Hanging on by a single thread at West Head,
comtemplating life and all it's unsavouriness.
Life is short. Far too short. Go do something crazy. Quit your stinking pile of dog poo of a job. Eat something you have never eaten before. Suck the juice out of life. Hang off a cliff. Feel alive.
What ever you do, do not sit at your office blogging inane crap in an inane blog. :-)
Go!!!
Just a short post to update you on the interesting weekend I had...
Saturday Evening: It was my mum's birthday and we went to a nice Thai restaurant to have a birthday dinner. We had a very fulfilling dinner and I was extremely bloated, which was further exacerbated by the Tiramisu cake we had for dessert. The meal ended at approximately 8pm.
Saturday Night: Watched the Wallabies fumbled their way out of the RWC against a fairly ordinary Pommie side. Went to bed very upset about the world of Rugby.
Sunday 7am: Woke up early to catch the All Blacks stubbornly coughed up the chance to win their Quarter Final to the French. That's fantastic, the two teams I do care about in this world cup have bungled their way out of the tournament. I have managed to wake up even more upset about the world of Rugby.
Sunday 8am: I decided I should work my way through the grief of the losses by starting to build my IKEA wardrobe, which had been sitting there in the corner, waiting to be constructed for nearly a week.
Sunday Morning: Work, work, work... Hammer, hammer, hammer... Lift up, put down... Screw in, screw out...
Sunday Afternoon: Work, work, work... Hammer, hammer, hammer... Lift up, put down... Screw in, screw out...
Sunday 3pm: Finally finished the construction of the wardrobe... Am wondering where the time had went?? Decided I must now load all of my clothes into it to see if they fit.
Sunday Late Afternoon: Work, work, work... Sorting clothes, folding them, sorting some more, folding them all... And squeezing it all in the infernal wardrobe.
Sunday 7pm: Excellent!! The whole wardrobe business is sorted... YAY!!... Grabbed a shower and prepared to catch the next RWC Quarter Final: South Africa vs. Fiji.
Frosted glass door looks very sexy...
Crammed clothes is not so sexy...
Sunday Night: The Fijian side did stunningly well but the Springbok were too strong, too dominant. Time for bed.
Monday Early Morning: Woke up early to catch the end of the Argentina vs. Scotland Quarter Final. The Scots threw the kitchen sink at them but really they weren't good enough. The Pumas are through to meet the Springboks for a Southern Hemisphere Semi Final.
Monday Morning: Rode my bike to the gym as with every other morning. Had a quick swim and a steam and readied myself to go to work.
Monday 9am: Had breakfast at work consisting of a bowl of Weetbix and fruit salad.
---
For those of you that are still reading this blog, you are probably scratching your head thinking: "What is so damn interesting about this guy's weekend??? This blog is as boring as pink bat poo!!"
To me, it is interesting because between the dinner I had with mum on Saturday and the breakfast I had this morning, I have neglected to eat anything else the entire time. No food passed my lips and only a bottle of water was there to keep me going. I didn't consciously choose to fast myself but the stupid wardrobe took precedence above all other matter.
It just fascinate me how a human minds can focus on something to the detriment of all other peripheral things. How it can ignore certain things for a certain amount of time, as if it is by magic they disappear.
Today I had three full meals and am amply nourished, I guess I have to be, since I am in preparation for next weekends building of the IKEA book shelves to begin :-)
Sorry I haven't posted in awhile, my excuse is that I have been busying myself with reading. Yes, reading...?!?
What am I reading? Recently I am (for some reason) intrigued by religion, namely the organised kind. You know the faith healing, money grubbing, hate promoting, sin pushing kind.
And by coincident I bump into these two resources that has truly captured my imagination:
The fact that I am reading both books in unison is indeed a strange and somewhat enriching experience. But this doesn't leave me much spare time to blog.
I will report on my findings of these readings soon. Stay tuned...
In the Stanley Kubrick's war classic "Full Metal Jacket", Gunnery Sergeant Hartman once kindly asked one his nice young trooper:
"What is your major malfunction, numbnuts?!?"
I have since often wondered "Yeah! What is my major malfunction?". Why is it that I cannot lead a normal functional life (namely in the facet of relationships)? Why are pretty women repelled by me? Why is it that I cannot converse fluently with women that I am attracted to? Why is it that I cannot raise their eyebrows, make them skip a heartbeat, sweep them off their feet?
I have written a series of blog entries that delve into the possible malfunctioning part of my attractiveness with regards to my hair, physique and face.
But truth be told, I know the major malfunction exist far more deeper than just the superficial stuff... You know, sometimes we all have the urge to conduct a conversation with our favourite imaginary friend, and my conversation with him will flow basically like: this...
And *THAT* is the problem with me. I don't give myself half a chance... with any women... at all... I shoot myself down before I even launch the good ship "Let's Be Friends".
I also think it might have something to do with my first failed venture with the young pretty Caucasian girl... but that shit is in the past. I gotta pick myself up, dust myself off and kick on. I gotta keep hacking at it, keep meeting those beautiful girls until I find one that is remotely attracted to my quirky humour and weird-arse personality.
However, I am not delusional: I know I am NOT that unattractive, BUT I know there is a damn-near-zero-percent-chance that Claudia and I will get freaky-wit-it anytime soon (unless I start learning a bucket load of magic tricks like that ugly bastard David Copperfield).
It is just a matter of knowing what my limits are and being friendly to all the people I meet along the way.
All I wish is that the rejections become easier to swallow...
A: Definitely NOT, you ugly freak!
I have sat upon this written blog entry for weeks, and I didn't want to publish it due to my swollen ego. But I must be truthful to myself or, at the very least, truthful to you, my dear readers... So...
It has finally come down to this! I have now concluded that my (lack of) hair and my chubby physique are not entirely responsible for my ugliness quality.
The last area I would like to examine about myself is of course: My face...
Over the course my short life, I am presented with ample opportunities to study my own face in mirrors, window reflections, bus stop shelters, puddles of rain on the sidewalk, etc... And with a certain ape-like curiosity, I have objectively assess the good and bad attributes of my face. Now I would like to share with you these gleaming truths about my mug:
Seriously, I know I am ugly but not nearly as ugly as I like to imagine myself to be. Like most other vain person in the world, given the proper lighting and ample makeup, viewed from a good angle, wearing the right clothing, apply a good dosage of air-brushing... I can definitely be confused as being a half-decent looking man:
Half-decent... no?
BUT... there is something that is definitely not right about my face... Something that would cause women all over the globe to shun me as a completely unattractive man... Something I was not aware of until its existence was cruelly revealed to me a year ago by an Orthodontist... Something that has since prompted my sister to refer to me as "the man who have missed the last step of evolution"...
That's right: I have BIG ARSE TEETH!!
Like a fair proportion of other Asians descendants, I display symptoms of Maxillary Prognathism or commonly referred to as an overbite. My siblings has it. My dad has it. His siblings has it. It runs in the family...
So what this really mean is: I have massively huge teeth that poke out of my gob like mushrooms springing out of a pile of steaming cow turd.
Cow turd... no?
My bite line protrudes so prodigiously far from my face, I can truly say that my bite is worst than my bark... :-3
Strangely, this gaunt of mine doesn't make me look like a dog. Rather it gives me a strange duck-bill like face:
Duck-bill... no?
Suffice to say, I am not good looking... Even worst, I am shallow and I am not good looking, which compounds my self-loathing... Hmm...
But at least now I can be satisfied in proclaiming to the world... Aye, I am one ugly bastard... I can accept that women do not find me attractive at all... and I do not have to die wondering why most gay men score more chicks than I do.
Maybe I should turn gay instead... :-D
THE END
** This should be the last depressing blog entry I write that derides myself as an ugly pudding. I will try picking on other people for a change next time... I promise... Stay tuned!
by Gordon "Sick Ol' Bastard" Wong
***Sung along to any 50's style blues riff.
Da-na-da-na-Naaa...
Da-na-da-na-Naaa...
Woke up inda mornin'
Can't get outta bed
I'm a coughin' n' splurtin'
Rotten melon for a head
Can somebody help me
Put my damn ~pants~ on?
Can't-do-it-by-my-self-I-gotta... SIIIING this song
I've got the flu-oo... I've got the blues...
I've got the flu-oo-oo... My face is blue...
I've got the "so sick I can't dress meself in the mornin" kinda flu
Drag myself to the doc
She wrote me for some meds
Pharmacist dun giv a fock
If I'm on my death bed
Took them an hour
To fish for me pills
If-I've-some-goddam-sense-I-oughta... Geddem killed
I've got the flu-oo... I can't stand still...
I've got the flu-oo-oo... Gotta go the kill...
I've got the "lack of antibiotics induced homicidal" kinda flu
Came home a chokin'
Brain drenchin' in pain
Like my laundry is soakin'
Outside in the rain
The dog gone poopy
All 'ver the damn place
There's-shit-up-n-down-every-where-I... Turn n' face
I've got the flu-oo... What am I to do...
I've got the flu-oo-oo... With all these poo...
I've got the "too sick to contemplate about doing any shit about the shit" kinda flu
...
I've got the flu-oo... I've got the flu...
I've got the flu-oo... I've got the flu...
...
I have a headache... I have a headache and a flu... I have a headache and a flu and had a very eventful weekend to go with it... I don't think I can write proper sentences at teh moment but allow me to recount the weekend for your perverse reading pleasure:
Wednesday 18th April, Evening: As part of the Anime Exhibition at the NSW Art Gallery, they are showing the Studio Ghibli's movie of "The Cat Returns". Went with my friends Kaz and Zoe. Very cute fable-type tale with slick animation, along with a ridiculous premise of a story but highly entertaining.
I remember not wearing a jumper or jacket in the cold theatre and I felt a bit chilled to my core. I thought nothing of it really... Just the chills, you know.
Wednesday 18th April, Night: I had a Korean dinner with Kaz to discuss the Virginia Tech shooting by that American-Korean whack job. Quite an appropriate Korean dinner conversation really... NOT... :-)
Thursday 19th April, Morning: Wake up. New dawn, new day. All is beautiful. Wear a full suit to work knowing I will have a job interview later in the afternoon.
Thursday 19th April, Afternoon: Something is terribly wrong. My throat is dry and coarse. Head swells like a psychotic balloon. Nose runs like Maurice Greene on a Leer Jet. Something is terribly wrong.
Thursday 19th April, Evening: Head to the job interview, suit, shirt, tie, Congo drums beating in my head... Ramble on about stock indicators and DB schema and long term strength and C# and nonsensical crap like that... After the interview, went home and try to sleep it off.
Friday 20th April, Morning: Wake up, the sky had fallen through the ceiling on my head. Life is not rosy. Went back to my sorry slumber.
Friday 20th April, Afternoon: Wake up again, call in sick at work. Life positively sucked the marrow out of my bones.
Friday 20th April, Evening: Receives a call from the interviewers from Thursday to say I have won the interview process and they are offering me a role in their prodigious fund management company. "Excellent, thank you!" I said, while globs of snot is streaming down my face.
Friday 20th April, Night: Watch the ANZAC Test between Australia vs. New Zealand. Australia gallops home with a score of 30-6.
None of the flu tablet I am chowing down have any effect, my headache is progressively eating away at my brain (what's left of it). Decide to have an early night.
Saturday 21st April, 1am in the freakin morning: Wake up, find it hard to draw breath, cannot sleep, cannot live really...
Decide to turn on the radio to follow the Cricket World Cup match between Australia vs. New Zealand, hoping against all hope that might put me to sleep. Australia wallops 348 runs for 6 wickets. New Zealand succumbed to be all out for 133.
Saturday 21st April, 5am in the bleedin morning: Finally falls asleep. A great day to be an Aussie. A bad day to be a New Zealander. An unbelievably shitty day to be me.
Saturday 21st April, 9am in the morning: Woke up for the fourth or fifth time for the morning. Officially declare myself to be a zombie, roaming around randomly as an undead, scouring for brains to feast upon.
Saturday 21st April, 11am in the morning: Trot to the doctor with tail firmly tucked between my legs. Antibiotics is in the order for the day.
Saturday 21st April, 1pm in the afternoon: Finally received my medication from the pharmacy after an hour wait. Thanks heaps, "Roy Young Chemist". I'll be sure to mention that in the police report after I finish devouring all your staff's brain, if they have any.
Took my meds, try to sleep, try to gain some rest, try to lose my zombie tendency.
Saturday 21st April, Evening: Drag my sorry arse out. Suited up once more to go the Basement jazz club.
My friend Zoey's surprise birthday party, cannot miss that... Jazz virtuoso James Morrison is playing, cannot miss that... The club's a-la-carte meals are woeful beyond description, I just wish I could have missed that.
I believe the steaks are still moo-ing and grazing on the side-salad when they arrived at our table. Yummmmy!
Saturday 21st April, 10pm at Night: Mr. Morrison finally decided to show up, only half an hour late. How convenient. BUT...
The show was absolutely rocking (or jazzing if you prefer)!!!
Lead singer Emma Pask possesses a raspy, soulful voice. Her vocals are well polished but it didn't quite agree with me entirely. Still, her improv are super coooool to the max. The Saxaphonist/Flutist was f**king sublime, a true craftsman of his art.
Of course, the maestro that is James Morrison out-shone all others. An engaging and sharp wit. A high note that is larger than life. He stole his own show if that was at all possible...
I may be dying from my flu but at least I was in jazz heaven before I draw my last breath.
(For some photos from the evening, please visit Carra's web Album)
Sunday 22nd April, 4am in the morning: Finally arrive home in one piece and go straight to bed, after chatting to Gnaphos online for two hours first... that didn't help my health situation one bit.
Sunday 22nd April, later in the morning: Wake up to die or to do my laundry, little difference really. When I hang out my clothes to dry, it starts to rain... Heavily...
Somebody up there loves me...
Sunday 22nd April, Afternoon: Must rest, less stress... Tonight I have a date. Well 20 of them exactly. Twenty speed dates to test my will to live. Must... Survive... Tonight...
Sunday 22nd April, Evening: Suited up for one last time for this Extra Extra Long Weekend. Arrived at the Oscar bar at Pyrmont for the speed dates. Sweating profusely in my nice Senator suit jacket with a nice fever to go along with it. Verrry sexxxy...
Headache suddenly comes back with a vengeance. Frantically meeting and greeting all the lovely ladies, while shadowing any signs that I am on Death's door. Thanks to Kaz for the Panadol, but they did little to ease my ride down River Styx.
Every two minutes, a little bells rings and all the guys must get up and move to the next girl:
On and on it goes. I feel like a roll of out of use-by-date sushi, flying around and around on life's eternal/infernal sushi train. A least I look good in my sweaty jacket...
A special thanks goes to Wyatt and his team, Eddie and Carmen, for their relentless effort in organising this event. It was an incredibly fun event, I just wish I could enjoy it to its full extent... But you guys are awesome.
Sunday 22nd April, Night: Driving home alone in the pouring rain. In my hazy feverish state, started to hallucinate Dr. Karl in my passenger seat, warning me about the "dangers of micro sleep". Thanks Dr. Karl, I love you too, mate.
Monday 23rd April: I'm still alive!! Partially... There's a lesson to be learnt from this weekend. I'm not sure what it is but you be sure to tell if you know what it all that means.
I am going to bed...
I am not a guy that indulge in too much Reality TV. As a genre, it is not a particularly clever one. However with some of the longer running concepts I do find rather intriguing.
The ones where I do spend some time watching are some of the "Survivor" series where the application of game theory comes to life. "The Amazing Race" can be quite fun if you invest the time in it. Also the first series of "The Apprentice" was very educational and instructional. Subsequent series however tend not to live up to the billing of the original idea. The concept stagnate and falls fowl with me and the general rating public.
Recently, I have started to reengage with another reality TV series: The Search for the Next Doll. I'll be the first to admit it, I watch the show purely for its titillation value, as well as the bitch fight, the constant tantrums and all the tacky squealing faux "empowering" bullshit.
For those that are not familiar with the concept of the show, you can read about it here:
"Pussycat Dolls Present: The Search for The Next Doll," is a behind-the-scenes look at the process of selecting a beautiful and talented singer/dancer who has what it takes to join one of the world's most successful performing and recording acts. Out of the thousands of gifted hopefuls who audition, only one young woman will make it through the challenges and undergo a total transformation to win her place in the spotlight as the newest member of the Pussycat Dolls..."
So basically it is about the auditioning of a new singer/dancer for a "musical" group call the Pussycat Dolls. Well, "what on Earth is the Pussycat Dolls" you might ask?
For those that are not familiar with the concept of the Pussycat Dolls, imagine an evil genius looking fellow in a evil looking lab coat, hunching over a bunch of test tubes, beakers and scary experiment looking thingies in his evil looking laboratory... when suddenly he breaks into a evil sounding maniacal guffaw: "Bwaahahahahaha..." as the chill of his voice echoes through his bone-chillingly and dimly lit lab he cried out...
"I did it... I did it... I have invented the perfect weapon of mass destruction. It will enslave all men to do its bidding and enslave all women to follow its destructive evil ways. Mwuuhahahahah...
"And I shall name this evil creation... The Pussycat Dolls!!"
And to sample a small dosage of the destructive powers of these Pussycat Dolls just examine this! or this?! May heaven have mercy on our souls...
Meeeeeeow...
Sure the vocal skills (of the PCD and of the prospective dolls) are mostly rubbish, they wear clothes that would prompt a hooker to slap them silly and they cake on more make-up than Liberace, but that is utterly beside the point. The point is that they can gyrate their impossibly thin money-maker in pure harmonious synchronicity... And they will use it against all humanity, because they bloody well can...
All I can hope for now is that this show will run for one season... I don't think I can handle too much of this PCD stuff.
To my dear readers:
Sorry for the lack of activities lately... just been busy with what I shall call my (limited) social life... as well as following the Cricket World Cup late into the night... and frankly I have been lazing my damn arse off... :-)
How was everybody's Easter break? I had a pretty big one: picnic/BBQ to attend on Good Friday, two separate birthday bash on Easter Sunday. But undoubtedly the highlight of the long weekend was the Paintball event on Easter Saturday!
A good buddy of mine organised a paintball outing at "The Paintball Place" at Kulnurra and I was over the moon. You see, I love paintballing. I believe heaven is a place where people runs around shooting at other people with pellets full of paint, that would certainly appeal more to me than streets lined with gold bricks or 72 ravishing virgins, etc. ;-)
Yes, I love paintballing like Goldmember looooves painting balls!
Yesshh! Yesshh! I loooove painting ze ball... Yesshh!
I had huge fun playing in the drenching rain, collected a few bruises and delivered a few in kind. I do have a purple tennis ball sized bruise on my left thigh and a throbbing headache on my right temple (that stills stings today)... But none of that matters because our team won the event 4-2... Go the Black Team... Woooot!
I can visibly see that my game has improved somewhat from previous trips to paintball fields. I don't play as crazy or as reckless anymore, and reading some online articles about tactical training had help with my all round skills.
At the end of the day, I was so fired up, I was screaming instructions to my team mates that were previously merely strangers to me. Pleading for my team to move forward to keep up the pressure on the immobile opposition. I was running amok, barking out orders, collecting and piloting the flags almost every game, strafing the field like a demon, weaving in and around barricades... I feel so alive!
- - -
However, the best moment of the entire day happened at the very beginning, before we had even fired a paintball in anger. We all suited up in our camo fatigue and don the protective mask in the morning, ready to be lectured to about the paintball marker (gun). The guy in charge went through his explanation about the marker in detail and asked for a volunteer to demo the marker's range and firepower.
One of the referee shouted out "Gordon, step forward!..."
I did so with no hesitation, walked about 20m away from the marker and stood there quietly. The guy with the marker shouted: "Are you wearing a box?". I nod my head to indicate "Affirmative."
He then aimed at my nether region, and fired one shot... he missed... I didn't flinch. He fired a second shot... he missed... I didn't flinch. He attempted a third shot... and hit my left pelvic bone, I didn't flinch for two seconds before grunting out a guttural primal scream: "Arrrghhhwwww!!!!"... Then I proceeded to walk back toward my team mates.
The referee pulled me aside, smiled and said to me "You've played before, haven't you?".
I looked at him, "Yep", I replied.
"It gets in your blood, doesn't it?"
I smiled and exclaimed, "Yep!"
He knew just by looking at me, he knew... he knew I am there to play ball.
BRING IT ON!! Wooooooo!
A: No, not really...
So where was I up to? Oh yeah, that's right...
Let's establish what we have learnt about me so far:
1. Through empirical evidences, we are able to establish that I am unable to attract any women's attention or affection. Simple.
2. Through careful observations, we can rule out that my (lack of) hair makes me any less appealing to the lasses. For example, Justin Timberlake may have a closely clipped mane but according to all sources, he is bringing the SexyBack...... um... whatever that is...
So lemmesee now? How shall I further scrutinise and berate myself? Hmm... Let's continue with my badly moulded jelly body, shall we?
I am a man who has been in and out of gyms and dojos for most of my adult life, and I do work hard at building my strength and stamina up to an acceptable standard. Yet I am nowhere close to bringing the SexyBack to anywhere anytime soon... (can someone please explain to me what the f**k is a SexyBack?!?)
Don't get me wrong, I am not a grotesquely shaped lard tub, but I am not exactly cut either. Like most men, I slide somewhere haphazardly in between Mr. Wahlberg and Mr. Bean:
Now that is a vomit-inducing thought if there ever is one... x-s
So what is it about my body that is so lacking in HAWT-ness? Let me count the ways:
Having said all that, does my body actually causes girls to be not attracted to me? Hmm...
I believe the answer is "no, not really".
Quite rightly, my boobs are rather unsightly at the beach, but safely tucked under a shirt they are less hazardous to the general public. And sure my arms looks like sticks and my arse like rotting melons, but I do think my general frame is a relatively lean and healthy one.
My body is an ongoing project, it is not at all perfect (and it never will be) but I am making good progress sculpting it. Compared to most blokes, I am in good shape.
Which doesn't answer my original question, "Why aren't I attractive?"...
to be continued...
Last Sunday, the Sydney Harbour Bridge celebrated its 75th birthday. We, the humble citizens of Sydney, were allowed to travel across the entire bridge on foot, in order to commemorate this landmark's landmark achievement. What a thrill!
So to help add to the celebratory atmosphere, a group of my friends planned to do exactly that. We made our way across the giant coat hanger and took plenty of photographs along the trip. It was sheer exhilaration. Below are just a sample of my photos:
The Sydney Harbour Bridge cuts an
impressive skeletal figure above the water.
The monochrome rainbow serpent
stretches across the evening sky...
Dusk settles gently over the Harbour Bridge.
The single most memorable event of the evening was the Aboriginal cleansing ceremony that took place while we were there. The entire bridge was set alight with spots of eucalyptus fires, while an Aboriginal elder strolled purposefully over the harbour to the guttural strains of tribal choruses.
Unfortunately, the Aboriginal elder leading the parade nearly char-coaled himself whilst carrying a smoke-filled ceremony gum-bark-tray. The bark in his hands suddenly caught fire and everyone stopped walking and start taking photos of his eyebrows being singed. Luckily he place down the flaming bark in time to let the fire die down a little (helped by a security guard stamping on the ceremonious bark), then the poor elder picked it back up and the show went on unabated.
Nevertheless, it was still a very special spiritual ceremony and I enjoyed the entire experience thoroughly.
So a big Happy Birthday to the Harbour Bridge, you beautiful clump of metal.
A: Probably not...
Following on from my realisation of how unattractive women find me in general, I am now in deep contemplation on the exact *why* of my unattractiveness. The specific factors that leads me to being the ugly bastard that I am.
To commence, the first factor I shall examine is my lack of hair.
Those of you know me personally knows that, yes, I clipper my hair regularly to keep it extremely short, all the time. Some of you may be confuse as to why I would commit such a non-socially conforming act to look even more stupider.
Firstly, I view it from the angle that hair in itself is not a necessity to looking HAWT. Take the example of Becks, Colin, Mr. Pitt and Freddy (pictured below), these are four of the world's most sexiest men, and when they carry a chrome dome, women will continue to swoon at their feet. Some may find this even more sexy, in a primal caveman kind of way...
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Thus, proving conclusively that a hairstyle is merely the ribbon on top of the prezzie, with or without the flowing locks, it will not majorly impact the HAWT-ness of the man itself.
Secondly, if I do grow out my hair, they will come out as thick wiry strands of wilderness. They go-a-this-a-way, they go-a-that-a-way, they shoot out in all kind of silly direction. It is damn near impossible to put a pair of scissors thorough them, let alone style them into any form or fashion. So I thought I would just sever the lot of them, every last strand shall be lop off for the glory of the scalp. And I have been doing this for over five years now.
As you can see from the before and after photos below, I definitely look better without the hair...
Beaten to within an inch of his life with an ugly stick:
Gordon with Hair (circa 2002)
Just moderately ugly: Gordon without Hair (circa 2006)
What do you think, which one is uglier?
Last weekend, I have awoken to a dawning truth about myself, that I will now share with this blog: That I, Gordon Wong, despite all my best effort, am a completely UNATTRACTIVE man.
Shock! Aghast! Horror!
Yes, it may come as bit of a surprise to you, my dear readers, that a strapping young lad like me, at the peak of his game, possesses exactly the same amount of HAWT-ness as what the Sahara Desert have of icebergs. It is a sad fact, yet utterly undeniable.
"How...", I hear you ask, "can a man of your fine features and warm personality be completely unattractive to members of the opposite sex? How can you even fathom such thoughts, Gordon?"... Hmm, I often wonder about that myself...
Then last weekend the veil of delusion was cruelly yanked away from my eyes, and I will present to you those two crucial pieces of evidence as testament to my complete lack of HAWT-ness.
If you will indulge me, your Honour, then allow me to present:
- - -
Exhibit A
Last Friday night, young Gordon was sharing a quiet drink with three single (and rather attractive) female associates, at a local tavern after a nice dinner with them. The table consists of just the four of them, enjoying each other's cosy company. When suddenly out of the blue, as a break from other lines of conversation, one of the girls pipped up and asked her female friend: "So, do you see any HAWT guys around here?".
They took the opportunity to survey the room, giggled and start lamenting about the lack of quality stallions in the stable.
Gordon is just sitting two feet away, at the same table, in plain sight and obviously within earshot... :'-(
This event occurred on the Friday night, which follows onto...
Exhibit B
Last Saturday night, at the conclusion of the Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras parade, some of the friends Gordon attended with decided to retire off home while the rest of them have an urge for a midnight snack at the local McDonald's. It just so happens that young Gordon, though some good luck, have found himself in the company of three single (and attractive) female friends once more.
While feasting on the various delights of Maccas, the conversation naturally converged onto the parade and the frills of it all. One of the girls commented to another: "Hey, you know what? That guy that was standing next to you, don't you think that guy was so HAWT?!?"
The other two girls' faces lit up and they concurred with her immediately, "Yeah, that guys was definitely HAWT!!". Then they added "AND his BOYFRIEND was pretty damn HAWT too."
That's right, young Gordon was sitting two feet away, in plain sight, 100% heterosexual and completely unable to raise the pulse of the girls like the gay men earlier... :'-(
- - -
I rest my case, your Honour.
OK, OK, so it should be no major secret that I am devoid of any sex appeal (the photo is Exhibit C), yet I am very curious as to what, exactly, about me that women find so unattractive? Hmm...
This is an entirely serious question.
I am pondering about this puzzle in a precise academic fashion, studying the problem and itemising all the factors that attribute to my complete lack of HAWT-ness. And I shall present to you the findings in subsequent blog entries.
Stay tuned my friends... This is to be continued...
As some of you may have noticed, controversial Sydney's boxer and former rugby league star Anthony "The Man" Mundine have reclaimed his WBA Super Middleweight World Championship belt. A big congratulation is in order for the Man.
In the title bout that is coined as:
The King vs. The Man
... Mundine took on Melbourne's gritty fighter Sammy "The King" Soliman, a former kickboxer with rapid fire hands and a healthy stamina. Alas, the Man commanded nine head punishing rounds to eventually KO the King, assigning Soliman his first stoppage loss.
Of course, the Man's last high profile bout was up against Perth's hard man, Danny "The Green Machine". In one of Australia's most anticipated fight, dubbed as:
Man vs. Machine
... the Man once again dominated the grudge match by going twelve rounds to win on unanimous points decision against the Machine.
Proving clearly the Man is... the man.
Which brings me (in a roundabout way) to the point of this blog entry: What's My Name?
I mean, if I was a Pro Fighter, and that's a pretty-big-damn IF, set amongst the fraternity of Iron Mike, Cinderella Man and The Greatest, what would be my fighting moniker?
Let's be clear about this, I am in no shape to be fighting a ballerina at the moment. You can see from these videos: Part I, Part II, Part III and Part IV, that I am slow on my feet, I lack any form or technique and I am hopeless on my left flank. But let's say hypothetically, that I am a professional circuit fighter, what name would be worthy of this worthless thug? And how would you promote this clumsy fighter?
Hmm... Let's start with the obvious ones:
Names based on my name
Names based on my previous nicknames
Will the real "Flash" Gordon please stand up,
please stand up, please stand up?
So which name one do you like? Can you think of any other good names?
Over the weekend, for the first time since moving to Sydney, I lined up with some friends and thousands of my fellow sydneyites to witness the glamorous and glittering parade of our Gay and Lesbian Mardi Gras.
So how did it go, you might ask?
To be perfectly honest, I was left very underwhelmed by the entire experience. It was basically a three and a half hour session of standing neck-deep in a torrent of people watching semi-bored and half-tired people shuffling by, to the general curiosity of the crowd.
After the initial excitement, titillation and shock value wore off, the procession was... exactly that, a procession. And in this modern Australian society where homosexuality and other associated community is widely accepted, there isn't much that can shock or titillate us anymore.
Less than an hour in, I was glancing at my watch, thinking: "This is good so far. I wonder how many more floats there are left to go?".
Two hours in, the floats just won't stop floating by, they kept going and going like the bloody energiser bunny, albeit a lot more bigger... and pinker.
By the third hour, I was nodding off to sleep on my feet, not especially advisable, considering I was surrounded by a gaggle of very loud and happily gay men, sipping copious amount of bubbly.
By the end of it all, a friend of mine have lost all feeling in her left leg from standing too rigid all night (go visit her blog for some excellent photos of the parade).
Having said that, there are some excellent moments in the Mardi Gras itself (and some utterly bewildering ones as well), which I will recount below:
Highlight of the Parade: The belle of the ball, the apple of our eyes and patron saint of all that is feathered and sequined - Kylie Minogue's Impossible Princesses was by far the most entertaining and fun inspiring troupe of all.
Lowlight of the Parade: The menage-a-trois between the Australian Labor Party, the Democrats and the Greens. It is fantastic that all of these opposing political parties are supporting the Mardi Gras by sponsoring a float each, yet I fail to see how any electorate can differentiate the political statement and bland policies of these left wing liberal groups?
Most Creative Float: The Silhouette Trojan Horse (pictured below) that is populated by some amorous Greeks, playing hide and seek!!
Most Ridiculously Stupid Float: It is not technically a float really... just a ute, loaded with two speakers and an amp. Driving along with 20 or so nondescript "dancers" trolling behind. WTF?!?
Most Impressive Costume: This gentleman in a very extravagant black widow meets Priscilla meets Copacabana number.
Most Un-Humorous Costume: Opposition leader "Kool Kev" Rudd portrayed as giant cucumber... "Hahaha, kool as a cucumber, getit? Huh, huh, getit?"... No, I don't get it, it just look like a damn silly giant green dild0.
Most "Look at moi, look at moi, I am a pretty ballerina" Costume: This dizzying bloke dressed as a demented disco ball, spinning around and round and round and round and... all by himself, 10 metres from any other performers?!?
- - -
However, the most wild and woolly part of the evening was not happening anywhere near the parade. It happened when I was on my way home after the long exhaustive evening.
Stuck in the bowels of Town Hall train station, waiting for the late running train to arrive in this humidity of Sydney's collective sweat, I was woken up from my boredom by the high-pitched screams of:
"Get him away from the edge! Get him away from the EDGE!!"
I turned around in my sleepy stupor to see a young man in his 20s, standing about three feet away from the platform's edge. He was clearly not of a sober state, shifting his elusive balance from his left side to his right and back to his left. His shirt sleeve soaked in a deep crimson fluid...
A suicide attempt I assumed... so I approached him warily from behind and stood quietly between him and the edge, just a few feet away from him, face-to-face... His right forehead was cut right open, blood streaming down his entire face, soaking his shirt and dripping large amount of it on the platform.
Two other bystanders were doing what I was doing, just trying to squeeze between him and the train tracks, trying to engage him in conversation, asking him to back away from the edge. The Station Master arrived and radioed for backup.
But the gentle rumbling of the rail suggested that the train was closing in on the station and the bloke was still wobbling around on his toes, and none of us three supposed "heroes" want to tempt fate by wrangling a blood soaked man to the ground just a step away from the edge of a certain doom.
Luckily the train slowed down next to the platform without any incident, the Transit Officers arrive en-masse to babysit this bloodied bloke. I step on the train, with the station master shouting out to me: "Thanks mate!"
"No worries!", I shouted back, all in a (Mardi Gras) day's work... ;-)
As I rode upon the commuter train early this Valentine Day, I happened to spy a delicately beautiful creature a few feet to my left.
A very attractive girl of Asian descent, with long flowing ebony locks, she was quite a breath taking vision. She was adorned with a fitted jet black dress that goes down to her knees, where her cream stockings takes over to lead all the way down to her black ballad slippers with the tiniest heals on them.
She was dressed very professionally, ready for a day at work, clutching a laptop backpack, displaying only a very modest collection of jewellery and complementing her face with a very cute cherry red square-framed glasses.
I think I might have stared at her for quite a few minutes. She turn to face me once and we locked gaze for a few brief seconds. Her blushing cheeks made my heart want to clamour out of my mouth and jump off the speeding train...
In my mind, I am frantically calculating a whole host of permutation in how to approach this gorgeous young lady, how oh how to invite her to a quiet dinner or maybe a night cap at a local tavern? The train carriage is utterly packed to the hilt. I cannot easily idle over and ask her for her name and number without everyone on this side of the train finding out about it... hmm...
I know!! I will see which station she is alighting at, casually follow her a few blocks, accidentally bump into her when I see that she a little more alone on the footpath. Then I shall confess to her my fascination with her and implore her to meet me once more to explore this fascination.
GREAT PLAN, Gordon!!
So as the train pulled up at the station of her destination, she readied herself to exit the door, I steeled myself for the pursuit. The train stopped. The door slid open. She alighted. I watched and hesitated. Then I followed her... with my eyes as she walked out of the station and out of my sight. I sighed, exhaled and continued my merry way through this St Valentine Day.
- - -
I arrived at work, plonked my arse in my chair and declared to my colleagues: "Hey, I saved a woman from being stalked today."
Their puzzled response was: "How?"
"I stopped following her." **boom-tish**
(Most of this story is true, I'll let you guess which parts are BS and which is real. The part that is plagiarised come from my mate Nick. Thanks buddy ;-)
Contracted a bad throat infection last week and I am slowly but surely losing my voice. Sometimes I would try to speak and nothing would come out. Sometimes I might sound like a poor man's imitation of Barry White. Other times I would be imitating an out of breath Mickey Mouse.
In the mean time, you can read Sam de Brito's essay on why marriage is such an archaic construct, and hence why men can't seem to commit to one woman anymore.
...
I am a Chinese male but have been an Australian for most of my life.
I have often openly expressed to my (mostly Asian) friends that I prefer the feature and attitude of oriental women. What I don't openly admit to is that I am also very attracted to Caucasian women.
But due to my (perhaps sub-conscious) understanding or delusion that Caucasian women are inherently not attracted to Asian men, I do not commit the social faux pas of chasing after Aussie girls.
...
Allow me relate a tale of my youth. When I immigrated to Darwin nearly 20 years ago, I fell in love with the Aussie lifestyle here.
The beauty of the English language in poetry and songs. The diversity of culture and people of this free country. The greenery and open spaces on this wide open land...
And the cute Caucasian girls at school...
The fine olive skin of the Mediterranean girls. The blonde locks of these exquisite goddesses. The large sapphire blue and jade green irises they possess.
And freckles... WOW-wee, what heavenly delights... :-)
(To be perfectly balanced, I must say I find Caucasian's larger bust size very pleasing to my pubescent eyes as well :-)
...
There is one girl at school which I find absolutely irresistible... Wow, how do I put this... think of a very young Nicole Kidman with wavy strawberry blonde hair and just a splash of freckles on her button nose and the cutest of cheeks.
How I adored and worshipped her...
She was into drama, so instinctively I signed up for the drama club. She was vice-captain of the softball team, heck, I'll try-out for the team (never mind that I had the athletic ability of a mouldy tree stump). She played touch-footy, I'll ditto that... Martial Arts, ditto again...
Everything she did, I try to do, poorly I might add... (except for drama which I excelled)... but I guess it was beginning to be obvious that I was stalking her!
On top of my near constant presence, I had confessed to my school friends that I have amorous feelings for this curious flaxen-haired creature. And naturally the rumours of this chubby Chinese bloke hankering for a fair Caucasian girl found it's way to her ears.
...
Unfortunately, when the opportunity arise one day, she pulled me aside and told me under no uncertain term I was to go anywhere near her again. Apparently, I was screwing things up for her. I was cramping her style.
I was devastated.
...
Truthfully, women are women. Caucasian, Asian or otherwise. They are beautiful in their many qualities.
But to this day, I cannot fully reconciled my repressed fear of European women and their (supposed) distaste of the Asian males. I just cannot look at an Aussie girl any way other than a beautiful mythical unicorn, magical yet completely out of reach.
Reinforced by Hollywood stereotyping of Inter-Asian-Caucasian relationship (examine the Hollywood movies of stars like Jackie Chan, Jet Li and Chow-Yun Fat, how often do they score with the Caucasian leading ladies?)
There is still a lot of baggage for me to unload...
