the premise of bad gay porn.

Really it had me getting just a little bit concerned! Is it really all that usual to spend all that time washing my hair at the sink? No doubt the time he spends playing with my cropped hair has to be almost twice the time he spent cutting it.

Umm. Did you just flick my nipple? 

And that still wouldn't explain the curious need to unbutton my shirt halfway down my chest. Really, I might as well just remove it. When you wipe my chest with a piece of cloth, that's cleaning. When you wipe my chest without even the veiled pretence of a washcloth, that's bordering on inappropriate groping.

Then today I could have sworn I felt an oddly predatory nipple flick. Hmm. Turns out the molestation theory wasn't just a theory anymore. Followed by the oddest proposition I've ever gotten.

Hairdresser : Are you rushing for time? 
Paul : Not really. 
Hairdresser : You know I also give some really good massages.
Paul : You do?
Hairdresser : You should try them out.
Paul : What? Like right now?
Hairdresser : Sure, why not? Just take off your shirt. 

There was a raised eyebrow at that. Since he was gesturing to what seemed like the appropriately dark-lit backroom, I felt just a bit... apprehensive over the invitation. Sounded almost like an indecent proposal, albeit a really bumbling attempt at one!

Fortunately the hairdresser didn't seem to have his shearing scissors close by so I judged it a good time to make a speedy getaway. Mumbled a farewell, dumped the cash and flew out of there faster than he could even repeat his come-on.

At least I think it was. Was it?

Another Suitcase in Another Hall

At that very moment, betrayal was all she could think about. Staying out till past midnight with that other.... though she shouldn't have thought in such degrading terms about someone of her own gender, damned cheap floozy was all she could say!

What could he have been thinking? Not her that was for sure; otherwise he wouldn't have spent the entire night talking only to that girl while spinning pitiful lies about a tedious work dinner that dragged on just a little too late.

Which was why she had her suitcase out in the hallway all packed at 2 in the morning despite his persistent pleas to stay.

Quick substitute of the gender and it could have been miserable old me more than a decade ago. Deny it all you may but seriously, time really does heal all wounds - since now I can actually look back and have a chagrined laugh over it. Has it really been that long? Was I ever that brash?

And how the hell did I successfully stuff all my rubbish bric-a-bracs into one tiny suitcase in less than ten minutes! What a magnificent feat! It's a wonder my ISO didn't reward me with a standing ovation - but I guess with my hair practically aflame with fury, he probably daren't come any closer.

Of course it doesn't seem like a laughing matter to my new friend - the much younger Cotton Candy - as she commiserated with us over the cellphone, while undoubtedly sitting cross-legged on top of her packed suitcase with plane tickets ready to flee in her pocket. Disconnected from the rest of her friends and family across the Big Puddle, I could only imagine how vulnerable and alone Candy must have felt. Finding herself left alone in the tower while her supposed Prince traipses off for a midnight outing wasn't the happy ending she'd imagined.

Can we talk? 

Thanks to the benefit of hindsight - and of course my ISO, I knew exactly what to say to calm her down. These days, the Disney magic of mass media advertising would have you imagine that relationships are born of syrupy ballads, blazing fireworks and sparkling champagne which, though wonderful to think of, is generally patently untrue.

What makes a relationship last is plain hard work. And lots, and lots of compromise.

It's of Prince Florian finally coming to terms with the curious fact that Snow White comes with seven grumpy dwarves that he can never get rid of. It's Belle finally realizing that there are days when even her usually docile husband falls into beastly PMS rages - she probably hides in the great library. It's the Prince knowing that his palace maids would have to deal with an infestation of plague-bearing rodents - especially with his wife Cinderella communing with them daily. It's our valiant Prince Eric who comes to realize that even the hundreds of rooms in the castle might not be enough for his hoarder wife Ariel who seems to be picking up nonsensical thingamajigs all over the place - maybe just toss them back into the sea when she's not looking?

If they all took off the minute things got bad, there wouldn't be much of a happy ending for these fairy tales.

And they certainly would never make any good decisions at 2 in the morning.