Fridae

This column was going to be about the Oscars. You know, the usual crap on who wore what, who didn't wear what, and how after four years, I'm still sore over Gywneth winning that Oscar (I'm putting the finishing touches on my elaborate plan to break into Ms. Paltrow's abode, gag her with that stupid pink Ralph Lauren dress, steal her little gold man, and return it to its rightful owner - Cate Blanchett. Who's with me?).

For several hours, I tried writing my glitzy, professional piece on Hollywood's biggest night, but it just didn't feel right. I took some time out and did some introspective soul searching (I went to the pub). It was then that I realized what was wrong. It struck me that after having written Oscar columns for the last five or six years, I simply didn't feel like it anymore. That's why I've decided to write about something infinitely more interesting - me.

About a year ago, I packed my bags and moved to Melbourne. I share a nice little house out in the suburbs with four of my best friends and a garden gnome (we weren't allowed to keep any pets).

With two gay guys, two straight guys and a girl, the house is like The Brady Bunch meets Will & Grace. It's great though. We've known each other for years, and so even though we're all pretty much from different planets, co-existing in the same habitat isn't a problem at all.

Walk around the house and you'll hear Radiohead, Kylie, PJ Harvey, and Emil Chau coming from the different rooms. You'll probably see copies of DNA (Australia's fag mag), FHM, and Cosmopolitan lying around the place, and depending on who's computer it is that you're looking at, either naked boys or girls on the screen's wallpaper. We also hang out for drinks at least once or twice a week, and talk about almost everything.

On top of that, with our hormonal powers combined, we have the capacity to check out every form of eye-candy in a room. Yes, we are a deadly force to be reckoned with.

So life was good. Sorta like Sesame Street if some of the muppets came out of the closet (we're still waiting, Big Bird). But this alcohol-aided tranquility was not to be.

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Our utopia has recently been violently ripped apart by a savage force. It swooped upon us and snatched the peace away in its razor-like talons. We never saw it coming and were defenseless against its destructive power. We never stood a chance against� television. [Cue scary thunder and lightning effects].

Now, television had always been our friend. Seeing that we have no life to speak of, it gave us something to do instead of staring at our pubes, contemplating why they never grew long enough to braid.

On top of that, the programme line-up was terrific. We had The Simpsons everyday of the week, Letterman six out of seven days of the week, and shows like Friends, Malcolm In The Middle, South Park, The X-Files, Buffy The Vampire Slayer, Everybody Loves Raymond, Charmed, Ed, and the fabulous Sex And The City nicely littered across the week. But the evil powers that be at television networks decided that they couldn't possibly let us live a happy existence, and just had to shake things up. The bastards.

The attack came in the form of a Trojan horse, evil intentions disguised as good news. Unaware of any disturbance in the force, I jumped around the house in my boxers when I found out Six Feet Under and brand new seasons of Buffy and C.S.I. (Crime Scene Investigation) - all of which I've been twitching in anticipation for - were about to materialise on my television screen. Woo hoo!

Then without warning, they dropped the bomb. Buffy and Six Feet Under now shared the same timeslot, as did Charmed and C.S.I. A mushroom cloud loomed over our house, as two simple words were uttered - "oh fuck".

Ok, let's review the situation. Monday nights were now home to Six Feet Under, the exciting new series created by American Beauty scribe Alan Ball. This quirky, well-scripted, Golden Globe-winning series about a family-run funeral parlour has a gay man as one of its central characters, frequent sex scenes, and occasional drug use. What's not to love?

The new season of Buffy however, also has a strong case. The vampire butt-kicker died in the last season, and we wanna know how the gang brings her back to life.

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On top of that, Willow the Lesbian Witch has evolved wonderfully into one of the most interesting characters on television. And we wanna see bad boy Spike and Buffy get it on later in the season. Oh, and did I mention one of the straight guys in the house has a hard-on for Sarah Michelle Gellar while the other gay guy wants to be her?

Tuesday nights pit the charmed ones against the sexiest nerds to ever solve crimes. C.S.I. is arguably the most exciting and consistently well-executed drama made for free-to-air television. It is intelligent, very addictive, and the black guy in it is really hot.

In the other corner, Charmed seems like must-see TV since the producers have introduced a sexy new witch sister to replace Shannen Doherty's dead Prue. Also, Alyssa Milano and Julian McMahon (who plays Cole, Phoebe's hot-as demon boyfriend) have a matching set of his and hers abs that make for a delightful, crowd-pleasing television experience.

With the VCR long dead and buried (and the fact that we're too broke to afford a new one), I decided to reason with them. I pointed out the fact that just like Sex And The City, Six Feet Under will never see the light of day in Singapore, whereas we could watch Buffy anywhere and even find the video collection with ease.

I also explained that the new season of Charmed was looking thoroughly silly with the writing sliding towards complete shite, and drew everyone's attention to the fact that the chemistry between the two old witches and the new one had no fizz at all. Hence the obvious choice would be to watch the sharp, ingenious C.S.I. instead.

They didn't buy it. I started whining.

Then I remembered a valuable lesson I learnt from my last relationship (or was it Sesame Street?) - compromise. I knew we had to be adults and settle it in a mature and sensible manner. So I poked one of the straight guys in the eye and said, "I don't care! Buffy or Charmed? Choose one you stupid idiot!"

He chose three pairs of tits over one, I got to watch gay men and dead bodies, and we all lived happily ever after.

The End.