Battle of the Break-up Buddies

Weddings are a time for friends and family to gather together to celebrate the union of someone near and dear to them - to that other person. Hopefully well received of course. Apart from the exceptionally rare Romeo & Juliet tragedies where the church aisles are literally dripping in fresh blood of mutual enmity, generally weddings these days have both sides of the union in collective accord with each other.

Pick a seat, not a side, they would normally claim at a wedding.

However though a handful may be mutually shared friends of both the bride and groom, let's not fool ourselves into believing there isn't a secret dividing line through the aisles between friends of the bride and friends of the groom. Even when they meet up with new people as a couple, that new friend would still gravitate towards one more than the other. 

With certain few exceptions. 

His friends. Her friends. Trust me, they all know where to stand. 

So friends of the bride and friends of the groom can be clearly seen on opposing sides during such ceremonies, with few jumping across the centre to join the other side. So it was to my surprise that I noticed something peculiarly off when I snooped through the wedding seating for a friend's coming wedding. 

Paul : This is the final list? 

Friend : Yes. 

Paul : Wait, where are your friends? 

Friend : On the list. 

Paul : No. Those are his friends. 

Friend : Those are my friends too. 

Paul : Umm no.  

Friend : Common friends!

Paul : His friends. 

Friend : Common friends!

Paul : Nope. Invite your own people!

Clearly so. Though admittedly it was a pretty short list, it was obviously lopsided with none of her friends, her classmates, her colleagues... her people in that sense. 

Though many would claim that a relationship only matters to the individuals involved therein, let me tell you it isn't always true. When a couple finally settles down to a somewhat committed relationship, they also bring whatever emotional baggage they have been lugging about before, random rabid relatives - and also their own passel of crazy friends.

Only the really foolish would eschew the previous platonic / plutonic ties of their partner. The smart ones play it well so that his or her friends inevitably become their own as well. Even so rarely do those friends actually abandon their original comrade to become even more of a buddy-buddy to the new partner. 

Ties that become ever more apparent in the event of a breakup. Or even a break. 

When even the most amicable splits forces their friends to choose sides - so yes, even those supposed common friends. Those old college drinking buddies that he brings to the relationship, those brash working mates that come over for board games sometimes, they would inevitably drift back to his side. His friends, and yes no matter how close they may have become in the interim, would still muddle back through some misplaced sense of friendship and camaraderie.  

Really not so common actually. 

Pat A Cake Bake A Bun

One thing I rarely do, at least in real life, is talk about my work. Seriously, I've already spent hours over there so why would I want to keep talking about the exigencies of my day-to-day medical drudge. Perhaps a few hilarious titbits here when I have my other colleagues around but I try to keep that to a minimum. There's really very little need to impress on my friends how wildly important and needlessly busy I actually am.

Point of fact, I actually try the opposite and at least pretend it isn't half as time-consumingly laborious than it actually is. Is there any need to extol my own virtues by claiming to have saved lives by the dozen in a week or to exalt my name by brandishing my published journals for all to see?

Obviously not.

I know I'm good, there's no need to remind anyone. So yes, most of my friends here blithely assume I'm living the life of a semi-retired socialite with few cares and worries. Perfectly fine since compared to the insane nerve-wracking days of slaving away in the inner city hospitals of the capital, this is basically a paid beach holiday. 

Sort of.

But it's still work.

Hmm. Should I crush her like this strawberry? 

So when a real socialite of the Crazy Rich Asians stereotype comes along to whine about her lack of free time...

Barbara : Oh my, you catch so many television series! And read so many books! 
Paul : So can you I think? 
Barbara : Oh I couldn't! How do you find the time? 
Paul : Well prioritize your time a little? 
Barbara : Oh I simply can't. So little time I tell you! I can barely even finish my nails!

Oh so many things to say, especially to an entitled debutante who works at absolutely nothing and spends her entire late morning, confirmed on the ever-reliable Instagram, constructively talking to her pet pussy for hours. That's on the busiest of her days.

And she has no free time.

Seriously.

Darling, when you have the time to whine about being oh-so-busy, you aren't that busy.

But I also do know this particularly expensive strawberry would be utterly crushed by even the mildest censure I could come up with. Even my patented side-glance would be enough to excoriate her. Self-harm is quite possible and I wouldn't rule out intentional suicide at all. Mean I might be but at least I draw the line at intentionally pushing delicate exotic blooms off a ledge.

Grindr This Tindr

With the plethora of opportunities available for gay men these days in the dating world, I don't find myself envying them. Well... not by much. Granted the easy availability of social apps has made it so much easier to score a decent date - or even a quick hookup depending on the exigencies of the moment - but it has also made them just a little too particular in their choices.

When it was only the five openly gay men in the town, it was relatively easier to date since there wasn't all that many bachelors available on the marriage mart anyhow. Now with the headless torsos on display on every dating app in town - with even the most closeted 'I am so discreet on the DL' boys coming out with their very own unflattering dick pic, dare I say this has caused quite a few to be so awfully finicky that I'm close to whacking them across the head? 

Unless you're only on the prowl for sex, why are you discounting people so easily? 

Friend : I simply can't find anyone to date. 

Paul : Well let's check out your Tindr then.

Friend : I'm sure there's no one. 

Paul : How about bachelor number one? 

Friend : Too many shirtless pics. 

Paul : And that's bad because? 

Friend : Just too many. 

Paul : How about bachelor number two? 

Friend : Not enough words in his description. 

I say bachelor number one and two but my friend was flicking away at the Tindr dates like it was a swiping game. Barely a micro second glance and it's already a swipe left. 

I could keep writing on the reasons for swiping left but some are so inconsequential that I found myself at a loss for words. Even the tiniest of imperfections is reason enough for a rejection. One ear bigger than the other? Smile too wide? Too many friends? 

I'm sure he could find something wrong with even this! 

Look, Prince Charming, if you're gonna refuse every bachelor in the land for some silly reason, there's never going to be anyone for you. And that's all only based on a superficial profile with a couple of random photos, including the obligatory shirtless thirst pic - and a brief description of likes and dislikes. 

From that, you're able to tell whether someone's good enough for a date?  

Oh come on. Talk about reading a book by its cover. 

Be a little less fussy. The best dates I've been on are the ones I didn't expect. You can never tell from that serious expression on his face that he could be the greatest comedian ever. You can't tell just from the sculpted pecs bursting out of his tank top that he's actually the caring sort who boils homemade soup for those he loves. You can't tell from a three line description that he actually writes dramatic telenovelas for a living. 

Is it really so hard? One swipe right is all it takes. 

Unless the other fellow is also a tool and doesn't swipe in return. 

Market Girls

As we are rushing headlong towards our almost third market, it has been an amazingly fun ride. Not only because it was wonderful seeing so many artists and crafters creeping out of their hidey hole to come share their talents at the market, it was also all due to the other three of my market compatriots; Tenacious Tiny, Terrific Trish and Trusting Toni.

Wonderful ladies all though it's amazing we even came together in the first place.

Seriously though, all of us have pretty much nothing in common apart from the artsy crafting that basically brought us together - so that gives rise to the occasional difference of opinion since we all have intensely contrasting personalities and generally hail from dissimilar backgrounds. And yet since we are a fledgling non-profit group, there are no specific set tasks and roles for any of us so we generally cover for each other when the other is busy. With such overlapping duties and functions, you can bet it's not all hunky dory all the time.

For instance I'm always alright with a little bit of bending the rules here and there, as are Trish and Toni occasionally, but Tiny is an impossible stickler for her rules. Tiny Rules. Something I'm starting to believe is traditionally cross stitched in large capital-sized fonts on a wooden sampler framed in her living room.

Bet Tiny would so be the fierce black girl.

You know those dangerously tiny lil mean girls back in school that you just know will get their way no matter what? That's definitely her.

So yes, we do go on into the weekly dispute over the nitty gritty of running the market.

Number one on her exhaustive list of rules about the market would be the authenticity of the artisanal product - something which I'm fine with. Unfortunately that's followed closely by the fact that she wants the creator to be personally there since Tenacious Tiny has an undeniable grudge against intermediary vendors who bring in marketable items from the interior villages without crediting the makers individually.

Alright let's not argue over the impossible logistics of bringing every talented basket maker from their longhouse for a weekend leaving their family behind. Add that to the fact that if the sole basket maker opened a stall, she'd probably only have a meagre amount of items on sale since it takes quite a while to finish even one!

So those were my points. Took some convincing and several hundred messages to finally get Tiny to agree - while Trish looked on in growing amusement and Toni scampered off for fear of being dragged into the tiff. Right there you have a small illustration of how things work around here. Whatever personality type Tiny may be, I'm definitely the direct opposite which drives her quite insane at times. But I guess we do need conflicting points of views to make the market work as well as it does.

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.

How I Got Away With An Art Market II

Initially I think all of us, Trish, Tiny, Toni and I, even with the greatest of hopes and optimism, didn't think very much would come of the very first market we planned.

For such a small town with hardly any artistic gatherings as such, there seemed little chance we would even be able to collect enough promising vendors to form an artisan market. About a handful was all we expected and we planned it as such with a smaller event space than the one before. And even though we had decided to revive a lackluster market that happened semi regularly, the crowd at their very last event had been less than gratifying.

Hardly a ringing recommendation for the next.

Shouldn't come as a surprise then that I didn't have very high hopes for the customer crowd so I tried to reasonably manage everyone's expectations.

Paul : Guys, it's just our first market, a test for the crowd in town, so don't worry if not many people appear.
Tiny : There will be a huge crowd. 
Paul : At least we hope. Nonetheless it's just an opportunity for us all to get together and know one another. 
Tiny : There will be a huge crowd. 
Paul : I really hope you repeating that would actually make it happen. 

Turns out that seemed to do the trick.

Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon, the ancient Chinese proverb goes to explain the spectacular talents hidden in people yet undiscovered. A phrase that has certainly turned out apt for our particular situation since artists and crafters came out of nowhere when our first offer went out. Seems like right beneath our noses, we had painters, calligraphers, sculptors etc. all ready to showcase their hidden talents. Didn't take long before we were already getting worried whether we even had enough available venue space to fit them all in.

Like it or not, it was the management of such a diverse group of temperamental artisans with peculiar needs and wants that turned out to be a challenge. Urgent messages on every social media possible went zinging to and fro as we handled the occasional mercurial diva.

Tiny : It's your turn. 
Paul : I did it this morning. 
Trish : I'll do it but you guys owe me dessert. 
Paul : As long as I don't have to handle that melodrama again. 

Not to mention handling each other with our eccentricities since we had only started to know each other - meaning Trish, Tiny, Toni and I.

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. 

Gossip Girl

Let's face it, we all love gossip.

Short of being an utterly antisocial hermit huddled on a mountaintop alone, humans are basically social creatures who love each other's company - and once we gather, we tend to talk trash about each other as well. Probably ever since the first grunting cavemen returned to brag about the monstrous mastodon they all escaped from earlier.

Thankfully these days though, we tend to focus less on man-eating predators and more on what's happening in our lives; usually from the more mundane information such as progress at work and possible promotions thereafter to the more salacious details of someone's broken marriage and the reasons thereof.

Cue the trash talk from the ever-fertile rumour mill.

Though some of my more innocent friends usually cry foul to claim that it isn't always true.

Paul : So you know of her but you don't actually know her. 
Barbara : Yes, people have been talking about her. 
Paul : Ah, so what terrible news have you heard? 
Barbara : Nothing!
Paul : Stories about her reached you but there's nothing to tell. 
Barbara : Nothing bad at least. 
Paul : They spoke good things about her? 
Barbara : Yes. 
Paul : Do I look that gullible to you? 

Really? Schoolmates spread favourable news about someone around town.

Girl : Have I got some news for you!
Paul : Ooh pray tell. 

Let's not kid ourselves.

Perhaps if we all lived in a perfect utopia. Undoubtedly tales of selfless heroism and wonderful good deeds do make it onto the front page sometimes but believe the sad cynic here when I say, people rarely gather around the hearth to gossip about that. Virtuous saints do plenty of good that's hardly mentioned but it's their one little known inconsequential failing that gets everyone talking.

After all there's always that little touch of malice in the third retelling.

So despite what our sweetly optimistic Barbara wants to believe, gossip's rarely good.

Fear not though. Though rumours would persistently circulate so long as humans are around, we also have to remember to take what's whispered around about people objectively since generally there are parts that would be wildly fallacious. Like Chinese Whispers, any scandalously juicy bit gets a little added spice as the tale gets spread around so there's usually a veritable feast of scrumptious ignominy at the very end.

Maybe take it with a little pinch of salt.

Dating 2018

You'd think by my venerable age I'd have gotten over the entirely absurd rigmarole of dating conventions and the ensuing insanity that entails. That's just entirely sophomoric high school stuff, no? These days isn't it all about getting an instant lay from the prurient dating apps?

Guess not all of us graduated fully from high school since unfortunately with some of my less conversant friends these days, Dating 101 seems to be all we're talking about from the confusing etiquette of tentative first dates to the vague possibility of the figurative coffee after. We might as well be having our packed lunches at the school canteen bench.

Although I have to say some of Miz Grundy's puritanical ideas do seem like they have been carried forward from her sophomoric days.

Or more likely her solemn times in the nunnery.

Paul : Well it's simple really. Why don't you just ask him out?
Miz Grundy : I can't do that. 

Paul : Why not? Is there a law against it? 

Miz Grundy : Girls don't ask guys out on dates!

Paul : Did you fall into a wormhole? Are you seriously stuck in the Victorian era? 

Obviously I was utterly aghast to hear such an archaic concept mentioned in the post women's lib era. Did all that relentless bra burning mean nothing to her?

A man in my carriage! I shall keep my gaze stonily affixed to the front. 
Oh dear is that his hand?
A man's hand!
Brushing against me!
Lawd-a-mercy I'm going to faint. 

It was like talking to one of the more straight-laced Regency heroines in one of my dog-eared Heyer novels. Miss Wraxton from the Grand Sophy perhaps?

Hard to even have a decent conversation when something as simple as asking a gentleman out had her all aflutter! Never even occurred to her that such a revolutionary milestone had passed her by while she'd been locked up in a hideaway convent. When relentlessly pressed for a reason, all Miz Grundy could fall back on was a sad, feeble fear of rejection.

You can imagine the veritable hailstone of rebukes and reprimands that followed that pathetic admission. Oh really, come on. Well, hello and welcome to the world of hopeful bachelors all around the world. So now you know how guys feel when they try to pick girls up at the bar. 

So get over yourself and try it.

Or maybe turn on Tindr? I should have known better than to have made such a scandalous suggestion since obviously that terribly distressing notion caused her to reach for her smelling salts as she fell into a near swoon.

The Hows of Hospitality

With my grandmother's passing just a few weeks back, it did have us all thinking back on the fun times we all had when we were younger in the kopitiam; from hopping over specific wooden floorboards to avoid waking up the elders to the crazy shenanigans we got up to whilst working in a coffeeshop. You really never know what's going to happen when practically anyone can walk into the shop.

One thing I did realize after all this time is the fact that our dining table generally had an unfamiliar face every time we sat down for meals. Though we used to think they were some random relatives that my grandparents used to call over - or even old customers of the shop who dropped by, they mostly turned out to be long-lost friends and even total strangers sometimes that were invited over. As shy young children, it did embarass us to have such relative foreigners at the dining table, frequently staring unashamedly at us and blatantly commenting on how we looked. Certainly wasn't ideal for an impressionable child of any age. 

Turns out calling randoms to the table is a family trait since my own parents did the same, much to our consternation. 

Come join us for a meal!

But as I grow older, I realized those were some of the most important life lessons we had, though we didn't know we were being ably taught even then. What we learnt was the importance of friendship and hospitality. Till now, my table - and by extension my home - is always open to friends and family no matter the time of day. 不客气!

Although if you come banging on the wee hours of the morning, you might get a grumpier response than usual... but still my door will be open.

So much to my horror I found out recently how simple hospitality seems to be an archaic tradition. Certainly not something that's taught in most other households. 

Paul : So you're heading over there for a while? 

Miz Grundy : Yes. 

Paul : Staying over with your friend? 

Miz Grundy : No. 

Paul : You fell out with her? 

Miz Grundy : No. 

Paul : What gives?

Miz Grundy : She didn't offer her place to me. 

Paul : She's not squatting under a staircase? 
Miz Grundy : No. It's a double storey and she lives alone. 
Paul : How accommodating. Yeah, she's not a friend. 

It's as simple as that so let's just leave all the lame excuses that followed. A friend comes over to your place and you can barely offer a night's stay, much less a hearty meal? How ungenerous for a supposed friend. Hell, actually that's so much worse than a complete stranger. 

By her feeble responses, I assume Miz Grundy wouldn't have offered the same so I figure that's one 'friendship' that isn't going to last.

Silent Night

Once upon a time in a castle far away in the northern kingdom, after several years of happy anticipation, a little baby girl was born to the reigning Princess Panacea. Though possessed of her father's less than spectacular looks, the little girl fortunately developed some little charm of her own, bolstered by her mother's frequent makeovers and soon became the delight of her doting parents.

Though perhaps they had doted a little too much on their Petulant Pill. 

Barely did the Princess Panacea wander a foot away from the child, there would be whines, whimpers and wails enough to shake the castle to the rafters. Soon Panacea could scarcely move an inch away without the resounding keening lamentation that came to be known as the Pillsong. Though the apple of her parents' eyes, the screeching little girl soon became the dreaded gorgon that reigned in the castle nursery much to the unending horror of the nurse, the nursemaids and the servants. Each night as the Pill finally cried herself to sleep, the rest of the castle lit a candle hoping for a white knight to come rescue them. 

Away from the Petulant Pill. 

Prince : Perhaps the magical unicorns would still her cries.
Panacea : Yeah that's gonna happen. 

Sounds less like a sweet fairytale and more like a recurring nightmare actually. Though some parts have been wildly exaggerated, for the most part the sad story above is firmly rooted in reality. So much so that Pretty Panacea finds it hard to even leave her house, which is how it took more than a year before she managed to return for a visit with the baby. Ever the protective first time parent, Panacea finds herself loath to leave the child by her wee lonesome - not even under the care of her own elderly parents.

Something I realized when the Pill seemed abnormally attached to her everywhere she went.

Paul : You didn't leave the Pill with your parents? 
Panacea : No. Never. 
Paul : You haven't gone out without the Pill? 
Panacea : No. Never!
Paul : Why? Your parents are living next door? So are your husband's parents? Isn't that why you chose to live so close by? 
Panacea : But the Pill can't be left alone with them. She would cry!
Paul : Uh. So?
Panacea : She would cry!
Paul : Trust me on this but no baby ever died from crying. 

Come on, seriously did anyone ever die from crying?

Till I pointed it out plainly, she didn't even realize that her baby hadn't been left in the care of anyone else in the family for even a measly ten minutes. Apparently the ensuing raucous wails would be heard from several blocks away. Like any other over-enthusiastic first-time helicopter parents, Panacea then handed me the lame excuse of her own parents not knowing what to do with a newborn. As I've heard that very same irrational reason several dozen times before, I knew exactly what to say.

Paul : Excuse you. Your parents managed to keep you alive and well till you're grown enough to have a child of your own. You haven't. 

Perhaps I would have been a little more understanding if she were handing her child to an unfamiliar caretaker but really, her own parents. Really. Are you seriously trying to challenge your own parents when it comes to parenting? Like come on.

Let your parents be grandparents, and perhaps then there might actually be a Silent Night.

The Moveable Christmas Feast

It's that time of the year again when everything seems just a bit more magical. Over here on the other side of the Big Puddle, the lovely month of December finally heralds a sweet cool though sadly brief respite from the intense scorch of summer blaze.

Which is the time I usually plan for my annual Christmas Fête in Netherfield. Unlike many of my more youthful noncontemporaries who blindly worship potluck parties for vague reasons unkenownst, I generally hire professional caterers - since I don't see how discomfiting my guests by forcing them to bring a dish could possibly be conducive to mischief and merrymaking. Isn't it easier to just focus on dressing up for a party?

Though clearly a stubborn handful would differ since they truly prefer slaving over a stove for the potluck; soon after appearing sadly tardy and inappropriately bedecked in salt, soot and scum. Ho, ho, ho, indeed.

Potluck! What a very quaint idea!

So cater please. After all it's a party for rational adults and it's time we left cold chicken wings and soggy crisps back in college where they belong.

That said, I've never actually prevented guests from bringing their own culinary delights if that's their wish. Which is what a potluck-obsessed millennial promised for the feast so I begrudgingly gave my consent and struck the item from my planned menu. After all, he did fervently promise that the fried chicken would be sizzling hot and crispy as the vaunted advertisements touted. At least that's what we all hoped.

Yet when he finally arrived with said parcel, we all looked into his Christmas bag with glee only to find something only a shade better than parsimonious coal.

Paul : There are only nine pieces of chicken here.
Friend : Yes.
Paul : Are you doing a sad reeneactment of the Christmas Carol?
Friend : No ah. Don't we all usually only eat one piece of chicken each? 
Paul : Maybe when I was three. 
Friend : Eh?
Paul : It's a feast. Not a fast. 

Really.

A piece of chicken each usually? Tis the season of dieting this Christmas?

In the midst of such parsimony, one would have thought we were in the midst of severe food rationing during wartime. Basically with the twenty or so starving guests, that would come up to half a piece each. Not sure what kinda thrifty household he came from but with that kinda generosity in a Fuzhou family, he would probably have been tossed out the backdoor with that measly box of chicken.

Thanks to age and maturity though, I at least managed a dismissive shrug with a light taunt about his baffling peculiarities.

Perhaps he thought it was a Christmas Fast.

Christmas Secrets

Has it only been but a year since the arrival of Ambiguous Aaron?

In the surprisingly short span of a year, this buttoned-down conservative bachelor has managed to bewitch, bother and bewilder more than a few of us, most particularly when it comes to the hush-hush issue of his sexuality. Irrepressibly straight, he claimed repeatedly - though his subsequent behaviour - and the uncontrollable drool whenever a sexy fit fellow walks by - had us all a little doubtful.

The question of Is He or Isn't He filled our daily conversations for a couple of weeks before we managed to successfully confirm the fact, thanks to our well-placed connections in the pink mafia. Ever since the day we dispatched our agents, several confidential dossiers have mysteriously landed on my desk detailing his each and every move prior to arriving here, from covert assignations in the dark to the more public meets out in the open. 

All of which does indubitably corroborate the fact that the man isn't ambiguously gay, but most certainly swings that way. 

Girl : You're gay, aren't you?
Aaron : What makes you say that!
Girl : Your Grindr profile. 

So why the awful provoking mystery? 

Does he think we're incredibly obtuse to the fact? Does he have a certain quota of people he can come out to in a month? Does he not know himself well enough? Does he think he can, and will change? Perhaps finally coming out to us would only underline the fact that Aaron isn't yet ready to face, even to himself. 

Since all of us have already confirmed our suspicions unbeknownst to him, our conversations when it comes to his supposedly lady-killer ways, has become just a tad stilted. Initially we did try to occasionally lay some homo bait hoping that he'd be drawn out of the closet by inches but Aaron didn't budge in the least... so now it has come to this.  

Aaron : Sure, I'll be heading out on dates. With women. 

Paul : With... women... yeah right. 

Aaron : Will try my best to charm them. The women I mean. 

Paul : Oh I totally believe that you'd charm... the women. 

Coupled with skeptical eye-rolls, even the occasional disbelieving snort. There's only so much oblivious play-acting I can do in a day. 

Seriously, I think we're already the most welcoming, open, tolerant bunch around so why the inexplicable fear of coming out? 

The Skinflint Scrooge Sensibility

I love them dearly but even I have to say that my parents are overly, overly generous. Almost indiscriminately so. Which would certainly explain why no matter how much we try our best to economize in so many ways, there's no way we would ever be a real challenge to the Rockefellers or the Vanderbilts.

But that's alright since I did learn a worthwhile thing or two about generosity from them, though of course my pragmatic brother and I won't ever be quite that ridiculously magnanimous. The occasional spare change charity for the rare stranger who needs it perhaps but not quite the clothes off my back unless I'm donning several layers.

Really, my benevolence only goes so far.

It's different when it comes to my friends and colleagues though since close familiarity does draw some genuine altruism from me. Surely it isn't that difficult to give out the occasional treat or even the infrequent gift to your friends, especially those in far less affluent circumstances?

No doubt Mr Scrooge would beg to differ.

Bah, humbug!

In age, wisdom and work experience in his own milieu, he would probably rank around the same as me so he does have more than his share of subordinates - one of them would be Sober Sam who once interned for him. Unsure how Scrooge performs at work but it's only when we fraternize after work hours that he starts showing his more... undesirable, parsimonious side. Although most of his juniors - who obviously earn so much less than him - have actually brought him out for a meal, I'm starting to notice that he never ever returns the favour.

When given a not unfriendly nudge, he frequently professes to be utterly impoverished. Absolutely preposterous since we can gauge exactly how much your remuneration is from your exalted work position. And seriously, to wail about being penniless in front of your own underlings who earn less than you?

Have you no shame, sir! Thoroughly ungenerous behaviour that I can't quite comprehend since when I'm with my nurses and junior doctors, I generally pick up the tab as a matter of course. Rare enough that we all manage to get together for a meal so why not give them a nice treat? Just a simple meal, not like we're getting them all a huge chunk of Kobe beef steak each.

Paul : It's so weird that he asked Sam to pay for dinner.
Calvin : That's Scrooge after all. 
Paul : Sam used to be his intern. Isn't it quite a shame to ask someone who's just starting work to foot the bill when your pay has to be ten times of his? 
Calvin : Don't think he ever thought of that.
Paul : Gosh I just realized Scrooge is really helluva stingy. 

Unequivocally yes. For Scrooge, 请 is obviously a word entirely foreign to his vocabulary.

Back In The Days

Meeting up with a schoolmate and friend in Tokyo certainly brought back many bittersweet memories, and it wasn't long before Skinny Stacey and I started dredging up funny anecdotes from way, way back then. Seemed so fresh in our minds that it made it hard to grasp the fact that it actually all happened twenty years ago! All those wacky pranksters, smooth talkers and emo youngsters were already relatively grown up parents of their very own children.

And in all likelihood - confirmed and reiterated by many, many of my classmates - I wasn't as much of a shy wallflower as I would like to think. Apparently I had quite a fearsome reputation in school, something that I hadn't been entirely aware of back then.

The looks on my friends' faces when I say I'm a blushing blossom in school. 
Occasionally there are smirks and snorts. 

So drooping daisy I definitely wasn't.

Sometimes I do wonder how Charming Calvin and I would have been like if we'd both been in high school at the same time and place. Though never did it occur to me that Charming Calvin would think I'm some monstrous Venus flytrap with dripping green fangs out to catch the next hapless victim.

Calvin : You know I don't think I would have dated Paul in high school.
Stacey : Why not!
Paul : What the- 
Calvin : You probably wouldn't have seen me also!
Paul : Excuse you! Frankly I'm vaguely insulted.
Calvin : Anyway I'd be a little afraid of you. I mean I'd have admired you from afar but would be too scared to come close.
Paul : Eh.

Wait is this one of those inexplicably paiseh things? Turns out Calvin might be one of those timid Clay Jensens who try their best to discreetly blend into the highschool background, perpetually afraid of making the slightest disturbance in the force? Though I might not crave the spotlight as most would think, I doubt I'd be the kind to shrink back from making my opinions heard.

Loudly. Passionately. From the rafters if need be.

Think I've made quite a ruckus or two in the school canteen that stunned everyone once or twice even.

So yeah, that would probably make me stand out from the crowd - as it probably did according to my classmates. Odd since I always thought I was kinda invisible in school. So believe it when I say how you think of yourself doesn't always match up with the truth.

Doing Nothing At All

Unlike most, I prefer to take my Netflix fix slow - so rather than frantically binge-fest over the newly streamed episodes, I basically drag them out painfully anticipatorily into a couple of weeks. An episode a week basically. Reason why it took me so long to finally see Clay Jensen figure out the entire thirteen reasons given by his tortured paramour on what drove her to put a permanent period to her life.

One specific cause of which is obviously our quietly ineffectual Clay himself. Hardly a spoiler since he received the iconic cassettes right in the beginning of the series. You would think someone like Clay would hardly cause a ripple, no?

Something I've noticed since high school myself; quietly reticent fellows such as Clay who tend to blend unobtrusively into the the general background without causing much of a scene. Unassuming, unpretentious, unnoticeable; till sometimes they don't even seem to be involved in anything that's happening around them.

Or prefer not to be.

Seems very little reason to irrrationally aggravate me but it does.

Maybe I shoulda done something.
Coulda Woulda Shoulda. 

Do they actually think doing nothing actually helps anyone? How many times have we seen people hang back from a potentially ugly situation, trying not to dirty their hands? Not realizing that backing away with their arms folded is almost as bad as causing the incident to happen in the first place.

Oft repeated statement that I've always found inspirational.

The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men should do nothing.

Sound familiar, David? 

Tsukematsukeru

Has it really been two decades since I left school?

Seems like it must have been since the last time I saw Skinny Stacey, we were taking our last steps out of high school after our exam results. Or wait, it could have been a week later when we were slightly tipsy after downing drinks at our last school party. Though we hardly spent any time apart during Form Six, we drifted apart after that as we went our separate ways. Cellphones were still bulky extravagances, social media was still in its relative infancy back then and ICQ was a pain to use.

It was only relatively recently that we pinged each other again on Facebook and started chatting briefly about what had been going on in our lives. Sheer coincidence indeed that we both happened to be in Tokyo at about the same time; seemed like fate was telling us to finally meet up.

Which we did.

Though for a while there it seemed like it might not happen since a sad lack of roaming data and miscommunication had us both waiting at opposite ends of the renowned Senso-Ji Temple in Asakusa. BTW when I say Kaminarimon, I obviously mean the Kaminarimon 雷門 otherwise known as the Thunder Gate. Fortuitously the gods of fortune seemed to smile upon us that day since after a frustrating hair-pulling hour of pacing around the temple gate searching for the hitherto familiar face of Skinny Stacey, I saw the even more recognizable mermaid insignia of Starbucks.

And reasonably stable wi-fi.

Amazing what they can do with woodblock prints these days! A memento of our trip there!

So it was that I spent an amazing day tour strolling around the ancient temple of Senso-Ji and the surrounding shopping streets of Asakusa - with Charming Calvin and Skinny Stacey. Can say without a doubt that she has changed but little since I could recognise her slender frame from a mile off. Did the conventional touristy prerequisite of cleansing rituals, soaking incense smoke and dedicating solemn prayers at the temple while leaving the bad luck tied up in knots behind.

Then it was time for a bit of reminiscing.

As much as I found the final years of high school utterly exhausting trying to catch up with endless revisions that never seemed to suffice, I still found it a time for slowly discovering the kind of person I would be; and yes, also tentatively exploring what it meant to be a sexually active gay man. Even then with all that near negligible homosexual angst, I found it an excellent experience to finally leave behind the macho all boys' experience and to finally have some feminine mystique around.

Hey I finally had girl friends. And I wasn't exactly unpopular.

Stacey : It wasn't that fun a time for us. 
Paul : Us? 
Stacey : I knew you were doing great in Form Six but not the rest of us. 
Paul : What? 

However it turns out Stacey - and quite a few of my classmates weren't having such a positive experience back then. An understatement if there ever was one. Unquestionably an epiphany for me since I unwisely figured that the rest couldn't possibly be undergoing as radical a change as I was. Happens that they just weren't dealing with it as smoothly as I was.

All behind us though so we can joke and laugh about it now. Still, has it really been two decades?

The Blowjob

One Blowjob doesn't necessarily turn you gay.

Let's face it, boys are boys and they do love their little scientific experiments especially when it involves the excitable lil fella down below. Even though it was kept clandestinely hush-hush in my all boys's school, most would have noticed the illicit hanky panky going on between some of the more adventurous schoolboys in the secluded corners.

Doubt any of them would even think to consider themselves gay, then and now. Just a bit of handsy sophomoric fun between the boys, especially when opportunities to get off successfully are hard enough to come by at that jailbait age.

Not that I ever did any of that, well apart from some hasty making out sessions in the darker corners of the school chapel. Hardly enough time to progress past a quick handjob, much less giving a proper oral. Just never know who's going to be bursting through the doors! Terrible enough to be breaking dozens of religious doctrines in a day; what more to present such a spectacle of prurience to a man of the cloth.

Maybe a second round? 

But when a friend keeps insisting that the cheap trick he has been seeing is impossibly straight, it does make me wonder.

Friend : Yeah, I actually gave him a blowjob. 
Paul : Well that doesn't necessarily make him gay. 
Friend : He asked me for another. And I did it again. 
Paul : Oh. Twice? 

Well, perhaps one blowjob doesn't turn you homosexual. Fun times for all and all that.

But two consensual blowjobs?

Makes one wonder. Maybe you could chalk up that first blowjob to simple curiosity and fervent desperation - but the second time around does make it a little more suspicious. Moving towards the second has turned it from an experimental try to becoming something almost habitual. A lil crooked perhaps; down the Kinsey spectrum from totally heterosexual?

Surely he didn't hate it all that much if he's begging to come for seconds?

Beach Wedding Not

Never.
Ever.
Have.
A.
Beach.
Wedding.

I cannot say this more vehemently. Seriously, especially not in a sweltering tropical country melting under an unprecedented heat wave. Perhaps a possible consideration in far more temperate climes but definitely not in our country.

And for once I'm speaking from real life experience. Though Lissome Lorelei did playfully threaten to let us all bake torturously under the midday sun during her seaside wedding ceremony, she thankfully had a near-glacial tearoom waiting for all her guests to simmer down right after. If I recall there was a mad stampede to rush in for that brief respite right after the vows as well leaving several hapless bridesmaids trampled in need of medical attention!

Apparently though that particular bit of advantageous information seems to have slipped out of the many gushing bridal magazines. Ever the island girl with childhood dreams of a beach party, our Pretty Paisley had almost zero qualms over letting her guests spit-roast under the sun.

Which is how Shameless Shalom and I found ourselves literally sweating buckets during the wedding vows. Though it was apparently still a breezy mid-morning at the tropical beach, it truly felt like we'd already trudged through the heated trenches at Iwojima in our bulky combat fatigues. We would have surrendered ourselves just to find ourselves in airconditioned comfort if we could.

Bla bla bla let's get married! And out of this heat!

Though of course I would never be dressed so dreadfully! So there I was, in my new suit, literally broiling on the beach like one of the barbecued seafood snacks on offer by the seaside shacks.

Whereas our more practical Shalom had put on a shorter cocktail dress though from the excessive perspiration streaming down her forehead, it did very little to cool her down. When fanning myself vigorously with the invitation card seemed more thermogenic than cooling, I was already beginning to wish I'd pulled on a skirt myself.

Nonetheless it was wonderful to see Paisley so happily walking down the aisle. Since she had nary a bead of sweat on her, I assume excessive happiness does temporarily disable the sweat glands. At least for a little while.

For the rest of us, it wasn't so which is how I found myself placing a personal ban on beach weddings. At least for myself. Like why would anyone subject themselves to such inhumane suffering?

Shalom : My God, the pictures turned out amazing. 
Paul : Thank goodness. 
Shalom : The colours. The sun. The beach. 
Paul : No.. No... don't say it!
Shalom : I want a beach wedding too. 
Paul : Dammit. 

So now we know how it all begins.

Oh My English Again

No, this won't be a rant on how young Chinese Malaysians are deliberately eschewing the English language - and even our national language - for whatever misplaced reasons in their naive lil minds. That impassioned diatribe will come along one fine day when I'm finally rational enough to type one out somewhat legibly.

Mostly this has to do with our Ambiguous Aaron - and his dubious command of the language. One would assume that having English as his first language - mayhap his one and only - would automatically place him in the hallowed ranks of prodigious English scholars! Failing that, at least he would have a somewhat passable standard of English.

At least that's what one would like to think.

Thus far, I've let more than a few of his grammatical faux pas slip by without a word since :-

a) I'm not your fecking teacher and I heartily dislike faultfinders
b) I'm not that great myself so why am I pointing out mistakes
c) It must have been a slip of the tongue

Usually I just shrug dismissively and think, surely no one gets that wrong?

Did he just diss the grammar of Shakespeare?

But then came the day when he then decided to diss the Bard.

Yes, William Shakespeare himself. Though I'm far from ye high-and-mighty literary connoiseur, do not ever, ever critique the grammar of Shakespeare in front of someone who spent part of his high school years going through the various tragedies and comedies. Atrocious, Aaron called it, which obviously put me into a flame.

Don't diss the Bard.

Then lo and behold, Aaron spelt the word chilli wrong.

Aghast. Me. In our food-obsessed nation that's about as simple and elementary a word as apple. Before I could falteringly ask for a repeat, he blithely spells it wrong again. Twice in a row, surely it's not a typo, says I. Ever the skeptic, I immediately question myself. Perhaps I've been wrong my entire life and it's actually spelt that way? To the dictionary I promptly ran to check the word out only to prove myself right.

Dammit, he made me doubt myself!

Perhaps in the upper reaches of the Ganges? In some obscure, forgotten corner of South America? Again I desperately search across the length and breadth of Google to find more information only to reaffirm my earlier understanding of the word. Nope, still spelled chilli. Yep, even in Mexico. Well sometimes it's chili.

But never chilly.