Tuesday, December 29, 2009

And so it ends..with a whimper.

I really wanted to talk about the Jap trip which incidentally was lovely but ever since I've returned I've been so tired. And the colossal amount of work which has to be done over a short span of the next few days (ie: new year) isn't exactly helping.

My new year resolution's set, now to get moving. If only I can. Bloody tired.

Saturday, December 12, 2009

Festivities & Holidays

So the festive season is upon us again, the time to make merry, enjoy the company of friends, lovers and family, blow a bunch of moola on merry making and gifts for friends & family. You can sense the festive mood, in the air you breathe, the glitzy kitsch of christmas-sy decor, the purposeful strut of shoppers thronging the malls, all intent on getting the best bargains & gifts.

Yet for yours truly, with each passing year the festive mood diminishes. I still partake in the festivities, merry making, money spending & gift shopping but the bright-eyed wonder and exuberant excitement just isn't there anymore. At most, a few fleeting sparks of excitement randomly surface closer to the actual date when the mood becomes almost infectious. The keyword being almost.

But I guess that's the price you pay for the loss of innocence and the inexorable onset of jadedness that inevitably accompanies knowledge. Though I guess it'd probably help somewhat if one's in love and has an other half to share one's life with. Singlehood has its pros and cons. Though there are times (like now) when you feel the cons more.

Festive seasons are often synonymous with holidays. This year has been no exception. Thanks to the highly enjoyable and relaxed work trip to Hanoi last week, almost the entire month of December will be spent out of the office. Of course with an upcoming trial the week after New Year, I'll pay for it when I return on the 29th but you know what they say, enjoy first, suffer later. Not the wisest principle to adhere to but a damn convenient one if I may say so.

It's a little hard to believe that just last week at this time, I was still at Hanoi Intercontinental Westlake, lazing at the pool with the ex PM on a cool and sunny afternoon. Now I'm surrounded by swathes of clothes, remnants of the shopping spree at Uniqlo and unpacked toiletries and electronics. A veritable mess, the typical scene of packing in progress, aelgtoer style. You would have thought with all that practice at packing last week, packing for Japan would have been a breeze. Unfortunately, any form of packing is a chore. I'm the kind who packs slow but unpacks really fast. Still have 6 more hours to pack though. Twiddles thumbs.

On an unrelated note, I'm glad I've finished the perfunctory Christmas shopping as well as the coming-of-age birthday present for JL. Feeling rather pleased and accomplished after completing the Deck a Quek project. Lol. Happy Birthday babe! I know you'll love the present. You better! hahaha

Monday, November 30, 2009

Packing.

I love going on trips. It's just the getting up which I hate. Or more specifically, packing. Just the act of cleaning that little mountain of clear bottles/jars and proportioning the necessary toiletries into the said thingamajigs is a fatigue inducing affair. You know how long it takes to wash those damn things, dry them and carefully portion out the 101 toiletries into them before packing it in? Long enough for fatigue to set in.

Don't get me wrong, I still love going on trips. And I'll still end up packing anyway even if it takes me all night to do so, usually cause I'm distracted by any other thing that doesn't relate to packing for the said trip. Finding old cds, downloading porn, on the phone with friends. You name it, I've done it. Well perhaps short of sex. Doubt I was ever distracted by sex while packing but that's mainly cause the opportunity doesn't present itself at 3am in the morning amid a pile of clothes, half of which you can't decide whether to fold, burn or pack.

But I digress. I love trips (in case you didn't know). I love trips which are sponsored even more. There is always something attractive about free stuff (and trips in particular) provided they don't come with too high a price (ie repulsive company which you wouldn't step out of bed for let alone go on a trip with). Work trips are perfectly fine (also depending on the company). I mean what's a bit of work if you get a nice all expenses paid trip (courtesy of client sans shopping of course) with good accommodation and expenses in return? Nothing seriously.

Besides given the rarity of such work trips given the composition of my work (you hardly ever go on any work trips while doing matri), such trips are a welcome change from office work. So I am actually looking forward to the work trip with the ex PM (pupilmast) in Hanoi from Wed to the weekend. That coupled with the saggi bros upcoming bash the following Wed and the Japan trip the following Sat means the next two weeks are jam packed with fun and the need to pack.

I never know what to pack seriously. And more often than not after I'm finally done packing, I always have this nagging feeling that I've forgotten something. Which usually turns out to be true. Not the important stuff of course, passport, money, keys all survive the check before you leave the house checklist. Usually it's random stuff like my shaver, cologne, toothbrush. Nothing that's irreplaceable, just a matter of the cost of replacing those items. Not to mention the annoyance factor.

So it was that I was lamenting to JL about the fatigue-inducing ills of packing over msn and offering her a sum if she'd pack for me. Imagine a neatly packed bag with everything you need without the hassle of worrying what goes in and what stays out. Sheer bliss. I was still on Step 2 of the Packing Toiletries routine which can be summed up as follows:

Packing Toiletries (aelgtoer style)

Step 1: Clean them bottles/jars/thingamajigs

Step 2: Dry the thingamajigs thoroughly. This means quite a few wads of tissue paper.

Step 3: Select necessary toiletries. Proportion sum. Pour into thingamajigs.

Step 4: Paste little neat labels stating the contents of whatever fluid/cream/etc are in that particular thingamajig on the correct thingamajig.

Step 5: Pack toiletries into toiletry bag.

Which was when JL said that I should learn about packing light from her. Good thing I was still at Step 2, else I would have bungled up the proportioning bit from all the laughing. To understand why, I've included a tiny excerpt of our conversation. :)

JL says (12:23 AM):

omgomgomgomgomg
eh pack light ah
hahahaha
must learn from me
HAHAHA OMG SUCH AN IRONY

Aelgtoer- fucking hates ironing...grumbles. says (12:25 AM):

haha u? pack light!

Aelgtoer- fucking hates ironing...grumbles. says (12:26 AM):

u who brought your entire bathroom for a one night stay!!!!
dies of laughter

JL; says (12:26 AM):

go and die la you!
WAH LAO

Yes so if you want an expert in packing your entire house for one trip I'd recommend JL :) Proportioning toiletries into little bottles is so passe and inconvenient when you can just bring the jumbo pack of shampoo/face wash/moisturizer (insert desired toiletry) along. Hahahaha. Nvm stilllll love my crrrazzzy gf anyway. hahaha

Which reminds me. I'm still at Step 2 of the Packing Toiletries Routine. Omfg.

Excuse me while I blast some Pink. I'm not here for your entertainment, you don't really want to mess with me tonight! Not when I'm packing. Hahaha.

U + Ur Hand - Pink


Sunday, November 22, 2009

K.

It's been a long time since I've had an engaging and intense 3 hour long conversation with another guy into the wee hours of the morning. In a way, it felt like those old JC days when I'd stay up till 3 gossiping with Annie over the phone or chatting with W over nothing in particular until we'd fall asleep on the phone.

What was supposed to be a 'short' conversation rapidly took on a life of its own so much so that getting off the phone required a very conscious and significant effort. But I guess when you're able to converse and connect with a person on a level such that interaction is spontaneous and enjoyable, neither party wants to end the conversation. Still, it's a little weird that K shares the same name as a close sistah.

The need to disassociate the name from the person you'd usually associate it with becomes apparent when you consider the prospect of sex. Saying the name of the person you're fucking with and conjuring the mental image of the other person whom you'd never consider sex with is just... disturbing.

It's funny how attractive the ability to form an intellectual and engaging connection with another person can be. Unlike a purely physical attraction which flares up with ferocious intensity but dissipates like chaff in the wind if unsupported by anything else, an intellectual attraction and the ability to communicate is like a slow burning fire that builds up to a sustained inferno with regular interaction. Of course being gay and male, there are always certain physical pre-requisites, certain preferences which must be satisfied before one would consider the other party for something more than a tete a tet at Starbucks.

Meeting up with K. proved to be a good decision after all. And as you know, the devil is in the details so I'll just spare you peeps the pain and I'll leave it at that. Otherwise I'd never hear the end of rivulets of cum that coagulate on the abs from the Gang. Mmmm cum hahahah.




P/S: Actually I'm just lazy, did u seriously think I'd give a damn bout what they think of my sexcapades or lack thereof?

Monday, November 16, 2009

Bad Romance.

Lady Gaga, you either Love her or you Hate her. Her music, her videos, her fashion sense, her eccentricity, her everything. She so totally personifies Gaga-ness. I still remember back when I gave a friend who was raving about Lady Gaga, a very blank look, and he went 'OMFG how can you not know about Lady Gaga? I mean are you like 70 or what?'

So well, yes now I do know about her. Stumbling on the music video of her latest single, Bad Romance, thanks to Tom Wright's tweet was a pleasant surprise. I couldn't help but be enthralled by the bizarreness of the MV so much so that I watched it 5 times in a row, possibly much to the yakky roomie's consternation. At the end of it all, I still couldn't say with certainty whether I was repulsed by the whole video but remained inexplicably drawn in rapt horror or I really loved it to bits, eccentricity, in-your-face outrageousness and all. What I did know was that I was fascinated. Inexplicably so.

Now I'm pretty certain it's the latter. As Tom tweeted, Lady Gaga - music and all, is the kind that grows on you once you allow it to. Bad Romance is no different. The moment at the end with sparks flying out from her madonna style conical bra beside a charred lover was brilliant.

Simply Gaga-tastic! Say it now, I'm a freak bitch baby!



Bad Romance - Lady Gaga

Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh-oh-oh!
Caught in a bad romance
Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh-oh-oh!
Caught in a bad romance

Rah-rah-ah-ah-ah-ah!
Roma-roma-mamaa!
Ga-ga-ooh-la-la!
Want your bad romance

Rah-rah-ah-ah-ah-ah!
Roma-roma-mamaa!
Ga-ga-ooh-la-la!
Want your bad romance

I want your ugly
I want your disease
I want your everything
As long as it’s free
I want your love
(Love-love-love I want your love)

I want your drama
The touch of your hand
I want your leather-studded kiss in the sand
I want your love
Love-love-love
I want your love
(Love-love-love I want your love)

You know that I want you
And you know that I need you
I want it bad, your bad romance

I want your love and
I want your revenge
You and me could write a bad romance
(Oh-oh-oh--oh-oooh!)
I want your love and
All your lovers' revenge
You and me could write a bad romance

Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh-oh-oh!
Caught in a bad romance
Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh-oh-oh!
Caught in a bad romance

Rah-rah-ah-ah-ah-ah!
Roma-roma-mamaa!
Ga-ga-ooh-la-la!
Want your bad romance

I want your horror
I want your design
‘Cause you’re a criminal
As long as your mine
I want your love
(Love-love-love I want your love-uuhh)

I want your psycho
Your vertigo stick
Want you in my rear window
Baby you're sick
I want your love
Love-love-love
I want your love
(Love-love-love I want your love)

You know that I want you
('Cause I'm a freak bitch baby!)
And you know that I need you
I want a bad, bad romance

I want your love and
I want your revenge
You and me could write a bad romance
(Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh!)
I want your love and
All your lovers' revenge
You and me could write a bad romance

Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh-oh-oh!
Caught in a bad romance
Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh-oh-oh!
Caught in a bad romance

Rah-rah-ah-ah-ah-ah!
Roma-roma-mamaa!
Ga-ga-ooh-la-la!
Want your bad romance

Rah-rah-ah-ah-ah-ah!
Roma-roma-mamaa!
Ga-ga-ooh-la-la!
Want your bad romance

Walk, walk fashion baby
Work it
Move that bitch crazy

Walk, walk fashion baby
Work it
Move that bitch crazy

Walk, walk fashion baby
Work it
Move that bitch crazy

Walk, walk fashion baby
Work it
I'm a freak bitch, baby

I want your love and
I want your revenge
I want your love
I don’t wanna be friends

Je veux ton amour
Et je veux t'en revendre
Je veux ton amour
I don’t wanna be friends
Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh!
I don’t wanna be friends
(Caught in a bad romance)
I don’t wanna be friends
Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh!
Want your bad romance
(Caught in a bad romance)
Want your bad romance!

I want your love and
I want your revenge
You and me could write a bad romance
Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh!
I want your love and
All your lovers' revenge
You and me could write a bad romance

Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh-oh-oh!
Want your bad romance
(Caught in a bad romance)
Want your bad romance

Oh-oh-oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh-oooh-oh-oh-oh-oh!
Want your bad romance
(Caught in a bad romance)

Rah-rah-ah-ah-ah-ah!
Roma-roma-mamaa!
Ga-ga-ooh-la-la!
Want your bad romance

Sunday, November 15, 2009

Boy Bands & Boyfriends.

Funny how common the two were in the past, the proliferation of boy bands and boyfriends ( though flings would be a more apt description), now nothing more than quirky memories which leave behind a bittersweet taste in the mouth. And no, I'm not referring to any bodily fluids if that's what you're wondering.

Like a strange dream you can't quite recall, the retrieved fragments of time a jumbled mosaic of competing sensations and emotions. Cemented by specific memories and that indescribable feeling of unassailable emotions entrenched with every single fragment. For Boybands, that sense of exasperation when trying to rip off the plastic wrapped discs, a kitschy mix of mushy sentimentalism and corny affirmation, angsty love. For boyfriends...well let's just say it depended on the individual in question and leave it at that.

Both now a thing of the past... for the foreseeable future. Though the latter resurfaced from the deep recesses of the mind when the Ex suddenly re-established contact on Sat to wish me a happy birthday. Strange but true. Though it's not something I'll be losing any sleep over.

Listening to Take That's Back For Good, I still remember when I thought Gary Barlow was hot. Those were the days, gone forever.

Take That- Back For Good

Saturday, November 14, 2009

The Birthday Bash

Although the shewolf didn't turn up (phew) due to a sudden and virulent bout of flu and sore throat, the night still turned out to be damn havoc, certainly one of the wilder ones I've had in a while.

To begin with, the Underworld theme which required us to come dressed (somewhat) as either vampires or werewolves set the tone for the rest of the night. Shopping with A. the night before for accessories and what not helped to put me in the mood. Nothing like some proper accessories and a sense of satisfaction with one's outfit to get one prepped and happy.

I went with the slightly campy, vamp in paris look though for some reason the Gang seemed to be fixated on the metallic gothic sword pendant which they claimed was a crucifix and highly inappropriate for a vampire. Which is pure bosh because it's a sword, looks like one and the only similarity between it and a crucifix is its proportions. But we all had fun, even A. as Fluffy, the failed vampire slayer. A role specially invented for her cause she looked like neither a vampire nor a werewolf.

Dinner wasn't bad. I liked my cod though I remember being hampered by the jungle of wine glasses that obstructed easy access to the starters. It was the after dinner party at the Pump Room (Zirca sadly was closed for a private, lesbian party event) though that was damn havoc. Sufficiently sloshed with booze by the time we reached, the ex-PM's Flaming Lambo pushed me to a dangerous high. Another waterfall and I would have undoubtedly crashed, with an almost inevitable trip to the toilet to puke.

As it turns out, I didn't but suffered selective amnesia on the dance floor. Which is probably a good thing on hind sight. Apparently, I danced with half the people on the dance floor, did a lot of acrobatic moves which resulted in a serious wardrobe malfunction, pants that ripped along the ass seams. On the day when I chose to wear my jock straps.

Groped a lot, got groped a lot. Had my most 'private of parts' groped by a particular ahem, vampy, individual in the Gang who apparently leapt on the platform to engage in some serious dirty dancing with your truly. Thankfully, I have no recollection at all of the latter. The Gang got a full view of my naked butt cheeks which incidentally got groped by that same individual.

It is vaguely disturbing to know that she's the only other woman (other than the Mother) to have ever touched my bare ass. Which might explain why I simply cannot recall that part.

But all in all, a pretty damn havoc night. Certainly the first time my pants ever split along the seams from dancing. Which I have to admit was more than vigorous. Thanks for the night though guys, lurve ya!

Let's aim for Zirca for the Saggi - bros' upcoming birthday bash. This time I'll wear jeans.

Tik Tok goes the cock erm clock!



Tik Tok by Ke$ha

Wake up in the morning feeling like P Diddy
(Hey, what up girl?)
Grab my glasses, Im out the door - Im gonna hit this city (Lets go)
Before I leave, brush my teeth with a bottle of Jack
Cause when I leave for the night, I aint coming back
Im talkin' pedicure on our toes, toes
Trying on all our clothes, clothes
Boys blowing up our phones, phones
Drop-toping, playing our favorite cd's
Pulling up to the parties
Trying to get a little bit tips-eeerw

[CHORUS]
Dont stop, make it pop
DJ, blow my speakers up
Tonight, Imma fight
Til we see the sunlight
Tick tock, on the clock
But the party dont stop no
Oah-oh wah oh
Oah-oh wah oh

Dont stop, make it pop
DJ, blow my speakers up
Tonight, Imma fight
Til we see the sunlight
Tick tock, on the clock
But the party dont stop no
Oah-oh wah oh
Oah-oh wah oh


Aint got a care in world, but got plenty of beer
Aint got no money in my pocket, but Im already here
Now, the dudes are lining up cause they hear we got swagger
But we kick em to the curb unless they look like Mick Jagger
Im talkin' bout - everybody getting crunk, crunk
Boys tryna touch my junk, junk
Gonna smack him if he getting too drunk, drunk
Now, now - we goin til they kick us out, out
Or the police shut us down, down
Police shut us down, down
Po-po shut us - down/deerw

Dont stop, make it pop
DJ, blow my speakers up
Tonight, Ima fight
Til we see the sunlight
Tick tock, on the clock
But the party dont stop no
Oah-oh wah oh
Oah-oh wah oh

Dont stop, make it pop
DJ, blow my speakers up
Tonight, Imma fight
Til we see the sunlight
Tick tock, on the clock
But the party dont stop no
Oah-oh wah oh
Oah-oh wah oh

DJ, you build me up
You break me down
My heart, it pounds
Yeah, you got me
With my hands up
You got me now
You got that sound
Yeah, you got me

DJ, you build me up
You break me down
My heart, it pounds
Yeah, you got me
With my hands up
Put your hands up
Put your hands uh-a-a-a-a-a-a

No, the party dont start till I walk in

Dont stop, make it pop
DJ, blow my speakers up
Tonight, Imma fight
Til we see the sunlight
Tick tock, on the clock
But the party dont stop no
Oah-oh wah oh
Oah-oh wah oh

Dont stop, make it pop
DJ, blow my speakers up
Tonight, Imma fight
Til we see the sunlight
Tick tock, on the clock
But the party dont stop no
Oah-oh wah oh
Oah-oh wah oh

Sunday, November 8, 2009

Insomnia

Of three kinds.

The first induced by the post-Paranormal Activity trauma. Save for a couple of peeps who appear to think that the show was more stupid than scary, the general consensus from those who've watched the show so far is that it's pretty freaky, scary shit.

While it's true that the first 30 mins or so wasn't exactly hair-raising, after all we've all heard things that go bump in the night and more often than not attribute it to some errant rodent, the rest of the show upped the ante (and scare factor) and ensured a lot of bicep grabbing, profanity strewn invectives from yours truly. I have never blasphemed so much in the span of an hour. A quick scan around the cinema confirmed that this was the norm and not the exception.

The impact of the show on the psyche of the audience is also affected in some ways I feel by the composition of the audience. Couples or singles who have their own places and stay alone would be better able to relate to the context which the movie was set in and possibly envisage the same happening to them than say families or youngsters still living with their families.

After all, one of the things which added to the scream and scare factor was the overwhelming feeling of helplessness that was conveyed: of not having anyone to turn to, of not being in control. A perversity when one's house, usually your sanctuary and bastion of refuge suddenly becomes your jail and torture chamber all rolled into one. So for those who haven't watched it (and diss it on the account that it's over hyped and dumb), do go watch it and see whether you're still of the same opinion after the movie.

Suffice to say, if only half of whatever screened on Paranormal Activity happened to me in my house, I'd move out in an instant, sell the house and leave the possessed other half faster than you can say 'fuck'.

The second, a whole load more pleasurable. Insomnia, preoccupied by the feeling of his body moving under mine. The good thing about people who cant' drink much is that it doesn't require much to set them off, to send them into that desired and elusive 'high'. It took just one bottle of Vodka Grape for Jh. The bad thing is you aren't high (unless you're one of the aforesaid, in which like they say, Oh Happy Day). That foul bottle of small (thank god) 'french' wine from 7-11 barely had any effect other than leaving a vinegary- bitter aftertaste in the mouth.

It's been a long long while since I've played Devil's advocate and seductor in one night. As the guys I've been with have by and far been knowledgeable in the art of man-on-man action (albeit to differing degrees), I can barely recall the last time I slept with a greenhorn. Though there is always something refreshing about taking the lead and teaching without dominating, showing without directing. Not to mention that added cocktail of tenderness and teasing seduction.

And when the long dormant fire is relit, the intensity of passion that ensues and the feeling of his body moving under mine was sufficient to induce for both of us a very pleasurable insomnia, while it lasted.

The third, Insomnia the song by Craig David. One of the favourites at the moment and a hit I'd always be able to dance to. Trust the man to come up with an infectious emo-ish song, simple lyrics and a viral beat.



Insomnia by Craig David

I never thought that I'd fall in love, love, love, love
But it grew from a simple crush, crush, crush, crush
Being without you girl, I was all messed up, up, up, up
When you walked out, said that you'd had enough-nough-nough-nough

Been a fool, girl I know
Didn't expect this is how things would go
Maybe in time, you'll change your mind
Now looking back i wish i could rewind

Because i can't sleep til you're next to me
No i can't live without you no more
Oh i stay up til you're next to me
Til this house feels like it did before
Feels like insomnia ah ah, Feels like insomnia ah ah
Feels like insomnia ah ah, Feels like insomnia ah ah

Remember telling my boys that I'd never fall in love, love, love, love
You used to think I'd never find a girl I could trust, trust, trust, trust
And then you walked into my life and it was all about us, us, us, us
But now I'm sitting here thinking I messed the whole thing up, up, up, up

Been a fool (fool), girl I know (know)
Didn't expect this is how things would go
Maybe in time (time), you'll change your mind (mind)
Now looking back i wish i could rewind

Because i can't sleep til you're next to me
No i can't live without you no more (without you no more)
Oh i stay up til you're next to me (to me)
Til this house feels like it did before (Because it)
Feels like insomnia ah ah, Feels like insomnia ah ah
Feels like insomnia ah ah (Ah), Feels like insomnia ah ah

Ah, i just can't go to sleep
Cause it feels like I've fallen for you
It's getting way too deep
And i know that it's love because

I can't sleep til you're next to me
No i can't live without you no more (without you no more)
Oh i stay up til you're next to me (to me)
Til this house feels like it did before
Feels like insomnia ah ah, Feels like insomnia ah ah
Feels like insomnia ah ah, Feels like insomnia ah ah

Feels like insomnia ah ah, Feels like insomnia ah ah
Feels like insomnia ah ah, Feels like insomnia ah ah


Though after watching Paranormal Activity yesterday, I can almost imagine it being applied to the context of the movie in a perverse manner.

" Because i can't sleep til you're next to me
No i can't live without you no more
Oh i stay up til you're next to me
Til this house feels like it did before"

Pity for some, the house will never feel like it did before. shudders.

Tuesday, November 3, 2009

Tweet a Twit.

After holding out for the past few months, I finally succumbed (something I seem to be doing a lot of these days) and registered for Twitter today. The main motivation being the ability to say anything, anywhere, in hopefully intelligibly bite-sized portions without the need to compose one's thoughts and write in prose. Mental Diarrhoea if you will.

Registration was fast and painless, an extension of the twittering culture of instantaneous public communication and within 2 mins, Aelgtoer was officially on twitter. Browsing through some twits tweets, it soon became apparent how potentially facile and superficial twitter could be.

Here we have an essentially public SMS service that allows you to broadcast anything, anytime with the knowledge that your friends would be updated on whatever you posted and that anyone else on the net might potentially stumble on your tweet. And let's face it, how often would one have something witty or noteworthy to share? I'd bet it doesn't happen on an hourly basis, let alone every 5 mins unless you're in the Artic being chased by a rabid polar bear in a leopaaard preen outfit that says BOOMZ. In which case maybe you should tweet Riz Low to join you on your Artic amazing race.

So most of the time, people end up posting banal crap like ' Oh had dinner already. Not bad. Going to watch TV now.' or 'Watching the world go by in my underwear.' knowing fully that friends and followers would be kept fully abreast of their every move should they choose so. Not one tweety shriek about bloodsuckers and a horde of mozzies goes unnoticed in the great world wide web.

Given some people's propensity to spew copious amounts of barely intelligible dross on their facebook pages and 'like' comments by the millions just to mark their virtual presence, the transition to twitter, a more viral and public version of the 'phenomenon' that is facebooking, would be like water on a duck's back. The joy at this new found freedom of cyber voyeurism where individuals ironically sacrifice privacy in exchange for the empowerment derived from disclosing knowledge of dubious usefulness at any given time while knowing that people would be forced to read the same, would inevitably lead to an explosion of tweets and frivolous comments.

Like I mentioned to CS, what's to stop anyone from intimately describing their toiletry habits or recounting banal daily events that are an abysmal bore? There isn't. Which is why you find tweets like "Pang sai-ing in toilet.. it's going to be a long day.." It's going to be a longer day for whatever unfortunate soul who has to be updated on your shitting habits at an inconvenient time (say lunch).

So while I do understand the allure of tweeting over blogging, in that it's short, sweet, convenient and something you'd be forcibly updating your followers on (though I can imagine if all you do is to tweet about eating and shitting, you won't have many followers left, I'd be the first to leave for sure); there are times when blogging just cannot be replaced. After all there is a limit to how much you can elucidate in 140 characters and such a spartan mode of expression can be inadequate for conveying certain ideas / rants. Not to mention the fact that you can't really bitch as much as you'd like in a tweet and 1000 tweets do not make a single blog post.

Though you know what they say la, when in Rome do what the Romans do. Now wouldn't you like to know what porn clip I'm wanking off to? *Sweet Smile*

Friday, October 30, 2009

GCF. (Good Clean Fun)

Good Clean Fun. Depending on who you ask, this innocuous term may have very different meanings. It is a convenient term that entails activities so varied as to be barely more than a personal barometer of acceptable fun activities. A catch-all phrase that encompasses anything from a puritanical litany of do nots like No sex, No drugs, No drinking, No partying, No swearing (which does cause one to wonder whether there's anything left to do other than sitting around and rotting from boredom after one is through with the said litany) to the decidedly laissez-faire attitude of 'Anything goes long as you don't come back dead, pregnant or escorted by cops.'

After all those years of listening to the same tiresome litany of commandments from the Mother, you can be certain that a lot of my GFC entailed a great number of forbidden activities. Which wasn't very hard at all because anything other than a brief dinner till 8.30pm and a wholesome movie was considered potentially sinful. Like a group of teenagers might suddenly feel inspired at 15 mins to nine to organise a hedonistic orgy of sex and drugs in drunken revelry. Terrible.

I like to think my personal GCF barometer is somewhere in between. Not a restrictive mantra of commandments that would stifle a nun but yet I'd still like to return home conscious, with my pants on. Unless I'm bunking in with some cute delectable dude in which case, I'd rather not have anything on. Sex is to me a grey area of sorts, I'd usually lump it under GFC without much thought because it is Good, Clean (well most of the time) and undeniably Fun. I'd admit there are times when passionate orgasmic sex can be hot & dirty in which case it'd have to go under GHF (Good Hot Fun) which covers almost all other sexcapades including but not limited to sleepovers and dirty sex in decidedly dangerous places. Alright so my GFC does tend to gravitate towards the more hedonistic end of the spectrum.

Clubbing (when i do get round to it these days) and dancing with the boys and girls is certainly GCF in my books. And when I say dancing I mean the kind I'm most accustomed to, good ole jiving preferably with lots of contact to boot. Contact that usually entails a decent amount of hand-on-various parts of the body action. It's something only the straight boys and attached peeps are exempt from, the former because they cannot handle it and the latter out of courtesy unless they initiate it cause their other half dances like a zombie.

Some might call it dirty dancing, I think it's a load of crap. Dirty dancing's restricted to the kind of dance more accurately described as sex, fully clothed on the dance floor. You know the kind where there's more grinding than dancing and the two individuals are so tightly entwined they look like a single sinuous entity of lust. Not that I have anything against dirty dancing which can be perfectly fine if the occasion (and person) calls for it.

Shaking that body and letting your hands do the talking is to me perfectly normal for dancing. Not exactly something I'd call 911 for even if the effect is that Shawty is burning on the dance floor. After all, dancing is in Sean Paul's words, all about getting busy and shaking that thing. Not spasming like a spastic vibrator or flopping about like a dying fish.

Though I'm not too sure about the Gang's plan to haul a rather hawkish almost bestial creature to the perfunctory birthday clubbing session in the hope that there'd be fire burning on the dance floor. Doesn't help that she reminds me of an embalmed mummy and the PM sent a very disturbing youtube link of Shakira's Shewolf. Now this is something I'd call 911 for.

Thanks to JL, this song appears to be a regular repertoire in the gang's list of favourite party songs. Happy whacking, ok JL? haha.

Sunday, October 4, 2009

Gay Sex: An Anthropological Observation.

"So when are you gonna ask me to fuck on down?" G asked, over Msn.

"Fuck on down?" I enquired, feigning ignorance for what must have been the umpteenth time.

"Meet to fuck la. Ask you how long already." came the annoyed reply.

"Aiya busy la. Let you know ya?" I went before returning to the outrageous antics of Edina and Patsy on Absolutely Fabulous.

This recent conversation is increasingly representative of the current state of my non-existent sex life- a reluctance to meet up and fuck. An explanation is in order. G, whom I first knew about 6 months ago is an above average dude in the looks department, not hot but certainly not ugly either. Like one of the many guys I'm still in contact with these days, just not one I die die must sleep with. So I don't.

It's been almost 8 months since I last had sex. In the world of testosterone fueled, cock worshiping gay men, that's an eternity. Or in my world at least. Eight years ago (or so) when a raging hard-on could be summoned by something as simple as a single touch, a lewd piece of literature or eye contact with a hot guy; the current state of affairs would have been unthinkable and wholly unacceptable.

After all gratification was simply a mouse click or phone call away. Perhaps many clicks away along with the perfunctory chat ups but nothing a phone call and picture couldn't settle. Back when the sex drive was ridiculously high. Fast forward to the present day, the Siren's call to get laid has certainly been tempered somewhat by an assortment of factors such as the maturity that comes with age (and tamer hormones), the diminished returns in pleasure derived from a purely physical activity devoid of any emotions other than release and gratification and the perceived inconvenience of arranging such meet-ups.

Don't get me wrong, I still love sex and it's certainly one of the more enjoyable activities (assuming it's decent sex) one can engage in with a person that one isn't that well acquainted with provided both of you can find the time and place to do so. That said and done, these days I'm starting to find that sex is, in someone's words, 'not worth the trouble'. These days gratification is obtained almost entirely from porn and good old masturbation. While hardly as intense or possibly gratifying as a good fuck, jerking off remains fast, safe and entirely personal without the hassle of having to meet up and engage in the requisite pre & post-coital small talk.

After all, with the exception of friends who fuck or Fuck Buddies whom contrary to popular belief are few and far between, you never know what's going to end up on your platter when you meet up. The vast majority are average or satisfactory, some are spectacularly orgasmic while others like Mr Bad Sex are an abysmal letdown. The kind that make me wish I'd settled for Vilem Cage and a wad of tissue paper instead.

However, apart from an exposition on the the pros and cons of fucking in the flesh as opposed to wanking off, I've found it deliciously ironic how topsy turvy the average gay guy's view on sex, or at least mine in particular, appears to have become. Looking back on my sexcapades, I'm amazed by a fair number of the guys that I slept with. Those that I recall sleeping with, that is. And when I say amazed, I mean the "Why on earth did I sleep with a guy like that?" and not " Oh my god, he was such a hot stud." kind of amazed.

Not that the said guys were ogres or freaks. Even in those testosterone driven years where a turgid member of the anatomy was the de facto seat of reason, I still had certain standards or requisites. But those guys were certainly not people I'd meet up with for a fuck these days. In typical ab-fab lingo, guys I'd not even get out of bed to meet let alone fuck.

Which invites the inevitable conclusion that my expectations or standards then for guys I'd ONS/MNS with were a lot lower than now. Though I guess it can always be argued that on hindsight, the dispassionate recollection of the lackluster guys I bonked and the sex I had doesn't take into account the consuming lust of youth and the rose tinted view of wild, rambunctious sex and pleasurable gratification.

Strangely enough, casual conversations with some gay friends who used to be equally salacious and have now toned down considerably, revealed similar experiences. And the irony is this, that as we age (and become arguably less 'attractive' as youthfulness is generally inextricably linked to good looks and attractiveness), gay guys become more demanding and considerably pickier about the guys we sleep with.

In contrast, when we were younger and arguably more attractive by virtue of our youthfulness, we were less discerning and more inclined to sleep around with other guys for the sake of physical gratification. Mind you, I'm just talking about the superficial physical, sexual attraction between gay guys, not the attraction & bond between 2 gays in a serious relationship. Youthfulness while often associated with immaturity, an obvious flaw in a relationship, is often an intoxicating allure for no-strings-attached flings.

On the flip side of things, youthfulness or good looks are not the only pull factors for flings, money and financial stability too possess an allure of their own. On the pain of sounding horribly banal (which the truth often is), aging gays, ghastly as the term may sound, can still remain attractive by reason of their financial status and the expected attendant benefits that come with such status,something that a younger gay guy may not be able to provide.

It's funny, to behold this topsy turvy state of affairs and mindset though I have reason to suspect that it is this precise mindset and attraction that promotes in some way, a symbiotic ons/mns relationship between older gay guys and their younger counterparts. A relationship or interaction if you prefer, from which both parties benefit.

The older guys get the hot fucks, virility that might remind them of their younger days along with the good looks while the younger gays get the more experienced guys, presumably more mature and with the money to back it up.

And for those in limbo? Neither young nor uncaring enough to be able to bank on their youthfulness and less caring of who they get off with; yet not really old with moola to throw around?

Porn's the word and inertia the action of the day. All because they're more discerning than their younger counterparts and less desperate than the older ones. And with that I think I managed to offend all gay guys not within the ages of 25 to 29. Ha ha, I'm kidding.

On a serious note, it'd be interesting to see how long the current state of affairs continue. And if all else fails (because no one ever gets younger), one can always make the best of the situation and be Fit and Fabulous while attaining financial security.

Repeat it with me now: I am Thin and Gorgeous! Now make sure you at least have the semblance of the former before saying it. Certainly if you intend to plant anyone's hands on your waist. Haha.

Thursday, October 1, 2009

Life from a lunchbox

Ever since the imposition of emergency fiscal measures resulted in an abrupt end to the halcyonic days of hedonistic revelry that included unbridled spending and mind numbingly expensive meals cum entertainment; I’ve settled in quite comfortably to the life of a pauper. The things that should have gone down have done so (expenses, waist line etc) and the one thing that should have gone up, has (bank account balance). Apart from the bewildering array of questions ranging from the polite (wa so healthy eating sandweeech?) to the knowing (wa so broke eh) to the downright ludicrous (eh 妹妹 not around so you need to lunch in?) that I’ve encountered since I started packing sandwiches to work for my semiweekly lunch ins, the transition from a princely lifestyle to a decidedly more pauper-ish one wasn’t as bad as envisaged.

Naturally, the said transition from extravagant 50 bucks a pop lunches to home packed sandwiches took a while to get used to but it was a necessity that was embraced with alacrity after one look at the appalling balance in the bank account. Having settled into the semi weekly sandwich routine, I’ve discovered that it comes with certain benefits, of which increased productivity appears to be one. All these short lunches and getting by on a barely filled stomach appear to translate into increased productivity by clearing more work in the same period of time.

Apart from the obvious benefits of having more time from forsaking long lunches and escaping the sluggish aftermath that inevitably follows on the heels of the said lunches, there are other benefits. Sandwiches don’t fill you up but manage to sate the hunger of sorts. A combination that produces an interesting effect. It’s as if surviving on this state of semi-starved consciousness where everything seems sharper and clearer, right down to the more pronounced buzz of silence, somehow enables you to function more effectively.

Thoughts are clearer and concentrating on a dreary piece of work is less of a chore such that a reply is churned out sooner rather later. This esophageal nirvana of semi-starvation is akin to being connected on a subliminal level to a higher dispassionate consciousness by a thread. A consciousness unrestrained by the demands for the need for food, the pleasure of taste and texture. Even the air that you breathe seems more rarified.

This state of mind usually persists till the end of the day or a couple of hours there after at most, often just enough to last the by now familiar daily journey back on the train and bus as well as the long walk back home. By which time, I’m usually fully starved and would succumb to the call of the stomach by scavenging for leftovers or just cooking something simple.

It’s all nice and dandy to function on a semi-starved consciousness at work where everything appears so brittle and clear and the air is decidedly more rarified but I’d rather be adequately stuffed and sated by something other than bread at the end of the day. And when being sluggish or sleepy is the least of my concerns.

For was it not said?
Man shall not live by bread alone. He also needs a little butter.

Monday, September 21, 2009

Edina & Patsy in Court- Mitigation Plea, Ab Fab style.



I've always loved Absolutely Fabulous, satirical, irreverent and a whole load of fun. The episode where Patsy (Joanna Lumley) and Edina (Jennifer Saunders) end up in Court after an afternoon drink driving- road rage cum shoplifting expedition to the supermarket is especially hilarious.

Now I can only imagine the outcome if the accused (or his/her solicitor) makes a mitigation plea like Edina's. Even though I suspect it is how most ordinary peeps view the law. haha.

"I was trying to take control of my life you know..

Only to find that actually it is already controlled for me! By petty bureaucracy and bits of bloody paper!!!

Ignorant petty rules and laws that obstruct every little tiny bit of action until you find that you’ve committed a crime without even knowing it!!!!!


I mean you know. Why can’t life just be a made little bit easier for everybody? Huh?!"

And when that's rejected (Is there a point to all this?), you can rely on one of the two certain things in life.

"Yes! Yes.

Why, oh why do we pay taxes!! Hmmm?

I mean just to have bloody parking restrictions and buggery ugly traffic wardens and bollocky pedestrian bloody crossings!"

But the last part takes the cake, for if all else fails propose the kind of legislation you want.

"I mean why not just have a stupidity tax! Just tax the stupid people!!! "

Yep, just tax the stupid people!! haha

Monday, September 14, 2009

When a Bunny & Pussy meet...

Although the title may conjure up bizarre images of walking vaginas, distressing bestiality and/or raunchy sexual acts only found on porn sites more focused on smut than grammar, I can assure you this entry is about none of the above. It's exactly as the title states, what happens when a bunny meets a pussy? The bunny thumps the pussy. Now what on earth were you sick fucks thinking?

Getting off the cab and fumbling for my keys, I was about to shoo away the two ginger-cream coloured pussies stalking outside the gate when I realised the fat pussy was actually a fluffy bunny of the same colour. The pussy was eyeing the oblivious bunny, slinking all around the bunny which merrily continued nibbling the grass patch.

Worried that the pussy would maul that poor little furry bunny, I tried to startle the two to no avail. The pussy was too intent on stalking the bunny and the bunny was equally indifferent. This concern proved to be unfounded. Poor pussy couldn't figure out whether the bunny was a mutated rat of sorts and was often startled into flight by the bunny's sudden hops.



Bewildered by this large furry hopping rat, the pussy stalked off to one corner to continue its observation. The bunny as you can obviously see couldn't care less.

Soon the pussy finally stopped being so much of a pussy and decided to stalk the bunny, circling an entire round before approaching once again from the back. Midway through its catwalk, the bunny made a sudden scampering turn which startled the pussy..again.



The bunny soon got bored of staring down the boring pussy and returned its attention to the succulent blades of grass and moss before it. Emboldened, the pussy plucked up enough courage and slinked right up to the nonchalant bunny. Whereupon the pussy sniffed the bunny's butt. Or at least the pussy looked like it was doing so which was a bit hard to tell because its nose was burrowed somewhere under the bunny's tail. Whereupon the pussy was rewarded with a thump in the face by the bunny. True to its nature, the pussy gave a startled cry and took off, a pale streak fleeing down the street, the only indication of its encounter with a demonic mutated rat.



Leaving the bunny the undisputed champion of the turf.

For all of 2 mins, before I shooed it back to its rightful home, 2 doors up. Moral of the story? Bunnies always own pussies, not vice versa, and in all senses of the word. Haha, couldn't resist.

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

09.09.09 (90)


I'm not one for numbers or sequences of numbers for that matter. Geometric Progression was one of the many dreaded topics in the equally dreaded A. Maths back in secondary school.

But even I have to admit 09.09.09, 90 has a very nice ring to it. All '9's and '0's, the first and last single digit integers, a sequence rich in symbolism. A unique sequence for a unique woman. A woman I have always adored and will always adore. An immutable bond cherished for so long which grows more painfully precious with each passing year.

Happy 90th Birthday Mama.

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Isn't it Ironic..

Ironic is...

When your entire family gets locked out of the house on a Monday night due to a faulty lock, brand name: 'Faultless';

When you regularly receive luxury magazines encouraging you to live in style but your monthly salary is clearly incommensurate with such a lifestyle;

When you have a 101 packages but dread going for them due to the constant harassment by sales personnel to purchase more packages ;

When a home made roast beef sandwich fills you up more than a S$4.50 nasi padang lunch;

The title of the hit song by Alanis Morissette that I used to blast on my discman back in '96.



An old man turned ninety-eight
He won the lottery and died the next day
It's a black fly in your Chardonnay
It's a death row pardon two minutes too late
Isn't it ironic ... don't you think

It's like rain on your wedding day
It's a free ride when you've already paid
It's the good advice that you just didn't take
Who would've thought ... it figures

Mr. Play It Safe was afraid to fly
He packed his suitcase and kissed his kids good-bye
He waited his whole damn life to take that flight
And as the plane crashed down he thought
'Well isn't this nice...'
And isn't it ironic ... don't you think

It's like rain on your wedding day
It's a free ride when you've already paid
It's the good advice that you just didn't take
Who would've thought ... it figures

Well life has a funny way of sneaking up on you
When you think everything's okay and everything's going right
And life has a funny way of helping you out when
You think everything's gone wrong and everything blows up
In your face

It's a traffic jam when you're already late
It's a no-smoking sign on your cigarette break
It's like ten thousand spoons when all you need is a knife
It's meeting the man of my dreams
And then meeting his beautiful wife
And isn't it ironic... don't you think
A little too ironic... and yeah I really do think...

It's like rain on your wedding day
It's a free ride when you've already paid
It's the good advice that you just didn't take
Who would've thought ... it figures

Life has a funny way of sneaking up on you
Life has a funny, funny way of helping you out
Helping you out

Saturday, August 29, 2009

Con clean for nuts.

After enduring a sleepless night of incessant squeaking from the air con unit, I gave up and blew 50 bucks on some air con chemical cleaning kit at the DIY shop today. It started with a mild squeak, the kind of annoying sound that the unit emits once in a while but dies down after an hour or so. An annoying eccentricity I'd always attributed to a filthy and aging air con. Unfortunately, the squeak didn't stop. If anything, it probably became more strident as the night wore on. Plugging my ears with tissue paper barely helped and I vaguely remember dreaming about being trapped in a room full of squeaking kettles during my intermittent sleep.

I know, I'm supposed to be on an extremely tight fiscal budget for the next 3 months (which I still am) but desperate times call for desperate measures. And after 10 hours of near insomnia, i was desperate. Besides, I'm placing it on my dad's account under the pretext of household expenses. So anyway I figured it was probably all that filth clogging up the air con which was to blame. After all, ever since I'd started sleeping with the air con on a daily basis since last year, I'd never cleaned the air con other than scrubbing the filters a couple of times when it was obvious the air flow was indiscernible or the perfunctory weekly vacuuming of the external casing.

Certainly no flushing out of the cooling coils or rotor blades. Naturally, the whole interior was caked in a thick layer of furry grime that looked ominously organic. A state of affairs which persisted due to a combination of inertia and the sense of dread I inevitably experienced whenever the thought of cleaning all that grime crossed my mind. But the squeaking was driving me nuts and figuring it was all the filth, I went ahead and purchased the kit.

I hate having to do household chores or cleaning in particular. But when I have to do so, I want it done fast and with minimal hassle. So when I saw the bold proclamation "Clean your AC in 15 mins only!" on the cleaning fluid bottle, I settled on the air con cleaning kit, even though it looked decidedly bulkier with a 2 litre solution, spray bottle and 'catchment' bag for the dirty fluid and was almost twice the price of the other kit.

Which naturally was crap. After spending a good 10 mins figuring to pry open the air con case to reach the filth within and realising that I had to unscrew the cover, the whole dirty and very messy process took almost 2 hours from start to finish.

So it was with great hope and expectation that I turned on the air con after the messy operation that left dubious black spots splattered nicely across my t shirt. And was rewarded with a blast of cold fresh air and a deafening screech. bah. Time to get the professionals and convince the dad our air con units need maintenance.

Sunday, August 23, 2009

Of Dollars and Sense.

Ever since the lube by the bedside incident, I've pretty much grown accustomed to the Mother's occasional off the wall 'Are you Straight' questions. Hardly ever 'Are you gay?' but more often than not 'Are you straight?' because the word gay still remains taboo, though how phrasing it as the latter is any better is beyond me. It's as if by avoiding the word gay, broaching the subject of your son's sexuality suddenly becomes more manageable. But I guess a lot of close-minded parents in denial behave in similar quirky ways.

So anyway I'd grown used to the Mother's clumsy, often painfully awkward (for her) probing of my sexuality, of which half the time she seemed to be convincing herself of my 'heterosexuality'. Such probing usually extended to certain male friends with queries like,"Huh not married yet? (at 35) Is he gay?" Initially, I'd just outright flatly deny my sexuality for reasons I've already explained in detail in earlier entries.

Then as the years went by, I figured why give her that much satisfaction in affirming her fragile self delusion. So I'd just say something vague like 'Can you stop being so spastic?' or 'Are you mad?' to display my annoyance and leave her hanging without the answer she so desperately wanted. Whereupon she'd be unable to progress further, the desire to know warring with the dread of finding out before the whole process gets short circuited with the usual dose of self-delusion.

It was amusing to the extent that humor could be found in such tiresome charades. But the probing seemed to taper off the last couple of years, so it was with some surprise when I was accosted by the Mother yesterday as I was leaving for the office and gym before heading to a colleague's place for BBQ.

"You really should get a girlfriend." the woman went.
"Whaaaat??"
I halted in mid-stride, all thoughts of grabbing the gym shoe bag momentarily displaced by the stupidity of the statement, the unconventional prong of attack.
"You heard me. You should have a girlfriend at this age." that indomitable woman replied.
"Excuse me. Why don't I hear you asking XX (the Sister) to get a boyfriend? It's about high time she gets one, being older and all by your impeccable logic." I retorted.
"Stop being funny. I'll pray to God that you get a good, God-fearing girlfriend."

That ludicrous statement didn't even warrant a rebuttal. I think I managed a snort. Seeing that she was not going to illicit any form of reply from yours truly, the Mother hurried down the hallway as I stepped out and continued, "You are straight right? Right?" Which I replied with the perfunctory 'You're mad.'

"You cannot be gay... only sick people are gay... so you must be straight ok?" The illogicality of her quasi-question cum statement was laughable. It's times like those that I'm seriously tempted to tell the Mother that her son is gay just to watch her reaction. The envisaged aftermath always manages to silence me.. for now. Mistaking my silence as acquiescence to her statement, she pressed on, "Don't worry I will pray that God gives you a good girlfriend who loves Him that she might change your ways."

I bit back an epithet and thankfully the cab arrived at that opportune moment so I was spared from further madness. It's been years but I still remain amazed by the depth and tenacity of the Mother's self-delusion. Faith can be a scary thing when applied in all the wrong places. Perhaps next time I'll just bring a guy back home, lock ourselves in my room and tell her we're having holy fellowship.

On to other matters, last month's credit card bill was truly and utterly horrific. It'll take at least 2 months to get back in the black. From now on it's extreme fiscal restraint for the next 3 months, which means no swanky meals, at least 2 bring-from-home-DIY roast beef sandwiches per week and a substantially toned down social life. Sad to say, you usually need money to socialise in Singapore.

Friday, August 21, 2009

Back when tests were still hip..

Handwriting Analysis

What does your handwriting say about YOU?

The results of your analysis say:

You plan ahead, and are interested in beauty, design, outward appearance, and symmetry.
You are a person who thinks before acting, intelligent and thorough.
You are affectionate, passionate, expressive, and future-oriented.
You are not very reserved, impatient, self-confident and fond of action.
You enjoy life in your own way and do not depend on the opinions of others.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

One Month

What a difference one month can make:

To strengthen an incredible friendship, platonic yet true.

There are few things I believe in, loyalty and reciprocity being examples; you happen to be one. Thank you.

To forge a new friendship, fresh yet intense.

The dreams in which we meet pale before a single glimpse of you. Amazing how two individuals worlds apart should feel so close. 夢ぢには あしもやすめず かよへども うつつにひとめ 見しごとはあらず.

To reaffirm current friendships, familiar yet comfortable.

Like comfortable old cushions that are always around but often overlooked, they remain a rustic source of comfort and rapport.

To abnegate a superficial friendship, fun yet worthless.

To 'Look like the innocent flower, but be the serpent under't' is anathema to a friendship. Do not profess to understand what you do not. Do not preach what you do not practice. Hypocrisy- the most abhorrent betrayal.

All in a month.

Monday, July 27, 2009

Clips & Chocolate Splat!

First before I begin, all you Singaporean bloggers on Singnet would probably have been puzzled and extremely frustrated by the sudden weird layout when trying to post a new entry due to the missing buttons, inability to load pictures or amend your post in general. In other words, a blogger's nightmare. A quick google search quickly pinpointed Singnet as the problem and a blogger thread on Google help quickly provided the solution (thanks to Yennwee).

If you're using Internet Explorer simply do the following :-

Under Tools -> Click on Internet Options
Click on "Connections" page tab
Click on "LAN Settings" button (if you are using Broadband)
Check "Use a proxy server for your LAN ..." checkbox
Click on "Advanced" button
Under HTTP type, input "proxy.singnet.com.sg" for proxy address and "8080" for port.

For Firefox, do this:-

Tools -> Options
Click on "Advanced" tab
Click on "Network" page tab
From the "Connection" frame, click on "Settings" button
Select "Manual proxy configuration" option
Under HTTP proxy, input "proxy.singnet.com.sg" and "8080" for port.

That'll fix your problem in a jiffy, though it does make one wonder why we need to go through a proxy to be able to blog... hmmm. Perhaps some form of Big Brother surveillance or censorship of sorts eh? Keeping a tab on Singapore's netizens. On to the meat of the matter.

Grabbed a couple of hair clips from Chomel for JL before meeting up for another devastating bank-breaking round of shopping with her (for some reason every other time I shop with her I go on a rampage and when she shops with others, she goes on a rampage. Strange but true.) I'd wanted to get them for a couple of weeks now but never really had the time to do so.

The salesgirl, unsurprisingly ignored me when I strode into the shop and made a beeline for the hair clips section despite the fact that she was less than 2 meters away from me. After settling on the design, classy with a bit of bling but not too much, I asked the statuesque salesgirl whether the size of the clips were sufficient to hold up the fringe.

Ms Sotong blinked in surprise as if registering my presence for the first time, turned to look at me and went, "Er, they are but are they meant for...." And her voice trailed off as she looked at me, seemingly lost for words. The impact of her words were not lost on me. I was astounded. Which part of me, sporting a two hour old QB 'spiky' hair cut, pink Fox polo shirt and fresh out of the gym looked like I needed a pair of bling-bling clips for my inch long fringe? Like hallo woman? And for a moment, I was tempted, very tempted to go, Are you stupid or what, do I look like I need a hair clip? But I settled for a 'Thats-a-dumb-question' look and told Ms Sotong that it was for a female friend whereupon she looked very relieved. Seriously, not very bright.



Thankfully, the clips were acceptable :) JL also bought a pressie, a very unique liquid-like chocolate looking bookmark which we'd seen at the Chocolate Research Facility at Wheelock Place a few weeks back. I'm usually not a fan of book marks, having dropped too many by far or forgetting to wedge them in the correct places when reading. As a result, I'd often commit the book-lover's cardinal sin of folding the page corners to mark where I'd left off (for my or library books haha) and endured many tirades from the said book-lovers/neat-oids, JL included, on the ills of doing so. But old habits die hard and stiff book marks do not help.



I was thrilled and highly amused by the dark cacao liquid bookmark by Kouichi Okamoto, each bookmark supposedly being a unique design made by the said designer. The bookmark which looks rather like a delicious chocolate splat (hence the name), is attractive not so much due to it's unique design but really due to its shape, form and texture. I did say I was a tactile person. Besides, the image of the Chocolate Splat seemingly oozing out from the pages of the book is both amusing yet comforting, like excess chocolate cake batter dripping from the side of the pan. And at certain angles, the Splat looks like some sinister organic blob. Thanks for the Splat, JL! Hugs. :)



Now this is one book mark I'm not junking anytime soon. Heh heh.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Random Ramblings 6: Just Read and Shut Up.

Today is one of those days where I'm like one of the walking dead and remaining lucid and coherent required an almost 'herculean' effort. Amazing how one can proceed on auto, drafting pleadings, dispensing advice to clients during meetings while remaining conscious. Surreal because it's like you're undergoing an OOBE (out of body experience), hearing the disembodied drone of a voice before realizing with a start that it belongs to you.

The fact that blogger seems to have screwed up and I'm typing this entry in a pathetic box no larger than 6 cm x 4 cm is not helping. Most of the buttons are missing with the exception of the publish post and save now ones. While I like my entries unadulterated, I still want a certain level of functionality when I blog.

Bloody annoying. If you're expecting coherency, you should have stopped at the first line.

I cannot comprehend why people enjoy reading things when there's nothing to read, things which never existed. If there's some hidden meaning, some subtle allusion I'll acknowledge it. Heck I'll probably even tell you unless you're some dense prick.

Reading between the lines is a tiresome exercise best reserved for situations where you want to tell a person he/she is fucking retarded but can't do so due to the circumstances. So you suck it up.

Why make people read between the lines when you can say it like it is? I don't waste my time and the point gets across. So most of the time, Black is Black and White is White. It's not some charcoal tinted light grey kind of shit. Seriously. Good grief.

Labels suck. Don't go all emo on me. And friendship is not a dog treat, imparted as a favour and received with gratitude tail-a-wagging.

Not talking about a person is neither a measure of my affection or disaffection for the said person. I just haven't seen/felt a need to.

I dislike being analysed. Especially when the analysis is all wrong. Read and understand. Or not.

All these late nights are taking their toll. Time to reset the bio clock.

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

I don't think it's going to work. Sorry.

Such a convenient, oft-used phrase of dismissal. The death-knoll of countless relationships, relationships conceived in hope, still-born in birth, leaving shattered dreams in its brutal wake. All with one flippant statement. Nonetheless it continues to remain a phrase that is often brandished about with little thought. Nowhere is this more evident than in the gay circle, where guys who are attracted to guys hook up with each other.

By nature, guys are certainly a more promiscuous bunch, visual creatures hard wired for sex and driven by a primal instinct to satisfy that raging hard on even if it means abandoning all higher order thought processes to that turgid member in doing so. There is some truth to the perception that gay relationships can be more 'superficial' than heterosexual ones, this perception fuelled in no small part by guys' inherent horniness and the ease with which we can hook up and break up without any untoward consequences. Blame our psyche if you will. An unpleasant observation but true nonetheless. Though I do not think it's something we should be apologizing for. Put two guys together and you have a whole different ball game. After all, while many gay guys dream of harmonious & blissful monogamy, all but the most imbecilic or delusional gay man understand that the average gay guy is horny and susceptible to straying. Fidelity is a concept that is easy to grasp but hard to master.

This understanding does not make this dismissive phrase any more agreeable. It evokes a sense of stark finality that brooks no reconsideration and rejection is seldom, if ever, palatable. Still, the phrase remains widely used, sometimes after tortured considerations, sometimes with scant thought. I have said this. Guys have said it to me. Less so the latter, not because I am some Adonis but for the simple fact that more often than not, the guys I happen to be attracted to are likewise attracted to me. But by and large it is mutual. Every one says it. Careless and feckless though it may sound, it remains a necessity, almost a ritual of sorts. To disengage so that you can re-engage.

You cannot be friends with everyone. This was one truth I realized early on in my journey as a young gay boy, even though I attempted to be sociable and personable. The concept of being friends with the world or everyone you meet is one which rapidly loses its appeal when confronted with the drudgery of mundane life. It's not that the people you meet are hateful or detestable or jerks you want nothing to do with. No, by far most of the time, people are equally cordial, well-meaning and amicable. The fact that you can’t be friends with the whole world or at least the people you meet is boils down to a single but fundamental reason; sometimes you just aren’t able to get along. Either you can't communicate as there is nothing to talk about, the person bores you, or you just find the person utterly uninteresting in the sense that you have absolutely nothing in common or things to talk about.

There are of course the jerks, braggarts and sods with an ego the size of our Milky Way. People who just rub you the wrong way (not the correct way...which can be very pleasant indeed) because the two of you are destined by the stars above to be eternal rivals/ are fundamentally incompatible in bed/ ran over each other’s pets in a drunken tit for tat brawl/[insert random reason]. They are irritants but saying ‘goodbye’ is never very difficult when the other party is a jerk and/or there is mutual disaffection.

Ironically, it is the well-meaning ones who bore you but do not get the hint that end up being the most annoying. Why? Because unlike the undesirable jerks who are just out to get into your pants or other annoying buggers whom you just cannot get along with and can easily buzz off; well-meaning people (and gay guys in particular) are unfailingly polite and cordial, adept at engaging in polite small talk, rarely according the chance for you to cut them off abruptly without looking/sounding rude. Granted, some of these ‘well-meaning’ ones are well-meaning because they have certain ulterior motives such as getting into your pants or seeking some form of help or to cultivate their own sense of accomplishment (oh look i have a friend who is a so and so). By and far though, most aren’t and even if they are, they conduct themselves in a manner which makes it impossible for you to buzz them off curtly in a pre-emptive strike.

So because their current behaviour does not merit a drastic dismissal, you are left with various options including but not limited to non-committed responses, polite but un-stimulating superficial small talk and a tendency to come up with excuses to decline further meet ups. This usually works after a while, not always and it is annoying, almost exasperating when you wonder why some people just cannot take the hint. Are they truly oblivious or are they incredibly optimistic? But when all else fails, there is always the phrase ‘ I don’t think it’s going to work. Sorry.’ and heartless or flippant though it may sound, it works. The aftermath is seldom pleasant but the desired message is communicated and the person desists.

The truth is seldom pleasant but that does not detract from the necessity or effectiveness of the phrase. Because some times (if not most of the time), you need to say it like it really is.

Thursday, June 25, 2009

Perception

Perception.
In what you see.
The words you speak
The thoughts you leak.

Deception.
By shadows they cast
The ties that bind
The lies they wind.

Conception.
Over nothing at all
The remarks I make
The conduct I take.

Redemption.
Out of their grasp
The warmth they fake
The thirst they slake.

Sunday, June 21, 2009

Sophia


I am the saint and the prostitute.
The primordial being, an enigma beyond your exoteric understanding, Ennoia.
The carnal spark you see in the eyes of your lover, as your bodies lie entwined, lost in lust and sweaty with the sheen of passion.

I am sacred and profane.
The chaste prostitute with many lovers, who spreads her legs to all but satisfies none.
For my promises are many but my favours are few.
And the haughty I transform into fools, the rich into paupers, philosophers into dolts and the deceived into loquacious deceivers.

I am the heat that floods your loins, the rush of blood thundering in your ears, the dry brittle taste of lust in your mouth.
I am the moist warmth you so eagerly thrust your sweet cock into, inviting darkness, wet with desire.
I am the turgid lance of flame piercing your rarefied consciousness, sending you to ecstatic heights while grounding you to lover and self.

I am the mother and the mistress, sinner and saint.
The fruit of your loins, blessed little being, cherubic and perfect.
The seed of your pain, spawned because you resisted not my siren call.

I am the master and the slave.
The face in the mirror that holds your gaze, the self that inwardly blazes.
Carnal and chaste.

I am Sophia.

Monday, June 15, 2009

Gaming: Key Mashing



Sister Crabarina - Lvl 50 Crab

I haven't been blogging much and it's really due to a hodge-podge of reasons ranging from work, the general lack of need to elucidate anything in particular and recently, City of Villains. Gaming has always been a particularly attractive past time of mine or vice, if you prefer. The ability to immerse oneself in another world and the visual gratificiation one obtains from being an actual participant in the said world sufficient to hold one in enthrall. Add the sense of accomplishment one obtains from achieving various objectives to mix and you have a basic understanding of the allure gaming holds for so many, including yours truly. Which is why when I game, I game. And when I don't, I don't even log on. All or nothing.

I've returned to City of Villains, the sinister counterpart to City of Heroes, again. There is always something alluring about good old games (or ongoing ones, to put it more aptly in today's gaming scene of MMORPGS). And in terms of the ability to customise your very own villain from scratch right down to the markings on his or her bum, CoV / CoH remains the undisputed champion. I needn't say more.

Things have certainly changed since I left. For one, powerlevelling a toon to 50 these days is almost disgustingly fast thanks to the farms. Not that I'm complaining. In the short span of under a month, I got three new villains and an old character to 50 with time to grind for more phat loot. It's almost like a little family of mutants.



Icky Irene - Lvl 50 Dominator

I never cease to be amazed by the myriad characters that form the diaspora of gamers. From the truly imbecilic to warm humorous people who are a real blast to game with. By and large especially for MMORPGs (which require one to interact with other players), interaction with your fellow gamers forms a significant portion of your gaming experience and determines how enjoyable the game is.

Naturally, a shitty game cannot be rescued by any form of enjoyable interaction between players, assuming that such a thing would even be possible in the first place as people won't even stay long enough to be able to interact in a shitty game. Player Interaction is essential but not sufficient.



Black Momma - lvl 50 Mastermind

That said and done, gaming can be a refreshingly brainless activity. Oh, I know what they always say about strategizing, the need to plan how to achieve ones objectives but seriously how difficult or mentally taxing is it to game? Even working towards objectives remains enjoyable and the actual process of fighting is really a matter of a few well placed mouse clicks and fearsome key mashing.

So much so that you actually remember certain sequences of keys to mash in certain situations for certain characters. Which for Sister Crabarina, my 50 Crab, would be something like 5, 6, Delete, L, Click, 7, 3, 4, 1, rinse and repeat. Sequences which might appear like some hermetic cabalistic code straight out of the Da Vinci Code. But gaming's not rocket science, never is, never was. And for that reason, it remains highly attractive in all its psychedelic glory, for now.



Lady Sadis - Lvl 50 Fortunata

Sunday, June 7, 2009

Widow's Song

Never has loneliness been more keenly felt.
Lost in a monochrome sea of strangers, the colours of my moribund existence
Faces that profess sympathy but understand nothing of my grief.
Of how it grips like a vice and rips away even the ability to cry out in anguish.
Leaving only sanity as refuge which I cling to as sanctuary against the madness that assails.

Spare me your whispered condolences,
your clumsy fumbling embraces of solidarity.
Save your feckless masks of sympathy,
your superficial utterances of commiseration.

For your pity crushes me
and the solace I seek is not one you can give.
Solace I have sought in solitude
but solace in solitude is a fallacy.

For while Misery loves company,
Sorrow remains personal and unfathomable. Sorrow is a just tyrant, impartial in her brutal castigation of her subjects, king and pauper alike. The strong are brought to their knees, their strength fails them. The wise become blathering idiots, reason no shield against their grief.

And I remain alone in my grief, with only sorrow for company.

Tuesday, June 2, 2009

Personal Torture (Training)

"Yo Bro! Long time no see! How have you been man? Following the exercise plan I gave you?" my PT (Personal Torturer Trainer) exclaimed, heartily slapping me on my shoulder as he did so after a long, relaxing hiatus due to reservist.

Whereupon I somewhat sheepishly informed him that no, not once had I referred to the comprehensive three week program he'd given me prior to Reservist. A program I had explicitly requested for. In fact, I hadn't stepped into the gym since I left for reservist in the start of May, only managing to haul my lazy ass off to the gym last Sunday for a 45 min jog on the treadmill that left me positively winded. It's amazing what one month of inactivity (exercise wise) does to your physique in general and fitness level in particular. Nothing pleasant for sure.

And unlike the truly dedicated or passionate, the rest of us mere mortals are usually afflicted by a crippling inertia to start working out proper once we've been lulled into a period of blissful languidness, of sweatless slacktitude. Inertia that is only broken by overwhelming exigencies that shatter that stupefying reverie which for some might be the constant, insistent cajoling of health freak friends or for others the desire to feel that endorphin, exercise induced rush.

For me, it's that mortifying thought that everything would literally head down hill and congeal comfortably around the fatal midriff region. That and the equally horrifying notion of eventually looking like certain individuals in the office. At any rate, thoughts sufficient to break through that sluggish inertia andcompel me to arrange for today's PT session.

"Wah! 4 weeks never exercise! Brudda, you damn jialat. Never mind! Today we start slow, get you back into shape." My PT said chirpily. I was comforted, being under the impression that it'd be a slow yet competitive work out that'd ease me back on my abruptly (albeit a little pleasantly) interrupted journey to a hard six pac and a mean toned bod. (Ah, we can dream can we not?) I was so wrong. I should have realised that Mr PT had said that in the same tone in which I inform my clients that while your initial deposit is XXX, rest be assured that if there is any left over after your case concludes, we'll refund you the balance.

The work out started out fairly well. The first couple of sets went well and I was actually starting to think that 4 weeks of inactivity hadn't done that much damage when Mr PT went ahead and burst my bubble with "Ok. Those sets were really easy. Baby also can do. They were just to get you used to the feeling of weights again. Now we start the serious one." And it all went downhill from there.

A couple of sets into the 'serious' workout, I was beginning to get winded and the muscles which I was once aware of started protesting stridently. "Wa. Can't even press this amount? Sure or not! Your 4 weeks in Army so relax ah?" Mr PT baited, punching me lightly on the chest while I was faltering at the shoulder press. Any harder and I'd have dropped the weights.

If there's one thing I'm glad for (I guess) it's the fact that Mr PT is so terribly unattractive, which is good because I can focus on the work out and not Mr PT. Which is not something I can say for some of the other PTs at the gym. A couple of whom are incredibly attractive and I am absolutely certain that if either of them were my PT, PT sessions would take on a whole new allure but might not be very effective. After all PTs need to assist with certain exercises or weights, some of which may involve the PT being in very close physical proximity with you and certainly some physical contact. And if you're doing weights, focusing on the touch of a person rather than the weights you're supposed to be lifting is ..erm.. not going to be productive to say the least.

Though like I was telling Yisa, you don't go to the gym to pick guys up (though it can't be helped if guys pick you up haha) and attempting to hit it off with your PT (even if possible) is not financially feasible. After all that's what special friends are for right? haha. So thank goodness for fugly Mr PT. Bless his perverse heart.

By the end of the session, after more baiting, cajoling and admonishments to 'push yourself all the way, all the way, this was nothing 4 weeks ago!!', I was positively winded, a little light headed and my legs were starting to cramp. In that moment, I almost (and I say almost) felt a spark of sympathy for the colleague who joins us for our basketball games, collapses like clockwork after a couple of games, hands clutched at his chest/belly, legs kicking in the air, while he grunts and curses long unadulterated strings of vulgarity in hokkien. Much as I dispassionately observed (after laughing my head off ) to the Gang, like woman in labour, position, screams and all. Alright, maybe a very vulgar, balding woman in labour.

"See you Thursday Bro! Don't die on me ah!" Another hearty slap on my back as I was trying to catch my breath and he went off. I suspect that was his way of getting back at me for not showing up for 4 weeks. Even though my reservist was only for 3.

They said that there's no gain without pain. That's true. At least for exercising and getting back into shape is concerned. Though it doesn't make that truism any more comforting. The things we do for vanity fitness.

Monday, May 11, 2009

Destination: Hell.

Oh it's something I've never really given much thought to. Where I'll end up after this life as I know it ends. Where certainty ends and the great unknown begins. Which is ironic given my Christian background and the environment I grew up in, where hellfire and eternal damnation for sinners formed a significant bulk of the perfunctory Sunday sermons. Mind boggling in their sweeping dismissal of the world and the unworthy sinners that populate it.

Sinners go to Hell. Such a facile, careless phrase isn't it? Sinners like cheats, liars, fornicators, homosexuals, pagans, heretics, unbelievers, blasphemers, hoarders, murderers, the list goes on. All consigned to the eternal rubbish dump of humanity otherwise known as Hell. Rejects who failed to repent and turn from their wicked ways. I always find it such delicious irony that the religion I know, or at least the one I grew up knowing, should be so inclusive yet so exclusive in almost every other aspect.

Exclusive in the sense that there is but one way to God and one way to Heaven. Exclusive in the sense that really the said religion is the only way to God and Heaven, pagans be damned. Well, of course they can't say that publicly but that is in essence one of the fundamental tenets of Christianity. Exclusive because 'we (believers) are in this world but we are not of this world'.

Inclusive in its feckless, all encompassing classification of sin and the myriad forms of behaviour that would earn the said participants or sinners a one way ticket to eternal damnation and suffering. Those who fail to repent of course. I have always wondered what the world would be like if the said religion could have expanded half of the vigour that it displays in branding numerous forms of conduct as 'sinful', on being inclusive and tolerant of others different from themselves instead. But such puerile thinking militates against the very core tenet of the religion. In essence perhaps the layman's phrase, 'My Way or the Highway', best describes the religion's approach. In this case, highway meaning the expressway to Hell.

Undoubtedly, there are some forms of behaviour that are universally unacceptable or at least detrimental to society in general. So say for example, murder, rape and theft is detrimental to the society and the actors 'deserve' to be punished if not in this life then in whatever awaits after this life. But it gets ridiculous when sin or the proverbial ticket to hell encompasses stuff like 'deviant' sexuality and desires or even watching various shows or sitcom such as 'Desperate Housewives' which purportedly corrupt and degenerate minds and morals.

When what is different is literally demonised by virtue of being different and the prospect of eternal damnation awaits the unrepentant actor who refuses to conform by repenting. As I have said and I will say again, a religion that condemns me solely on the basis of my sexuality and who I am as a person, that I am a sinner for the simple reason that I do not love women, is not a religion I can countenance and/or accept. Naturally, there are millions who disagree as well as many gay Christians who can seemingly compartmentalise the fact that they are gay along with their lifestyle and the religion they practice which no matter how I look at it appears to be fundamentally incompatible with our 'sinful' lifestyle.

It was not an easy decision to make but one I made once I decided to embrace the fact that I was gay and live the life more than 12 years ago. That coming from a devout pre-pubescent boy who attended cell group regularly but suffered the occasional stab of confusion and guilt every time I attempted the futile exercise of explaining away my attraction towards other guys. But of course, everyone is entitled to their own opinion and their freedom to believe whatever they want to believe. I do not intend to persuade or coerce anyone to adhere to my point of view. Indeed, those who believe would never be persuaded otherwise anymore than I would be persuaded to subscribe to a religion I have chosen to reject for the aforesaid reasons.

But I digress. Most of you I believe have heard of, if not read Dante's Inferno, the first (and probably most memorable) part of the Divine Comedy. An allegory narrative written by the Italian, Dante Alighieri, in the thirteenth century that portrays the medieval concept of Hell and the different levels of Hell reserved for various forms of sin and the said sinners. Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle wrote Inferno in 1976 depicting a science fiction writer's journey through hell with Benito Mussolini as his guide, updating Hell with a variety of modern day 'sins' and injecting some black humour into an entertaining and fast-moving novel.



It became a classic and 33 years after Inferno was released, its sequel Escape from Hell was released in February this year. I'm still on it. A highly entertaining read, I'd recommend the two books. Though I find it amusing albeit morbidly so, how lawyers always have a special place in Hell or places rather. According to Dante and further elaborated upon by Niven and Pournelle, Lawyers, legalists, unbelievers and the 'lukewarm' are found in the Vestibule of Hell, confined for all eternity to little brass flasks with neither senses nor company.

Lawyers who sow discord such as those who talked people into divorces they didn't want and lawsuits they didn't need get a special place in the eight circle of Hell where they get hacked apart by a sword wielding demon only to heal again and get hacked apart, repeatedly. Gays get consigned to the seventh circle of Hell where they roam a burning desert of flaming sand and get cooked by fiery flakes which rain down from the sky. And you wonder why I don't give the idea of life (assuming there is life) after death much thought.

So after this life has passed, even if I were wrong, that there is but one way to Heaven and I'm on the shinkansen to Hell, I'd still have three places in Hell to choose from. I'd probably opt for the place with fellow gays. Better to be tormented with other guys I can appreciate and commiserate with rather than being locked up in a metallic vessel or get chopped up without decent company.

And if anything, I'd take immense comfort from the fact that Heaven would be a very dreary and boring place indeed without any gay men or women for that matter. I mean how can Heaven be Heaven without other gay men to appreciate, flirt and/or sleep around with?? Otello's Iago puts it succinctly. Credo in un Dio crudel. I believe in a cruel God. How apt.