Model Behaviour -- Just Barely

While I was at Island School (my secondary school), one of the main aspirations for any student that took school seriously was to become Head Boy, Head Girl, or to become a School or House Prefect. I only made it to House Prefect.

As a Prefect you were expected to set exceptional examples as a hard working student to students in lower years. My House Masters reminded all Prefects that the students in the lower years would be looking up to us like we were their older brothers and sisters.

As a Prefect, you also got to wear a badge with your House colour. The dorky Prefects wore their badges on their chests, while the cooler Prefects chose to wear their badges on their hip pockets or rucksacks.

Some of my friends were shocked I made Prefect, while others expected it like they knew someone would fart after eating a big can of beans. I made great grades, was on the volleyball and swim team, did a lot of volunteer service, and was involved with the drama crew. On the other hand, I had the nickname "King Skiver" (Oxford Dictionary: to "skive" is to avoid work or a duty). I was often skiving with friends sneaking off to First Pagoda on the school running path to smoke cigarettes and play D&D, or sneaking off to Central to play video games at the arcades. My friends that stayed at school always came up with excuses for me:

"Where's Ch'ien?" one teacher would ask the class.
"He had to go to the Malaysian Consulate to do something with his passport" a friend would say.
"Again? Didn't he do that last week?"

I had the good grades and I never really got questioned about my whereabouts. I was also teacher's pet for most of my subjects. When I utterly liked a teacher and thought they were going above and beyond with teaching me something, it was not unusual for me to sketch a portrait for them and frame it or purchase them an ostentatiously huge bouquet of flowers.

During this time when I was in the Sixth Form, my oldest brother, Tien, was a hot model in Hong Kong. He'd done a lot of print and TV commercials and when his casting agency asked if he had any brothers for new talent, he recommended both his younger brothers. So what if casting was during school hours? My parents thought it was fun so they didn't mind that my middle brother and I went the next day. My friends at school just rolled their eyes when I told them the news.

I got cast for the same local clothing company, Theme, as Tien. My middle brother got Jack. I shot my first TV commercial and Print campaign a few weeks later without Tien since he was at the University of Nottingham in the UK studying Econometrics.

It was a thrilling experience. Lights, cameras, your own make-up artist, all these different outfits. Some Director yelling, "Cut!" Theme was basically like the Gap brand so you can just imagine the silly, cheesy things we were doing in the early 90s. The backdrop was a theme park by the beach and I still cringe thinking back to the shoot. The Director took photos of us having fake conversations and laughing with the other Models like we were besties. *puke*

When the campaign rolled out my friends were glued to the TV to catch the commercial. Teachers and students took the MTR subway to catch my billboards. Friends brought the Theme catalogue to school to pass it around. It was really cool. All thanks to my cool oldest brother that hooked me up.

A few months later when Tien came back to Hong Kong for break, Theme wanted another shoot with the brothers both in the campaign. This shoot took place on Macau Island and would last several days -- they totally upped the budget! I was so excited for round two! Two of the previous female models were also rehired and this story was going to revolve around my brother dating one of the other girls.

The morning we were supposed to head to Macau I was ready to start immediately. I probably didn't sleep a wink the night before. We met with the casting agency and before I knew it, the whole team was on a boat to Macau. Already, something was different. I realised right away I was nothing more than an extra! All attention was on Tien. The hotter brother.

"Tien, how's uni going?"
"Tien, you look great! Have you been working out?"
"Tien, we've all missed you so much! We're so glad you're helping out with this campaign!"
"Ch'ien, your brother is such a cool guy!"

I was invisible, stuck on a boat, and stuck on an island for a few days having to listen to this grovelling. I was literally a dull star barely in the orbit of my gorgeous brother's radiant universe.

I got through the first day of shooting -- just. I often asked myself why Theme even hired me back? I must admit that during shooting, I saw my brother in a whole different light. He was a really great model. He took direction really well and the camera loved him; heck the entire crew loved him. Tyra, my brother was smizing like you wouldn't believe! I reminded myself that there was just one more day of shooting I'd have to endure.

The shoot the next day continued where the first ended. More of Tien. Somewhere in the middle of the shoot the Director wanted to try something new. He wanted more props.

"Give Tien the good stuff! He's the Jock in this story. Come to think, since he is the Jock, give Ch'ien the books. He looks like the studious type," the Director said.

Did they know who I was? I'm King Skiver on my turf! What the hell? Regardless, I did what I was told and when the Dirctor started shooting I even heard him say, "He looks so natural with this. We should have given him the books sooner."

I bit my lip and put a pen to page thinking I was Shakespeare about to write the hottest sonnet ever.

"That's right, Ch'ien! That looks great. Keep going," burped the Director.

I continued doodling what I knew to be my brother with a cock in his mouth.

When it was time to do the final group shoot, something happened. It was like art imitating life and Tien and the lead female model, Maria were in some row! Voices were raised and the Director immediately started to panic. The 2 heroes were supposed to be in love! These were models, not actors! What if they couldn't turn off this sudden hatred for one another when the cameras started rolling? I just wanted the shoot to be done so I knew I had do try and calm my dai lo (an endearing term given to your oldest brother) down.

"Dai lo, let's just all take a deep breath and forget about whatever Maria said and finish this shoot?" I tried to sound as sincere as possible. I really wanted this shoot to be over.

Tien turned around and glared at me. He didn't say a word. After what felt like 5 minutes of some staring contest (it was probably only about three seconds), he turned to the Director and told him to roll it. I couldn't believe it! I must have earned Tien's respect somehow and he agreed to listen to my suggestion! It was like a breakthrough. Like reading a Shakesepare piece to a girl to make her go gaga. I dissolved back into the background and let the shoot come to an end.

"It's a wrap!"

Everyone cheered and we loaded onto the coaches to dinner. My whole being was relieved. This crazy shoot was over and I connected with my dai lo! When we sat down at the restaurant I knew my meal even tasted better then usual. My glands and feelings were alive! All were in great spirits and they even fed us a couple beers to celebrate. We played some games and when we all started yawning from the day's labours we headed back to the hotel.

When my brother and I got back into our hotel room, I called the first shower and rushed into the bathroom. It was so refreshing to clean up. We had been modelling winter items in the heat of summer. I washed all the product out of my hair and wiped any make-up remains from my face.

"All yours," I told my brother.

He went into the shower and I changed into my pyjamas. I tucked myself into my bed and anxiously waited for my brother to come out so we could have a bro-to-bro chat and review the day. My dai lo eventually came out of the bathroom. He had his towel wrapped around his waist to show off his pecs and six-pack.

"Don't ever disrespect me like that in public ever again," he said to me.

I couldn't believe what I just heard? I asked him what he was talking about? How did I do something that would upset him so much and not be aware of it. Apparently when I asked him to keep the shoot rolling I was siding with Maria and the Director.

"This was one of the worst model shoots I've ever expereinced," he continued.

"But, I..." I tried.

"I don't want to talk about it anymore. And don't talk back to your elders. You were wrong. Just go to bed. I don't ever want to do a shoot with you again."

My dai lo turned off the lights and crept into bed. I'm not entirely sure but I think tears welled up in my eyes. Of course Tien didn't see them as he was turned with his back facing me in his own bed.

*****

My relationship with Tien improved with time. At the end of the day, he's family and we got over our immature arguments. He's become one of my best friends and a real mentor for my life. I'm grateful I got to share that modeling experience with him and because of him.

Tien continued modelling for years to come and even got several acting gigs. That shoot with Theme was the last time I ever modelled. Except for being a role-model at Island School. I was a House Prefect there.

Love For Those You Respect

I think we've all received that email that asks you to name famous people that invented things throughout history or that accomplished grand feats in their lifetime. The final question was something like "Now try and name a teacher that nurtured you and inspired you." Now that's an easy one.

The goal of the email wasn't really testing your strength in trivia but moreso to demonstrate we all remember those whom have made a positive impact in our lives.

I went to a secondary school in Hong Kong called Island School. It was part of the English Schools Foundation that was established for British Expats' children to attend while their parents were stationed in Hong Kong. Being a British Colony at the time, there were huge numbers of these British kids that needed their homeland education so they could still compete with their homeland peers when it was time for uni hunting. Island School was one of the best schools in Hong Kong when I was there; excelled in education, sports, and even drama. It also had House names a lot more interesting than other Secondary Schools in Hong Kong. Ours were separated by famous innovators: Nansen, Da Vinci, Einstein, Fleming, Rutherford, and Wilberforce.

One teacher that really stands out in my memory is Mr Galbraith. He was my form tutor years one and three, if I recall correctly. He was also my French teacher forms one through three. We crossed paths a lot in the seven years I was at Island School since we were in the same House, Fleming. When I got my class sheet on my first day in Form One I was so thrilled to learn French was mandatory. French! That's the language they speak in Paris! That fabulous city that everyone romanticises about!

I knew from first meeting Mr Galbraith he was a "nice" man. He was going to be a "nice" teacher. There was something about him. He had that really friendly aura. He literally had that 'je ne sais quois."One of those people that could never lose their temper. He was all smiles when he welcomed us First-Formers to our new school. Something deep inside me knew I could count on this guy for anything!

Entering secondary school was a big deal to any eleven year old. It's like entering middle school or becoming a freshman in high school. When I was in Peak School (my primary school), I somehow adopted the nickname, Chengy. I can't remember how it came about but now that I was in secondary school could I drop the "y" and make my name sound a little more grown-up? Kind of like Ludacris using his real name when he was trying to break into a serious acting career or P-Diddy doing the same thing when trying to establish a serious fragrance and fahion label?

Even though my name is Ch'ien (pronounced more or less like "Chen"), my friends that joined me from Peak School managed to appease me somewhat by calling me "Cheng." I suppose that sounded a little more mature. I could deal with it.

So fade to black and cut to new scene where I'm sitting in my first ever French class with Mr Galbraith...

He started off by calling off the roster adding a French twang to each name. Robert became Robert (with the silent "t"). Michael became Michel. Helen became Helene. Ch'ien became Cheen. Cheen??? That doesn't sound so fancy! What's up with that. Later in the class as we started to learn some animal names I realised Mr Galbraith didn't want to call me "dog!" That's right. Mon prenom, Ch'ien, c'est comme "le chien" mais il y a une apostrophe apres le "h." I hated my parents for giving me my name! They insisted the name was given by a Chinese God and that my first name meant "healthy" in Chinese. Screw me not wanting to be called Chengy because for most of my first year at Island School I was called the 'Healthy Dog...'

Mr Galbraith was so gracious. There were plenty of teachers that would have teased students at any chance but not Mr Galbraith. He snapped at anyone that called me chien. I felt like I owed him something so I made sure to try my best to excel in French. I did pretty good for the most part. Mr Galbraith was always very encouraging even when my homework came back with a lot of red and I had to redo a lot of it.

By the third year when most of the kids in my year were about thirteen, we drove Mr Galbraith nuts one day. Afterall, isn't thirteen, like the ultimate "Mean Teen" year? I can't remember what exactly happened in class, but Mr Galbraith was as angry as he could be. He couldn't really raise his voice, but he was trembling and red in the face. I wasn't one that was in trouble (why would I be when I was teacher's pet) and I just sat at the front of the class snickering at those who were getting a scolding. After a few minutes I suddenly became the target of his fury:

"Ch'ien-hung, please leave my classroom if you're going to continue being so rude snickering in the corner!" he said with his finger pointing to the door.

I got up and walked out the room. I couldn't believe it. But it was my own fault. I knew he was really upset as he called me by my real full name. Like how you would say it in English. He continued yelling at some of the kids inside and when he was done with them he came out to meet me. His face was still ruby red.

"Ch'ien, don't ever let me catch you smirking again in my classroom. Now get back inside." he said.

I felt humiliated. The hooligans were yelled at but I was sent outside. How could he do that to me? To think that I had once wasted my time sketching a portrait of him and framing it as a thank you gift the year before!

Later in some period where we had to watch some documentary in a lecture hall, I took out some Tipex and started drawing Mr Galbraith getting it doggy style from another male teacher on the table. There were rumours that Mr Galbraith was gay. I knew what I was doing was bad, but I finished this masterpiece nonetheless. My friends sitting next to me thought it was hysterical.

By the end of the third year it was time for us to pick what subjects we wanted to continue for our GCSEs. I still loved French and decided to continue the subject. I ended up with a new French teacher, Ms Church. Ms. Church and I hit it off from the get go, too. And for some reason, her teaching method really clicked with me and I was suddenly top of the class hardly ever getting any red in my homework. I was writing essays in French with no problem.

One day when I was walking down a corridor between periods I passed Mr Galbraith and he stopped to ask me how I was doing and enjoying French with Ms. Church.

"She's great. I'm actually learning something," I said with a smile and continued walking. As soon as I said it I realised how it came out and felt bad. I didn't mean to sound so bitchy or did I? To be completely honest, I'm really not sure.

Through the rest of my time at Island School, Mr Galbraith never stopped checking in on me. I continued French in my A-Levels with Ms Church, but at the end of Upper Sixth Form, I was invited to Mr Galbraith's end of year French Party at his house with his students. I went and he welcomed me like I was still one of his own.

When I got to University, I continued French for another 2 years until I had to focus my time on my major, Mass Communications and Advertising. I always reminisced of my time with Ms Church and Mr Galbraith. When I graduated Uni and was trying to figure out my career path, I somehow got a little retrospective of my life of twenty odd years. Somehow Mr Galbraith popped up. I decided that I would contact Island School and tell them I attended that Secondary School and I was hoping to get an email address for a former teacher. I was informed he had left the school but was still teaching at another school in Hong Kong.

I emailed him. It was a very short email with the usual "getting back in touch" script. Hey it's me... yadda yadda... Remember? How are you? Just thought I'd get in touch... yadda yadda.

I got a response from him the next morning. He was twelve hours ahead of me and pretty much responded immediately. It was a long email. So sincere. But that was him. We continued to write each other. Somewhere in the communications we had come out to each other.

A few years later he was travelling to Toronto and stopped through Boston so we could catch up in person. It was like old friends catching up. He insists on calling him James but to this day I still feel weird calling him James rather than Mr Galbraith. Three years ago I attended his wedding to his partner, Alvin, in Toronto. It was so surreal that two men were getting married at the time! Yay! Go gays! It was thrilling and exciting. Many of my old secondary school teachers were there. It was very awkward at first but pretty soon we were all just peers. Many spoke to me in French but I just replied in English. Je suis tres embarrasse parce que j'oublie beaucoup de mon francais. My sad attempt at a response.

Yesterday I received an email from James that was 1,729 words long. He's really good at keeping in touch. Me, not so much. He and Alvin are doing well and still deeply in love. A big smile always surfaces when I read his emails. Now when I think back on how this friendship evolved I get nostalgic and a little dreamy. I think James was like a Guardian Angel. He was always looking out for me. I like to think he always knew I was different as a kid. A closeted gay. When he kicked me out of his classroom, he was just teaching me how to be classy. Smirking is idiotic. Unless I'm now smirking at the fact I didn't let this mentor slip out of my life.

While I'm Sober...

So I might be a high-functioning alcoholic. I say this seriously; with serious sincerity and concern, but also with serious denial.

I came across the term HFA when I was with a therapist talking about work drama. I'd see my therapist every week and I would also talk about what I might have done the night before or during the weekend. I have a very social lifestyle and a lot of it revolves around dinner parties, restaurants, bars, and at the time, night clubs, too. Having done some social work at a local AIDS organization, I'm familiar with speaking to clients and listening to them opening doors to chapters of their lives. I could see how my therapist might have thought I was unlocking a door of conversation and waiting for her to enter this long chapter of my imbibing ways.

When she asked about how much alcohol I consumed, I'd tell her. If I couldn't be honest with my therapist, why bother going to see her?

"Last night I had about eleven Jack and Gingers?" Her eyes widen.
"The night before maybe five martinis?" Her look turns to speculation. I continue the recollection of the previous days like there was nothing strange or unusual.

I think she might have been shocked I could have so much alcohol without collapsing into an "A-Hole" (get your minds out of the gutter; that would be an "Alcoholic Hole" of dementia...). She recommended I read a book by an author from Massachusetts who wrote about high-functioning alcoholics. I read it.

I'm a skinny Asian. we're not supposed to be able to hold our alcohol. Somehow I can. My friends are often shocked or impressed since now I like to drink bourbon neat. Why add mixers? Mixers are additional sugars my body doesn't need. Some of my friends might say mixers are cheating. My other friends would say those aren't friends.

So where did this all start? I remember my dad was the first person to cause my oldest brother's first hangover. My brother, Tien was around ten at the time.

Apparently my dad was once taken advantage of when he was younger. Colleagues took him out one night and got him drunk and persuaded him to sign some sort of document. Being the caring father, he did not wish this on any of his sons "ever" and was determined to make sure we had a high tolerance for alcohol. I guess to him the sooner we started the better. So one night when my parents were hosting a dinner party, my dad thought it would be fine for Tien to try some wine since he was being "supervised."

Drinking at my house was normal. My parents always ended the night with a glass of wine, a beer, or a Johnny Walker. Why then did I start sneaking into the liquor cabinet, take a shot of the scotch and point fingers at my folks?

"Son, my Johnny Black is almost gone!" my dad would say.

"I guess mum's been drinking it," I would respond. My dad thought that must have been it and without question pour himself a glass on the rocks. Little did he know my mum had asked the same thing and I blamed it on my pop.

The drinking age in Hong Kong was 18 at the time. All my white friends got into bars since they tend to look older. Asians are cursed with the baby face syndrome. Luckily for me, my friend, Billy Allen, had a mum who owned a restaurant in Hong Kong's Central district, The Go Down. We'd always go in without a problem and we'd start the booze train.

At 16, my drink of choice was the Vodka Tonic. It was so sophisticated. I remembered I must have had at least 5 with shots one night, took a taxi home at the end of the night and ran to the toilet where I started my first attempt at projectile vomitting into the loo. My dear, loving mother came to my rescue and rubbed my back with no judgement. She had the grace of an angel. She brought me some tea and told me she was heating something for me to eat. When I came out of the shower she was waiting for me at the table with a concerned frown on her beautiful face.

"Son, are you okay? Did you drink too much with your friends? What on earth were you drinking to get you so sick? Did you have a few beers?" she asked earnestly with concern.

I almost choked on my instant noodles. Boy she would have probably been horrified if she really knew how much I had to drink. I let her believe it was because of a "few beers" I was so sick and she just kissed me on the forehead and told me to be careful for the future.

My mum had no concern to worry about me. I had great grades and my teachers always gave me an excellent report card. I saw the headmaster each year because of good grades. My friends would often roll their eyes because for the most part, I was always teacher's pet.

By the time I got to University, alcohol lead me to try pot, acid, mushrooms, and eventually, after I graduated, coke. I graduated University Magna Cum Laude. I never arrived at work late. Yet, at one of my jobs I found myself cutting lines of coke in the bathroom.

"Ch'ien, can you please get that memo typed and ready for our meeting at two?" my boss would ask.
"It's done!" I'd say like a proud lab panting with my tongue out. Then I'd run down the corridor to the bathroom for another "pee."

It was around that time I knew I had a problem. There was nothing in my bag but a mirror and a blade. I was lucky then. I decided to stop and I did. I wish I could have that will power with alcohol. Some of my friends weren't so lucky.

Right around this time when a friend and I were on a good kick, we were out at Buzz in the Theater District before it closed down because of Boston's Chrystal Meth problem. We were invited to an after party and the hosts were hot so we leaped onto the invitation. When we got to the place of residence in the Back Bay area, we were thrilled to see everyone was gorgeous. The only problem was, EVERYONE was doing coke, smoking a blunt, or some kind of drug. In one bedroom there was already an orgy heavy on its way of exploding into a multitude of orgasms.

My friend Mark and I looked at each other. We said we'd be good and stick to booze. We chatted with the dope heads and refused any sexual advances. We weren't prudes. It's just that having sex with someone all drugged up isn't as fun when you're sober, nor responsible when it was all bare-back. By the time the sun came up, most of the the guests had literally come and gone. Somehow, Mark and I found ourselves to be slightly sober and unsatisfied. We were room mates at the time and we decided to ditch the party and call it a night, uh, or morning.

"I can't believe we didn't do anything last night," he said.
I nodded my head and put my hands in my jean pockets. There was room in there now that we didn't need the pockets to hold cigarettes.
"I think I'm going to call my mother now," Mark continued.
"What? What the Hell are you going to say to her at 645 in the morning?" I said.
"I don't know. Maybe I'll tell her I know I've quit smoking."
"How do you know you've really quit smoking?" I mocked.
"Ch'ien, I think you pretty much know you've quit smoking if you can go to a cocaine sex party and you didn't have one cigarette."
I had no argument to what he just said.

Now that I enter a couple triathlons here and there and teach Spinning and indoor cycling at local gyms I really stay away from drugs. I still drink like a fish when I am not seriously training and maybe on very special occasions I might do something a little naughty. It's hard having friends from the UK and the US. On the States side, there's a big stigma and taboo placed on drinking. However, in the UK, my friends there can easily say "let's go out and get pissed till we black out!" without anyone even blinking an eye. "Yeah!" And by the way, I'll have a smoke when I like. In the wise words of Joy Behar: So what? Who cares?

Let's Start From The Very Beginning...

It's a very good place to start. When you read you begin with A, B, C; when I write I'll begin with me, me, me. Me, me, me. It just so happens to be all about me...



So one of my very first memories ever is of me sitting on my mum's lap by the living room window in our house in Hong Kong. My mum and I were anxiously awaiting the arrival of our maid my parents had hired from the Philippines: Maryanne E. We called her Mary for short.

Mary was a very petite girl with hair down to her feet that she always maintained in a neatly origamied bun. I loved watching her wind it up into a leather clasp. I warmed up to her immediately. She was always extremely soft spoken in the presence of my parents, but I clearly remember her cackle when she was gossiping with the neighbours' Filipino "domestic helpers" when our parents were at work.

Having a live-in maid didn't make our family special. My parents were comfortably well-off since both of them worked. My dad decided to move our family from a huge house in Kuala Lumpur to Hong Kong for a great new job with Shearson Lehman Hutton. Having one maid was not impressive growing up in Hong Kong. It was expected socially. Having more than one maid was impressive among this self-imposed class system. Having no maid was what was frowned upon.

My older brothers were 5 and 6 when Mary joined our household. I don't think they ever got as close to her as I did since I was around 2 when she started to take care of me. When my parents weren't home at work or out at the country club or dining with friends I wanted to spend every second with Mary. She was a second mum to me. We ate lunch together. We played together. She drew with me and told me how talented I was at putting pencil to paper. She sang me lullabies when it was nap time. She made my favourite tea time snacks. She read me my favourite Mr. Men books when it was bed time. She was also the one who brought me to church for the first time and introduced me to the naked man on the cross! I think I found my first ever BFF.

It was years later when our relationship started to bitter. Mary had every Sunday off. Pretty much every maid had Sundays off and the majority of them would meet in Central for picnics or barbeque at Repulse Bay or Deep Water Bay Beach. It was like a portable, transient mini-Manila in pockets of Hong Kong every Sunday.

One Sunday I decided to go into her room and draw her Jesus that she had over her bed. Halfway through I was so bored I looked around her room to find a new muse or subject matter to draw. I started on an ambitious still life of her fake flowers; boring. What else might she have? Now I might call myself inquisitive, but I am sure many might just call me a nosy bastard. I decided to go through her drawers and as I was rummaging through a drawer I found a magazine that was folded in half lengthwise. I unfolded it and tried to read the cover but I did not know any of the words. It must have been in Tagalog. The only thing I could recognise was a photo of a semi-nude couple on the cover. An inner heat somehow came over me. I turned the pages and found photos and illustrations of naked men and women. This was exactly what I would draw!

I started a new page in my sketch book and immediately started to scribble these images that I had never seen before. I can't be certain but it is not entirely impossible that I might have had a mini-woody. In the middle of my masterpiece, I heard the front door and the chatter of my parents. My dad called out, "Where's my baby?" Being the youngest, I knew he was referring to me and without thinking twice I ran to meet him and wrapped my arms around him, proud that I was called first rather than either of my brothers. I spent the rest of the day with my family -- doing what, I can't recall, but something that kept me so engaged I didn't realise what I had forgotten.

The next day, after school, I came home and found my afterschool tea snacks waiting for me on the dining table. I thanked Mary but I got a weird stare from her that I had never really seen before. I think I was too young to fully understand guilt, embarrassment or a mix of the two feelings. I went into my bedroom and found my sketch pad on my desk and something rose up in my throat while my heart sunk and soccer punched my gut. I knew I had done something wrong but we never spoke of this incident. A few weeks later, when Mary was out on her Sunday, I went to the same drawer and found the magazine missing. I knew that I had broken a trust we had.

Still years to come, I never knew how I would get my payback. What child even has the notion of Karma?

When I encountered my first orgasm when I was putzing around in the shower it suddenly became my favourite place to be. I would lock myself inside the bathroom and go to town. While inside, it was never my mum or dad banging on the bathroom door asking me to come out. However, when I'd be home alone with Mary, she'd be the one banging on the door asking, "What are you doing? You've been in there for so long! Come out!" I am certain she knew I was doing exactly what every other adolescent boy was doing... Again, it wasn't my parents who unearthed my Hustler magazines and porn material; but it was Mary. She'd earnestly approach me with them and ask me what they were and where I got them. I tried my best to answer nonchalantly by shrugging my shoulders and said "they must be my brothers." Finally, perhaps the most embarrassing yet, she was the one who finally actually caught me in the act of pulling the monkey. Karma.

Mary stayed with my family until I left for University. My parents let her go when they decided they wanted to leave Hong Kong and move to Singapore since all the boys were overseas at school. It was a very tearful goodbye. But Mary had a husband and a daughter to return to. She's still in touch with my parents and often asks about me. I think of her frequently but have never taken the initiative to get in touch with her. I know she knows I still love her.

Prologue: Toilet Reading

I’m originally from Malaysia but my folks packed my family to Hong Kong when I was two. My two older brothers and I attended primary and secondary schools with British Expats and I eventually ended up coming to the United States for University. Fifteen years later, I am still in the States, unemployed, and eagerly ready to start a new chapter in my life. I thought this would be the perfect time to look back on my life and smile about it. I’ve modeled, worked with supermodels (like Christy Turlington!), traveled the world, been on MTV, had a stint as a drag queen, dabbled with drugs (and STIs…) and for the first time ever, been laid off.

I decided the best way to reflect on my 33 years (aside from painting my body in honey and then jumping into glitter) would be to share random stories of my life -- especially since I have so much time on my hands. We’ll see how this experiment works out…

I have no grand ideas about this writing project. I’m just going to have fun and be completely honest. Read these memoirs at your leisure. Perhaps when you're sitting on the toilet doing your business, you could pull up a story on your mobile device, read it, put your device down, wipe yourself clean, flush, and be on your way to a new day.

The following memoirs aren't necessarily in order of how and when they happened in my life. Some names have been altered to protect the guilty...