Dear readers,
I have been overwhelmed with work of late -- and I'm sorry for not posting anything in the last few weeks.
Will find time when I'm less swarmed because there have been various updates in our lives.
Stanley found a new job.
I'm starting to view new apartments.
Carl is still dense.
It's official.
The two lines on my test kit have changed my life for a while.
And I'm very happy.
Yes, I feel actual joy from having COVID-19.
I don't mean any offence to those who've caught the virus before I did -- especially at a time when there were no vaccines and no clarity of the flu beast.
I'm truly thankful that I am getting COVID-19 only now, two years after the pandemic first broke.
And there are many things to be thankful for.
The fact that I'm triple vaxxed (a status so golden that people actually list it in their Grindr profile, as Stanley my sex bunny friend shared).
The fact that I have no underlying medical conditions.
The fact that I live in a wonderful country Singapore where tele-consulting a doctor and have meds sent to your place is just within a few taps on my phone.
My sex bunny friend Stanley would Amen to that, given that he too, taps on his phone and gets sex sent to his place.
I'm also truly relieved that I live alone -- no need to worry about isolating myself from my family members, or have to mask up and visit the toilet after shouting warnings to everyone else to steer clear.
But that's me being thankful.
There's a fine line between being thankful and feeling happy to get COVID.
And I think maybe I've crossed that line.
Perhaps, I'm writing this -- and feeling joy -- 'cos I am too privileged.
That the only thing I am fussing over is whether my taste buds are affected (as opposed to whether the virus will attack my aged lungs and lead to my eventual death).
But there's no denying that I am happy.
For the longest time, I had not slowed down at work, and having had COVID made me do just that.
Just a bit.
But I did slow down.
There was no way I could focus on reading research papers or writing reports when my body felt like it's just been kicked around by a baby elephant.
Besides, having COVID finally gave me the perfect -- and responsible -- excuse to stop meeting people.
It's emotionally draining when everyone of my friends wants a piece of me.
I'm not complaining about being popular. I am complaining about being emotionally emptied whenever I meet people.
Stanley agrees because he also feels emptied whenever he meets people.
But I'm in no mood to explore that story today.
And so, on Day One of my COVID, despite being extra exhausted, I made it a point to enjoy my self-isolation.
I put my iRobot to work every morning so that I can have a clean home to recuperate in.
I went on to place all my grocery orders online, stocking up on drinks that would cool my body, buying sensible food items that my body needed for recovery.
I would drink water as if I were addicted to it.
My meals comprise fruits -- sometimes a large bowl of mixed fruits with non-fat yoghurt, sometimes, a large bowl of fruit salad with cheese and olives.
In between, I would make myself a cup of hot peppermint tea, and allowed my comfortable sofa to hug me while I binge-watched Netflix.
During that time, I put my iPhone on Do Not Disturb because that's part of my recovery process.
And boy, did I love the me-time.
I didn't tell everyone I had COVID.
I don't want to be one of those people who deem it vital to post a photo of their positive result on IG.
Why? Why must you all do that?
I did tell just a handful of people -- my partner J, younger brother Barry (but not my sister because that one will raid the pigeon boxes of Chinese medicinal halls and sweep up entire NTUC shelves and send them to my home, along with hourly messages to ensure I am not dead and decomposing alone at home).
Best girl friend Nisa and Stanley are the only ones outside my family to know.
Yet, I'm fortunate enough to have gifts flooding my doorstep.
One package came with an assortment of Chinese medicines, each one to help me deal with my individual COVID symptom.
Another care basket came from outside of Singapore -- from my overseas friends who are also work mates. It comprises gui ling gao -- some bitter herbal jelly that's meant to cool one's body heat, as well as honey sea coconut drinks.
Yet another one sent me tubs of soothing beancurd that's enough for me and my descendants.
Knowing that I have such love from people is comforting.
Best of all, I feel totally rested and am grateful.
And I guess looking at things from this perspective, and feeling joy from it, is what being positive truly means.
Revisiting some of my old blog posts that I wrote about my Stanley and Carl.
The following piece was penned in August 2010:
===
After working nonstop for a stretch of 25 minutes right after breakfast
the other day, I thought I should reward myself with a Facebook break.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the island, someone was already up and
about in the virtual world too. In just one minute, Carl had posted a
grand total of 29 updates on his Facebook page.
A sample of them reads as follows:
I am fat.
No more char-tow-kuay from Ghim Moh for me.
I hate my tummy.
I hate myself for missing gym.
No more supper for me!
No more prata!
No more tummy!
No more!!!
Concerned, I quickly What'sApp-ed Stanley, who replied that a gathering was in order that very night.
"Urgent meeting at Holland V tonight. 7pm. Pontian noodles then coffee club", read his activation message.
Later that night, at 7.30pm sharp, all three of us turned up at the
market, where food and drinks were promptly ordered without so much as
to pause and air kiss one another.
"I have a confession to make," Carl said, after a few seconds of toying with his bowl of noodles.
"Mmmm, it's such a bliss to be finally able to taste food," Stanley interjected in between noisy slurping.
"I've been eating way too much and I haven't been gymming. And, guys, I have a tummy."
"Erm, I think we know that already?" Stanley replied way too quickly,
and was rewarded with a look from Carl that, if he were a puppy, we'd
quickly scoop him up, turn him over, and give him a loving tummy rub.
"No, what I meant was, I think we all knew that at exactly 9.12am, along with the remaining 457 of your Facebook friends.
"Besides, darling, you look fine just the way you are," consoled Stanley. "Hey, Carl, you still want that wanton?"
The meal went on grimly for the next few minutes before Stanley broke the silence again.
"You know," Stanley said, pausing for air from vengeful munching of his
food, "one of the best things of my recent sickness is, when I wake up
in the morning, there's just so much of dried booger for me to dig. It's
immensely liberating. Let me see if I can find them... See?"
Both Carl and I set down our chopsticks at once.
"Anyway, I'm sure you'll be able to lose whatever imaginary fats you have lah Carl," Stanley said.
At the rate Stanley's going with his booger, I'll be damn surprised if he doesn't.
Unfazed by Stanley's string of comforting cliches, Carl looked us in the
eye, then said morbidly, "my fats are not imagination".
There and then, amid some 130 hungry diners at Holland V market, Carl
lifted up his bright orange tee and showed us his offending body part.
"See?!" he said to us, pinching his wobbly tummy in position, jiggling
it with such negative vibes that any stray cat, dog or rat within a
five-metre radius of Carl would swiftly scramble away.
"Carl, please, we're eating!" Stanley pleaded.
That night, after Stanley dropped off a very wounded (but newly rounded)
Carl, I turned to Stanley and asked if he remembers episode Force
Feeding.
Years ago, Carl the beefcake was Carl the cupcake. Petite and very
skinny, our then 19-year-old friend often felt very inferior.
Nobody likes a pack of bones, he used to say.
Then one day, at the now-defunct Burger King in Holland V, Carl announced to us that he had found the answer to his predicament.
But first, I read that "force feeding" is an essential step for skinnies
to take before they start gymming, so that the body has something to
beef up, he went on with the enthusiasm of an insurance salesman.
And before we knew it, Carl put his jaw muscles to good use as he began
chomping on his burger forcefully, mouthful after mouthful without
stopping to chew properly, as Stanley and I stared at him, jaw dropped.
"I wonder how he got that fat," Stanley said without
emotion, as he drove. "That reminds me, I think I'll stop eating beef
burgers for the next few days."
As I showered later that night, I looked down at my own body. Sure, I
don't look like I just stepped out of the pages of GQ, and yes, there
are imperfections. I need a bit of nipping and tucking here, a bit of
lipo there, and I can do with some botox. But the thing is, hey, I love
my body. Well, at least I don't hate it.
But these days, thanks to porn sites, we gay men are doing what fashion
magazine models are doing to anorexic teenage girls. We're force-feeding
and gymming just so we can look like one of the desired body categories
predetermined by porn websites: Beefcakes lah, athletic jocks lah, lean
fit lah, swim bod lah. And so on, and so forth.
Which makes me wonder, why is it that we can't set our own
standards when it comes to beauty? Why do we have to subscribe to the
notion of beauty set by society -- and in this particular case, porn
websites, of all things?
To be honest, we have, on more than one occasion, tried to do something to ourselves in order to look good.
That umpteenth crunch for muscle definition, late night running for the
lean, mean, sexy machine look, or abstinence from carbs (Stanley, if
you're reading this, please stop offering me portions of your rice).
But at the end of the day, trends change. What if, someday, after all
the carb abstinence, and all that religious gymming, society decides
that, hmmm, fat is the new sexy? What are we to do with all those
muslces?!
If we're running for the sake of health, or gymming to strengthen our
core muscles for agility, fine. But overdoing something -- and for
the wrong reason at that -- isn't fantastic.
We have seen with our own eyes how Carl functions in gyms.
As if possessed by the Incredible Hulk himself, Carl huffs and puffs,
each set more intensive than the last, before finally turning green --
from all the exertion.
Yes, it's worth it because results reflect on his body -- as long as he maintains that figure. But to what end?
Just because Carl let loose for a few months, and ate a wee bit more than usual, our dense friend is now also very tense.
So there and then, I came to a karmic conclusion: That we should not
seek acceptance first and foremost, from friends, family, or other
eye-roving gay men.
As a friend once told me, we have to learn to love ourselves before others start to love us.
So, yes. That's it. I'm gonna have to sit Carl down and tell him
this. Over a plate of our favourite char-tow-kuay from Ghim Moh market.
The following post was first posted in 2010:
-------
I was rummaging my wardrobe for appropriate wedding wear when the phone rang.
"I give up. I have nothing suitable for tonight," the exasperated voice went. "I hate straight weddings."
"To look straight, rule number one is, ditch any shirt that makes you
look like you're a tightly wrapped mummy. And no skinny jeans either," I
warned.
Forty minutes later, Stanley's cab picked me up at my place, and we
sheepishly eyed each other's body-fitting tailored shirts that showed
off our broad shoulders and narrow waists. With matching skinny jeans.
Turns out, the only thing we decided to ditch that night, was our fear for looking too good to be straight.
"Well, at least, I promise you we'll be the two most gorgeous looking
men in that table of former straight platoon mates," Stanley said.
"By the way, I'm giving $80 hor," he said coldly.
According to Stanley the economist, since we gay men are never gonna one day earn back all those angpao money that we keep giving the straight people, $80 is more than enough.
"Any idea who we'll be sitting with later?" Stanley asked tenderly into his iPhone.
"Hmmm, Robbie,"
"Oh, that fat Ah Beng. I wonder how is he now. Is he still selling DVDs?"
"Chan, Razak, Mike,"
"Razak?!" Stanley suddenly jerked his head up, his horrified eyes wide as testicles.
"Yeah, what's wrong? I never knew you both didn't get along?"
"Oh, shit. There goes my babi and my wine. With Razak, that
means we're sitting at the Muslim table! The last time I sat at a Muslim
table, we were eating Soup Kambing while the rest were slurping on
Shark's fin, for Heaven's sake!" Stanley exclaimed, sounding as if all
his shares have plummeted at one go.
Another 40 minutes later, we stepped off the cab, checked each other,
and strolled into the cocktail reception, looking as fashionable as
possible.
Tonight, our platoon mate Jayven was marrying his JC sweetheart June.
Jay is a one-time banker who hung up his LV briefcase for the bulky
suitcase, to pursue a joint career with June. The gorgeous bride, June,
is a petite but feisty character, and also a former broadcaster who
decided she'd fare better serving chicken or beef 70,000 feet in the
air, than to smile and read on air.
"My, my. They both certainly invited the whole of SIA here tonight,"
said Stanley, whose roving eyes and tone of voice suggest after-dinner
plans reserved for dogs on heat.
When we settled at our table -- and learnt that Razak would be the only
one having the halal food -- Stanley whispered urgently into my ear:
"Shit, is it too late to add the $30 I took out of my angpao?"
As with all wedding dinners, we risk the awkward situation of being seated with a motley crew of strangers.
But this crew, Stanley is more than happy to be put up with.
After all six of us introduced ourselves to the four gorgeous friends of
Jayven and June(two guys, two gals), we broke the ice after a few
glasses of beer and red wine.
After the third course, Stanley announced that he and I needed a smoke break.
"But I don't even smoke," I mouthed the words to Stanley in protest.
"If I ever have to hear one more word of Razak's fourth baby, or Mike
and his fiance's HDB renovation, or Chan and his perpetual football
talk, I will turn pink. And trust me. You don't want me to turn pink,
hunny," Stanley said, arching one brow, clearly desperate to invoke Diva
Aretha Franklin.
"And how thoughtful of Jay and June to fill the remaining four seats
with, of all people, gorgeous crew who're engaged to each other!"
"Aiyah, weddings are always like that lah, Stan. Hang in there, and
soon, we can join Carl and Ah Boy at Tantric. T.K's gonna be there too.
Hang in there, okay?" I encouraged, as Stanley continued taking in deep
breaths and puffing out clouds of smoke, staring blankly ahead.
The wedding went on with more talk of eh, Stan, when you getting married ah? You leh, Adam, got girlfriend already or not?, as
well as even more updates of Razak and his beloved children, his advice
to Mike's impending HDB sweet home, and so on and so forth.
Stanley, meanwhile, couldn't be bothered with conversation. Our friend is on a mission to stretch his angpao's worth, helping himself to every possible glass of red wine in the ballroom.
By the time we got to the Ee-Foo noodles, Stanley was in a parallel universe of his own, completely shut off from the ongoings of Table 24.
From the corner of my eye, I watched worriedly as a very happy Stanley
wobbled his way to a table of air-stewardess, looking at them very
seriously in the face before grinning, "Chicken or beef ma'am? to each
and every one of them.
The air stewards' table, on the other hand, found Stanley very humorous
when he walked up to them and asked them, quite seriously, "coffee, tea,
or me?"
Before dessert could even be served, I had to excuse myself from the
table to support Stanley, who had by then transformed into a jelly fish.
"But I'm just starting to have fuuuun!" Stanley giggled as I dragged him out for some fresh air.
That night, while on the cab back home from our uneventful wedding dinner, Stanley looked up at me from my thighs, teary eyed.
"I hate weddings, Adam. I hate weddings."
"I know. Close your eyes. We're on our way home now".
That night was the one and only time I didn't reprimand Stanley for getting himself so drunk.
The following post was first published 12 years ago, in 2010:
=====
"Come to think of it, I've never told any of my straight friends that I
was gay," said Stanley, whose eyes -- for a refreshing change -- were
fixed on the road.
"Eeeks, you stupid driver!" Stanley squealed in horror. "Some cab
drivers ought to be told," he huffed, as if the swerving vehicle broke
Stanley's heart.
"Like I said, it feels so strange to be telling your straight friends, especially after all these years of acting straight."
How true.
Stanley may not be that tight in other departments, but where his gay life is concerned, trust me, his lips are tight. Sealed.
Like most of our gay peers, Stanley and I probably belong to a
generation where we either act straight or act blur to avoid being
probed. Wait, Stanley actually enjoys that, but let's leave that story
for another day.
Meanwhile, Carl's Uni-going boyfriend Ah Boy, has no qualms about
telling one and sundry of his inclination. While Ah Boy is not loud and
proud, he is perfectly comfortable with his sexuality -- friends and
loved ones including his parents, are some of those in the know. Good
heavens. Youngsters these days.
Later that night, it set me thinking: Is it so important that straight friends know we're gay?
Well, perhaps.
Ever since having outed each other in NS, Stanley and I have spent our
remaining years building layer after layer of walls, to fortify our
closets. Carl on the other hand, believes in building layer after layer
of muscle, hoping to attain that same effect.
But after all these years of being locked up in a far, far away castle,
key thrown away, I have, Heaven forbid, begun to let my hair down like
Rapunzel.
It actually all started four years ago, when a school mate's younger brother passed away suddenly.
Gee, life's too short, I thought.
It was then that I decided to tell at least one important person in my life, that I was gay. Just one.
So on one late weekend morning in 2006, I texted the Best Friend. I need to see you for a while. Starbucks near our place, in 20 mins?
It took me
all of 10 minutes to come clean the secret I've kept from the Best
Friend for 14 years. His reaction? Why did you wait so long to tell me?
Did you think I would have forsaken you? A series of friendly rebukes
and assurances of he still loves me later, I felt like the lightest
earthling that day.
And because it was liberating to tell one important person in my life, I thought, hmmm, maybe I could tell just another. Just one more.
And so, naturally, it was Nisa, my best girl friend.
But it didn't feel complete. How about planting alliances at the
workplace too? And so, Alexa and Hazeline -- two of my closest
colleagues -- joined the club. Oh, how about selected friends from Uni?
Just like that -- as if I were possessed by a persuasive insurance salesman -- I added one name after another to my list of those who know.
Each time I confessed, I am almost guaranteed the same reactions that very night. SMS-es that go somewhere along the lines of Thank you for sharing that part of your life... and I still love you. And it's always from the more sensitive gals.
The guys on the other hand, are quick to forget my confession as quickly as they accepted me.
Today, while I'm not loud and proud, I have come to terms with my sexuality.
I will probably tell the next person whom I feel particularly close to,
because to me, I'm literally opening up to that new person.
It's like saying, the door's right open. Step right in.
Okay, that sounds like Stanley.
The year was 2005.
And the location, Chiang Mai.
My partner J and I were on one of our affordable vacations after we got together three years before that.
Our first ever couple holiday in 2003 was in Genting Highland and that's a story for another day -- I promise.
Today though, I am inspired to write about our Chiang Mai trip.
It was very special not because it had all the elements of romance. There were no grand restaurants, nor did we launch into a Hollywood kiss in the middle of an elephant camp.
In fact, to put it really bluntly, that holiday was shit.
The sort that was watery, hot and sticky.
The two of us had, back then, eaten at a roadside stall and the rest is history.
I cannot even remember what we put into our mouths but what did come out, now that, I remember.
That night, J and I were curled up like cooked prawns in our bed, feeling feverish, pukish and super shitty.
As a young and full blooded youth on holiday with the love of his life, I had been dreaming of this moment.
Two of us lying in bed, spent, and weak from all the purging, and dear God, I should have been more specific.
The rest of what we did in Chiang Mai was a blur.
I cannot remember at which stage we got food poisoning. Or how long we were suffering for during the 9-day trip (we also visited Bangkok during that leg).
What I did remember rather clearly, was the look on J's face.
The poor boy looked so pale that it hurt me deeply.
I also remember fetching him hot tea, and feeding him warm porridge. And he in turn stroke my hair and patted me to sleep when I was shivering.
But we bounced back rather quickly and miraculously, managed to recover during the holiday.
While flying back from Thailand to Singapore, J told me that it was the most memorable trip.
"I think this trip made us fall in love deeper with each other," he said. "Because we took care of each other when we were ill."
Then, to my utter surprise, he leaned in and kissed me on my cheek on the plane.
The reason I'm writing this today is because of a recent event that had got me thinking about a couple's relationship and longevity.
And as I write this in 2022 and reflect on J and my memorable trip, I remind myself that it's not every day that we end up with someone we love.
And it is very important for us to treasure what we have.
Fret not.
Nothing drastic has happened between J and I and we are both as loving as can be -- in fact, more so.
But yes, my post today is indeed triggered by an event that has affected both of us in a deep way.
And I promise -- like how I would write about our first Genting Highland trip -- to post about it soon enough.
But for today, let me just share this very private, very moving bit of my memories from the 2005 Chiang Mai trip.
Meanwhile, if you have a special other, treasure him or her.
And if you're single, treasure your loved ones.
On this note, I wish everyone happy thoughts and much love.
If there's one thing perfect about me, it's my eyesight.
Stanley rolled his eyes.
Carl the dense one -- who's a natural follower -- rolled his eyes without knowing why.
"You're far from perfect now," Stanley said bitchily, tapping at his temples to remind me that no longer perfect I am, since I'm now bespectacled.
"You're not very nice," I pointed out.
Carl the dense one -- who's a natural follower -- nodded at my comment without knowing why.
"If there's one thing tight about you, Stanley," I said as a follow-up attack, "it's your pants."
Carl the dense one - who's a natural follower -- said "Amen sister", without knowing why.
Stanley fumed, sucked in his tummy, and glared at the giggling Carl.
"If there's one big about you, Carl," Stanley said, hoping to pay the bitchiness forward, "it's your head space where your brains should be."
Carl the dense one - who's a natural follower and has huge biceps -- frowned.
"I thought you were going to say my biceps were the one thing huge about me," he said with a pout.
We were causally hanging out at Stanley's that Saturday.
It was movies night, as Stanley stated in his WhatsApp invite to us in the group chat titled "Just the Boys".
"Movie night, come." was the message.
Come to think of it, come must be one command Stanley often uses, but that's a story for another day.
As Stanley passed the popcorn (which he bought from Giant and made it pop in his microwave), I pivoted back to my topic.
I'm thinking of getting lasik, boys, I said.
"Oh, finally," Carl the dense one said. "It's high time you did something to your skin, Adam. I mean, I didn't want to say it but now that you've come to your senses, I must tell you that your skin needs a lot of work."
"Carl darling, lasik has to do with the eyes," Stanley said to our dense friend and placed his palm gently on his shoulder the way doctors would behave when they told you you have cancer.
Carl the dense one nodded without knowing why.
Turning to me and reaching for the remote at the same time, Stanley asked: "Why laisk? I thought you loved your geek look?"
Well, I do.
I mean, even when I had perfect vision, I'd buy fake glasses and put them on because I love how the dark-rimmed frames made me look studious.
But I had a choice to take them off whenever I wanted.
Which is a basic human right Stanley must most appreciate because he applies that to his pants.
For years, I was the envy of many because I have perfect vision.
Up till when five years ago -- when I was merely 38.
My eyesight began to go downhill then, which is the general direction my skin was heading, led by gravitational forces of the earth.
It started with mild giddiness one morning when I was reading my phone in bed.
I immediately made a quick appointment at the Eye Centre.
That afternoon, I walked out with a clear vision of what's happening to me.
I had presbyopia -- the first milestone of ageing.
Oh, well, I thought it would be fun getting to wear real glasses for once.
But no. It was such a hassle and I didn't see that coming.
I hated lugging my reading glasses around in my bag and having to put them on whenever I read.
An intern in my previous company saw me slip on my reading glasses and giggled to herself.
I made her fetch me coffee twice that day.
Soon, I felt very lazy about putting them on and taking them off, so instead, I chose to walk around with my reading glasses even when I wasn't reading.
Soon, my eyes grew used to wearing my reading glasses -- which was not good.
Because eventually, not only did I have presbyopia, but my vision also started to worsen.
At age 40, I had to wear prescribed glasses.
Bifocals.
And boy, were they difficult to get around in.
The first time I put on the bifocals, I felt like I was in Outer Space.
The floor felt tilted and I had to take dramatic steps as if the earth beneath me would crumble at a misstep.
It took a lot of getting used to, with the bifocal specs.
Even as I write this now, I'm still not quite used to them.
And it's been, what, three years?
It takes adjustment, and I suspect I'll never fully get used to them.
For one, I can't do evil side glances anymore -- doing so takes my vision out of range so I'll get dizzy spells when I do that. Which could be nature's way of taming me.
And because of my flat nose, my specs keep sliding off my face and that's also annoying.
These days, I'd been toying with the idea of just doing lasik so that I can return to my carefree, specs-less days.
"I guess I know what you mean," Stanley said.
He had selected a horror film.
"Not wearing specs is like not wearing underwear.
"The freeballing feeling is so liberating."
Knowing Stanley, he would want to stand up and jiggle around to make his point and so just as he was about to stand up, Carl pressed him down with his python-size biceps.
Thank goodness for small wins. Sometimes, Carl does know what's happening.
"Stan, I watched this film the other day. Can we choose another one?" Carl said, and patted Stanley on his shoulder the way big bosses would do when they instruct you with tasks which you can't say no to.
The couple of 13 years were meant to walk down the aisle -- slowly and romantically -- to the beat and pace of whatever cheesy wedding song is being played.
At this moment, the pace was just right -- slow. And the mood is somewhat romantic.
The bride and groom weren't walking down the aisle by themselves: They were accompanied by six others who formed a small band of pall bearers.
Even as I write this, I am still in disbelief.
It would have been the happiest day of their lives.
Instead, the wedding day turns out to be the funeral for one of the lovebirds.
"I still keep thinking of her," Stanley Ong, my sex bunny friend said in between quiet sobs.
For this live funeral stream, I had taken two days off to keep Stanley company. I stayed over at his place the night before, and on the day of the live stream funeral, got up early with him at around 7am to help him light candles around the house, and set up his screen mirror function on his TV.
Debbie is Stanley's JC friend.
She's what some describe as Little Miss Sunshine except she's not that little.
Debbie is delightfully plump, never says no to food, and laughs the loudest at jokes, the type that is so contagious that you'd laugh along with her even if you don't know what the joke is.
Needless to say, Debbie is very well loved by all.
Much of my impression of Debbie comes from Stanley's occasional anecdotes of his good ol' JC days.
Of how they'd both buy fried chicken drumstick from the school tuckshop and eat discretely in class.
Of how they'd sit by the school gazebo with open textbooks but not actually studying.
Debbie was an arts student and loved and lived life to the fullest.
She had vast interests too -- from taking hikes to collecting lego, and baking cookies to worshiping Kylie Minogue.
When Debbie was in her early-30s, she gave up her job as a teacher and flew to Australia to live with the love of her life, Robert.
Since then, the couple had been living happily ever after.
Stanley would often comment on Debbie's Facebook photos in the early days of her life there.
The couple had bought a three-storey house and had often hosted many loud, happy parties there.
Their tables would often be filled with oven-baked stuff: lasagna, chicken, pies (by Robert) or nonya laksa, pig trotters in vinegar and curry fish head (some of Debbie's best homemade dishes).
I'm often told that their parties were filled with laughter and board games like Jenga, Monopoly or charades.
Earlier this year, Stanley got a call from Debbie who told him "best news ever".
After being partnered to Robert for more than 10 years, the two decided to get married so that they can plan their second half of their lives with greater clarity.
It would be a small gathering attended by immediate family in Australia, followed by a similar reception in the Singapore leg in the later part of this year.
And then, it happened.
Debbie, who taught art to children, took three weeks of wedding leave and on the first day of her leave, left home for her morning stroll near their house.
She had visited her favourite cafe and took away coffee to the park, her usual weekend morning routine.
Debbie's mind must have been at peace that day. Favourite coffee in tow, a lovely morning at the park where the trees are green, birds are chirping. Her mind must also have been in working mode: Planning for her wedding and most importantly, imagining life as an old married couple with Robert.
Then Debbie collapsed.
According to those at the park (who relayed that info to the police and to Robert, and in turn, to Debbie's friends in Singapore), Debbie had apparently attempted to get up once. Then she collapsed again.
"It was a heart attack," Stanley explained in a defeated whisper.
It was a brutal attack. An attack that had singlehandedly snatched Debbie away from Robert. An attack that left painful bruises in the hearts of all Debbie's loved ones.
As if the sudden turn of events weren't dramatic enough, Debbie had just celebrated Robert's birthday three days before her untimely death. They had both chosen that birthday month to get married because 13 years ago, it was at Robert's birthday party where a giggly Debbie was first introduced to Robert who was then visiting Singapore.
So it would have been a series of celebrations that month: Robert's birthday, their anniversary, their wedding.
And now, it's a funeral.
But it's also a celebration of sorts.
The theme of the funeral was to celebrate Debbie's colourful life and to remember her zest and love for everything.
In respect of Debbie, I threw on a multi-coloured sweater while Stanley wore a floral print, baby blue shirt with a loud pink tie that matched his pink berms.
That morning, we started the day at Stanley's home where he lit candles for Debbie.
I joined Stanley in saying the Hail Mary for Debbie.
Stanley then made us coffee and brought out snacks -- Hello Panda (chocolate and strawberry), in loving memory of Debbie, who loved snacking on those creamy bites back in JC.
Watching a livestreamed funeral was surreal.
We weren't there but we were there in every aspect.
The event was filled with speeches after speeches by some of Debbie's closest friends and family.
There were tears, of course, but mostly laughter because Debbie's friends came up and shared the most ridiculously funny stories which Stanley affirms as "very Debbie".
Of how she once almost hurled ice-cream at a group of burly blokes who were taunting two drag queens on the streets.
Of how she would always hug everyone in a tight embrace until she heard a rib crack.
Of how she would always debate with Robert on what to gift his little nephew and nieces on their birthdays (Robert always wanted educational presents while Debbie always insisted that "a little fun won't harm).
I watched Stanley from the couch.
He laughed, he cried, he buried his face in both hands, he breathed in tears and mucous theatrically and fanned his face with both palms. And then repeat.
The three-hour funeral session was very powerful.
And it painted an even brighter picture of the lovable art educator Debbie who is obviously well-loved.
At one point, which Stanley again said was "very Debbie", there was a mass dance.
Stanley immediately sprang up from his couch and morphed into a worm on drugs, wriggling and gyrating vertically with his eyes closed, lips pursed.
I joined him in loving memory of Debbie.
The session closed with one of the most touching speeches which even I couldn't help but cry uncontrollably.
One of her closest friends ended the funeral session with Debbie's catchprhase.
"Let me know when you get home safe".
In loving memory of the one whom we've grown to love;
1979 - 2022
Dear readers,
I'm super busy this week, so as you may have noticed, I didn't pen any entry last Saturday.
But here I am, reposting a piece I wrote in 2010, from another blog which I have since shut.
======
In what I think is one of the rarest occasions in the history of our
friendship, the boys and I actually found time to gather for dinner, on a
weekday, at a hawker centre.What's
even rarer is, Carl actually ditched his usual monologue on protein
powder brands and his muscles, and initiated a discussion that required our inputs. And money, apparently.
"I'm serious. Think about it. It can be fun? Living together? All three of us?"
I don't know what gave Carl the idea that we'll make great flat mates, but again, it's Carl.
Stanley (who for once doesn't mind ageing quickly just so he can buy an HDB flat at 35 -- and leave his parents' home for good) chipped in with impeccable timing. "Yeah, I think it'll be so fun!"
"Yeah, I think so too. Mmmm! This Old Airport Road rojak is indeed good leh! Eh, Carl, you try?"
As our dense friend happily dug in, his world temporarily revolving around the said local delight, my mind teleported us out of Singapore: To Bangkok.
Four years ago, when I finally settled down without having to jet set, we took our first trip to the motherland of all fake Prada and LV. Yes, "all three of us?".Who would have imagined that, instead of hanging out together, we almost ended up wanting to hang each other?
We may have been pals for more than a decade, but when two strong headed
individuals (plus one muscle mass in the form of Carl) have to face one
another for a good one week, there's bound to be drama. Think America's Next Top Models in Amazing Race.
While Carl is keen to explore Bangkok's California gyms, Stanley is more
keen in exploring Bangkok's California gym-bods. On the other hand, all
I wanted to do was to drop from shopping.
Amid all the arguing on Day One of our trip, we decided in frustration to go our separate ways in the Land of Smiles. Before I could salvage the situation with what happened to spending time together, Stanley was already scurrying towards a tutuk, to catch his would-be orgasm.
It's really not that easy, boys, I finally broke the silence. Carl looked up from his plate, head tilting in confusion.
Remember Bangkok?
With impeccable timing, Carl returned to his plate, and both he and Stanley began chewing their rojak with fierce concentration.
The next day, I advocated support from Alexa, my Moroccan colleague."Friends should never live together -- especially if they're the best of friends. Trust me, for the one year I was living with Wendy (her best friend), we never talked. We couldn't even stand the sight of each other!"
Indeed, I hear Alexa loud and clear (despite her cloudy accent).
As an overseas student, I too, began detesting my housemates four months
into our one-year rental contract. It made me miss the wild days of
hostel living, where parties, loud music and equally loud drunkards
marked the passing of each night. But hey, at least I had my privacy and
was accountable to no one.
Later that week, I explained to the boys that I loved them too much to live together.
To be fair, I've always known that one day, Carl and Stanley would move
out. In my circle of gay friends at least, almost everyone I know wants
to live away from his parents. Alone. Or with his partner. Or with a
motley of friends.
Come to think of it, why shouldn't we move out, especially when living
away from our parents forces us to contact them even more
conscientiously -- something we take for granted if we were to live
under one roof?
And for that very reason, I'd rather live with strangers. I'd rather not
come home every night to the company of the boys, but look forward to
meeting them every Saturday instead. Plus, given our bitchy nature and a
good 10-year headstart, we'll each know what to hate about one another already.
So just like that, at our favourite PS Cafe that night, we decided that
we'll live together happily ever after -- every Saturday night.
Yes, "all three of us?"
----
This post was first published in my earlier blog which has since been shut
Sunday brunch.
Cool enough breeze.
And most importantly, a cafe with an ambience that agrees with our IG posts and stories.
It had the makings of a delightful gathering.
Last week, the boys and I chose to shake up our social patterns and stop meeting like we're 8,000-year-old vampires who can only make appearances and come together at night.
And so far, our day was so good.
We were at Cafe Melba at Goodman Arts Centre, surrounded by a trendy crowd: Hipster parents who show off their kids in Ralph Lauren, youthful and fresh-faced working adults who're catching up to release all the stress they'd been facing in the first year of their careers, and the laid-back angmohs who come in their floral dresses and polo tees.
And then there are the gays.
Stanley, Carl and I had decided to dress down fashionably for the occasion.
Stanley wore an extra-large button down shirt and fitted berms.
"The trend is, the looser the better," Stanley pointed to his top, and then, pointing to his buttocks, "and the trend here is, the tighter the better."
I wasn't sure if Stanley the sex bunny was referring to his apparel or his apparatus and I didn't want my delightful morning to be spoiled so early into our gathering.
I wore a singlet bought from Thailand years ago and immediately regretted my choice because I looked like one of those angmohs you'd spot in Phuket.
Carl, needless to say, was in one of this dry-fit tees that hugged his body so tight that he may have to cut up the tee at some point just to promote blood circulation.
The three of us found a table al fresco.
To our left: Two pleasantly plump girls who looked like they shouldn't be eating any more of their oily sausages.
To our right: A family of angmohs who had a curious kid on a bike, cycling around the fake grass patch and trying to knock down birds.
Orders were promptly placed and Stanley sighed dramatically. "What a lovely morning, boys."
The angmoh to our right started coughing. It was one of those loud, throaty coughs that if you heard it, you'd immediately feel like helping her cough up the phlegm.
The woman who looked to be in her late-50s was hacking away, each forceful cough putting her one step closer to Death.
Carl the dense one looked very nervous and inched closer towards Stanley.
"Why are people who're coughing allowed to come out?" Stanley said in an urgent tone, intentionally not using an indoor voice.
The angmoh woman shifted in her seat, smiled apologetically at our table and continued coughing.
Determined not to get COVID, Stanley took out his hand sanitiser and sprayed above our table, cleansing all bad air and evil spirits at the same time.
Soon, food was placed on our table and the real catch up began.
"What's new with you boys," asked Carl, who for once, took an interest in our lives.
"Let's start with Stanley," Carl continued.
"Why do I feel like I'm in some game show?" Stanley replied, eyeing Carl suspiciously.
If Stanley were in a game show, he'd be the contestant to press the buzzer first and even if he didn't have the correct answer, he'd have something witty to say to make both the show host and audience laugh and blush.
If I were in a game show, I'd be studying my research notes up until the point when the highly-strung producer with the headphone and earpiece yanks them out of my hands.
If Carl were in a game show, he'd be wondering what he was doing there in the first place, and naturally, be the first to be booted out.
But right now, Carl is on top of his game.
"So, what's new with you Stanley," he asked, sounding every bit like a webinar facilitator.
"Something is not quite right with you today, Carl," Stanley said.
It didn't take long for Carl to crumble.
"Okay, okay, I think I have STD," he said in a voice which he thought was a whisper.
The angmoh woman to our right started coughing right on cue.
Suddenly, Stanley's concern went from one pandemic to another medical condition.
He inched towards Carl.
"Spill," commanded Stanley.
It was more like flow, in fact.
A whitish discharge, to be very precise, according to Carl.
Stanley was enthralled by Carl's detailed, blow-by-blow account that he started picking up his cherry tomatoes with his barehands like they were popcorn.
The blow-by-blow account, to be exact, took place in a gay sauna.
Stanley almost fell off his chair, but he got a hold of himself but his self-control had limits.
Our sex bunny friend started squealing and shrieking like he was possessed.
The hand sanitiser obviously had no effect on cleansing evil spirits.
To us, gay best pals of over 20 years, we know that the squealing is just Stanley laughing.
But to the trendy Sunday brunch crowd at Cafe Melba, the untrained ears wouldn't know that.
Stanley sounded like how your kettle would sound when it's coming to a boil.
To the poor, innocent kids who were playing nearby, Stanley must have sounded like a dolphin because they started merrily mimicking Stanley.
Finally, the angmoh's coughing had been upstaged.
Carl looked very pale and begged Stanley to please control himself.
Stanley looked up from his fits of laughing and then crumbled further into self destruction.
Stanley had officially joined the angmoh to see who would approach Death first.
Carl buried his face in his palm.
After Stanley had calmed down, which took all of seven minutes (I counted because I was nervously glancing at my phone with Stanley's performance), we were all ears.
And by we, I suspect it was tables 1, 3, 5, and maybe even one table inside because everyone -- and I mean everyone -- had at some point of Stanley's hysterical theatrics, paused to look in our direction.
Carl looked like he wanted to jump off a building but he had made his bed, so he had to lie in it.
The bed was in a saucy sauna which he visited not out of curiosity but necessity.
Carl had been single and virginal for way too long to the point where he couldn't help it anymore.
So on one of those Saturday nights when we didn't meet, Carl arranged for his own rendezvous at the local sauna.
Refusing to go into Stanley's plea for "great detail, the deeper the better", Carl filled us in with what we needed to know.
Stanley kept digging further.
"Let's start from the very basics," said Stanley, showman and show host.
"Age, built, looks, and size. Go," Stanley continued, thrusting each finger into the air with his list of basics.
Carl was too afraid to defy so to avoid yet another episode of drama, began his story.
He had been entertaining a visit for quite some time now, and so when the urge came, he didn't stop himself.
Which is fair, given that he's single, and old enough to make his lifestyle choices.
The man whom he believed gave him STD is a young, uni student who is exactly Carl's type: Big built, fair, bespectacled.
He was beauty on top, and beast below was all Carl said.
They made eye contact and brought that interaction to more levels of contact in a private space in the sauna and when the deed was done, the uni student did a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am and left hurriedly.
He didn't leave his phone number but what he did leave was a mess.
"A very sticky situation indeed," Stanley said, unable to help himself.
Carl only found out he had unusual symptoms days later. Difficulty in peeing, and the tell-tale sign of a discharge.
By our second cup of coffee, Carl had completed his round of updates.
He looked spent, as if he had been questioned by the CID for three hours straight (which is the amount of time Carl and the STD student spent together).
The three of us sat and digested the heavy meal and topic that afternoon.
Later that day, I got to thinking about our fruitful day.
Stanley's laughing fit at Carl's predicament was understandable.
All his life, Carl had been the least sexually active and is mostly clueless, so to hear of his encounter was indeed rather strange. And hilarious in a way.
But it did happen anyway.
And Stanley and I were there for Carl.
And that's what matters most.
Twenty years of friendship had given us a rollercoaster ride -- from the highs and lows to the bumpy.
But the three of us were still on track for our next 20 years, and hopefully more.
At the end of the day, what's really important is that no matter what happens -- STD or not -- the three of us can sit down and confide in one another, no judgement made.
That night, I texted the group to send virtual hugs to Carl.
"Carl, this is nothing to worry about," Stanley wrote later.
"It's a rite of passage. And being Carl, you're just rightfully slower than everyone else, that's all."
When I was a little boy, my mum would put me to bed with a story book, planting in me the seeds of my eventual reading habit.
"I don't like where this story is going," Stanley the sex bunny interrupted.
"I don't know what this story is about," Carl the dense one jumped in, ever keen to be clued in.
"It's just that, there are too many sex cases involving fathers who rape their own daughters and the idea of you sharing this disturbing childhood detail of your mum planting seeds in you at night is just plain creepy," said Stanley, whose ability to link current events with all things sex, surpasses all pornography writers'.
Carl, who has no ability to link anything in life at all, frowned.
"The rocket leaves in my salad are bitter," he concluded, satisfied that he had solved one mystery in his life.
There are just way too many cluttered topics at our table right now, which is nicely situated al fresco, just opposite the old Raffles Hotel.
I was having a hard time talking to the boys about my topic of the day.
Stanley was having a hard time focusing. His eyes were busy trailing every young man that walked past us, as if breaking the line of visual contact would upset some cosmic balance.
Carl too was having a hard time focusing. Between trying to poke his chick peas with his fork all at one go and looking at his phone and breathing, Carl was overwhelmed.
"So, what are we taking about?"
What I would like to talk about during our Friday night dinner at Raffles City, was that these days, I'm feeling increasingly stupid.
Carl put his fork down and looked hurt.
"I'm going to order pasta -- the salad is too bitter," he said and with that, clapped delightfully at his adult decision-making abilities, celebrating yet another win that he can solve problems in life.
Stanley couldn't be bothered to take part in the conversation sensing that it didn't involve sex.
But my point has to be made across. I feel increasingly stupid because I have Imposter Syndrome.
Stanley immediately dismissed me.
"Don't be stupid," he said.
"That's exactly what I'm trying not to be," I retorted.
"What are we talking about?" Carl inquired.
Imposter Syndrome is a concept that's most commonly felt in working adults: Self doubt to the point of feeling like a fraud at work.
Carl sucked in a deep breath at the words "imposter", "fraud" and "work" that are used in the same sentence and went pale as if half expecting officers from the Commercial Affairs Department to emerge from the bushes and handcuff me.
Five seconds later, Carl lit up and beamed cheerfully when the waiter brought him his pasta.
"So, this imposter... who is he?" Carl asked, forking as many penne pasta pieces as possible at one go.
Of late, I'd been tasked with a new project which required me to work with external parties.
"Oooh, I love parties," responded Carl who was feeling particularly chatty.
"And I love all things external -- the more exposed the better," replied Stanley who was feeling particularly slutty.
Thing is, I know I'm good at my job.
I think so.
I mean, at least, I feel so, until I move out of my comfort zone and start interacting with experts from outside my company.
By then, Carl was fully engrossed in his meal and anyone with superhero vision could see Carl's force field engulfing him, protecting him from any form of distraction.
Stanley chewed slowly and gave my views some thought.
"If it's any consolation, I have Imposter's Syndrome too."
At this point, Carl was busy storing pasta in both his cheeks, no doubt preparing for winter so Stanley and I decided to continue talking among ourselves.
When we both started our careers, despite being in different fields, Stanley and I had many common traits.
We both wanted to learn as much as possible, weren't afraid of failure, and we enjoyed the process.
That was when we were in our twenties.
I remember my then-team leader's precious advice to me: In your twenties, it's okay to fail. That's how we learn. It's how we move on and change for the better that matters, she said.
By our thirties, we'd learned enough from role models at work and had time to hone our craft.
That's when we saw the fruits of our labour -- more tasks, promotions, pay rises.
We were well on our up the corporate ladder.
It was also the time I felt most powerful at work: I was by then a middle manager who had a small team under me, and supportive bosses above me and I was most empowered, often daring to take risks which most of the time served me well.
And then come the forties.
I'm definitely higher in the food chain and instead of eating worms, I eat bigger beasts for breakfast, a sign that I'm fiercer and one step closer to being the Lion King.
But not quite there yet.
At my age and stage of my career, I can't afford to fail.
I have to keep improving, keep paddling. Stop to rest for a while and Betsy Chia from two desks away who'd passed up marriage and dating for a career would overtake me.
I'm well aware of that so I never stop paddling.
"Me too. I paddle like mad by day, and pedal like mad by night," Stanley said, making an effort to shift his legs to give me a preview of how fast he can cycle in the air, and again, never failing to link something from the boardroom to the bedroom.
"Oh, dragon boating! Yes!" Carl looked up from his bowl of pasta and flexed his python-sized bicep and continued making his penne disappear.
These days, to stay on top of the game, I volunteer to take on additional projects.
That's when I realise that stepping out of my comfort zone to learn new things can be both a refreshing and intimidating experience.
We all know the adage -- knowledge is power.
But the more I know, the more I don't know: There's just way too much to grasp!
Carl, who had by then finished licking his fork and spoon and had nothing else better to do, looked at me and nodded meaningfully, comprehending every essence of what I had just said.
Stanley leaned in and set the record straight.
"I know what you mean, Adam," he said. "And you're no spring chicken so you've got to snap out of it."
According to Stanley, Imposter Syndrome happens to people who're self-conscious of their work.
"These people still have some semblance of shame," he said. "So you're alright, Adam."
Stanley says it's only people who're truly stupid or useless who don't have Imposter Syndrome at all.
That's because, he says, they can't be bothered to review their own performance and have no shame, so they don't blame themselves for being inadequate.
We on the other hand, are people who know we want to do well, recognise that we don't know it all and fear that we can't catch up.
"But guess what, Adam? It is that very fear, that you should be thankful for. Without that spark of fear, you'll forever be complacent, falling into the trap of being all-knowing.
"Grasp it. Feel the spark. Feel the fear because that's the very fear that will propel you, not swallow you," Stanley said, channelling his inner Deepak Chopra.
Carl looked like he was about to collapse from stress and info overload.
"So you mustn't be defeated," Stanley said, making his closing argument.
"Imposter's Syndrome is something all good, humble workers have. I feel like I have Imposter's Syndrome his too, to be honest. And I'm sure Carl has something to add to this."
"Yes!" Carl beamed, looking up from the menu.
"I know what to have for dessert already," he concluded, immensely happy that he had yet again managed to make another important decision in his life.
A few months ago, Stanley and I were at our lowest in life.
We were waiting to pay for our groceries at a supermarket in VivoCity when the girl asked us cheerfully: "CHAS member?"
Stanley immediately jumped, assuming CHAS was a membership for the old.
"No," he said in a slow, threatening voice as if he were Cruella.For the uninitiated, CHAS cards are usually reserved for the older generation who have no or very low household income.
But all Singaporeans are eligible to apply for the CHAS card if they fall below a certain income bracket.
After a frantic fact check on his phone, Stanley was still furious.
"Do we look poor?" Stanley asked me in horror, as he wheeled our full trolley to the car park.
"I mean, how old does she think we look?" Stanley said.
To be fair, the poor girl probably doesn't know any better and she must surely be reading off the NTUC script for cashiers where they're first supposed to greet you, then ask if you have any of their memberships.
And to be fair, if she had thought we were old, we can't blame her. That tiny girl looked like she's still wearing a training bra.
"Do we look poor?" Stanley asked again, aghast.
"Would poor people buy this number of wines and fill the entire trolley with useless items that can't feed their families properly, like cheddar cheese, rosemary herbs, and kale?"
That was then.
Today, I hit a new low.
I was waiting to pay up at NTUC when the cashier -- who looks to be in her mid-50s -- asked me if I were a senior citizen.
I mustered up my most delightful tone: "I would say yes just to get the discount."
The cashier burst out laughing under her mask.
Then she politely -- and sincerely -- followed up by asking me for my Senior Citizen card so she could key in that discount.
Stanley my sex bunny friend burst out laughing over the phone when I called him immediately to relay my horror.
"Adam, the puzzle is finally solved!" Stanley said when he was done guffawing.
"The VivoCity girl took one look at you and decided YOU were a CHAS card member!"
I mean, do I look that old?
"Maybe it's all the salt-and-pepper hair that misled the aunty," Stanley tried to save the day.
"I was wearing a cap."
Stanley launched into another round of laughter and I'm not sure if he realised I had hung up.
That afternoon, as I walked slowly back to my apartment lugging what must be Senior Citizen food in my plastic bag --canned braised peanuts, Lingam chilli sauce, six cans of beer -- I wonder if I had crossed the age band without realising it.
These days when I run, swim or cycle, I'm always slower than the fittest chick in the park.I often find it easier to wake up early in the morning regardless of what time I slept the night before, thereby living the proverbial truth that old people don't sleep much.
"Why do you care," Stanley said to me later in the day.
"We're fortyish and fabulous!"
I was heartened.
Then Stanley said, "and you, Adam, are just fortyish."
Friday night.
Table for three.
And dress to kill.
A message that's loud and clear in the group chat Just The Boys, shared with my sex bunny friend Stanley and the dense one Carl.
To our horror, the message wasn't clearly put across.
Then again, it's Carl the dense one we're dealing with.
"Which part of dressing up do you not understand," Stanley said in horror, staring at Carl who was wearing a dry fit T-Shirt that sticks to his Incredible Bulk body. The getup was paired with slim-cut berms that shows off Carl's under-nourished, under-worked legs.
Carl smiled sheepishly and raised his girly cocktail at Stanley and me saying "Happy Friday Night, guys?"
"There's nothing to smile about especially when you look like a drumstick," Stanley said, rolling his eyes.
That night, along with majority of the Singapore population who's allowed to drink alcohol at 10:31pm, the boys and I decided to wear decent clothes and to see and be seen outside.
No more home parties, no more clinking of glasses in home clothes, no more washing up after parties.
The location was an Italian restaurant with an excellent al fresco dinning area in Duxton.
The brief was to dress up.
And trust the dense one to mess up.
"I just came from the gym," Carl said pouting as Stanley stares unbelievably at the gym rabbit's unbelievably disrespectful dress code.
Stanley was in a tailored black shirt with floral patterns, custom-made to hug his lean frame, and skinny jeans.
I managed to throw on something decent too -- tailored navy suit with a black-and-white striped t-shirt.
"You're unbelievable," Stanley scolded Carl, who, in all honestly, isn't missing the memo for the first time.
All his life, Carl has been dense, and two beats slower than the general public.
To this day, he cannot name three of Singapore's presidents, nor tell you what the capital of Indonesia is.
Apart from pumping iron, and indulging in his own hobbies Carl has little interest in -- and knowledge of -- what's happening outside his bubble.
Unfortunately, Stanley was bubbling and boiling to the point of no return.
"Adam here dresses up, even though he looks like Ellen DeGeneres," Stanley said to Carl, pointing a finger at me.
I knew better than to rebut. An angry Stanley is like an angry mother who, even though she's scolding your sibling, that flammable anger can easily catch fire on you if you so much as to appear in that angry mother's peripherals.
I took a sip of my tap water and tried to ignore Carl's pleading look.
Finally, Stanley decided to stop.
"It's up to you if you want to dress up like a hobo," he concluded, and signalled the waiter to place our orders.
To be fair to Stanley, it's been quite a while since the three of us had partied outside.
In our thirties, before we each bought our own places, we would often hang out at trendy places to see and be seen.
And we'd often dress up since many of those places were patronised by equally shallow people who're keen to be seen and heard.
A decade later, while we had outgrown that shallowness, Stanley had often wished we could still revert to those happy party nights every once in a while.
Since we each bought our homes, parties have been confined to very comfortable and cosy settings, often at Stanley's lovely home in Queens Close, or occasionally, at my large one-bedder.
Two weeks prior to our table-for-three dinner date, Stanley had made it a point to remind us to dress up and have a good time outside.
To be fair, I don't blame Stanley for flaring up -- the memo was sent to us
To be fair to Carl, he's not the most intelligent person in our group. And while he definitely means no harm, his world is all about him and his hobbies, him and his interests, and him and that himbo brain of his.
Stanley decided to move on and make the Italian chefs busy with our food orders.
Promptly, cocktail orders were placed (Carl who arrived the earliest chose a girly pink drink; Manhattan for Stanley and a negroni for me).
And while we sipped our cocktails quietly, Stanley decided on a wide range of dishes to fill our table -- a $200 bottle of Italian wine, sirloin, pasta, sausages, cold cut platter, fish and lots of bread.
The night was indeed beautiful.
The Italian restaurant was bustling with life and laughter.
Soon, Stanley relaxed as the alcohol kicked in.
Carl was visibly relieved.
As I looked around the restaurant, I realised that there's a Carl at every table.
Right behind us was a family -- the 50-something daddy dressed in a t-shirt and a pair of faded, washed out berms.
To our right, a man came with his woman companion. The woman was dressed up decently -- blouse and pants. The man looked like he decided to skip is IPPT and come straight to dinner, clad in a black sports t-shirt and shorts.
The most decently dressed table -- apart from ours (but minus Carl) -- was this young couple who looked to be on one of their first puppy love dates.
The boy with floppy hair was wearing a loose striped shirt. His jeans were torn at the knees and shin, as if he fell from his skateboard enroute to Duxton Hill.
I have not been out for quite a while since COVID, and seeing this many people is a culture shock to me -- both in terms of mass and dress sense.
Are Singaporean men hopeless in dressing?
I mean, yes, I know Singaporean men are famous for wearing their flip flops and sports attire while dinning out.
But at a trendy restaurant downtown?
What has happened to the dress sense of Singaporean men?
I dared to raise this topic after our fourth round of glass refills .
Stanley rolled his eyes.
"Singaporean men wear sports t-shirts and jeans even to wedding dinners. What do you expect?"
Indeed, I must say that my fellow countrymen are an embarrassment when it comes to wardrobe pieces.
We're no frills like that, and that's a good thing.
But there's fine line between no frills and no class.
Has the Singaporean men dressing been influenced by years of being told what to wear?
Perhaps, we all started off on the same page: Our mummies decided for us what to wear, down to our boring, white briefs.
When we went to school, we were all forced to dress uniformly though we each tried to find our own style.
And then came National Service where again, we're told what to wear: Standard-issue tees, shorts, shoes.
It's like after all those years of hand holding, men have simply given up on buying their own clothes and resorted to reaching out for the first piece of clothes they see on their way out.
Sure, army singlets and unit tees make for comfortable Sunday fashion. Visit any heartland coffee shop or hawker centre and you'll see just that: Men of all shapes and sizes, of all ages, wearing just that, and sipping kopi in their just-out-of-bed hair.
At shopping centres, we seldom see men bothering to dress up.
It's the proud Singaporean man identity -- wear a sports finisher tee, or an army singlet with shorts and slippers.
"What's there to be proud of, come to think of it," Stanley asks.
Carl starts to shift uncomfortably in his comfortable dry-fit tee.
"Then again, what really matters to me isn't so much as what the men choose to wear," Stanley said.
"At the end of the day, it's what 's beneath those bad dressing that matters."
I saw a couple near my home the other day.
One angmoh man, one Asian woman.
The woman may or may not be an SPG.
And she may or may not be speaking in a distinct Western accent.
The key word here, is distinct because what came out of her mouth was definitely an angmoh accent.
British, in fact. Mainly.
The intonation and even the choice of words were designed to sound like sentences that might come out of the Queen's mouth.
"That's pretty wicked," the Asian woman had said.
The problem is, Ms Asian Who Spouts British Accent had said the word "pretty" like an American, softening the 't's such that it sounds more like priddy instead of prittee.
I may sound priddy judgemental but I'm definitely sure Ms Asian is putting on an accent.
I really shouldn't be bothered by something so trivial but fake accents has always been my pet peeve.
It's not so much that I cannot accept people who speak with accents.
I can. If it's natural.
My partner of 20 years J for instance.
Despite having converted to be a proud pink-IC-carrying citizen, and despite having spent his education in Singapore since 11 years old, he still speaks English with an Indonesian accent.
Perhaps, it's deeply embedded in him -- his entire family including his sister-in-law who's from Surabaya speak like that.
I strongly believe that accents are planted and cultivated very early on when we learn to speak -- and subsequent changes in accents is not natural but by choice.
Sure, if one chooses to adapt a different accent, that's perfectly fine.
But not when the purpose is to put on a fake front because it's glamarous.
I have a friend whose mission in life is to elevate his own status and show off whatever little he can: His degree, his wealth, his love for art and just how widely-travelled he sounds when he speaks with an American accent because he studied in the US.
Said friend would try very hard to sustain his accent.
But like a heavily made up geisha who uses cheap cosmetics, as the night goes on, his accent wears off, revealing who he truly is beneath that put-on accent. Just a Singaporean boy who attends a non-elite school and sounds exactly like that.
For that friend, he ought to worry about fixing his grammar more than sticking to a fake accent.
And don't get me wrong -- I have nothing against neighbourhood schools at all.
My problem is fake accents, fake identities.
And I'm also a bit miffed at how we Asians often tend to look up to Western accents as superior.
I always wonder: If I ordered food at a posh restaurant with Hokkien-accented English, would I be mocked by fellow diners and the smartly dressed waiters? If my presentation to my board of directors were delivered in, say, English with a Vietnamese accent, would I impress anyone? Or can I get better service on the phone if I called and sounded like I just got off the boat from somewhere?
Years ago, a Singaporean friend whom I was studying in Australia with told me that if we sounded too Singaporean, the angmohs won't understand us.
"What's more, we should blend in and sound like them!".
That bitch goes around speaking with an American accent on good days.
And while I was there, I did pick up the accent.
In fact, I'm so good with sounding Aussie that if you closed your eyes, you wouldn't expect that those words are coming out of the mouth of an Asian -- a very proud Asian who disapproves of unnecessary Western worship.
During one term break, I took a holiday at the Gold Coast.
I ordered fish and chips and when the young Aussie girl handed me my food, she leaned over and said sincerely -- but with deliberate slowness in case my Asian ears didn't catch her -- that You speak good English.
I know she wasn't being sarcastic. I swear she was earnest because that poor girl must have interacted with 500 Japanese tourists a day and none of them would speak English the way I did -- with clarity and a distinctly Singaporean accent.
But I was young and also priddy guai lan back then so I couldn't bite my tongue.
I smiled, and said with equal slowness that I learnt English from OUR coloniser.
I left that poor and sincere girl to digest my Asian sarcasm.
When my younger brother studied law in the UK and came back during school holidays, he would always speak with a crisp English accent just to irritate me, knowing full well that I'm irked.
I once told him that I will slap him across the face if he didn't stop it.
My English-accented threat was well received.
Now that I'm more mature, I am also milder.
And when I do come across fake-accent spouters, I go right to the heart of the matter.
I keep asking them about their accent and trace the origin right back to that person's ancestral roots.
My partner J says I have nothing better to do.
"I can't understand you amid your thick Indo accent," I replied him, giving him my best Bapak accent.
