How Men Should Commit to Women

Rather than blogging about why men cannot spend the rest of his days with one women, here is something a little less depressing about men-women relationship:

How to Keep your Woman

"I Like Big BOOTS n' I Cannot Lie..."

"I like big BUTTS n' I cannot lie
All you other brothers can't deny..."

Sir Mix-a-Lot, 1992

I am under the impression that Sir Mix-a-Lot has got it all wrong with his Hip Hop track "Baby Got Back", where he pays tribute to the women's rear end as a living work of art.

While a woman's lower ASSets are indeed desirable, for me there is nothing more sexier than a girl decked out in a pair leather BOOTS.

For the girl in question could be skinny, plump, tall, short, brown, white or of purple hue. It does not matter whether she dons ankle high, knee high or thigh high boots. And it matters not the heel size, lacing, strapping nor the individual styling... It is all deliciously HAWT to me.

Given the worlds ugliest woman or the world most beautiful model, if you pop some boots on her pins, she will be twice as good looking immediately to my eyes.

It is something that is slowly groomed into my psyche, my conditioning. Like Krytonite to my supermanlihood, I just cannot help but fall for the boots...

Epilogue: What is Wrong With Me?

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...

Love is a Many-Splendored Thing

What is "Le Amour"? This thing we call "Love"? Please allow Chris Rock to educate you:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R6OaRcsfnY4

**Warning: Contains very coarse language and milk-shooting-outta-your-nostrils jokes. Please do not drink milk while viewing.

Q: Do You Think My Mug is Sexxxy, Baby?!?

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:

1. I possess a striking set of cheek bones, well structured and well balanced relative to my face... Certainly I could be construed as having a beautiful bone structure.
2. The jawline is very strong and square, very gritty and chiseled.
3. The forehead above is expansive and distinctive, and the chin below is sharp and character-filled, framing my long face quite nicely.
4. The nose is big, round and slightly crooked, not sharp at all. But it is quite tall and therefore kinda passable as "not bad".
5. And sure, the eyes are hidden behind large folds of eyelids, giving me "chinky" eyes. But certain people finds it attractive. I certainly find Lucy very luscious indeed.
6. And of course I discovered that "...I'm so vain, I probably think this blog is about me... I'm so waaainn... I probably think this blog is about meeee, don't I, don't I?"

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!

Extra Extra Long Weekend

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:

• "Hi Sarah."... DING!
• "What do you do in your spare time, Jia-Shen?"... DING!
• "Which uni did you attend, Vicki?"... DING!
• "Nice blouse, Lisa, you look lovely in them."... DING!
• "You are a very attractive lady, Laura."... DING!
• "Cute little doggy, Sharon."... DING!
• "What a beautiful name, Lillian."... DING!
• "What's your favourite movie, Jackie?"... DING! DING! DING!!!

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...

The Search for the Next Pussy...

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.

Q: Do You Think My Booty is Sexxxy, Sugar?!?

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:

1. I have arms that resembles wet spaghetti... You might ask me, I work out in a gym, right? I should have arms that looks like sausage skins stuff full of boulders, right? Wrong!!
   
   No matter how much I train, my forearm remains spindly, biceps stringy and my triceps are non-existent. For a guy of my frame, they are quite pathetic really.
   -
2. Seriously, I have a set of the perkiest man-boobs ever... Whenever I go to the beach with various friends, they often plead with me to leave my shirt on, I think because they think the sight of my puffy-glands might cause whales beaching or something.
   
   They are, I must admit, very embarrassing.
   
   (On a side note, if I ever convert to Islam, I reckon my religious name should be Maanboobs el Tittiz... or something like that...)
   -
3. I am lucky to be gifted with naturally well built quads and calves... but they are attached to the flabbiest arse-cheeks on this side of the cosmos. I mean, they are like jello on a warm summer day.
   
   No pair of pants or jeans can properly fit around it. No amount of jogging or cycling can whip it into shape. Every time I walk around a corner, I must check my blind spot to make sure I don't swipe someone off the road. They are massive! HUGE!

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...

Q: Do You Think My Hair is Sexxxy, Honey?!?

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...

Beckham	Farrell	Pitt	Ljundberg

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?

Q: Do You Think I'm Sexxxy, Baby?!? Huh? Do Ya?

A: An absolute and emphatic... NO!

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...

Happy Saint Valentine Day

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 ;-)

Caucasian Girls

Today I will do my part for the environment and recycle a comment I wrote in Sam de Brito's blog, "All Men are Liars*", and use it for this blog entry. The below text is an edited version of what I wrote before:

...

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...

Japanese Girls

I have had a long fascination with Japanese girls and their soft feminine features and mannerism.

I must admit I do not know many Japanese females, so I am generalizing here, yet I find their behaviours and inane giggling very appealing. This is despite the fact that most a lot of the Japanese females I do know are not that, aesthetically pleasing.

...

Last Saturday, I was kindly invited by a friend, to join him and his group of Japanese friends for a Karaoke session. Most of his Japanese friends are females (bless his socks :-) and I spent close to five hours serenading this gaggle of giggling girls with a number of my big belting ballads. (Amongst the many songs I sang, some of them are Elvis' classic "(I Can't Help) Falling in Love with You" and Utada Hikaru's poetic "First Love"... )

The girls seemed to lap up my modest abilities and was forthcoming with quite a fair few compliments. During the middle of a song I was crooning, one of the girls asked, ever so politely, if she could come across and sit down next to me, for the sole purpose of sitting next to me(!?!)

I was very flattered, naturally... :-)

Introspectively, it is so ~VERY~ nice to feel the appreciation of these girls. I wasn't attract to a single one of them but to hear them pay me kind gentle words about my singing is indeed something very special.

I am gonna have to ask my friend to invite me to more of these outings ;-)

Good Start to the Year...

Welcome back to my inane blog and I wish you all a happy, peaceful new year...

To kick off 2007, please allow me to be self-indulgent here and begin my first blog entry of the year by talking about ME... and my experience of New Year Eve just two nights ago :-)

Like a million other Sydney-siders, I made the pilgrimage down to the Sydney Harbour to catch a glimpse of the world famous firework display. I was kindly invited to go with a friend and a group of her friends, most of whom I didn't know very well.

We journeyed to the swanky suburb of Kirribilli at around 10:30pm and park ourselves on a tiny public jetty (right next to the Prime Minister's residence) and waited for over an hour for the sparks to fly.

My estimate would be at least 250 patient party people on this itsy-bitsy teeny-weeny jetty, counting down the remaining seconds of the year. I was rather sadden by the fact that the jetty didn't broke off from its mooring and slither screaming into the water... that would have been rather fun to be a part of :-D

While the ensuing fireworks was absolutely magnificent, I must say the highlight of the night for me was to stand there on this narrow jetty's walkway (no wider than two metres), and was asked by my friend to guard her close friend who is (by my standard) quite a fetching female.

So... for the last hour of 2006, I was nuzzling up to this young lady, with my arms around her, body nudging snugly against hers... doing everything I can to shield her against all the loud drunk pushy over-weight sweaty half-naked blokes that was getting on and off the jetty for no apparent reason.

I must say, it must have felt like a decade since I was this intimate with a woman. To taste the aroma of their hair, caress their soft forearm and feel their warmth against my torso. Sure, I hardly know the girl and there were hundreds of people on the jetty, most of them have rubbed up against me at some point during the night. Nevertheless, it was very comforting to end the year on such a chivalrous note.

You can call me sad or laugh at my prudishness, but I see it as a good ending to a year and I hope that 2007 will bring more of the same...

If you have any good experiences with NYE please leave a comment to share with us...

And...

Many cheers to you and to a brilliant 2007!