Astron's Notebook

Hello, Friends!


Punks on gentrified Wyndham Street aren't common. Non-existent, even, amidst the stylish row of art galleries and bistros. And yet, my eyes could not have been deceiving me. A creature with neon green mohawk and skintight scarlet jeans was smoking casually on the curb.

I felt as though I chanced upon an eerily beautiful spider that happened to keep still just long enough for me to capture an indelible image.

"Look here," I called out.

He turned his head towards me in mid-puff, black lips sucking on a skinny cigarette.



Venturing into Tivo, I was enveloped in a bear hug by the drag queen, Lovely. She had assumed the gigantic stature of Alice in Wonderland, the curly locks of Little Orphan Annie, the polka dot dress of Minnie Mouse, and the ruby slippers of Dorothy. She was a shocking package that had neither sense nor subtlety.



"Something stinks!" she bellowed, waving a daintily gloved hand in front of her wrinkled nose.

"Yes, something does stink; I can smell it from across the room," my friend, Rye, whispered into my ears.

I consciously caught a whiff of my own armpit, in case it was me - I was soaked in sweat from dancing to DJ Angus's trademark brassy vocal house. It wasn't me, I thought, relieved. At least I remembered to apply some deodorant.

Three feet away from the till, another punk writhed and gyrated on the floor as though awaiting bukkake. He was ghostly pale, almost like an albino, with sad, puppy dog eyes. I instinctively wished to collect him off the floor, but his sinewy legs encased in purple snakeskin trousers warned onlookers to merely "Watch, Don't Touch."



I rubbed my eyes to clear some cloudiness. I must have had too much alcohol on the junk earlier. I took a sip of my pinot grigio. When I looked up mere seconds later, even Rye had taken his shirt off.



The punks jumped on tables, on the bar counter, on people, on each other... There were fingers and lips and tongues. I thought that HK's prissy party folk would at least get a little intimidated. But the punks were treated like pets, almost, albeit with some caution.

And then she arrived - The Rabbit.



Her slick, womanly perspiration elicited even more brazen behaviour. It wasn't enough to just look any more. One had to touch.

Tivo's quaintly named "Sunday Tea Dance" had become a throbbing mound of hot flesh and bare teeth and intoxicating animal redolence.

I wordlessly wriggled away as the room started to spin faster and faster.

I had to get out.

It was midnight.



With Affection,
Astron

Hello, Friends!


There could not have been shittier conditions for a junk trip. The sky was pissing.

I thought that the boat would leave late, for sure, because the boys wouldn't be caught dead wet before a boat trip.

Big mistake.

"I'm trying to stop the boat from leaving," Chris hollered into his mobile phone at exactly 11AM.

"On Queen's Road now," I hollered back above the din of fat raindrops on the cab's roof. "Five minutes!"

"Let's hurry, please," I urged the driver.

He dropped me off at Pier 9, after which I had to sprint a short distance to the platform. Soaked from head to toe, I finally boarded the boat.

"I see nipples approaching; James is coming," Victor announced whilst passing around all manners of toxic fruit. There were fat lychees drowning in a pool of vodka, a succulent watermelon stabbed with a bottle of Absolut 100, mango and berry Jell-O shots... The boys greedily skewered the lychees on long sticks, after which the vodka marinade was wisely poured into pitchers to use as alcohol base later on. Waste not, want not.

I collapsed in a heaving pile beside Chris.

"Those lychees are lethal," he remarked.

"Hm," I agreed, my eyes rolling to the back of my head.

"Three of those and you're drunk."

"I've had three," I admitted.

"Oh, dear."

We had only just begun.


***


I was expecting testosterone overdrive on the boat, but half the boys were still obviously recovering from Jason Lai's debauched birthday party at Volume the night before. The rain helped, too, in keeping people's energies within manageable levels. Most of us congregated to chat on the main deck whilst the boat powered onwards to Clearwater Bay.

Alcohol helped speed matters along. Everybody seemed to have met everybody else within the first 15 minutes - no mean feat when 31 beautiful men are involved. The natural instinct otherwise would have been to target one's crush and establish ownership within the first half hour. Then, you'd practically need pry bars to wrench the pairs apart.

The rain stopped along the way. A hint of indigo clawed through the grays. A brush of blue skies teased further down the horizon. We were hopeful that the weather would only get better.

When we finally reached the spot where we'd drop anchor, the boys needed no further prodding to jump into the water.

Within ten minutes, rain fell once more.


***


Even as the boat's speakers had to be wrapped in cellophane to protect against the rain, Eugene's reliable iPod pumped hit after hit.

Cellophane was, at least, peeled off the tinfoil trays. Lunch was served - whole wheat sandwiches with grilled eggplant and zucchini, orange chicken, salads, barbecued meats, Doritos, and nuts galore.

The boys descended on the spread like hungry vultures, which led me wondering: Where do all the food go? Do these boys have hollow legs? They were all wearing the skimpiest of swimsuits, too.

The chicken was first to disappear.

We were clearly a boat of carnivores.


***


Except for a couple of situations involving allegedly involuntary erectile manifestation, the boys were surprisingly well behaved.

And except for a few valiant souls who maneuvered the choppy waters in between intermittent rain showers, most were quite content to be lulled into an alcoholic stupor.

By 2PM, our collective struggle to cull more alcohol was becoming increasingly belaboured. The boys had almost depleted the contents of five enormous Coleman chillers. We were a quivering mass of alcoholics, battling to uncork wine bottles with whatever impaired motor skills we had left.

Miraculously, two more pitchers filled with the alcoholic marinade we salvaged earlier on re-appeared. Michael and his mini-me, Rob, proceeded to ration the thirsty masses. Calls of "Last alcohol on the boat!" only served to fuel the hysteria.

Later, it was becoming apparent that alcohol was marinating nothing less than our brains. Boys were belly-sliding across the upper deck, whilst Banedikt simultaneously poured vodka and coke into the mouths of other boys who were spread-eagled on the floor.

"Don't waste the alcohol!" someone wailed.

"I thought I wasn't going to driiink..." Noel bleated like a sheep as he passed around his stash of Chupa Chups. Excited hands quickly emptied the candy bowl of its contents until afterward, all you could hear were the contented sighs of boys hungrily sucking on sweets.


***


"Is it time?" I asked Jewell.

He nodded.

"Group photo!" I yelled.

"Everyone on the other side of the boat!" Jewell herded. Some boys were so inebriated, they practically needed to be scooped up.

"Can't we just take a picture from this side?" a reedy voice whined.

Our token straight boy, Nick, graciously offered to take the class photo for Michael Murphy's Summer 2009 Junk Trip.


CLICK!

In the end, everyone had a good time despite the rain.

Gay boys evidently didn't receive the memo when kids were taught, "If life deals you lemons, make lemonade."

Never mind.

Who wants to make lemonade, anyway, when you can use the lemon for vodka tonics, instead?



With Affection,
Astron


Thank you, Michael.

Hello, Friends!

I'm not a martyr. I know full well why I keep going back to the gym despite the multiple agonies that I have to endure. And contrary to popular opinion, it has nothing to do with swimsuit season.


10 Things I Like About My Gym


1. The Hot Plate

Admit it: You like things that vibrate.


2. The Magazines

Tatler, Prestige, Men's Fitness, Sports Illustrated.

It's almost like being in my favourite beauty salon. Every day!


3. The Computers

Sexy Macs, no less.

Updating your Facebook status in between sets instantly nukes muscle fatigue.


4. The Music

OK, so it's occasionally brilliant. The other day, some genius's iPod was docked onto the sound system: "Love Fool" by the Cardigans! "Breathless" by the Corrs! "Fantasy" by Mariah Carey!

I was in workout ecstasy.


5. The Receptionists

The ladies at my gym deserve medals for keeping their smiles on at all times.


6. Workout Uniforms

Including socks!

The uniform helps create a more neutral workout environment, making it easier for me to focus on myself rather than on muscle envy.


7. The Lunkheads

You know the type - they like to check out their hair, they like to flex their muscles in front of the mirror, they like to make bets with other guys that they can do more reps or lift heavier.

That's entertainment!


8. Record Sheets

Unlike progress in human relationships or even in our careers, which tend to look nebulous and frustrating at times, achievement in the gym is so easily measured.

No guessing games.


9. The Steam Room

...and the fact that I'm the only one who can seem to take the extreme temperature. Everybody else jumps out the door as soon as the steam scalds their delicate, exfoliated skins.

Ah, bliss.


10. Free Razors

No more excuse to look grungy and ungroomed where it matters most.



With Affection,
Astron

Hello, Friends!


Hip Hong Kong, every stylista's bible to this beloved city which we all love to complain about, now lists your favourite blog - Astron's Notebook, what else - on it's blog roll! And not only that, we're listed right below America's Next Top Model wild child Elyse Sewell!



There are 20+ blogs listed that inform and entertain about what has been, what is, and what else there's to be.

We're tickled PINK!

Lots of love to Liza Monica, Hip Hong Kong's fabulous doyenne.


With Affection,
Astron

Hello, Friends!

I heard my phone ringing in the locker just as I was coming out of the steam room. It was Rye, checking with me when I'd like to have my casserole of kare-kare delivered.

"Are you hungry?"

"No," I said, feeling disgruntled rumbles within. Damn protein shake made me feel bloated and dizzy; I felt the muddy brew sloshing around my tummy. "But let's meet up, any way. Give me a call when you're ready. Let me know where you'd like to meet."


10 MORE Things I Hate About The Gym


1. Arrogant fitness trainers

"Sorry, mate. We're doing a circuit. We're gonna need that bench in a while."

Just because you're doing a PT session doesn't mean you have sole rights to the facilities, asshole. Haven't you heard of "share and share alike"?


2. Fitness trainers with stick-thin legs

I do accord some understanding and consideration to pushy fitness trainers who keep trying to sell PT sessions. After all, it's their living.

But for heaven's sake, lads, how am I supposed to believe that you can help me achieve my targets if I see that you, yourselves, are only concerned with "T-shirt muscle"?

Work those legs out and be a paragon of fun, well-rounded fitness professionals!


3. MORE mean girls

In between my bench press sets, I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder.

"Mind if we alternate?"

"Not at all. Please," I gestured towards the bench.

She then proceeded to take my plates off and loaded thrice what I was doing.

In another corner, a grandma with leathery, orange skin was doing squats that was equal to my body weight - 150lbs.

Chapeau, sisters. This is my insecure self speaking.


4. The lunch rush

Who knew? I certainly didn't. The gym gets extremely crowded from 12NN-2PM with office workers. At 2PM, the place empties up considerably until about 4:30PM, when the tai tais come in after lunching at Harvey Nicks.

I suppose I wouldn't have minded as much if I didn't recognize many of the faces - they were group class instructors and fitness trainers who were obviously catching up with sets in between their appointments.

HELLO.

Please don't compete with members when the club is at its busiest.


5. Sweaty machines

Far be it for me to castigate those with overactive sweat glands. I perspire a lot, myself. But at least I make sure that I clear my area when I finish. That includes wiping down the equipment.

There's a reason why alcohol pads are available throughout the gym.

USE THEM.


6. Skinny Chinese boys

It's not fair.


7. Fruit hoarders

There was this woman who swiped four apples from the fruit bowl and slipped them into her jelly bag.

Has the continuing downward spiral of the economy left us with no shame?


8. Dirty toilets

Again, a health club needs more than just one locker room attendant. The old uncle with his back bent from carrying heavy sacks of wet towels needs help.

HELLO.


9. Overpriced products

I don't understand why my club charges 100% more than what I pay for protein shake and creatine in Jordan or Causeway Bay.

Oh, and by the way, $60 for a sandwich and juice combo is too much. In case you haven't noticed, the economy is in a downturn.

Please respond accordingly.


10. MORE mean gays

There were these two, infatuated lovebirds gossiping like schoolgirls and making lovey-dovey eyes whilst on the elliptical machine. They were appropriately attired in shorts that were each a size smaller than they needed to wear. Afterwards, they did their weight training in tandem with discomforting displays of affection.

Chaps, can we save this sort of games for the bedroom?

And since I'm on a roll, PLEASE DON'T CHECK YOUR GAYDAR ACCOUNT IN THE GYM's COMPUTERS!!!


With Affection,
Astron

Hello, Friends!


I was only supposed to open my Facebook Inbox to retrieve my friend Michael's HSBC account number. Imagine my surprise when, upon opening my web browser, it screamed of the death of another Michael.

I have always loved Michael Jackson. He was iconic, and I could certainly relate to the mass hysteria that surrounded his appearances back in the day, at the peak of his fame - the monuments, the weeping multitude, the fainting spells...

My fondest memory of Michael Jackson was watching two separate year-end countdowns which both had the erstwhile King of Pop at the top of their respective charts- "Scream" on MTV and "You Are Not Alone" on Channel [V]. That was 1995.

A decade later, in 2005, in the studio where the monthly finals of ABS-CBN's popular "Star in a Million" program was being taped, the finalists were challenged to impersonate a pop icon. Names were pulled out of a hat. Jennifer Bautista did J.Lo, Eman Omaga did Craig David, and I - always the underdog - kitted myself in a 'fro and bell bottoms, got the bubble blowers going, and belted Michael Jackson's 1972 hit, "Ben."

I lost.

Just two weeks later, I auditioned for Hong Kong Disneyland's opening team, together with some other starlets who didn't quite make it big on Philippine TV.

So perhaps I - in my Jackson Five threads - was too camp for mainstream entertainment. Thank goodness one can never be camp enough for a theme park. And thank goodness camp happens to be an element of HK's glittering nightlife. My wigs, hats, boas and sequins have had their fair amount of (in)decent exposure.

Neverland?

I'm still in Hong Kong.

I've found myself in Home-Kong.

And it's all because of Michael.




With Affection,
Astron


In Memoriam, Michael Jackson, 1958-2009

Hello, Friends!


If you're like me, chances are you're banging your head against the wall for not hitting the gym in time for swimsuit season.

"It should take your body only six weeks before it starts responding to a workout routine," Chris encouraged. Thank goodness I live with a gym nut who believes in positive reinforcement. "Have a good workout!" he bade me by way of goodbye on his way to work this morning.

Truth is, I'd be working out more if working out were, indeed, more pleasant. But until I have the resources to build a gym just the way I want it to be, I'd have to grin and bear the number of discomforts that exist in the sundry fitness chains that litter our city.

What choice does an adobo-loving Filipino boy really have, since Facebook gets flooded with junk trip photos?


10 Things I Hate About the Gym


1. Corny Club Anthems

It's unmistakable from the moment you walk in. The songs probably remind you of a club that has since closed, outfits that now make you cringe, a bad hook up experience, a dance floor catastrophe when you were younger and more reckless, or all of the above.

With the advent of iTunes and affordable systems that get the adrenaline going with suave 3D sound, there's simply no excuse for these tinny, squeaky "hits" that blare through the speakers!

Haven't fitness professionals ever heard of the proverbial Wall of Sound?


2. Wet Locker Room Floor

Disgusting.

For what we pay every month, we deserve hygienic locker room conditions - nothing less, no excuses.


3. News

Should we trust the media to be circumspect and to report with intelligence when they show images of people as they bleed to death? Where is the deference? The respect? It seems that newsworthiness these days is measured by the ability to shock, more than anything.

Deplorable.

I'd rather watch something funny when I'm on the cardio machine to take my mind off the fact that my calves are fucking burning from the exertion!


4. Distraction

The training room telly will always be showing a parade of semi-naked alpha-human beings. Yesterday, it was tuned in to a male platform diving tourney. The species in question were wearing criminally tight swimwear of course and had 0% body fat.

My mouth hung open as a perfectly coiled male form cannonballed through the air, then straightened out to slice into the water with nary a splash.

"Delicious," Manuel sighed, licking his lips.

"Hmm," I agreed, my bench press set utterly forgotten.


5. Lights

Soft - even stylish - because you're meant to look good whilst working out. But blindingly bright in the locker room to make you look doughy and pasty the rest of the time.

It's a conspiracy.


6. Gym Face / Gym Shouts

Veins popping on one's head makes me nervous - veiny eyeballs, even more so.

And while we're at it, why can't we keep the shouting down to a minimum? Do people in Tin Shui Wai really need to hear how many reps we've got left?

Last three! Argh! Two more!! Aaarrgh!! LAAAST!!! BLAAARRRGH!!!


7. Mean Girls

You've seen them - the dehydrated, over-exercised, super-tanned types who can pulverize nancy boys in a heartbeat.

Am I supposed to be inspired - or scared - when the girl to my left has already done 1,000 crunches, and counting?


8. Mean Gays

They look like 80's porn stars - mustachioed Muscle Marys in super-skimpy shorts, who stare at my baby dumbbells with pursed lips and raised eyebrows.

Come on, ladies. Be nice. We all start from somewhere.


9. Mean Grandpas

When a septuagenarian can do bigger arm curls than you, move on.


10. The Smell

"It's the same smell as the sports hall at school," my British doppelganger, James, succinctly described. "Brings back memories."



Summertime, and the living ain't easy.



With Affection,
Astron

Hello, Friends!


I've got one foot on a cloud and another on a banana peel.

Just as I feel the cloud lifting up, taking off and laying me down a magic carpet ride, my other foot lands squarely down, sending me to a slippery crash against the proverbial brick wall.

A number of frustrating events in the last week have made me doubt if I was as good as I thought I was - whether or not I've done everything I could. I haven't always arrived at favourable conclusions.

"A bitter pill to swallow," I messaged Rye.

"I'll save this message to show you again when we reach 70 years old," he messaged back. "Then we'll know how we've survived."

I'm not so unique in my bouts with low self esteem as to wax tragic about it any differently. But I found myself trapped in a bleak, black hole that didn't come with a lifeline of redemption.

I had officially entered a Great Depression.

"You look good," Trish observed.

"Moisturizer," I confessed. "I haven't been sleeping well."


***


"Why do I always put myself in situations where I constantly need to prove myself?" I asked Chris. He chuckled gently. He understood that the question was rhetorical. After patiently listening to me for half an hour, we said our goodbyes and goodnights. "I'll call again tomorrow," he promised.

He was in Kunming for work.


***


"I don't need alcohol; I'm high on life!" Anjali breathed. She was this exquisite model cum hostess from Mumbai who's in Hong Kong on a shopping spree. "Gucci's on sale," she exhaled. I could feel her ecstasy.

"High on life..." I mused, yielding to introspection as I watched Anjali grab a soda.

We were in Isobar for an impromptu birthday celebration for Anita.

"James, this is Andy, Colin, Arun... Introduce yourselves!" Anita admonished before running off to greet some new arrivals. "James, can you take a photo?"


***


"We've met before..." I ventured to the man on my left, a handsome Eurasian who wouldn't believe that I'm Filipino because "You don't look like my maid."

"We were introduced by Diane and Lorna in drop," I reminded him. "I never forget faces."

"Well then I'm sorry I've forgotten yours."

"No need to apologize."

"I'm not really sorry. It just seemed like a nice thing to say."

"You don't have to play nice."

"No. But it's not nice to be a bitch, either."

"It's okay; bitches are people, too."


***


Whilst Bushy and I surveyed the heaving multitude on the dance floor, I felt relieved that I've had my my swine flu vaccination weeks ago. A global pandemic simply isn't enough reason for gay boys to hold back on partying.

"Whatever happens, don't sleep with ugly people," I cautioned my newly single friend. "Whomever you sleep with is a reflection of how you feel about yourself."

There was no reason for me to think that I was qualified to dispense advice; I wasn't exactly a paragon of reason, either, when I allowed Rye to drag me to Zoo on a bear night.

Some semblance of reason seemed to finally take shape when I met B1 & B2, a bear couple. They were fun and funny, they kept paying for drinks, and they showered me with compliments. I shamelessly took it all in. The pile up of awful incidents in the past week left me feeling entitled to some affirmation, no matter how superficial.

What happened next turned out to be one more banana peel skid to punctuate an exhausting week of banana peel "Splats!"

Instead of driving to another bar where we're supposed to have one more drink, B1 & B2 took me to their place. Suffice it to say that their intention wasn't more conversation, and that they didn't take kindly to a polite "No."

"What's the matter?" B1 asked, annoyed, as I hurriedly put my shoes back on. I got into the lift. As the doors were closing, B2 cried out, "Isn't our apartment fabulous enough for you?"


***


I was shaking with anger and disappointment at my own naivete.

I needed a calming presence, a comforting voice.

But at 4AM, there was nobody to call. Except one.

I dialed McDonald's delivery.

I kept the phone operator on the line for as long as I could.

I woke up at 9:30AM with a pile of McTrash still on the table, untouched.



I've carted away the rubbish. I'm keeping my fingers crossed that there aren't any more banana peels lying about.


Tomorrow awaits.




With Affection,
Astron

Hello, Friends!


Eat shit.

That's exactly what happens in the movie, Salò or the 120 Days of Sodom.

I first heard about the movie in quite a civilized, little gathering hosted by my friend, Ted, in a dramatic space that mimicked a libertine's abode. The spacious Tin Hau flat was littered with exquisite, carefully curated antiques that have been amassed over decades.

I really shouldn't have had any further interest in seeing a movie which I've been warned contains a scene in which - pardon the alliteration - folks feast on feces. But then again, isn't it human nature to want to experience that which you have been warned against?

A month later, I finally got my hands on a DVD from Mong Kok.

Watching the movie made me wonder: Did Ted "collect" the night's guests - beautiful boys, each one - with the same selective refinement as the libertines in the movie collected their human playthings?

The movie is about four libertines (a bishop, a duke, a magistrate, and a president) in Fascist Italy who kidnap 18 of the most perfect boys and girls to serve their pleasure throughout a 120-day vacation in some secluded castle. It all seems like an erotic proposition in the beginning - hooray for free love! - until the first escapee is shot mercilessly, unceremoniously, without warning. Like game. It's all downhill from there, with our nubile boys and girls being subjected to all manners of humiliation and torture, ending in bloody deaths.

One indelible scene shows the duke defecating smack in the middle of the Great Hall whilst everybody watched enraptured. He then grabs one of the naked girls, hands her a spoon, and yells, "Mangia! Mangiaaa!!!! MANGIAAAAAA!!!!!"

The next scene is of a wedding banquet where domed serving plates are revealed to contain hot shit, which everyone must eat. The "bride" - a boy in a virginal wedding dress - and the "groom" - the bishop - proceed to partake, and then share a deep, chocolate-y kiss.


***


I really should have been more disturbed than I was. But in reality, the movie made me laugh, which probably exposes me as a Philistine. A little black duck, if you will.

I saw Salò as a parody. I could not stop thinking of exotic, inaccessible experiences as today's hallmark of exclusivity, of indulgence. We've become so jaded that we undermine genuine, day-to-day human interaction as mundane, opting instead to focus on urges that are becoming more and more difficult to satisfy. Or, we take the exact opposite tact: We're so comfortably ensconced in our daily routines that any sort of disturbance is magnified beyond its actual importance.

Take our Barnum & Bailey entertainment fare. Who cares about the simple pleasure of watching a talented singer sing beautifully any more? Our entertainment diet has to be seasoned with an element of the carnivalesque in order to make it even vaguely appetizing. It takes a frumpy, heavy-set, middle aged woman with a hint of a moustache singing "I Dreamed A Dream" for us to really sit up and take notice. Now, with more than 100 million combined You Tube hits on her performances, Susan Boyle needs no further introduction.

Oh what a circus, oh what a show.


***


Like a drug addict who's perpetually desperate for the next hit of meth, we compulsively feed our entertainment addiction with junk that pollutes our minds and bodies. We make fun of unattractive people in The Biggest Loser and we make fun of attractive people in America's Next Top Model. I'm probably the most laughable one of all, sitting for hours on end, pounding down burgers and fries, voyueristically participating in other people's lives via reality TV. Meanwhile, the rest of the world passes me by.


***


"I remember it now!" Doug cried triumphantly. "It's called Cake Farts!!!"

A collective groan was heard around the room. And yet, even as we all feigned disgust, everyone sat attentively whilst Doug told stories of beautiful girls flatulate on - what else - chocolate cakes.


***


Salò's ending is an ellipsis. In the courtyard, the libertines relish the bloody slaughter of their victims, horrific cries drowned by manic laughter. In the library, a transistor radio emits the gentle strains of a waltz. Two of the libertine's hired guns, both young men themselves, engage in a dignified dance whilst talking about their girlfriends.

To this day, Salò, Pier Paolo Pasolini's final opus and critically hailed as a cinematic masterpiece, is banned in most countries - including in progressive Australia.





With Affection,
Astron

Hello, Friends!


Tim brought me to his barber somewhere on a Samui back street. There was a deep puddle of rainwater that formed a moat on the street's soft shoulder. A large dog lay asleep on the doorway. The barber was enjoying his lunch.

"Bye!" Tim waved from his scooter.

Just as I was about to sit down on the shiny, red barber's chair, I realized that I didn't have my wallet with me.

"I'll be back!" I yelled. The barber nodded almost imperceptibly and kept on eating. The dog didn't budge.

The Samui sunshine was punishing. It was hard to imagine that only an hour ago, it was pouring. I sprinted back to the guest house.

"Forgot this," I told Chris sheepishly, waving my wallet after I retrieved it from my overnight bag.

"Hm," he acknowledged with a little smile before putting his nose back into one of the Aussie broadsheets that Tim stocked in abundance.

As I started the long trek back towards the barbershop, the musical cries of "Massage!" were interrupted by an even more inviting one, "Haircut!"

I turned my head sharply and a large, air conditioned salon beckoned.

"Haircut, handsome?" a slender, young lady offered.

"Yes," I sighed with relief.

She opened the door and a rush of cool air teased my overheated skin.

"Water," she passed me a covered plastic cup with a straw. "It's good for you."

"Thanks," I responded gratefully, emptying its contents with one, long sip. She offered me a worn but clean towel. It was orange.

"You can take your shirt off," she suggested, probably dreading having my sweaty threads sticking onto the furniture.

The salon's madame emerged from the back office just as I raised my t-shirt over my head. She gasped.

"Sorry," I said breezily. This was Samui; human flesh was on display like handbags in Hermes. I threw the towel like a cape over my shoulders and submitted myself to a Samui haircut.


***


"You're such a tart," I teased Ian. "Put your shirt back on!"

"I can't; Paul will slap me," he reasoned matter of factly.

Paul, Ian, Jeff and Daniel were a heaving cluster of shirtless humanity, their lean muscles made even more taut by hours non-stop dancing in Tivo's amber glow. It was a Sunday night.

I gave Ian a puzzled look. Was violence between friends in vogue?

"I slap him on Wednesdays and he slaps me on Sundays," Ian explained.

"Watch," Paul commanded, proceeding to slap Ian on the cheek.

"Ooof," I grimaced for Ian.

"Wait and see how sensitive his skin really is," Paul said, digging a fingernail into Ian's flank. There he etched "James" in script, which stood out in inflamed relief after just three seconds.

"Goodness," I marveled.

"Take your shirt off!" Ian barked at me .

"No; my skin is still peeling from Samui," I objected.

"Jaaaames!" a friend drawled, drawing me into a loose, social embrace at just the right moment. "Mwah, mwah. We thought you wouldn't make it tonight. We've all been waiting for you."

"Yeah right, mwah, mwah," I reciprocated. "As if the party wouldn't take off without me."

"It would have had, anyway" he conceded, "but how else do we get to hear about it on Facebook?"


***

"What's your name?" she asked.

"James," I replied. "And you?"

"Phan. You look like a Thai boy," Phan remarked warmly as she enthusiastically snipped scarily straight sections off of my hair with sharp, skinny shears. "Black hair. handsome boy."

I've come to grips with my nebulous features. My facial muscles inadvertently settle into an inscrutable mask when in Hong Kong and into an inviting openness when in Manila. I manage to look like a local everywhere, Thailand included. But at that particular moment in Samui, I was as tense as Cher on Botox.

"Uhrm," I grunted. I didn't want to offend Phan by asking her to use thinning scissors, instead. Perhaps she had her own way of doing things; perhaps my hair will come out fine.

And then she whipped out an ancient clipper which roared to life after she attached a #1 blade.

"#2!" I yelped. "Please."

Phan applied the clipper on me like a lawnmower to grass.

Beside me, the madame worked the knots out of her curly tresses, lined her eyes with kohl, and painted her lips a bright red.

I welcomed the distraction from what has happening to my own hair.


***


"Do you want shampoo?" Phan asked.

Cheeky minx, I thought under my breath. I had bristly hair stuck onto my face, neck and exposed torso.

"Please," I replied.

I dreaded having to explain to my Sheung Wan stylist, Man, what had happened in Samui.

Chris figured out in the end that I paid Phan more than I would have paid for a haircut in Hong Kong.


***


"I think you're gorgeous, James," Phil purred while regarding me at arm's length. "But maybe I'm hallucinating. Hahaha!" he bellowed heartily.

Outside, Paul and Ian were using a lamp post as a dancing pole.

"Get back in here!" I yelled. "Don't catch a cold!" My cries fell on deaf ears, of course.

Formaggi and pancetta pizzas came out of the kitchen.

It was 1AM in Tivo, Monday morning. The boys weren't showing any signs of exhaustion. And neither was DJ Angus who, even after having taken his final bow, succumbed to clamours of "More! More!"


When you are ready, I will surrender
Take me and do as you will
Have what you want, your way's always the best way
I have succumbed to this passive sensation
Peacefully falling away

Bring it back
Sing it back
Bring it back
Sing it back to me...



It was the fuzzy, hazy, blurry start of a new week.


With Affection,
Astron




Time is the moving image of an unmoving eternity
-Plato

Hello, Friends!


"What?" I reacted in puzzlement. "I've never heard that one before."

"It means," Uncle Roger explained, "that a little bit of friction is good. A 'perfect' relationship is boring. If you 'throw some sand into the clockwork,' the gears are made aware of each other."

I hurriedly asked Hawk for a pen and a piece of paper.

"Oooh, he's writing it down," Ted needled.

"Ink it when you think it," Uncle Roger piped, winking at me.,

"I love you," Kristian breathed against Ted on the couch.

"You guys," I groaned. "I heard that!"

Someone from the corner of the room yelled, "Why don't you write this down: Barry Manilow is gay!"


***


Friday night at Hawk and Guy's, a 500 square foot space in a SoHo walk-up, began with chips, cheeses and green curry pocket pies.

"What do you want to drink?" Guy asked.

Uncle Roger, Mama Tony and myself had actually just been to a vernissage at M1NT, sipping perfectly chilled Perrier-Jouet, when the gallery owner announced that, in fact, it was a vernissage to his gallery's closing sale. The announcement left me so stunned and feeling inept; I couldn't say anything to commiserate, for fear of appearing patronizing.

There was only one solution:

Drink some more.

"What do you have?" I croaked.

Guy swept a hand across his collection of spirits. My eyes immediately settled on a familiar, squat bottle.

"Bailey's!" I practically squealed, remembering simpler days when drinking Bailey's, Kahlua and Tequila Rose was enough to make me feel naughty.

Guy poured me a generous portion, which I promptly spilled in my tiddly state.


***


"Archenhaud! Theodosia!" I gestured dramatically into the smoky air. "Your kids have such impressive names!"

"Hmm," Carol considered, squinting at me from underneath her stylish spectacles. "'James' has an immediate structure. It gives you presence and space. It's up to you to fill it."

"I knew there was a reason we met tonight," I beamed.

"And what do you do, James?"

"I run a boutique. And you?"

"What do you think I do?"

"You're a tai tai."

Carol left in a huff.

"Wait," I protested, grabbing her arm. "Let's finish the conversation! What do you do?"

Carol crossed her arms against her chest. "I am a tai tai."


***


"You're moving up in the world," Johannes sagely intoned while we were watching a prepubescent Korean schoolgirl bludgeon an entire battalion of demons. We were in Palace APM for the gala premiere of "Blood: The Last Vampire."

"Yes..." I considered. "I was a Disney starlet before. And then I became a waiter. Now, I'm a salesman."


***


While I was laying down the showcase display in my boutique one morning, I heard giggling.

"What's up?" I chirped, directing my attention to two of my female sales associates.

Rainbow, the older one, explained, "Tiffany said you look like a waiter!"

More giggling.


***


"I'm just a starlet, still," I justified my howling along to Evelyn Thomas's "High Energy."

"Yes," Guy agreed. "Except now, you've got your own back-up dancers."


***


I suppose I should "throw some sand into the clockwork" and take a more cynical look at my personal relationship with Life, which has thus far been a string of luck, happiness, and fortuitous coincidences.

OK, how about this:

How is it that someone with 1,435 "friends" on Facebook couldn't find a single soul to have dinner with last Saturday?

The thought stunned me and instantly threw me into drama queen mode. Whilst watching a family sing "The Sound of Music" on "America's Got Talent," I spontaneously bawled.

So last night, I took home a smiling fish, had it for dinner, and wiped off all traces of Uncle Roger's proverbial sand.





Is it so bad to see the world through rose coloured lenses?

The gears are again running smoothly, thank goodness.




With Affection,
Astron

Hello, Friends!



***Lights***

"Listen. This is an important luxury brand. It's the presenter of the Cannes filmfest, for crying out loud. The boutique I'll be running will be in The Peninsula on Salisbury..."

"...as opposed to The Peninsula on Mody?"

"Why are you so mean to me?!"

"What are you talking about?"

"I never assume that everyone knows which 'Peninsula' I'm referring to, even though it's ranked #23 in the world by Conde Nast. My boutique is in prime real estate, with a seven-figure monthly rent. What in the world made me think I could do this?"

Beat.

"...are you done congratulating yourself?"

"Shut up!" I swatted my friend, Oren.

"You're cocky, and it's part of your charm."

"I wasn't being cocky," I retorted.

Beat.

"Well..." I reconsidered. "Maybe a little bit."


***


I remember entering Hong Kong Disneyland for the first time in July 2005. The palm trees, spindly and with limp fronds, were supported by cables. The sheer magnitude of construction was breathtaking. Forklifts everywhere. Mountains of clay, sand, gravel. Security checks at every turn. It was difficult to imagine that less than two months later, the property was slated for a soft opening. And yet, there it was, the welcome arch:

Welcome to Hong Kong Disneyland.

The moment the bus drove through the roundabout, my heart skipped a beat.


***


As it turned out, there's an entire brand of gay boy known as the "Disney twink."

"What's your type?"

"Oh, I like bears."

"I like jocks!"

"I like muscular bottoms."

"I like Disney twinks."

You get the picture.

The more I resisted the stereotype, the more I exemplified it. Two and a half years later, I was over it. Nay, I was over myself.

"I'm looking for an assistant," a bespectacled nightspot manager mused at a cocktail.

I admired his thinly veiled swagger that the club was doing brisk business under his leadership; don't we all love to "complain" about how busy and stressed we are?

"As it happens," I chimed, "I'm looking for a job."


***


After passing two lengthy interviews, my final interview was scheduled at 11AM.

It was a rainy Wednesday morning. By 10AM, I was gulping a hot cuppa at Pacific Coffee on Wellington. My computer was on. I was brushing up on bar tending! Service sequence! Food and wine pairing!

I was a jittery mess. Sure, I've been performing since I was eight; Entertainment was my beat. But I had zero hours of F&B experience.

By 10:30AM, I helplessly ducked into a 7-11 on D'Aguilar, reaching for a cold Carlsberg. I downed it all in one gulp.

As I waited for time to pass in front of Hong Kong Brew House, I realized that my breath probably stank of alcohol. So I returned to 7-11 for a pack of mints.

11AM came. Even though I wasn't any more ready than I was before, I took the lift to the second floor.

An hour later, I walked out of FINDS as its new Assistant Manager.


***


Learning to walk with a tray full of martini glasses was akin to stage combat, only more difficult. There's a technique to F&B, sure, but there's no choreography. Triangulating FINDS was like guerilla warfare. You're in the trenches, and it's every man for himself. You're bombarded with orders! Broken glasses! Complaints! There's no point hiding - turn every obstacle into a creative gambit! So what if you lose? If you don't play, you don't win. Why would you want to miss the fun?

It was exhilarating.

There's no better place in the world to learn than Lan Kwai Fong, I figured. You've hardly even learned to walk when the training wheels are kicked from under you. Now, fly!


***


Like the fabled northern lights, my every weekend at FINDS was bright, hot, sizzling. Svedka! Escada! Beer Bellini! Pink Sundays! After FINDS' celebrity drenched fourth anniversary party, my celestial luminosity, so to speak, had fizzled into a sputtering end.

I bid a quiet goodbye to my Managing Director over breakfast in Cafe O whilst I remotely coordinated the ingress of The Golden Oasis. The 1,000kg opus in bronze by Lillian Tsui was to have its maiden private viewing in FINDS.

A month later, after my final Pink Sunday, I wordlessly slipped away.


***


Working in The Grand Hyatt was a revealing journey through the subtlety, intricacy and complexity of corporate culture - indeed, of human relationships.

"I am not so idealistic any more," I confessed to Oren whilst we tucked into some tasty yakitori. We had a laugh recalling my days as Disney's de facto union leader. I wrote passionate letters to management, which accomplished... nothing. Apparently, my e-mails were circulated; I got a reputation as a rabble rouser, which only isolated me further.

"It doesn't matter that you're right if you don't know how to get things done," Oren intoned half seriously.

We took a swig of Asahi.



***


After a year of fun and frolic at Club JJ's, I accepted an invitation to move on, and to move in.

I had a lot of affection for the place, my unbelievably hardworking colleagues, and even the unnamed "apples" who clip-clop ever so lightly across the marble foyer.

I didn't want a tearful goodbye.

"Why don't you throw a Spice Girls party?" Cliff suggested over pizza at Tivo. It was Sunday night.

On Tuesday morning, after the press release had gone out, Cliff messaged me on Facebook:

"Wow. You really went for it."


***


It's May 2009.

In a dizzying cloud of feathers, sequins and - strangely enough - chilli peppers, I bid a spicy goodbye to Club JJ's.

"What happened?" I groggily croaked the next morning.

"We had a hotdog. We were supposed to go to Propaganda, but you were falling over. So we went home," Chris deadpanned. I was sure he was making fun of me. I practically crawled towards the medicine cabinet for a Panadol.

My phone beeped with an SMS from Tony. "What a wonderful night. When will we have so much fun again? Tell me quando, quando, quando?"

I hurriedly put on my suit for an 11AM training on visual merchandising.


***


"You're cocky, and it's part of your charm."

"I wasn't being cocky," I retorted.

Beat.

"Well..." I reconsidered. "Maybe a little bit."

Beat.

"I'm nervous," I admitted. "And excited."






***Scene***



With Affection,
Astron

Hello, Friends!



Kate vs. Suri vs. Jen
(Composite courtesy of http://www.eonline.com)

Since I'm a big sucker for Who Wore It Better? celebrity face-offs, I've attempted to make a productive day out of a lazy one by creating my inaugural edition of Who Sang It Better? web 2.0 face offs!

***

Round 1: Come In Out of the Rain
Regine Velasquez vs. Wendy Moten

Regine Velasquez, monickered Asia's Songbird, can sing her face off. It's a fact. After she did an acoustic rendition of this little known song, it promptly became a hit. Histrionic belters like Sheryn Regis, Jonalyn Viray and Charice Pempengco dished out their own versions on Philippine television, squeezing every, single, last bit of breath out of the song.

From karaoke joints on every street corner to church gatherings and product launches, there was no escape. The song was ubiquitous.

And so I wondered: Where did the song come from, originally?



I had my answer.

Watching the video, I also found out why the original version never became a big hit:

Wendy Moten lacked the beauty of Whitney Houston, the fortitude of Celine Dion, the presence of Mariah Carey, and the expressiveness of Jennifer Hudson. To top it all off, her constant efforts to cajole the crowd into being engaged spoke about an enormous insecurity. It was annoying, a pain to watch.

However, trust the Japanese to identify a premium product when they experience one. In 1992, "Come In Out of the Rain" climbed to #1 in the Japanese Singles Chart.



Regine Velasquez's version stripped back the dated honky-tonk tracking of what was essentially a 90's power ballad. Accompanied only by a piano, Regine's soaring vocals revealed the song's breathtaking melody. Regine's opening riffs ventured solidly, then built up into a vocally unassailable middle section, and culminated into an absolutely dazzling end. Fireworks! Her sheer dexterity and athleticism - Enviable.

It's an easy win for the popular version from the bad biatch from Asia!

***

Round 2: Billie Jean
Chris Cornell vs. David Cooke

David Cook, erstwhile winner of American Idol, was universally praised for his gutsy take on this wildly popular Michael Jackson hit. If Idol producers were to be believed, David Cook had become the next best thing since sliced bread.

Not so.

I smelt something fishy in the state of California. Cook sheepishly mumbled in the next episode that he got lucky when he found a dope cover of the song, which was the version that he did on the show.

So I did a little research.



Chris Cornell's sweat drenched, angst ridden, and gritty turn contained the requisite rawness to validate his alt-rock slash indie cred. His intensity could be rivaled only by Ted Neeley's "Gethsemane" in the original Jesus Christ Superstar movie. The hairs on the back of my neck stood on their ends.



On the other hand, David Cook had a liquid delivery that evoked a mercurial coolness. It was polished, elevated by an opiate of smokes and mirrors. It was classic Idol, from start to finish.

This was a tougher fight to call, considering Cook's powerhouse vocals. But in the end, Chris Cornell's was a more visceral performance, as opposed to just a "show." It's still a convincing win for Cornell's obscure rendition.

***

Round 3: Toxic
Britney Spears vs. John Kappas



Britney delivers the goods. "Toxic" is as racy and speedy as it should be, equal parts acid trip and a descent into the proverbial rabbit hole. It's Britney at her best. Ever.

That's why I was quite frankly shocked that anyone should assume to cover "Toxic," considering that it's virtually atonal. Hello, it was written specifically for Britney, WHO CAN'T SING. Why bother?

Nevertheless, here's a sensitive young man with a heartfelt performance - cooking pans in the background notwithstanding.



While John Kappas' version, against all odds, is surprisingly triumphant, Britney still hasn't quite reached the level of Cher. Meaning, it's still Britney who does Britney best.

Popular Wins.

***

Round 4: Disturbia
Rihanna vs. Alejandro Manzano

Why do contemporary club anthems, such as "Toxic" and "Disturbia," always seem to involve someone going nuts? It just might be from the brain getting drained of blood because it all goes rushing down to the mouth - too much pouting, y'know.



OK, RiRi is fierce, but her animalism seems mildly mannered. Practised.

Most disconcerting of all, she looks strangely disconnected to the song. Uninvolved. Uncaring. It's all so... flyweight! Hell, she doesn't even sing that sticky hook we all love so much. All together, now: "Dum dum dee-dum, dum dum dee-dum-dum..."


Alejandro Manzano

Here, we have another (cough) sensitive young man who is deeply in touch with his feelings. His vocals are solid, his plucking is top notch, and he sells the number like rent is due TODAY. Such emotional depth! And may I perhaps direct everyone's attention towards his scrumptious arms?

Obscure wins!!

***

Round 5: The Knockout



Just a pair of cuddly, egregiously funny, prepubescent British lads with wicked music skills and unerring comic timing.

Don't they just wanna make you rush into the nearest Tom Lee to buy a ukelele, perhaps a double bass, for your naughty, freaky cousins?

Last I checked, the page had less than 200 views.

It's a 2-3 knockout victory for the obscure!

***


It's immaterial because I don't think any of these girls care for obscurity or popularity, any which way. But young Suri Cruise wins over Kate Hudson and Jennifer Garner any old day, any way.

'Til next sing off!




With Affection,
Astron



Disclaimer: Although I have attempted to present only live performance recordings of the songs in order to create a (more or less) level playing field, Miss Britney's "Toxic" looks suspiciously lip synched. Astron's Notebook takes no responsibility for the claim that her performance - including her singing - were recorded live.

Hello, Friends!



I eagerly awaited the webcast of the Miss USA 2009 beauty pageant this morning. Alas, after 10 minutes of having the livestream freeze on me, I gave up and curled back into bed. A sensible decision, it turned out.

When I woke up, the internet missolocas (pageant fans, to the uninitiated) were screaming with equal measures of vitriol and ridicule. The object of their scorn:

The blond broad from The Golden State.

In the final Q&A round, the blogosphere's enfant terrible, Perez Hilton, asked Miss California if, in her opinion, other states should follow Vermont's lead in legalizing gay marriage. She answered by not answering the question. Instead, she expressed disagreement with gay marriage, period, because in her family, marriage is only between a man and a woman.


Say what?


Perez Hilton Reacts

Less than four hours after the pageant aired, my friend, Jimmy Steele from Canada (himself a pageant impresario, having trained many bitches how to walk properly), posted this lampoon from an Aussie gossip rag.


Damn those Ozzies, they're too quick.

When I first saw Miss California - THE ONE whom missolocas had crowned Miss USA as soon as she won her state pageant - I wasn't impressed. For one, I thought she looked like a cheaper version (if that's possible) of Jessica Simpson. For another, except for her "radioactively white teeth" (another rich term from a missoloca), she lacked sparkle. She looked very "produced," like just another Barbie doll from a long assembly line.

Turns out she's really much more "produced" than I originally thought her to be. After having seen a video of the incendiary Q&A segment, I now know she also lacks some gray matter. Her packaging should warn, "Boobs Only. Brains & Batteries Not Included."

I mean, how could you be so stupid?

If you don't believe in gay marriage, the pageant stage - which is founded on the skeletons of a million homosexuals - is NOT the place to say it!

What an ungrateful wench. If it weren't for homosexuals, it wouldn't be possible for a plain girl like her to be transformed into a pageant superstar. What, does she think hair becomes as perfect as it does without some fairy magic?

What makes me angriest is that she finished as first runner up. I look at her and I want to snarl in spite. With her giant, cardboard earrings and feathered "Arts 'N' Kraft" gown, RuPaul's Drag Racers would laugh her off the stage!

After I saw her final interview, I wanted to hurl my breakfast noodles at the screen. But I though, she's so not worth the energy.

What a pitiful creature.

Sheltered, ignorant, uninformed.

Silly, stupid, and cheap.

Jimmy reported later that a Pride Parade had spontaneously begun down the aisle of the Planet Hollywood Resort in Las Vegas, where the pageant was taking place.

I don't suppose it's appropriate to call internet-savvy gay men who love pageants as "fanboys." Anyway, these men are a passionate, crazy, fun-loving bunch who do believe in world peace. They spend an inordinate amount of time, money and effort to find, train and groom a girl who might next become Miss World or Miss Universe. These are gay men whose hearts beat fast for a beautiful woman on a pageant stage - probably the unique circumstance when a woman actually gets them excited. I should know; I've followed pageants for years. Me and my ilk would have leaped to Miss California's defense if she were only deemed to be a ditz: "I'm sure her intentions are good." We would have fought tooth and nail for her.

However, such is the reality that Miss California 2009 has managed to alienate even us, who represent the most avid and rabid fan base of the pageant industry. Talk about biting the hand that fed her; the Miss USA 2009 beauty pageant exposed Carrie Prejean for the single minded, covetous snake that she is.

Off with her head!



With Affection,
Astron

Hello, Friends!

I'm addicted to feeling good.

I like to eat, I like to sleep, I like to laugh.

I like exhilaration. I like having my breath taken away from me - whether from a surprising moment of pain, or through a jolt of pure pleasure.

I am pleasured by peculiar beauty. I am intrigued by audacious juxtapositions. I like dissonance.

I respect truth, but I am not enslaved by it. I am not engaged by purity or perfection. I am seduced by lies. Give me a smile and I am beguiled. Hold me a willing prisoner of The Art of the Possible.

I appreciate mystery - it keeps me involved. I lovingly embrace that I can never capture an experience in its entirety.

As a lover of words, I am exquisitely tortured by that which I can't say - and just as much by that which must be said. After all, all knowledge already exist but as flimsy filaments which may be grabbed, woven, and fashioned as one wishes. The tapestry you create is the one you see in your mind.

I like to fly. I like to let my thoughts run wild. I might look like a fool, every once in a while, but no matter. Better a fool than to forever be doomed to propriety.

I like to win, but to you, relinquishing control feels just as good.

I like losing control - that's how I find my limits.

I am addicted to the heady feeling of a free fall - It, then, frees me from all limits.

And even if every high has an attendant crash, loving you is one addiction I'm hopeless recovering from.

Not today.

Not tomorrow.

Perhaps, perhaps - even never at all.





With Affection,
Astron

Hello, Friends!


Last Sunday was unsettling.

I woke up with purple lips.

The first time it happened, my doctor determined that the oxygen saturation level in my body had dropped to a near-critical level. He pointed to my history of chronic bronchitis and asthma. However, neither were the culprit this time around.

"Anxiety," he mused aloud, brainstorming about other possible causes. "Are you anxious?"

I was caught unaware.

I replied, "Not really, no..."


***

I lied.

At Tivo that night, the conversation was stilted. The perfunctory greeting, "How are you?" was weighed down with a million other subtexts. Of course, the just-as-perfunctory response, "I'm great!" didn't really have that exact meaning anymore, either.

The place was busy.

As the night wore on, however, it became apparent that there wasn't much socializing going on. I, myself, felt listless as I circulated to say hello to familiar faces. Even more familiar were the gloomy whispers of recession, retrenchment and resignation. Still, people smiled through gritted teeth, with fingers grimly wrapped around the skinny stems of wine glasses.


Jiki & James

The mood was defiant, almost. The air was electric with ripples of uncertainty, but nothing seemed to crack the veneer of mannered enjoyment. Any tourist who passed by might have thought Hong Kong people to be profligate and vulgar, sipping cocktails whilst the rest of the world endured tough times.

I, myself, wondered: If, indeed, we were miserable, why were we all still hanging about? Why wont everybody just go home? Were we all so desperate to cling on to the good times? Has our infamously alcohol-fueled lives sucked us down a vortex of Hedonistic delusion?

The temptation to be glib - to obnoxiously grab the most obvious references (I'm talking to you, Chip Tsao) - was strong: Of course Hong Kong people will never give up partying.

However, I knew that we party hard because we work hard, as well. A 12-hour workday, six days a week, is common. That's why it's stunning when, without apparent reason, we find ourselves booted from a company to whom we've dedicated most of our waking hours and an unquestionable amount of energy.

Throughout the night, the air progressively thickened with frustration and self-doubt, bravely concealed beneath layers of unconvincing laughter.

"Didn't I contribute enough?" "After years of service, was my loyalty still in question?" "Why did I care so much for a company that, it turns out, could get rid of me so easily?" "Didn't anyone fight for me?" "WHO is 'The Company'???"

Still, people stayed.

At midnight, Tivo's fabulous manager, Phil, uncorked more bottles of champagne. Friends got rounds of drinks for each other. Jeff got the crowd going with his hip hop moves. DJ Angus cranked out hit after hit like dancing was going to go out of style in the morning. Tivo was about to close. The glass doors were pulled shut and the black curtains came down.

That's when an accident happened.

Euphoria.

Sure, we're black and blue from the merciless punches of a ruinous recession. Some have lost entire businesses. Some might lose their minds. Some have almost lost their spirit. But the transient nature of our existence in Hong Kong has led us to each other, to that night, to the love, support and validation of friends.

And that's wealth that's truly unquantifiable, even thru the bleakest of economic recessions.

"Have I still got it?" Angus asked me just as he was about to wrap his set up.

My breathing was short, but not from any oxygen saturation bullshit. The music was compelling, the company was irresistible, and I was dancing. I smiled warmly towards Angus. "You never lost it."



With Affection,
Astron

Hello, Friends!


(1) It rained. My sneakers were soaked and my hair was a mess.


(2) The night was off to a slow start, sluggish and boring.


(3) Australia won the women's final of the Hong Kong Rugby Sevens. The ladies came to my workplace to celebrate. They got the party started.


(4) A couple of men engaged in a fight, which I attempted to stop. I incurred a broken lip and a bruised hip. My refrain, of course, was: "This behaviour is unacceptable in a night club!"

In retrospect, the line is laughable.

OF COURSE people misbehave.

Otherwise, what's the point of being in a night club, in the first place?"

My injury was superficial, but the shock wasn't. Nobody had hit me before, intentional or otherwise.

I needed a moment to regain my breath.


(5) When, finally, I was doing last call on drinks, a lady noticed the kangaroo clinging onto my lapel.

"You must be very special," she said.

I beamed. "Thank you."

"You're gorgeous," she decided, peering at me closer.

I giggled nervously, seeing how big her arms were. If some people have guns, she had a fucking armalite. Her muscles were bulging.

"You're gorgeous," she repeated.

"Thank you," I replied, swiftly walking away with my tray of used glasses, napkins, and beer caps.


(6) The kangaroo lapel pin was given to me, it turns out, by the team's manager, after I had helped her get a drink. Only members of the team, which had also previously won the world championship in Dubai, were in possession of the kangaroo pin.

On the kangaroo's back were printed the words, "I (heart) Australia."


(7) Among the antics of the ladies tonight were almost beating up an (obviously) uninformed man who had told them to shut up whilst Ozzie superstar Ian Moss was playing, and line dancing to Danny Faifai's rendition of "New York, New York."


***


I arrived to an empty home at 5AM; he must still be at the Tony Moran gig. Or elsewhere, perhaps the Morning Party.

I popped a bottle of wine to celebrate the night.

Ozzie sparkling of course.

With my 'roo lapel pin now proudly attached to the stem of my champagne glass.






With Affection,
Astron

Hello, Friends!


Things didn't look very promising.

A massive hype surrounded this particular junk trip, and there were equally massive expectations. Why not; this was the farewell party for Kevin and Tony, a power couple in gay Hong Kong.

However, the on-ground situation seemed to warn us to brace ourselves for the worst.

The skies were gray, to begin with. Sunshine would teasingly peek from behind thick clouds, only to engage us in a frustrating game of hide-and-seek.

The boat that docked up on Pier 9 wasn't the campy rainbow vessel that Tony organized for last year's Floatilla, and had signed to use for this trip. A Jurassic wooden boat which was painted a shocking mustard colour showed up, instead. "An upgrade," the skipper cheerfully explained, as though to justify the rainbow junk's non-appearance. End of story.

Happily, no drama queen was present to spoil what could have been a catastrophic case of un-fabulousness. And fortuitously, Tony's chosen theme for the trip was "Life is a Drag," which automatically reverted any sour situation into the next punch line.

Tony cracked her whip to get her gaggle of giggly drag queens in line. It was boarding time, finally - a quarter before 11AM, a full hour and 15 minutes after we were scheduled to leave. Indeed, drag queens can be trusted to have a very royal concept of time.

The boat heaved, creaked, and sighed as a dizzying parade of costumes piled in. There were NFL cheerleaders, led by no less than Miss America, herself. There were sailors. There were Hed Kandi girls. There was k.d. lang (what a cop out, Rene, dressing up as a lesbian!) Even Jack, gay Hong Kong's most popular dog, dragged it up in a wicked 'fro.


Jack as a Effie White

While Volume's own DJ Stonedog wrestled with the boat's prehistoric sound system, I decided that it was time to kick my twin sister, "Jamie," off the boat. Jamie wiggled out of her scarf, fake lashes, gold bra, and frighteningly tiny denim shorts. Bitch was looking raggedy, any way.


Jamie's glued-on lashes were so ghetto, they wouldn't even stay on.

With my white long sleeved shirt, I was the most covered up person on board. It didn't take long for the other "ladies" to show off their real party outfits, either - deliciously revealing swimming trunks that effectively scorched an otherwise chilly day.

"Shame," I scolded myself, looking with envy at the muscular bodies on display. This is exactly the time of the year when I remind myself of my (failed) resolution to work out more religiously.

The cooler was raided, and Finlandia flowed. To my amusement, even our wines were dragalicious. The bottles were labeled Lizards of Oz.

We reached Turtle Cove at midday.

The lunch spread prepared by Miracle Hors D'Oeuvres was hoovered within minutes.

A speedboat instantly showed up to take the brave to go wakeboarding.

But what properly signified that the party had begun was Tony jumping into the chilly waters in full drag regalia - Headdress, French maid outfit, fish net stockings, feathered slippers, and all.

As if on cue, DJ Stonedog's signature song, Rainbows, came on and drove us all into a happy frenzy.

The party just got 1,000% more fabulous.


***


How fitting that there were no tears or windy speeches at Tony and Kevin's farewell party.

It was a boisterous celebration to honour a couple of men who, unlike many expats who do nothing more than make pithy complaints about Hong Kong's miniscule gay scene, actually did something about it. Tony initiated Gay Invasion and OutinHK. It was Tony whom I turned to for guidance when I started Pink Sundays. Kevin, himself, has hosted many a movie night, providing a warm venue for guys to bond beyond the usual smoky club. "Bonding" was only a bonus, of course, because we really came for Kevin's cakes and deadly chocolate chip cookies.

I was told when I moved here in 2005 that there wasn't much point to nurturing friendships in Hong Kong, as the population is notoriously transient. Save yourself the heartache of seeing friends go, seems to be the pervading wisdom. True enough; a typical encounter in our beloved city would be characterized by pouting, posing, flexing, small talk, and boozed out flirtation.

Our lives are a blur.

And it gets tiresome.

It takes people like Kevin and Tony to shake us up from our unsatisfying routines and actually engage in something meaningful.

OK, so a drag-themed junk party is not exactly Chicken Soup for the Blahblahblah, but we can call it Pink Martini for the Fabulous Gay Soul.

I'm one of many who took a chance on a friendship with Kevin and Tony, and was amply rewarded. My heart breaks that they're leaving, of course. But I'd rather have known them in the four, brief years that they were here, than not at all.


Mamita

Tony and Kevin are leaving for New York soon.

Then, New York may see how, because of two well-loved gentlemen, a gray day can magically transform into a beautiful, Pink Sunday.




With Affection,
Astron




Many thanks to La Chiquitta for organizing an outfit for my twin sister, Jamie.

Hello, Friends!


With the democratization of digital technology and various Web 2.0 tools like YouTube, Wikipedia, Twitter, and MySpace, many of us have embraced the Culture of Celebrity. We have become our own paparazzi, publicists, and fans - Just take a look at the thousands of fan pages on Facebook that have been created by the very same people who are asking you and me to become their fans.

What's more, popular "reality" shows like Pop Idol and Top Model reinforce the idea that people can become celebrities overnight.

These trappings of everyday living have become so ubiquitous, they're unavoidable. So unavoidable, in fact, that they're shaping a new breed of youth. They are informed, discriminating, media savvy, and extremely self-aware.

Look at your photographs back when we used 125mm, 110mm and 135mm film for the typical point-and-shoot camera. Those rolls of film could only fit 36 shots, at the most. That's the era when, if we wanted instant photographic gratification, we used Polaroid. I bet those photos are now good for a laugh, because you didn't have the benefit of hours of practice with your sleek Sony Cybershot.

Now, we know how to find our light. We know our best angles. We've learnt to pose just a little bit sideways, legs apart, knees soft, to convey a casually flattering countenance. We're never at a loss for what to do with our hands in photos any more. Our practiced, Colgate smiles can be summoned in a snap, and voila! You've got a perfect picture.

And when something - horrors! - does not look good, we simply run Photoshop.

The Culture of Celebrity is obsessed with perfection, it's ridiculous. We spend hours -nay, days and weeks and months - poring over photos of celebrities in the most awkward, compromising situations. Why? Schadenfreude?

Similarly, we create celebrities out of ourselves using various Web 2.0 tools. Sure, some ordinary people have become bonafide celebrities via YouTube and blogs, and that's fine. It makes me laugh, however, that some B-list socialites have actually created encyclopaedia entries on themselves on Wikipedia! With our carefully crafted personas, we present a "perfect" image of ourselves. Our physical and character flaws, most especially, are given a clever PR spin to romanticize our human frailty. Bravo! We have instantly become more interesting and memorable.

So why should we force perfection on others and manufacture perfection within ourselves when imperfection is what keeps the world moving?




James (circled in red) circa 2003


I am a proud denizen of Web 2.0.




With Affection,
Astron

Hello, Friends!


She was born not into this world, but unto our collective memory...

I first encountered La Chiquitta in a dream - a flimsy, fluid, flexible image she was. But indelible:

Hair not of any particular colour or length, but of pronounced character. Hair that transformed depending on her every purpose.

Lips that did not cry or scream, but lips that pouted. Lips that whispered the secrets of centuries. Tight, supple lips that could nonetheless sink ships.

Eyes that weren't of any discernible colour, because hers were mesmeric eyes. Framed, of course, by the sootiest, thickest, darkest lashes.

A boyish build, she had... But the carriage was undoubtedly a woman's.

She was tall, La Chiquitta.

And she liked to wear high heels.

All the better to show off her desirable calves and her delectable legs.

I've seen her many times, to be sure... That's why it pains me that I'm unable to paint a more definitive portrait.

Because La Chiquitta is a bird of flight that delights humanity all too fleetingly.

You can hear the beating of feathers, the rustle of chiffon, the clicking of stilettos... You see her, of course, and you hear her, and you feel her.

Sometimes, you even think you may know her.

And just when you think you do, she escapes from your grasp like fine sand falls from a clenched fist.

One thing is for sure - La Chiquitta will never be the caged nightingale that sings for your pleasure. Or mine.

Still.

La Chiquitta is the creature of a myth that we all have woven.

La Chiquitta is the fulfillment of her own promise.

La Chiquitta is grace and enlightenment.

La Chiquitta is a provocation, an excitation, a celebration, and THE salvation.

So the next time she appears to you in a dream, exhale.

Open your eyes.

If you're lucky, you just might find yourself with no less than the Bird of Paradise.



Behold, La Chiquitta



With Affection,
Astron


For Rye