Whose Song is it Anyways?

Normally, discussions surrounding “art” and “appropriation”, follow a simplistic and linear logic. It usually assumes that the Centre appropriates/borrows/takes/steals elements of culture from the Periphery in order to be “cool”. I have made a simple diagram to illustrate this below.

But watch these three clips from youtube, they indicate, that maybe it’s more complicated.

Exhibit A) T'es Ok! by Ottawan (French Cananadian disco band circo 1970)

Exhibit B) Jimmy Aja from Disco Dancer (classic Bollywood film circa 1970)

Exhibit C) Jimmy by MIA (present day bomb track)

To summarize, we have a classic Bollywood tune, which aped a French Canadian disco act. Which was then given new life by a British born musician of Sri Lankan background. And, I can already see the alternative white girls going nuts flailing their hair back and forth to this track.

And You Say He's Just a Friend

“So, if someone were to ask…”

“We’re just friends,” he answers without needing me to the finish the question.

“Oh, ok.” I say, nodding my head too quickly.

He says that my face always betrays my emotions. That he can read how I feel just by looking at me. I know that he noticed how I flinched. I am sure he saw how I averted my eyes. And, he must have seen that distant look I assumed for a moment.

“The church looks like the one from Kill Bill, it’s so small,” he says after a few moments of silence.

“Oh yeah,” I say trying to abandon my current thoughts. But still, the phase, “were just friends” echoes in my head. “Well hopefully their won’t be a shoot-out”.

Earlier in the day, while he was out picking up his suit from his tailor and I went out to buy a wedding card and dress socks, I had begun to compose an alternate starting for this post. Something to the effect of: I’m so proud of my boyfriend; he has come such a long way. I was then going to elaborate on how for us to steal a kiss at Union Station when we’d first started dating had been such ordeal. We would wait for that fleeting second, when no one was passing by, so our lips could say goodbye. I then planned to discuss how we navigated from such a place of fear, to him now taking me as his date to a wedding. We have grown daring as of late; the public kiss or holding hands not being a moment of panic and self-consciousness.

But being out in public, on downtown streets and hip establishments, at times can almost be anonymous; as mainly the audience and spectator is a random individual, whose opinion doesn’t matter. And, after all, our parents and family live in the suburbs, they don’t come downtown.

“You can take your mother, I wouldn’t be mad, I would totally understand.”

“No, when Fancy Pants first asked me to be his best man, I was like okay, I am going to ask Dutty to come with me,” he declared solemnly.

“People are going to know though, do his parents know about you?”

“No. You’re just my friend.”

“But dudes don’t take dudes as dates.”

“I want you their with me.”

This is progress for us, in fact this is monumental. While I might just be a “friend”, my boyfriend is openly inviting speculation. He knows that it will be curious that I am his date at the wedding, but yet he is willing to bear such a consequence, to have me by his side. I attempt to placate myself with this final thought. But while I am lying in bed, with him fast asleep to my side, I whine at the situation in my head. I imagine myself at a table, surrounded by strangers, with the inevitable question arising, “how do you know the bride and groom?” And, I would then glance over at the head table, and say, “my boyfriend is the best man”. Like a child I want to demand a right to have that moment.

The next day, I sit in his SUV, while Mr. Honey Tongue and the wedding party obey instructions barked by the photographer, my emotions stewing during the hot July afternoon. The photo shoot lasts almost two hours and I have time to let my anger roll to a boil. I imagine myself making snappy retorts if he was to say something cute to me, “but, I thought I was just a friend”. Or be even harsher and declare, “how can we talk about getting married when you aren’t ready to say to people that I’m your boyfriend”.

“What’s wrong?” he asks once all the photo taking is completed.

“Nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, it’s fucking hot today,” I say, deciding that I don’t want to make an issue at this moment.

Later at the reception, I’m having a post-meal cigarette with my boyfriend and an acquaintance of his from high school. They are playing “when’s-the-last-time-you-saw?” exclaiming loud “ohhh’s” and “I haven’t seen them since” each time the other scored a point.

“Yeah, the last time I saw her she was very happy, she had come out of the closet,” says the old high school mate. This turn in their conversation draws me in from the periphery and I stare at Mr. Honey Tongue for his reaction; he just nods.

“I always had a feeling she was…you know how some girls just seem like dykes. But she finally came out and you could tell she’s happy. Why should anyone have a problem with it, who cares who you wanna fuck?”

“Yeah, it shouldn’t matter” my boyfriend responds. He is holding a poker face.

“If anything, if someone has a problem with someone being gay, that speaks to them and their insecurities,” I state.

“For sure, I don’t care man. I love gay people. I love pride.” I give him a good laugh at this.

“Pride is the best party ever.”

“I felt nervous about bringing him,” my boyfriend starts pointing to me. “But, I was like I didn’t care what people think, he’s the only one I wanted to bring.”

“But you’ve been out for awhile now haven’t you?”

“No,” both me and my Mr. Honey Tongue shake our heads in the negative.

“Oh, cuz Fancy Pants had told me a few years ago that you were gay.”

How can you say I go about things the wrong way

I reach into the freezer and withdraw a jar of coriander, which I had frozen for future use. I open the jar and to my astonishment see that the process of freezing has made the coriander into a smooth paste. This is obviously a dream, as just yesterday, the jar I had put in the freezer would not open. I proceed to add a spoonful of coriander paste to some dish I am cooking, maybe its lamb curry?

I am then sitting with my sister and my boyfriend at the dining table in my apartment. Except it more closely resembles the apartment that I had resided in University because of the formation of the furniture. I hear a key turning the lock on my door. I have a moment of panic. I have a vision which shows me the other side of the door and I see my parents. I have an initial urge to run and clear the place of all items that would bother my parents i.e. alcohol, drugs and pork. I resist this urge and remain seated. My parent’s barge in to the apartment and at that instant I look over at my boyfriend and he is now wearing a lavender sari.

The detail of the sari comes to me later when I am showering. It is a beautiful sari with delicate embroidery work of paisleys in pale purple sequins. I recall a photograph from our family album, which shows my mother wearing said sari in 1978, on a trip to Niagara Falls which we had taken. In the photograph my mother looking impossibly young, she is holding me at the age of one, with the tail of her sari fluttering to the side. Her hair is parted down the middle, with her plait of braided hair falling just below her hips. In the background is a white man, with a thick moustache and a mullet, wearing short red shorts and a tank-top in the fashion of the late seventies. The contrast between my mother and the trailer park trash in the background makes the picture stand out in my memory. And, now when I recall the dream, an image of the photograph passes through my head, as if it were part of the dream. Dreams become so malleable after the fact, so unreliable in terms of authenticity.

The dream now becomes flashes of images. My parents are storming through my apartment. My mother picks up a bottle of rum and screams. My father sees a bag of weed and gives me that disapproving stare which is his trademark. I don’t recall them leaving the apartment, but they seem to have vanished. I did not make excuses regarding what they saw but I also did not declare that this is how I live. The dream then rewinds and gives me a flashback; like a Quentin Tarintino film. I see my parents coming up to my apartment, pushing a buggy that is loaded with groceries. They have decided that they will tolerate me living on my own and to show their acceptance they have bought groceries for me. Now it shows my mother talking to me with the buggy of groceries in-between us, and while she doesn’t open her mouth her thoughts come clear to me, “I could accept you living on your own, but I can’t accept your life-style”.

The dream is jarring. I wake up feeling drained and empty inside. I don’t want to get out of bed. I keep going back to sleep, saying to myself, I will rise the next time. I am partially allowed this indulgence as my boss is not in the office today and no one really watches what I do. I finally force myself out of bed at an entirely unacceptable hour and staring out the window I feel remnants of depression. I have the sensation that I am doing something wrong and there is a slight edge of panic. I feel like I did that year in University when I had my first nervous break-down. While I get dressed quickly just throwing on the first item I grab from my closet, I try to understand these feeling of despair I have. For, I haven’t felt like this in ages and these emotions are no longer applicable. I am not in school flunking out of all my classes with mounting debt and dwindling cash in my bank account. If anything, the situation is quite opposite, I have a cute apartment, a successful career and am earning more money than I have ever before. But, their does remain one constant, my parents, who seem incapable of understanding me.

I haven’t spoken to my mother for close to two months. Every day that goes by, which lengthens the silence between us, makes it seem more difficult to break the silence; like a dam solidified with cement every day we don’t communicate. When I first moved out, I would call her every other day. Then it became weekly and eventually bi-weekly. It would always be me calling and our conversation would not last more than two minutes. Our conversation would basically consist of me asking her how everything was, and she would ask me the same. She would then ask what I had to eat for dinner and then wish me a good-day, thereby ending the call. My sister revealed to me that my mother had told her to stop talking to me. My mother’s rationale was that if I felt cut-off from my family, I would feel compelled to return home. I shook my head in sadness when my sister told me this, as it indicated that she still didn’t understand. I also learned from my sister that my mother was outraged I had allowed my sister to have a party and sleepover with her friends at my place, as this broke rules of Muslim propriety.

“That’s so wrong, how could he have four girls sleep at his home,” my mother had supposedly declared.

“Don’t worry, Bhaijan would never do anything, their like his sisters,” my sister had said defending me.

“I know, I know, but what would others say?” my mother had purportedly asked.

“Which others are you talking about Ami? Who is watching what I do?”

After learning about this argument, that my mother knew about my aiding and abetting in a lie to help my sister, I didn’t want to speak to her. It would lead to an argument that would be unpleasant.

I feel the dream is fairly explicit in outlining the impasse that is my life in terms of my relationship with my family. I have gained independence from my parents and now have the freedom to live my life as I please. They will never understand the choices I have made. I always will pause and look away as a chord of sadness is plucked inside me, when me and my boyfriend talk hypothetically about getting married, discussing how we would have our wedding. For I know, that would be an event my parents would never attend. And, if by some miracle they did attend, I would not know how to behave, as I would be plagued with guilt at having to subject them to such an event. My life is on a path that is incomprehensible to them, a Friday sermon describing the evils of the West come to life.

On the way to work, I racked my head, trying to explain the feeling of depression that had infected me in the morning. I realized that I am not eating well. When I first moved out I made a concentrated effort to eat well and to save money by cooking as often as possible. For the last two weeks I have eaten strictly take-out, lots of deep fried foods, lots of saturated fats, and not a vegetable or fruit in sight. In fact, my diet is similar currently to how I ate that horrid year of University. I have definitely found that there is a relation between how I feel and how I eat. And, then I remember the start of the dream, I was cooking some sort of curry; my sub-conscious is giving me a nudge to clean up my diet.

After writing all this, I think I will call my mother tonight. She might have been mad at me before, but now she probably feels that I do not think about her, or can not bother to check up on her. I will make sure that I eat better, so I do not return to an unhealthy emotional state which should remain in the past. Still, I do not know the solution to my impasse, how do I include them in my life? How do I have a gay partner who I potentially might want to live with forever and conservative Muslim parents that believe “the gays” should be shot? This question has plagued me in one form or another since I was a tender young teen and now that I am approaching thirty and the answer is still elusive. Our respective visions of what life should be like are mutually exclusive – how the fuck do you reconcile that?

Twenty-Four Hours in Montreal

Last week I started a new position at the Big Evil Corporation and as a consequence had to fly out to Montreal for a day this week. I was quite excited at this prospect, thinking it was wonderfully fabulous that I was being flown to another city at my company’s expense, and that in-fact this would become the norm. This may be ordinary for many people already, but for me was an exciting novelty.

Upon arrival to Montreal, I had the following first impressions of the city: (1) it is much colder in Montreal than in Toronto, (2) all the cab drivers are Arab, (3) the general population is better dressed and more attractive. I immediately became self-conscious of my thick Anglo accent. While previously I had always felt French-accented individuals to sound comical, with their pluralizing of every word, I know felt that their English sounded pretty, like fluttering butterflies. My own English sounded like rough sand-paper and at any moment I felt like a mob of people would attack me for speaking the Queens English.

I check into the Hilton which is supposedly in the heart of their downtown. I wonder to myself where everybody is, as the streets seem deserted. I have an uninspired meal, with a Martini, which I savour a little more, as it will be complementary after I submit my expense report. I retire to my room and sit on the edge of the bed and miss my boyfriend. Hotel rooms are now forever tied to that period of our relationship, where that was the only place we could spend quality time. I pictured him standing at the window, with me trying to coax him to lie in bed with me.

It’s late and I am tired and I should get to bed for my early start tomorrow morning. However, this is my first time in Montreal and I have a hankering to visit their gay quarters. An internet search before leaving had indicated that Montreal boasted North America’s largest gay village. It was a Monday night though and quite cold, but still, against my better judgment I found myself donning my petticoat and Kangol fedora hat and telling a cab driver to take make to Rue St. Catherine and Rue Amherst.

A club that was supposed to be open on Monday nights appears dead. I walk for a few blocks and indeed it seems this gay village is never ending, the gay rainbow flag is ubiquitous and seems to constantly be fluttering in the far distance. I walk by a couple of boys who are shivering on a snow covered bench rolling a joint; I smile indulgently at them. I walk by a convenience store and see advertising for beer. I recall that they are civilized here and you can purchase alcohol anywhere.

I hear strains of bass spilling out from an establishment. I look at the posters covering the wall and while I can’t read French I discern that this is a male strip club. With no other entertainment options available, I enter the club. There are maybe only a dozen patrons at the establishment, the majority are young groups of two, who only seem to casually glance at the entertainment on stage, with a sprinkling of aged men, who all are flying solo attention squarely focused on “men-tertainment”. I walk up to the bar and see a fairly attractive man on stage with his back turned to the audience and his plump buttocks exposed. It seems that the men from a swim suite calendar have stepped out of their photographs and are milling around and dancing for my viewing pleasure. I order a Heineken and take a seat and take in the view. I suck in my gut, making a mental note that I will have to start going to the gym regularly. I assume from the current performance, that all I’m going to see is lots of ass tonight. The “dancing” only goes on for a song and the dancer saunters away and the DJ announces his name and a number. It appears that if you wish, you can get a more intimate dance, if you head to the back of the club. The next song begins and a male emerges from behind the curtains on-stage. My eyes bulge. His fly is undone and the belt buckle dangles, and out of his black underwear, a fully erect penis is thrusting out. It’s pink and unbelievably huge. It’s not real, keeps going through my head; it looks like a Muppet cock. When he lowers his underwear and I can clearly see that it is attached to his body, I am shocked and mesmerized. I feel I can look at nothing but his appendage, but I don’t want to stare, so I try to look away, but my eyes are instantly drawn back. I feel self-conscious. I have never before felt inadequate in terms of what I am packing. I have never left anyone disappointed and always see that my measurements are a pleasant surprise when unpacked for the first time. But, now seeing this anaconda, in front of me in the flesh, I feel I should be bigger.

The dancers appear in a pattern. The first dancer only exposes his ass. This is followed by a dancer who walks around at full-attention. Every once and awhile a dancer disappears in the back with an old man. Another aroused dancer appears on stage. He also makes me feel inadequate. However, he is quite attractive. His swagger indicates that he probably listens to hip-hop. He has a base-ball cap turned to the side. And he is just walking up and down on stage, as if he were on the street, except his cock is jutting out. My head is beginning to spin at the surreal nature of this place. The next song is “Killing Me Softly” by the Fugees and I feel that I am sitting through a climax of a Wes Anderson movie. I finish my beer, grab my jacket and leave.

I attend training in our Montreal office the next day. While walking around and especially when I got in the cab to return to the airport to fly back to Toronto, I had the feeling of being illiterate. Everything was in French, the advertising, road signs, menus, and I was unable to understand. I suddenly had an appreciation for what my Mother must have experienced when she first migrated to Canada. It’s almost as if you are blinded, being surrounded by hieroglyphics which you can’t comprehend. I have been to foreign countries before, like Pakistan and the Dominican, where I have been faced with a similar situation. This is different though, because in the other situations, I was in foreign countries, where I did not expect to understand. But, here in Montreal, looking out the window, at a city that at times closely resembled Toronto, it gave the impression of being in a parallel universe, one in which I could not read.

I recall a grade nine essay I had submitted, which was supposed to express our opinion on the new French law that mandated that all signs be in French and not English. I think my closing line read something to the effect of, “the people of Quebec should relax and not make such a big deal about signs.” Now, as an educated and informed adult, I now admire what the Quebec government did at the time. They had an understanding of how important language is in terms of being a gate keeper of culture. I have heard it expressed before, and I would agree myself, that Quebec is a slice of old-world Europe preserved in North America. I think this can be largely attributed to the language laws passed here.

I sit in a bar, in the departure gate, seeming to have entered a secret club; that of the business traveler who is en route to a destination. Everyone seems to be laughing and drinking gaily, striking up conversation with their neighbour randomly, exchanging flying horror stories. Black Berries are a must have as they are intermittently taken out and consulted in mid-sentence. I eat my meal in silence and take out my own Black Berry every once and awhile, to make evident that I also am a business traveler, even though I have no new emails to check.

I learn that my flight is delayed by half-hour. I calculate that I will now arrive home close to 11 p.m. Business travel doesn’t seem that glamorous anymore.

Happy New Years!!!

Another year draws nigh and I’m a year older; I just turned twenty-nine a couple weeks ago. I have resigned myself to the inevitable thirty which looms ahead. Maybe it’s a bit of a death march or an attempt to get over my Peter Pan complex, whatever. What makes me happy is my good skin and the fact that my age startles people at times. What makes me sad is that I recall secretaries at old workplace swapping stories of how they cried when they turned thirty. I want someone to give me a nice snow cake for my thirtieth; big thick lines of Colombian blow curving into a fat number 30. My good friends crowded around singing me happy birthday and at the climax of the song, “happy birthday to you!” me and a nice tight bill taste some fine icing.

So it’s December 28, 2006 and today was around 3 degrees. That’s kinda fucked up. It would be cliché to continue along obvious lines, “when I was a little boy…”, but it really is the most logical exclamation. It hasn’t snowed here yet; I live in Canada and that is strange. The next logical cliché statement, “its global warming”, needs to be taken seriously.

“The people of New Orleans, people in Asia who got hit by the tsunami, they know what can happen. They know how the environment can affect their lives. They have seen it.” T. Diddy says in a recent conversation.

“I know. We think we are divorced from our environment that it doesn’t matter, but if you piss off Mother Nature, she can be one mad bitch.”

“Oh yeah, you don’t want to piss off Mother Nature”

“Well, you know, some people say, that in thirty years most of North America will be covered in water, it only takes a little melting of the ice caps,” I inform T. Diddy in a similar graveness I would use to relate plot developments on Desperate Housewives.

“I’m safe, I live in Kelowna. I’m on a mountain.” I can picture T. Diddy beaming when she says this statement. “That’s why you should come live here.”

“No T. Diddy, all of North America is going to be covered in water, you can’t survive in Kelowna.”

“Yes I can, were very high up here Dutty,” she pauses for a moment. I can hear her voice become fainter as she moves the telephone away and ask her Baby Daddy. “How high up are we here?”

“Eight-hundred feet above sea level,” I here Baby Daddy answer in the background.

“Yeah, see we’re safe up here, we’re are eight-hundred feet above sea level, in Kewlona.”

“Ewww, Kewlona.” I make a puking sound. “I don’t need to survive the end of the world living in a hick town in British Colombia on a mountain. I am going to move somewhere wonderfully tropical, like Brazil.” T. Diddy immediately starts laughing at this.

“Oh of course, Brazil.”

“Yes, Brazil, and I’ll keep some cute cabana boys. Maybe someone named Miguel, and a little Jose Cuervo on the side to keep me amused.”

My current favorite past-time (read obsession) is losing myself into TV DVD set marathons. I don’t have cable and really stopped watching TV in the last year of living my parents house. I’ve missed quite a few of the new cool shows out their in TV land. I love Lost and am so glad that I am watching it on DVD rather than on regular TV otherwise I would have pulled out all my hair in anticipation for the next episode. I thought Heroes had some weak writing and poor acting but an amusing enough story arc to follow through episodes. Weeds is fucking hilarious. The last season of Will and Grace is classic. And currently I am watching Prison Break, which leaves me between a hard on and a heart attack; what with the beautiful Wentworth Miller and the adrenaline pumping storyline. The sight of Wentworth Miller renders me weak and wet. Rumour has it that he is gay, wither it is true or not doesn't matter, he is simply a gorgeous man.

I am currently pondering my options for New Years eve, (a) I go see Diplo (who I have been dying to hear spin for two years, as I always miss him when he comes to town) spin a set of mash-up, hip hop, dancehall and funk or (b) spend a quite evening in with my boyfriend, ordering Chinese food and losing myself in a haze of ganja smoke, mimosas, and Melrose Place. Can you believe that I am actually leaning towards option B? I am getting old.

Racism - 2006 Remix Reloaded

I had started writing my post Racism - 2006 Remix with a different direction in mind. The examples I used, were meant to be anecdotal and introductory, leading to a discussion regarding race and music. I felt the post was complete before I took it any further and honestly I felt too lazy to build further on my point. However, as time has gone by, I realize that the original direction I was headed is still relevant and deserves to be aired.

I was going to intertwine what had happened at Tangos and Crews late this summer into my discussion. For those unfamiliar, Tangos and Crews is a gay club/bar located in Toronto’s “gay village” on Church Street. It was in fact the first gay club I visited upon accepting I was gay. I remember sitting their on a plush dirty couch on their top floor, listening to Alanis Morsitte whining in the background. I felt depressed. Alanis did not move me, she did not inspire me, she did not speak to me, and she certainly did not make me want to get up and shake my ass. When getting ready for the night, I had felt a nervous excitement; I imagined that I was going to be somewhere that I belonged. When going to straight venues, while I may have been with a group of friends, and heard music I enjoyed the fact that I saw boys and girls getting their mack on and I knew that wouldn’t be happening to me, always made me feel out of place.

I hate Alanis Morissette. And, while I don’t mind Ani DiFranco, the artist they played next, she was not what I had in mind, in terms of dance music. It was 1996 and at the time hip-hop was the only music that moved me, in heavy rotation on my CD player at the time was A Tribe Called Quest, Gangstar, and Wu-Tang Clan. I accepted it as my fate, that being gay meant either listening to techno or lesbian folk rock. I gave up on the gay scene. I figured that my taste in music could be not reconciled with being gay and so didn’t investigate further.

Earlier this year me and my boyfriend visited Tangos and Crews. The top floor which a decade earlier had maybe ten people dancing to Ironic was now packed to capacity with at least eighty people bumping to a Cutty Ranks track. My initial instinct is to put one hand in the air, grab my crotch with the other hand, and start moving my hips in time to the music. The crowd is probably a third black, with a strong showing by other ethnic groups. Of course, this isn’t the first time that I have been to a gay jam and heard black people’s music. I slowly discovered that within the gay scene in Toronto, their existed sub-scenes, and that one could go to gay hip-hop night or gay desi night. But, this night at Tangos and Crews was different, because it was not being hosted by someone black. This was a “white” club, which recently had begun to play “black” music. All the other popular gay clubs in the city still played exclusively Madonna, Brintey Spears, and ABBA.

I learned near the end of summer that management at Tangos and Crews had banned the playing of Reggae, Dancehall, Reggaton and Soca at their establishment. Now Magaine which ran a piece on the situation stated that Tangos and Crew’s didn’t return any of the calls regarding their policy. As I see it, the club wanted to get jiggy and play some hip music, but didn’t like the people that came in through the door as a result. The music had begun to change the racial makeup of the club and I think that made people uncomfortable. By controlling the music, they attempted to control their clientele, which is really fucked up, if you recall the history of segregation that black folk have endured. Back in the day, clubs used to have “paper-bag tests” where if a black person was darker than a paper-bag they were not permitted in, or “comb tests” where if their hair didn’t pass through the comb this meant no entry. It’s even more fucked up, given that gay people have their own history of persecution and exclusion, and for a gay establishment to continue in a similar vein is disgusting. The club later allowed West Indian music back in their club, but, it was done grudgingly and half-assed. The West Indian music set lasts twenty minutes, with 2 soca songs being played, then 2 dancehall songs being played and so on and so forth. They do it enough, so that you can’t cry racism, but not enough to get the crowd hyped and excited with said genres of music.

We recently had a “Holiday Season” party thrown by the Big Evil Corporation. It was a big event, with a huge venue being rented, and a big name DJ from Toronto’s popular urban radio station providing tunes. I was having a conversation with one of the planners regarding the event, and I came to learn some disturbing news.

“Yeah, he said he didn’t want to hear any rap music,” the planner informs me. The “he” in question, is one of the top Don’s at the Big Evil Corporation. “He said he didn’t like the rap music.”

“That’s not fair, it’s not for him it’s for the call centre,” I reply back.

“That’s what I told him, have you seen the call centre, its uhm pretty urban. He said he didn’t enjoy himself at the last party and he got lots of complaints.” My mind travels back to the last party. I remember being surprised as to how much fun that night had been. I had gone with low expectations given that it was a work function, but ended up dancing the night away on a packed dance floor.

I actually know of the Don in question. He is queer. And while I don’t think there is a “pink” conspiracy to bring about the demise of danceable music, I think he is perpetuating racism through control of music. A good DJ should cater to his crowd. At a work function it is accepted that their will be a wide variety of tastes in music, and a DJ should be able to feel out his crowd and play to them. But to exclude a whole genre of music, which basically means that you are in essence excluding a whole group of people is discrimination. I understand not liking a genre of music, when I am at “cracker” bars and hear the likes of Barenaked Ladies, I feel any sort of buzz I have being sucked out of me. What I see happening here, is the practice of exclusion, which I feel is based on fear; a fear based on stereotypes associated with black culture.

This makes me sad, and to relive my feelings I will smoke a joint and put on some Marvin Gaye, I think the Whats Going On album is in order.

Gender Bender

I am convinced that if my mother had been able to pursue an education beyond grade four she would have been an engineer or at the least a forewoman. My childhood memories are peppered with instances of my mother sitting with a toolbox fixing and repairing some household item. I.e. The VCR which my father opened and left in a million separate pieces is assembled and brought back to proper functionality by my mother. Since my parents bought their house about four years ago, my mother has concocted and executed several complicated renovation projects. Refusing many a time to hire someone, she would observe men at work, in a similar fashion to how she observed a recipe for the first time, and would replicate their efforts herself. So, if you had driven by our home earlier this summer, you would have witnessed my mother squatting in her cotton shalwar kameez assembling the stone tiles for our front patio and walkway.

“Why do we have to do this?” I would ask my mother.

“Be quiet. You should know how to do this. A man should know how to handy-work around his house”. My mother would retort, huffing as she was making sure a stone slab was level.

“Why, when you can always hire someone to help.”

It is this very advice that I follow to solve my own current home décor challenges that I am confronted by. My designs on my apartment were virtually finished, except for a few touches which were proving difficult to complete. The wall in my new apartment appears to be immune to penetration from my drill and so I had drapes, a mirror, and some shelves which were floundering in the corner. I search on craigslist for a handyman to come and solve my current renovation challenges. A person by the name of Stormy responds and I assume the name is some sort of e-pseudonym and contact the number provided. I am caught off guard when I realize that Stormy is the name this person uses for interaction, and that Stormy is a woman.

"So, I called someone to help me put up my stuff.” I am telling my co-worker Sun King.

“You might as well,” he responds.

“I’m so embarrassed though.” I pause. “It’s a woman. I feel so gay.”

“I bet you ten-dollars that she drives a pick-up”.

When I had first realized that Stormy was a woman I hesitated, I was not sure if I trusted a woman to do the job properly. Still, the other guys that I had found were proving to be more expensive, and so I found myself making arrangements for Stormy to come over the next day to do the job. I do feel a sense of disappointment at not being able to complete the jobs myself. Having watched my mother complete all sorts of jobs, I thought these small installations would be a piece of cake. I felt failure at my inability to drill a hole through the ceiling as my boyfriend sits on the couch and watches. Many a time my boyfriend gently reminds me that he is the lady and that entails me having to worry or take care of certain details. The last time he reminded me I relieved him of his heavy bags and walked them from the car to the apartment. So, if he is the lady, I am the man, and therefore I should be able to drill holes to install my drapes.

My mind travels back to my second year of university to my Philosophy of Gender class. Our professor spent the semester attempting to show how gender, sexuality, and sex were constructed via discourses; where males and females enacted binary codes of behaviour based on subject/object positions. Translating this ivory league jargon, basically what is being said is that what it means to be male and female is not based on biology but rather through social interactions we have had since we were children. So, for example the idea that men are supposed to be strong and aggressive, is something that our society cultivates through popular imagery, myths and various narratives that we tell ourselves. I recall that I play with my little boy cousin differently, making playfull boxing gestures, versus how I play with my little girl cousin who I coo at and keep commenting on her beauty.

“So, if our behaviour as men and woman is regulated by discourses, well couldn’t we solve problems like sexism and homophobia if we tried to get rid of discourses?” I pose this question in our class. The professor contemplates the question, in her usual fashion, with her head cocked to one side and her eyebrow raised in interest.

“But if we were to do away with discourses, how would we construct identity, as identity as we understand it is based on the binary of subject/object positions.” She responds in a cool collected manner.

The answer was a typical post modern response. Answer a question with a question. Revel in deconstructing something, but do not seek solution or resolution to the problem, just make it more problematic. However frustrating her response is, I do see her point. While the theory of social construction to me initially translates into a possibility of a utopian gender free society, I realize it to be just that a utopian dream. Being in relationship, especially gay relationships, I see that we still unwittingly re-enact all sorts of male-female bullshit expectations. Hence, I don’t feel like a “man” for being to drill some holes, and I feel uneasy about a woman doing the work for me.

I eventually grow curious to have Stormy come over and do the handy work. At this point I just want to see what she looks like. Initially the name Stormy recalls to my mind some character from a sordid historical romance novel, who would be presented on the cover of the book in an outfit that would have her bosom hanging out and her hair as flowing tendrils in the wind. But, as she is a handy woman, I realize this imagine is not appropriate, and so imagine her to look like Charlize Theron in Monster. I am mildly excited when there is a knock on the door and I jump to the door and peep through the hole.

I am confused as there appears to be a man standing at my door with a big toolbox. I open the door and am shocked. What stands before me appears like an adolescent young male, with peach fuzz for a moustache and goatee. Stormy is wearing white and orange Reebok basketball kicks, vintage plaid dress pants which hang loosely off her undeniably feminine hips, exposing her black Fruit of the Loom male jockey underwear. For her top, she is wearing a long sleeve red shirt with a faded Pixies concert t-shirt with just the faintest showing of breasts underneath. Her face is covered in unfortunate acne and her short unevenly chopped hair is covered by a bright multicoloured cap. I am left speechless. Stormy is a trans male. I welcome her into the apartment and she starts accessing the work that needs to be done. I am dying to ask her if she is post-op or pre-op, but figure that is a tacky question to ask.

She produces her professional tools and gets to work, while I stand to the side, my arms crossed across my chest, inspecting the work being done. I do like this better, inspecting someone do the work for me, rather than do it myself; I always fancied myself more of a Victor Newman than a Dan Arnold. The ceiling proves to be a challenge to her also, she informs me it has to do with this being such an old building, and the ceiling and walls being cement and something about a lack of leverage. I nod at this information, tapping my cigarette in the ashtray, with a sense of relief. I am not incompetent. It is the building and my lack of proper tools that caused the entire problem. This job is a challenge to a professional; I feel somewhat vindicated.

“Excuse me, I hope you don’t mind, I just want to make sure the shelf is level.” I say as I jump in before she makes permanent holes in my wall. I feel that she is not being exact and careful enough as she is installing things. “I just want to make sure it’s exactly right, or it will slowly drive me nuts.” I say to justify the third time I pull the leveler to ensure accuracy.

“No problem I understand you want to make these things perfect. These are the things in life that you can control,” she says pointing to the one shelf which is already installed. “The other stuff that life throws at you, you can’t control, but this, you have in your power to make sure is just right.” I love this rationale. It justifies my neurotic attention to detail in my interior decorating project.

Late in the evening, I slowly inhale from a joint that I have rolled, and let my eyes lazily roll over the finished living/dining room. I like the effect I have achieved. I stare at the shelf and Stormy’s words come back to me; these are the things in life that you can control. I am high and I imbue this words with more significance than they probably warrant and feel that this is indeed a profound statement. I feel that her statement doesn’t just have to reference my shelves and wanting them straight and perfect, but could also apply to problems that arise out of gender relations. While I may feel caught up in discourses; social expectations of what it means to be a man, I do have agency. While these discourses may be necessary in formation of identity and can not be abandoned, they need not control and bind me. Indeed, just by virtue of me being in a gay relationship is subversive. While me and my boyfriend enact dynamics of heterosexual relationships, we are at the same time fucking with those dynamics by being two dudes in a relationship. There is nothing wrong with him wanting to be treated like a lady and have his bags carried by me, and conversely me sitting on the couch with one hand done my pants hogging the remote control is also fine. When we let such patterns blindly control us, and more specifically lead us to hurt or compromise someone else is when we have a problem. But then again, these are the things in life that you can control.

Phir Be Movie hai Hindustani (Still the Movie is Indian)

I believe something really important must be declared and stated. I love Abhishek Bachan. I adore Abhishek Bachan. I want to worship Abhishek Bachan. That man is one of the finest specimens of Indian manhood that I have seen in awhile. His lips, those dropping eyes, the 5’oclock shadow, the lean body, all make me feel giddy and weak, and actually enable me to sit through a Bollywood film for the whole three hours. His smile simply disarms me. When he pouts when he acts I am willing to give him my whole world. And when he dances I want to do things which would make the Indian Censor Board spontaneously combust. I have loved before and been captivated before by the actors from Mumbai; by the likes of John Abraham, Vivek Oberoi and Salman Khan. Now to me, they all pale in comparison to Abhishek.

Being the old school cat that I am, I only watch new Bollywood films if my sister insists that it is an important movie to watch. So, this weekend my sister came over, armed with Dhoom, Dhoom 2 and Bluffmaster. I thought Dhoom was an interesting Hindi action flick, I absolutely adored Bluffmaster. It was wonderfully postmodern and ironically self ware, which almost never happens in a Bolly! I almost felt high during the last few minutes of the movie. But, while watching both movies, the deconstructionist in me was awakened, and I felt something interesting was going on in this films.

Before I begin any serious analysis, I will caveat that I am not fully up to speed on my Bollywood films, and this analysis is limited to four movies. Still, as I understand it, all these movies were fairly popular commercially speaking, and such I think are useful “texts” to be used for decoding. Now, while watching Dhoom and Bluffmaster (I didn’t watch all of Dhoom 2 but it seems fairly close to the original), I was reminded a bit of Bunty aur Babli, another movie my sister had insisted I watch last year. The similarity being that these movies focused on a couple/group who were running cons/robberies, and where also the moral lines of what defines a hero became somewhat blurry.

Amitabh Bachan did popularize the “angry young man” character type in movies such as Shloay, Deewar and Shakti where his character did stary outside of acceptable social morality. In Sholay he played a thug who lived on the fringes of society and whose definition of morality was questionable. What I find interesting, in the modern Bollywood movies, is the intersection of class with this character type. When you watch the old 70’s Bollywood movies with Amitabh playing the angry male, his character is imbued with signifiers of his position in society. These young angry characters of his were young and angry specifically because of the economic/social climate that existed in India at the time. And, if anything, this character type was a commentary on the lack of opportunity that young men living in urban centers were faced with.While Abhishek’s character in Bunty aur Babli does face a crisis at the start of the movie regarding career choice, his dilemma is more of an existential nature, than one of economic necessity. If anything, the characters of these movies, betray a very urban cosmopolitan finesse, not only in appearance but in acting; as the “Hindi” they speak is sprinkled with a fair number of English words. Of course, I know that what I have described above is common for Hindi films lately, but, what is strange is that the link between class and being the anti-hero has been broken in these new movies. These characters are cunning for the sake of being cunning, not because of social necessity.

At this point I am simply musing, as I have said, that I simply haven’t watched enough Bollywood movies to make do fully educated decoding. But, lines from “Phir Bhi Dil Hai Hindustani”, echo in my head:

Toray anaree hay, toray kilaree, (We are a little amateur, and a little tricky)

Ruk ruk kay chaltee hay apnee garee, (and our cars don't go too fast)Humay Pyar ay chahee yea, (We want some love)

or kuch paysay bee, (and also some money)

hum aysay bee hay, (we are like this)

hum hay waysay bee (but we are also like that)

Hum logo ko samaj sako toe, (If you could understand us)

samjo dilbar janee, (then understand us my honey)

Ultee, seedee, jaisay bee hay apnee yahee kahanee, (Wither we are straight or crooked, this is still our story)

Toree humay hosh-yaree hay, toree hay nadanee, (We are a little smart, and also a little childish)

toree humay sachayee hay, toree bay eemanee, (we are a little honest, and also a little dishonest)

Phir bhi dil hai Hindustani (But still our hearts are Hindustani [Indian])

In this song we see the expression of an Indian identity, and identity which glorified, for lack-of-a-better-term Indian cleverness. The song is somewhat of modern interpretation of the classic, “Mera Joota Hai Japani” from Shree 420, in which Raj Kapoor strools across the Indian countryside singing in Charlie Chaplin-esque mode. Interestingly enough, in Shree 420, Kapoor’s treatise on money, happiness and modern India, his character goes through a classic rags-to-riches story again by being a con-man. Again though, his characters descion to be a card-shark and become rich as a result was based on economic necessisty. Whereas in Bunty aur Babli and Bluffmaster, there is no clear connection made between a life of conning and economic need. But returning to an examination of Indian identity, the archetype of an Indian as expressed by Raj Kapoor almost 50 years ago, appears to be someone who is nadan (childish) and hoshar (clever). This made sense when Shree 420 was released, as India was a newly independent state and was allowed to sit at the big-people table. However, the India of today has come a far way, with cities like Bangalore and Hyderabad being IT capitals, and Indian pharmaceutical firms opening head quarters in the Unites States. So, why still evoke this archetype today?

I think that in contrast to North American culture, which really works to stress the Protestant work ethic, Indian culture exemplifies cleverness and shrewdness. I see these new movies exhibiting an anxiety, in terms of trying to reconcile being the underdog rising to the top by any means necessary, with having already risen somewhat to the top and not needing to rely on cleverness. I think the lack of grounding these new movies have in the economic realities of India is indicative of this, with Bluffmaster being a perfect example where Abhishek’s character reliance on conning seems almost habitual; something forced which he can’t help.

I would be interested in getting peoples response on this, to see if they agree or disagree with my analysis. Or, if I get readers from Bharat, who are really experiencing India rather than vicariously through movies as I do, I would really be interested in your feedback.

Arrivals

“Come on down boys,” beckons the security officer at Toronto Pearson International Airport. We both approach his booth and hand over our Passports and disembarkation cards.

“Where did you guys go?” He asks without even glancing up.

“Dominican Republic” we reply in unison.

“Did you guys practice that?” We chuckle at his joke.

“How long were you guys away?”

“One week,” replies Mr. Honey Tongue.

“Where did you stay?”

“At a resort in Puerto Plata,” I state.

“So, what’s your relation to each other?”

“Good friends,” I answer without a second thought.

“How did you guys meet?”

I balk. I open my mouth, but am not sure how to answer. I turn to Mr. Honey Tongue and he is also staring ahead blank faced.

“Do you want to tell him the truth?” Mr. Honey Tongue asks me. I nod in the affirmative, but am unsure as to what truth he refers too.

“We’re partners,” says Mr. Honey Tongue to the security officer.

“Hey, hey,” says the security officer putting up both his hands in the air. “I just asked how you guys met, I don’t need to know about your lifestyle choice.” I wince at the term lifestyle choice. “Did you guys meet at school?”

“We met online.” I respond hastily.

“There you go, that all I wanted to know.” He hands us back our documents.

“I didn’t anticipate that,” I say to Mr. Honey Tongue as we stand by the conveyor belt waiting for our luggage. He laughs.

“What do you mean?” He asks.

“Well, what am I supposed to say? That we were at a club and you eyed me all night, and then coincidently we ended up on the same chat site a couple days later?” I say, as I retrieve his black and grey monogrammed Pierre Cardin suitcase. “We are totally going to get checked by customs.”

“You think so?”

“Yes!” I lean over again and retrieve my red and maroon monogrammed Pierre Cardin suitcase.

We are approaching the sliding doors that would exit us out of the secure area of the airport. There is a mild throng of people in this area, and we get separated into two different queues. We both approach the respective security officer of our queue at the same time handing over our disembarkation cards.

“That way sir,” motions the security officer in my queue, pointing towards a long winding corridor. I look for Mr. Honey Tongue, but his behind had already slipped behind the immediate exit door.

“But, my friend….” I say feebly.

“You will see him in a moment.”

I take my suite case, and walk down a winding corridor, into a large room, where three fellow passengers are already in the midst of a custom examination.

The same officer who directed me here, asks me to place my luggage on a metal examination table.

“Is this your luggage?” She asks.

“Yes.”

“Do you know the contents inside?”

“Yes.”

“You packed this suitcase yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Please, open the suitcase.”

I proceed to open the suitcase for her. Even though all the clothing inside is now dirty, they are carefully arranged according to outfit. The rolled white Lacoste polo right next to the white linen HM pants. She places latex gloves on her hands, and gingerly goes through the contents.

“What’s this?” She asks, picking up an oblong object encased in a Spanish newspaper.

“A sculpture.”

She proceeds to open another compartment in the suitcase. In this section I have enclosed the four pair of shoes that I took with me. Her fingers run past the shoes, to my vanity bag. She picks up the bag and unzips it. She observes my two bottles of cologe (Escape by Calvin Klien and Envy by Gucci), two hairstyling products, facial cleanser, toner, and moisturizer. She extracts these products out, her fingers digging further into the bag.

She pauses. She is now staring at my black bottle of Platinum lube. She hurriedly puts back all the items into the vanity bag, and quickly tosses it back into the suitcase.

“That’s fine,” she says turning herself away and stares ahead disinterestedly.

Racism - 2006 remix

“Did I go to sleep and wake up to a racist world?” I ask my boyfriend.

He laughs, and I continue to lug in my groceries.

Of course, I understand the world is filled with racism, prejudices and stereotypes. The best of us are guilty, as it is hard to escape negative attitudes that prevail around us. Still, I felt, that for the last few years, race was not a pressing issue in my day-to-day life. That living in the multicultural hive that is Toronto, my fellow residents had entered the new millennium with more enlightened attitudes. I realize, I may sound naïve. That, in this city there are still bigots, but I still felt that they did not cause the same impact, that I had once felt growing up.

I am standing in the elevator that is probably 5’ by 5’ crammed with probably 10 people. I am closest to the floor buttons, so implicitly volunteer to be operator and field floor numbers from people. This white girl with blonde hair and Versace glasses on says, “Eighteen”. I hear her clearly, but apparently did not press the button fast enough for her pleasure. A few seconds later she almost yells, “Eighteen!” Not even a please.

Today is shopping day and I didn’t give two thoughts to my appearance. I am wearing a baseball cap and some jogging pants with bleach splattered on them and long shirt with a few tears. My skin is already fairly dark, and today especially, I probably appear as one of the thousands of Tamil’s that inhabit my neighbourhood. She has probably assumed that I don’t speak English and that it is permissible to be rude and yell loudly.

Earlier, I had been in Wal-Mart searching for various items in the House Wares section. An Indian lady wandered over donned in a scarf, with her young daughter in hand. She stuttered for a moment, and then hesitantly asked a sales assistant if she knew where the knapsacks were located. The sales girl had a look of confusion on her face, and made a loud snort before saying, “huh?” The Indian lady did have a thick accent, and her English was broken at best, but with a little patience what she was asking could have been discerned. The lady repeated herself, and before she could even finish, the sales girl responds, “No, I don’t have knapsacks here, I only have them in Fashions!” The sales girl repositions herself as to indicate the conversation is over. The Indian woman appears uncertain, she is about to walk away, when she starts to weakly explain that the sales person in Fashion had said that maybe they would have knapsacks in House Wares. The sales girl laughs aloud, “No, I don’t have any knapsacks here.” She gives the Indian lady a look of disgust, “only in FA-SH-ON section.”

Is yelling at immigrants that can’t speak English racist? In certain context’s I do believe this is the case – at least implicitly. Raising one’s volume when speaking, does not cause clarity in meaning. In the case of the Wal-Mart girl, she is a customer service representative and it is her job to seek to understand the shopper. If, the customer had been an old white lady, who could speak perfect English but just spoke barley above a whisper, would she have received the same treatment? And, for the sake of argument, if the girl in the Versace glasses had stepped into an elevator at my workplace, and I was dressed in the Kenneth Cole I am wearing today, would I have received the same treatment? Probably not, as I would not appear as uneducated Tamil, but rather, as the Indian who “enunciated so well”.

As, I write out this post, I realize that I did not wake up to a racist world, but simply began interacting with it again. For the past four years, I have lived in the suburbs, worked in a progressive work environment and was selective regarding the venues where I hung-out. I am now in the midst of the ghetto.

The ghetto has changed dramatically since I was a little boy. I would guarantee, that if you called me a “dumb paki” today, at least ten desi thug brethren would appear out of nowhere and beat the living crap out of you a la Londonstani. But, the ghetto remains a site of contest, as probably a new immigrant arrives weekly onto my block. Here they learn what is acceptable and what is not acceptable while they save up for that down payment for the house in the suburbs. And instead of being called Paki, they will have someone yell, “FA-SH-ON!”

On My Own Again

Free, free, free at last.

I moved out. I am living in a one bedroom apartment, in the most densely populated area in Canada, known as St. James Town. The neighbourhood is quite familiar to me, as I inhabited these ground four years ago, before student loans forced me home. While the area is sometimes referred to as “crack town", I don’t mind the ghetto factor. This is what I can afford right now, and I am living on my own; the master of my own domain.

I recall, once at a family dinner, one cousin asking another cousin, what his five year plan was. The question gave me internal shudders. At the time, I had already changed my major twice, and dodged any sort of commitment. The idea of committing to a life plan was simply unfeasible; I wanted to live in the here-and-know.

As thirty became a number that would soon be my age, I realized that something had to give. I was whoring myself to temp agencies, and refused to become that forty year-old who worked the same job as me, with no hope for progress.

Two years ago, I devised myself three goals. (1) To pay off my student loans, (2) To get a job that paid me at least $40,000, and (3) To move out on my own again. I am filled with pride and joy with myself, for having achieved these goals. They might not be the loftiest of aspirations, but that is what I desperately wanted at that time – and I worked my ass off, and did it in the time frame I had allocated.

I still walk around with a giddy feeling in my apartment. I’ll be dressed only in my gitch, with a cigarette in hand, admiring my handy work in interior decorating, and think, “I did this!” Having achieved my current goals, I have a new set of goals, primarily to become a published writer.

If anything I feel living where I do, will aid me enormously in such an endeavor. As I walk around my building, ride the elevator, or stare out from my balcony, I feel that I have somehow wandered into my childhood as an adult. I stare at the Pakistani mother with the shalwar-kameez she clearly sewed herself, with three children in tow all wearing label free clothes probably purchased at Wal-mart. I can’t help but stare at them, as I feel that is my past being brought to life in-front of me. With approximately a thousand people living in my building, it is simply teaming with life, and I feel that if I try hard enough I can pluck tales from the air.

I can’t afford therapy. But, this time, with me living on my own again, being reflective of my past in my writing will be the best possible healing (and, hopefully let me cash in on the desi love-in that is going on in the literary world).

(Yes, I said I discontinued this blog. But, hey, its my blog, and if I choose to update it every once and awhile, that is my prerogative.)

It was Fun

I am deeply flattered. I checked up on this dusty old blog, and saw that it had been getting consistent hits, even though I have not contributed anything for awhile now. It is really sweet to think that people are curious to see what I have to say, and keep checking to see when I will return from hiatus.

Unfortunately, this hiatus will be permanent. I started the blog project for one sole reason: to work on my writing. I found that the blog format forced me to write and the end I was left with a post - a completed piece of writing. Also, it gave me the opportunity to work out some theoretical ideas I had regarding writing.

I loved blogging. I loved getting responses from people, and in the process discovering other blogs.

The blog project definitely got my writing juices flowing again. I found that I was writing posts which I did not feel I wanted to share with the general public (strange I know given my previous level of candor). I found myself continuing to explore theoretical ideas regarding writing style, which were not worked out enough for online display.

So, I have kept writing, except no longer for this blog. I am currently labouring away on a writing project; a memoir cum novel. The current project is a labour of love and consumes all my creative energy; as such this blog will not be updated. God willing, at some point in the near future, this labour of love will be available to you at your local bookstore ;)

I may choose to incarnate myself again in the blogsphere and provide commentary on the world as I see it. But for now, Dutty Brown Boi has left the building.

Thank you all who came to read what had to say.

Peace.

Random Rants and Praises

On the days that I have to work, to rise from bed and get ready for work is an epic struggle. All I want to do is sleep-in for an extra hour or so, and I only get out of bed at that last possible minute. So why is it, that on that one rare day I have off during the week, where I am free to sleep-in to my hearts content my body wakes me up fully charged half-hour before I normally get up?

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Oh my god. Hostel is one the wickedest movies I have ever seen. I finally got around to renting it last night. I had avoided the movie for some time, because I was slightly scared to watch it. I wasn’t scared of it being gory, I was scared that it would leave me disturbed for a few days. I don’t find images scary, but I do find certain ideas to be scary (American Psycho the book gave me nightmares). And, I remember that scene from Saw, where the one survivor had to cut open the stomach of her lover to get the key to open the head-exploding contraption she was wearing, haunting me for about a week after. So, I didn’t feel like being haunted for weeks, but Music Man ranted and raved about this movie, and I decided to stop being a pussy and just suck it up and watch it. I’m glad I did. I can’t remember the last time I was so charged after watching a movie. Plus, it is a pure pleasure to stare and admire the face of Jay Hernandez.

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What the fuck was up with the last episode of America’s Top Model? So the five model finalist find themselves in exotic Thailand. The challenge for this episode? They watch a lady perform classical Thai dance, and later must perform a classical Thai dance number themselves in full Thai garb. I found the whole sequence making me feel uncomfortable, as it smacked of appropriation. Of course there is nothing wrong with American models learning Thai dance. But to give them 15 minutes instruction, and then perform a number? The models just improvised the dance number with stereotype and cliché moves, drawing on their imagination as to what they thought Thai classical dance should be like. In effect, disrespecting an art form and its history. Thai classical dance is something you spends years learning, those finger and eye moves are meant to be done in an exact way – not synthesized into a 15 minute challenge for a reality show. I guess that’s American T.V. for you.

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I believe – for an optimally happy adult population – every one should have sex every day. A couple night ago, Mr. Honey Tongue rocked my world, I’m talking about a two-hour session of Karma Sutra proportions. The next day at work, I was walking around with a big grin on my face, a bounce in my walk. Normally, the customers of the Big Evil Corporation are the bane of my existence, with them begging me for exceptions that they are not supposed to receive. Normally, I am firm in my insistence on playing by the rules, rarely ever budging. Yesterday, I was making exceptions left, right, and centre, not really caring to uphold the rules of the Big Evil Corporation, just reveling in the day-after-glow of my jam session.

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Finally, while a week late, I wanted to express my sorrow at the passing of probably one of the greatest musical directors of Hindi Cinema, Naushad Ali. Simply put a musical genius, who made more than a lasting impact on Filmi music. Responsible for the music of such classic movies as, Pakeezah, Mughal-e-Azam, and Mother India, he innovated and pioneered the sound of Hindi film music. And he, gave the world the gifts, which are the voices of Lata Mangeshkar and Mohammad Raffi. Rest in peace.

Some Clicks

I updated my links section - and added some music sites I like to visit. You may already be aware of them, hopefully some are pleasant suprises.

Sona Family - "Gold Family" has dope podcasts (my fav is vol. 3)
RBDTV - wicked Bhangra fun
Chris Goldfiner - BAAADEST DANCEHALL RADIO SHOW!

Sound Check

So you’ve heard of Reggaeton, right? And, of course you’ve heard of Bhangra. But have you heard of the new shit – Bhangraton? No – I’m not joking – and it’s hot like fiiiya!

Bhangraton is a fusion of the two genres of music. Currently, the tracks in circulation are being made by desi artisits, who are remixing Bhangra tracks with a Reggaeton sensibility. BUT – apparently, production teams Luny Tunes and Rishi Rich are collaborating together – and a joint album is in the works for release in summer/fall of this year. So we can expect to hear tracks with Daddy Yankee and Jay Sean together.

Ummmmm……Daddy Yankee and Jay Sean together in the same studio….I wish I could be there. I’m sure the whole laying down tracks business must get really tiring. I’m sure they would want a massage or something for stress relief, and I am good at giving massages or somethings…..I want to make a sandwich with them two and me be in the middle…….but I digress.


Here are some samples of Bhangraton.

Kawan (Bikram Singh/Gujun/Dom Minic) Jay Dabhi Remix

Ishq Naag (RDB feat. Elephant Man) Reggaeton Remix

So I wandered into HMV today, and saw DJ Jazzy Jeff’s “The Soul Mixtape”. I immediately grab it and head to the sampling station; 2 seconds into the opening track I am nodding my head. When I take off the headphones, they must have been wet from the pre-cum my ears were oozing. The album was pure SICKNESS! Apparently, the album was dropped last summer, and slipped under my radar. If you haven’t been following DJ Jazzy Jeffs career as of late, it might seem confusing that the Fresh Prince’s dee jay is dropping soul tracks. But DJ Jazzy Jeff has taken a more soulful/house turn in his music for the last 6 – 7 years. Apparently when he was last in T.O., his loyal fans were disappointed that he didn’t spin a single hip hop tune, but rather made it a pure house night. It is my utter disappointment to this day that I missed that jam.

(note: previous songs I have uploaded are not downloadable anymore, because my hosting service deletes them if they are not downloaded for over a month, if you really want them write me a comment and I can email it to you)

Brown Fruits

In this world saturated with semiotic play, to be, to feel validated, is to see one’s reflection somewhere in that twisted looking pool called the media. As a desi, the situation is less that perfect, but improving, as the children of the South Asian Diaspora are coming of age, being spotted in movies, music, and literature. But as a queer desi, I do not see the sum of both my identities out there. Yes, the queer is out there, but more often than not it is glaringly white, and while the desi may appear metro it is still very hetro. Queer and desi together – rare. Searching through the internet, I finally came across shards of images, namely blogs by other Indian fags (Venialsin, Asshole Roommate, Talking Closets). Reading their daily accounts - echoes of my own fears and anxieties – brought a sense of comfort which I can not fully explain. The other day, I came across a site, which gave the most unflattering of reflections, exposing blemishes and all.

This weekend I wondered how the friends of Dorothy get along in the land of seven rivers, and googled “punjabi gay”. I stumbled onto the homepage of Asian Gay and Lesbian Marriage of Convenience. The site is based in honest intentions, the creator of the site is Pakistani and gay himself and gives his story, “At age 28, under severe pressure from my parents, I was made to marry my first cousin in 1999. After living together for 3 months (at that time, I was in US), I decided to come out to her, since it was getting unbearable for us to go on. The results were devastating; I lost everything and everyone I knew”. In an attempt to help others, so that they do not have to face a similar situation, he started the site, “to engage in a marriage of convenience where both the individuals involved understand and accommodate their orientation, whilst fulfilling social obligations that are so painfully obligatory in our cultures. I am also certain that other individual like me yearn to have children, and this would possibly also be a viable option for them to fulfill their dreams”. I feel a sense of sadness, as I click on the browse link, and start perusing the ads.

The ads use contradictory vocabulary, indicating the psychosis that being gay and desi can cause.

“I am looking for someone to be my life partner in an honest marriage. I would like to live as a conventional couple in front of family, friends and work colleagues”

“I am gay but have never had gay sexual relations or a boyfriend because what I really want is a wife and children.”

“we would also be free to pursue any loving attachment to people of our own sex if we were totally discrete and not willing to jeopardize our own domestic security. come on, give it a chance, we all deserve happiness, I am sure that a marriage of convenience could work”

“Being an Indian gay person, I believe it is so much worth it to give up sex and have a nice otherwise normal family”

I understand the drive that lies behind these ads. Indian parents can present themselves as an insurmountable force, and the desire to please them and conform to societal expectations can be intense. I understand the strategy, to work within the system, to construct an elaborate façade of lies to please others, while trying to obtain the pleasures that are outside the accepted norm. This was very much my mode of operation as a teenager; this way I could go see movies, have female friends, and go to my prom. I became two people, one who I presented to my parents, and the other who lived life outside of home. I admit, the fantasy of compromise these ads seek, was my own when I was younger. I imagined seeking some Indian girl who came from a household as repressed as mine. We would have an understanding, and live our respective lives the way we wanted to, maintaining our family names. In third year university I suffered a nervous breakdown, which would haunt me periodically for a two year period. Lying comes at a price. Deceit requires regular maintenance, and there is the constant stress caused by the fear of being found out. These proposed marriages are a commitment for life, to maintain a life of deception and pretense. I do not look down at the people seeking a marriage of convenience. They feel that this is the only option available to them. If anything this is what saddens me, this reminder that our culture, creates an environment where people feel the only answer is to live a life of repression, which euphemistically this site dubs convenience.

I began this post by over killing the metaphor of images in my first paragraph. I really think this is where the key lies though, positive images are needed, not just to give a sense of validation to queer desi’s, but to foster acceptance. If our parents, aunties, uncle ji’s, continuously see us out there, this will at least force them to recognize that we do exist. While this may not translate into immediate tolerance, it will enable them to see that “the gays” are not just white or hijeras. The other day while coming down the stairs, I saw my mother reading her “Urdu Times”, self proclaimed to be North America’s first and largest weekly Urdu newspaper. And there taking up half a page was the ad shown below.

I couldn’t believe it, and later picked up the paper and gazed at it dumbfounded. I felt a thrill at the subversive nature of the ad, as a few pages in there was an ad for pilgrimage travel to Saudi Arabia. I imagined thousands of conservative Pakistani’s opening up the paper and the ad being right in their face. Boo-yah! I applaud Alliance for South Asian Aids Prevention for creating the ad campaign, and “Urdu Times” for publishing the ad.

This is a step in the right direction.

Monday Miserable

When will you fucking learn? It is NOT a good idea to have a nap on a Sunday evening, especially when you have to start work the next day at seven in the morning. So, last night I found myself fully charged, unable to fall asleep with the number of hours before me having to depart for work quickly diminishing. I tired every trick in the book, engaging my manhood, reading, changing bedrooms, finally with less than two hours of sleep time, I imagine how I would direct "The Picture of Dorian Gray". I get as far as imagining the opening credits - a super zoom-in of a canvas painting with the depths of the paint sticking out like a mountain range - and I am out like a light, dreaming about finding a collection of Ralph Lauren Polo shirts that I never knew I had.

I get ready for work in record time, and fly out the door. I stand by my bus stop, to tired to even listen to Sangeet (my I-pod) sing to me through my headphones. Why do I always catch the bus which will either bring me in right on time, or five minutes late? The bus arrives at the subway station, and like frogger I maneuver around people who should be banned from walking in public places, because they move as if they were in an elderly home. The free Metro paper litters the subway, but I avoid reading it, I have sought ignorance from world affairs for about a month. I do not care what Gwen Stefani is wearing, nor wish to be depressed by learning about the evils our Tory government is concocting.

I walk in five minutes late to work. But it is ok. This week I am on special assignment, I am acting manager while someone is on vacation, and so am afforded the leeway given to management (at least I hope). Today, I am on what we call the referral gate, and I am relieved, as I can relax. The referral gate, is the line that customers are transferred to when they are upset with the answers our agents provide them and proceed to demand to speak to a manager. Usually, I don't get a call for the first hour, which gives me ample time to do browse the internet, and then gate a call an hour, giving me time to do other work-related tasks.

I got my first call in ten minutes. And another one shortly after, by the first hour alone I had taken four referrals, and my in-box was piling up with more calls, as the line was too busy to accommodate all our passionate customers. All, the calls I take run a similar gambit, I greet the customer and introduce myself and inquire as to how they are doing. They typically answer is, "not good", and the customer then breaks off into a litany of wrongs the company has committed against them. I place them on mute, and stare off into the distance, wave at passing co-workers, or look at my nails thinking how badly I need to get a manicure. I release the mute button intermediately, to say a "uh-huh", "ah", or "oh". Eventually, the customer looses wind and stops, and demands that I do as they bid. In the most soothing voice I can muster, I apologize for their frustration. I restate the problems they have listed, and provide the exact same solutions the agent gave before they were transferred to me. This more often than not is satisfactory, and causes the customer to launch into the problems of their life story again, this time at an increased volume. Each time I calmly restate the existing solutions that we have to provide. Finally, the customer well yell, "are you telling me that you are not going to do _____ ?" In my head I am thinking, "You fucking moron, I have only been telling you that for the last ten minutes, is it only sinking in now?" Instead, I say yes sir/mam that is the case and they hangup much to my relief.

The referral line is hell for the rest of the day. One irate customer after the other. Even though I am on the referral line, I have to keep an eye on the team I am watching. This means ensuring that they are working, not slacking off, and taking breaks at allotted times. One girl on the team is blatantly goofing off, and I wrestle with how too approach her. It is my first day watching this team, and I do not want to come across as over-bearing, but I have a job to do at the same time. I decide I will approach her at the end of the day.

My head is pounding as my work day nears an end, and I am feeling delirious. Everything is a bit strange, and I feel disconnected from reality. I want to avoid the girl in question, but I know if I don't approach her today, this will make her more brazen tomorrow. I put on a big smile, and walk towards her, and wait for to finish the call she is on. I gently remind her that she should be on break right now, she retorts back that she knows, and positions herself so she doesn't have to face me. My nerves tingle, and my heart rate accelerates. I want to say, "if you fucking know its your break then why are you taking calls? Go on your fucking break." She proceeds to take another call. My head is spinning, "honey, why are you taking another call?" She looks up at me flustered. "Please, go on break after this call." She nods her head. I can't deal with this right now, I don't have to deal with this right now. I am done work. I'll deal with the bitch tomorrow.

I leave work. I feel like I have tumor in my head, somewhere in the back of my head an Arnold Schwarzenegger voice comes in and says, "it's not a tumor". I am to exhausted to even laugh at my own internal joke.

I reach home, and collapse on my own bed. But I have reached that point where you are so tired, that you can't even sleep. It's like coming of an acid trip, you beg for the release of slumber, but your body doesn't seem to want to give in. I log on to the internet and read a humorous post on Sepia Mutiny, and then read a few pages of my current read, "Wicked: The Life and Times of the Wicked Witch of the West". It turns out this is bad combination of reading before going to bed, as I have three hour nap, fueled with some dream of crazy brown bloggers taking over Munchkinland.

Sampling Soul

I write this post, to articulate a theory which I have been musing upon for the last five years. My speculation may be dated, but sometimes time is needed to give necessary hind-sight.

Let me begin by stating a position I hold regarding art. While many theories abound regarding aesthetics, the one which makes the most sense to me, is to say that art serves as a reflection of society. That art in turn, should either in form or content, represent some truth regarding the time in which it is produced. As such, even when a period-piece movie is produced, it should not simply be trying to re-stage the past for us, but rather, the by-gone era should serve as a metaphor for something relevant today.

For the last five years, the sounds of the exotic east have filtered into hip hop. The voice of Lata is often sampled, an Indian flute is thrown in, or distinctive bhangra dhol lines are added. And why shouldn’t Indian beats influence hip hop? It would seem inevitable, go too any Indian jam, and the hypeness of the music is immediately evident. And India is home to the world’s largest music industry. Indian culture has become fashionable in the runways, why not in music? Is this new musical urban sensibility, just a passing fad, a trend which merely points to how we are truly becoming a global village? It doesn’t appear to be simply a passing fad; Bollywood still is influencing new hip hop releases. While it may be a sign of the global village, I feel it is more of a sign of the reality of the world we live in, a reality in which there exists imperial America, which is actively occupying two Middle Eastern states.

Hip hop is musically speaking my first love. While Hindi Filmi music was the soundtrack to my childhood, it was a genre that I would later return to in my teens and explore. Before that, Hindi music had simply been the music my parents had listened too, Lata’s voice was something I took for granted, akin to how my white friends regard the Beatles or the Rolling Stones. Hip hop moved me. It turned me on. The bass lines, scratching, samples, in general the whole culture, excited me at a level which was visceral.

Hip hop in both form and content has represented the truth of its times. So much so, that hip hop is a global phenomena, being the most popular form of youth counter culture worldwide. From the war-torn streets of Gaza, to the decadent metropolis of Tokyo, you will find kids rhyming on their blocks about their experiences, there unique reality. Of course, to call hip hop counter culture today, may not be accurate, as it has moved from the realm of the underground, to that of popular culture. Now, commercials abound, for products ranging from soft drinks to cars, which capitalize on the mass appeal of hip hop.

Essentially the bastard child of dancehall, hip hop began in the 1970’s in inner city New York. DJ Kool Herc – a Jamaican immigrant living in New York – considered the father of hip hop, invented the hip hop sound, by isolating “breaks” in songs - the part where only the drums could be heard - and as such the hip hop beat was born. Over this beat the Master of Ceremonies, or M.C., would rhyme tales of bravado, relating every day experiences.

While, there are some great lyrists, I mainly fell in love with hip hop for its beats. The hip hop beat originally mainly relied upon sampling soul and funk songs from the 1950’s to the 1970’s. James Brown, probably is one of the most oft sampled artists in hip hop, in 1988 every major hip hop release, had a James Brown sample to boot. While on the surface it may be obvious as to why he would be popular, his songs have an electrifying funky quality, I feel there is more to it than just that. One can not simply stand and listen to James Brown, without standing still. His tracks cause one to inadvertently start nodding there head. James Brown recorded the majority of his tracks during the civil rights movement in America. “Say it Loud, I’m Black and I’m Proud” was the theme song to a proposed revolution, the backdrop to the raised fist of protest. As he recorded this track, outside his studio, America was in the midst of a confrontation of its race relations. How could this not influence the track, not simply in lyrical content, but in it’s form itself? “Say it Loud, I’m Black and I’m Proud” can not simply be infectious because of its production value, but also due the fact that it was manifesting the truth of its time.
Like I said, hip-hop was the music of inner city youth in New York. It developed and grew during the Regan administration, a time in which the black community was faced with the harsh economic realities that the government at hand brought forth. Realities that included gang violence, poverty, and project living, which rappers related through their rhymes. While original hip hop recordings, like "Rappers Delight" were “party” songs, hip hop was a music of protest, if not explicitly, at least implicitly. It was a big middle finger in the air, to established notions of what music should sound like. The cutting up bit’s of old tracks, scratching of vinyl, and aggressive bass lines was a challenge to what was musically acceptable. Further, by riffling through the catalogues of the likes of James Brown and Parliament, hip hop was in effect sampling the “soul” of the civil rights movement itself, so that it could echo in the present. When Pete Rock and C.L. Smooth released “They Reminisce Over You (T.R.O.Y.)” in 1992 – an ode to fallen ghetto comrades which was popular not only as a club track but at funerals – which sampled the break from “Say it Loud, I’m Black and I’m Proud” they evoked the essence the original recording had captured, so to reflect the truth that was theirs in the present.

Near the end of the 1990’s hip hop had moved away from the sampling of old funk breaks. New producers like the Neptune’s and Timberland had taken to producing hip hop tracks, which were based on synthesized drum beats. Also, hip hop had moved away from being conscious based music which provided a commentary on the realities of the ghetto, to glorifying the excesses which occurred in the ghetto. Materialism had been a preoccupation in hip hop from the start; disenfranchised youth dreaming of fast cars and nice clothes delivering false stories of luxuries they did not have. As hip hop gained commercial appeal, the next-generation of rappers were able to realize these dreams. While these rappers may have originally started out in the hood, the hood no longer remained there stomping grounds. The likes of Puff Daddy and Jay Z now vacation in the Hamptons, with there respective business and spin-off clothing labels accounting for multi-million dollar revenues. While some prematurely declared that hip hop was dead, it had simply evolved. The tracks released during this time, I enjoyed for superficial reasons, because they were simply that, superficial. But to me, the sound, the appeal, the gut response to the music was gone. To me, hip hop had lost its soul.

In July of 2002 Truth Hurts released, “Addictive”, a Dr. Dre produced song, which sampled the vocals of Lata Mangeshkar from the Hindi film “Jyoti”. Apparently, Dre had heard the song while randomly coming upon the movie while watching T.V., had the idea of sampling it, and the song went on to become one of the top 50 U.S. singles of that year according to billboard music charts. At the time of it’s release the invasion of Afghanistan was well on it’s way by the American military. In 2003 almost every major hip hop release contained at least one track, if not more, with an eastern influence, a situation akin to 1998 where every album had a James Brown sample. It was the same year that the American military began it’s invasion of the sovereign state of Iraq.

To me this development in hip hop was fascinating. I remember growing up the 1980’s – before the policy of multiculturalism had been instituted - when it was acceptable to be called a “paki” at school. My Indian culture was a source of embarrassment to me, and I recall being ridiculed for my curry food and the sing-song of Hindi films was the butt of jokes. Now, I would go to clubs, and people would “lean back” to the rhythms that originated from the sub-continent.

While the black community in America, has by no means attained equality in this new millennium, the music that had been formulated by their youth two decades ago, had evolved from a music of protest to one of commercial excess. Across the Atlantic, in the middle-east, where a war is being waged for oil to allow for a SUV hungry nation to drive to it’s heart content, lies this generations truly disenfranchised. Hip hop producers having exhausted ransacking through their own “soul catalogue”, probably being only subconsciously aware, turned to sample the imagined soul of a culture which was experiencing colonization. Similar in fashion to the appropriation of black culture by the likes of Elvis Priestley, American hip hop producers in turn had turned to appropriate a imagined voice of struggle which currently was lacking within it’s own borders.

I say imagined on purpose, because, of course I realize that Indian music, is distinctly different from the musical traditions to be found in Afghanistan or Iraq. However, in the melting pot eyes of America, the far east appears as one blurry vision. Cultural appropriateness and understanding of subtleties that lie across the many nations of the middle-east and Asia are not understood. Indeed, when the video for Truth Hurt’s “Addictive” was released, it featured Truth Hurts and her dancers in typical Arab belly-dancer costumes, and the décor of the set was Arabic in nature. Continuing in the great Orientalist tradition, all things Muslim were confounded into one, and seen as exotic.

Was it wrong for hip hop to sample classic Bollywood tracks? No, of course not. I personally have enjoyed this particular cross pollination. Hip hop instinctively moved to sample the soul of Indian music, because the nature of world politics today. If not in content, in form, it represented the truth of our geo-political situation.

Now what makes a totally sick tune? When content and form both strive to show truth, like this track, “Hustle Everyday” by U.K. act Def 1.

Comming Out - Part 2

Happiness. Elation. Relief.

I finally fucking did it. I told my sister that I was a big ‘ol batty mon.

I lay on her bed, as she sat by her computer, playing me the latest in Bollywood tunes. My confession lies at the tip of my tongue, as it has for the last month or so. I sit up, this time determined to get it out of me, once and for all.

“Uhhhh,…there’s something I want to tell you.”

I stare down at my hands, and then look up at her. She is taken aback by my sudden seriousness, and turns the volume down, and stares at me with concern.

“What?” She asks.

“Uhmmm…,” I look back down at my hands, and then back at her again. I open my mouth again, but only ending up grimacing. “It’s probably something you already know, but I wanted to tell you…”

I have know begun playing with my hands, and can’t seem to stop looking at them. I ending up just repeating myself.

“I just wanted to tell you something, and you probably already know….”

“What, what is it?” My sister is staring at me with alarm. We both just stare at each other. “What, that you have a boyfriend?” She asks dropping her voice.

Of course, I knew that it would end up this way. That my “big” revelation, would not be that big, and not be much of a surprise. That my keeping this from her was unwarranted. That my closet door to her was quite see-through, and I should have just opened up the door a long time ago.

“Yes, I do. I am gay.”

“Oh, I thought you were bi.”

“No. I’m gay.”

“Oh, because, I just thought you were bi, because you dated Rasta Lady for three years.”

“Yeah, no, I’m gay. I like boys”

“Then how could you date her for so long?”

I pause. And stare away at her door. I feel nervous energy. This is a challenge to myself, it feels awkward, but right. For so long, my sexual preference and choices was a taboo subject for me in our conversations, and here I am finally explaining it to my sister.

“Well, she was a special circumstance. I don’t think I’ll ever meet a girl like that again. I thought I only liked boys before her…but….we totally connected. I did love her. But, now I’m only interested in guys.”

She nods her head absorbing this.

“So, you knew all along. I was feeling afraid for telling you for no reason?”

“It was kinda obvious.” She says and we both laugh. “I can’t believe you were afraid to tell me.”

“Yeah, I know it was stupid…it’s just….”

She shakes her head.

“I just never said anything, because you never said anything. So I didn’t want to go there.” She says, and smiles at me. “But whatever, I don’t care about that, who cares if your gay? You’re my brother and I love you no matter what.”

I feel like my heart is going to burst.

She asks me about my boyfriend. And I tell her about us. I tell her how we met. She’s met him a few times already, when he’s dropped by, and she tell me she likes him. She’s shocked that we’ve dated for close to three years.

“Your right, mummy will never understand you. You can’t ever tell her, she’ll go crazy.”

“Yeah.” I respond back flatly.

I feel pure love towards my sister, a love brought through openness and understanding. Yet, her last comment makes me realize, that she is the only one in my family that I will feel this way towards. And, in turn I feel sad.

I eventually go to my room, and light a cigarette. I decide not to dwell on the negative, and instead chose to savor the feeling this bonding has brought upon.

And Then There Was Music

I did it! I have managed to add music to this blog. It was a dream I had from day one, but being HTML illiterate, and being approximately five years behind in my computer knowledge it was an uphill battle. But, I finally figured it out.

Many of my friend’s call me the Music Nazi, I would prefer the term Music Sharer. I love my music, and enjoy sharing it with others, and spreading the good vibrations.

Well, here you go; here are some tracks that I am currently enjoying:
(click on the track name to download)

Yashomati Maiya Se Bole Nandlala
(film:Satyam Shivam Sundaram)

This track is from one of my faviourte Bollywood movies, which I also feel has one of the best filmi soundtracks. For the soundtrack prodcution duo Laxmikant and Pyayrelal were called upon, and is probably one of the best examples of their musical talents. On this particular track, the production is understated, showcasing Lata’s voice and the lyrics. It’s a shame if you don’t understand Hindi, as I love the lyrics this songs. I personally enjoy the film dialogue being included in.

Dem Calling
Bounty Killer (Giggy Throwback Riddim)

Dancehall producers have taken to revamping old classic riddims and serving them up fresh for the new millennia. This riddim is a retake on the Coca Cola Bottle Riddim, and is BAD! (bad meaning good, not bad meaning bad). While Bounty is relativley calm on this track – not up to his usual vocal acrobatics, the bass line in combination with the brilliant chopping up and re-arranging of the original riddim – is just sick. It makes me want to place both my hands on the floor and cock up my bum.

Two Can Win
Jay Dee (Donuts)

Last month I was deeply saddened, with the passing of one of hip-hops finest producers, Jay Dee. Having worked with legendary production team “The Ummah”, he worked with the likes of A Tribe Called Quest, De La Soul, The Roots, D’Angelo, just to name a few. A few days after his passing, his last CD was released, Donuts, compiling 1 – 2 minute instrumental tracks which showcase his musical genius. For any one who loves hip-hop or electronic music, this album is a must have. Yeah, Kanye West popularized the speed up soul sample again, but J Dee was doing it way before, and his treatment is way better than Kanye’s simple chipmunk effect.

Hope you enjoy.

(my testing of the downloads show that the free hosting site I am using is tempermental, if it at first you don't succeed, dust yourself off and try again)

He Look-a Like-a Man

I have issues – retained from my public school days – when talking to hot macho straight guys. Conversation does not flow with ease, I feel extremely self-conscious, and I make short remarks. While, what is internally a battle of nerves, I have been told I end up coming across as snobby and reserved, what my boyfriend dubs my “defense mechanism”.

For the last little while, as I have been moving up the food-chain at work, I have made a concentrated effort to over-come this disorder of mine, and throw myself into situations where I have conversations with these men.

Here’s and example:

I am walking into my workplace, and Papi Chulo is entering the building at the same time.

“Hey, what’s up?” He says, as he gives me a nod.

“Hey, not much, how you doin?” I respond back, with an appropriate nod. He is walking a couple steps ahead of me. I normally would have chosen to keep walking in silence, and made a parting, “later”, as we walked towards our respective seating areas.

“So how did that jam go, that you threw?” I ask instead. Last week he had gone around, handing out flyers to some party he was throwing.

“Ah, real good man, real good. Real nice turn-out.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah, it was real good. You know, good times, good music, chillin’ you know?”

“Seen.”

Were now in a fairly packed elevator. And, I feel that was a sufficient little testing of my boundaries, but to my surprise Papi Chulo continues.

“Yeah, every Friday, were having a night, a chill-vibe, lounge atmosphere, you can come have your drinks, listen to some good tunes.”

“Oh yeah.”

“Were looking to make it a big night, at the end of every month, get a live act in there, some big DJ, live poetry, you know whatever….”

“Sounds cool, where you havin’ it?”

“Butter”

“Where?”

“You know Buh-ta,” he enunciates the word, as if I should know this place. I don’t party hardcore like I used to a few years back, so am currently unfamiliar, with the latest clubs and hotspots. “It’s on College.”

“Ohhh,” I say, event though I still don’t know what the fuck he is talking about.

“I’m only saying, cuz’ I saw you across the street from there one time, with a couple of honeys.” Yes, I remember now, it was one of my fag hags birthday, and she had picked some place on College Street to go out.

“Ohh, okay, cool, I’ll have to check it out some time.”

“Yeah, yeah, man, and bring them honeys with you. We gotta’ have those honeys. You know what I’m sayin’?” Suddenly I don’t like this conversation anymore. This reminds me why I have my defense mechanism in place, when you talk to these type of guys, eventually the conversation comes to this sort of impasse.

I give him a nod, and attempt to speed up my walking, trying to revert to the snobby and reserved me. But, it is to late, Papi Chulo is in full salesman mode, and is continuing to sell his night to me. He pauses for a second to say “hello” to some mulatto girl that passes us, as we turn a corner in the hallway.

“Yo, that chicks sexy!” He says, as his head is turned back gazing at her from behind. I don’t know what to say to this comment. I have always found it hard to fake this part of macho dialogue. Luckily, we are at the doors to out department, and I am getting ready to say my, “later” as we head to our respective seating areas. But my lack of response is apparently not sufficient. Papi Chulo slaps my chest gently with the back of his hand, to get my attention. “Yo, you don’t think she’s sexy?”

In my head, I’m thinking, I’m gay. If you were to ask my professional opinion, she does have a nice rack, but her hair is over bleached to the point of being orange which is not attractive. And, even though today is casual day, the whole black tights with a bomber jacket, is kind of tacky and so mid-90’s.

Instead, I give one glance back at the girl in question, turn around and say, “yeah.” For some reason he find this extremely funny. I finally get to say my, “later”, and go towards my desk. I feel kind of ticked off, having had to enter into bullshit dialogue reminiscent of high-school.

Maybe, there is nothing wrong with being a snob.

Pakistani Drama

I feel like shit this week. I wonder why to myself. And then my weekend comes back to me.

Last week I had told my mother I was planning to move out. Her initial reaction was to say, “fine” as she walked away in a huff. Then on the weekend she comes and sits herself down on the edge of my bed, and pleads to understand why I wanted to move out.

“Why would you want to move out? Why would you give up the comfort of your home and the happiness you have with your family?” She asks her eyes big and doe like.

“If you have to ask these questions, then I can’t answer them for you.”

I feel the answer is self-evident. My father and I have not exchanged a single word in almost a year. My brother and I barley speak for more than five-minutes. And, since my mother implicitly sides with my father and does not see any wrong in his treatment of me, I avoid her. A few weeks ago, I came into the kitchen to eat dinner. My father who was already eating, got-up took his plate, and continued to eat in the living-room. I sat down at the kitchen table, and my mother gaily continued some story. I can’t live in this insanity, this pretend happy family.

She sits there demanding an answer, for understanding as to why I want to leave. And, I don’t want to get into it with her. Partly because I know she is incapable of understanding, she has proven that far to many times in the past. I keep answering that I don’t want to get into it with her, and that really she should already know the answer. She keeps denying any knowledge of any sort of problem in our family.

“What problem do you have with your father?” She finally asks. It’s a grudging question, forcing her to reveals cracks underneath the veneer. “He leaves you alone. After that day you were so rude to him, he stays out of your way.”

Fire courses through my veins and my heart seems to be beating fast enough to support another two people. I can’t believe that is her interpretation of events.

“I don’t have a father.”

“How can you say that?” Her face is wide with horror.

“Anyone can put there thing in a woman and make children. But to be a father is something else entirely. And that man is no father. He has disrespected you and this family. If you want to ignore that and live in your make-believe world go right ahead, I can’t help you. But I don’t want to have anything to do with it.” She is speechless. I soften my voice. “Listen, just because I want to move out, doesn’t mean I don’t love you. I love you very much, I just can’t live here anymore.”

“I understand everything now.” Her voice is rising in crescendo as tears well up in her eyes. “You want to divorce yourself from your family, your parents. You want to go and live in sin and engage in evil.”

I am now speechless. I get up and open the room to my door.

“Please leave. Because if you don’t leave right now, I am going to say something that is very rude.”

“This is how you talk to your mother? See this is what happens when you befriend black people.”

“Please leave.” She remains firmly planted on my bed.

“Fine stay in my room.”

I exit my room and go into my sisters room. I make a weak smile at her, and she gives me a look of understanding.

“But why do you have to say your opinions?” She asks. I glare at her. She withdraws the question, and we watch Sex in the City in silence. About ten minutes pass and my mother comes into my sisters room to deliver her climax performance.

She is fully weeping now, and can’t talk without hiccupping from her crying. There was once a time that this would move me, and make me reverse all the things I had said. Now I sit and stare at her, my heart like a stone.

“Fine, if you want to move out, move out. You can leave right now. I won’t stop you.”

“That’s good.” I respond back.

“You can break your mothers heart. You don’t care anymore.”

“You’ve watched too many Pakistani dramas. This is not a drama.”

“So you think your mother is a drama now?” This brings a new onslaught of tears.

“If this isn’t a drama, I don’t know what is. There isn’t music playing in the background.”

“You don’t care about your family anymore. You want to go live in sin.”

“I don’t fucking care about my family?” I have snapped. I stand up. “Fucking….”

“Bhaijan, please, don’t start,” my sister pleads. “Don’t start. Your going to say something you’ll regret.” I take a deep breath, and bite my tongue. I go into my room, slam the door, and play the last song I downloaded, Dum Maro Dum by Asha Bhosle with the Kronos Quartet. Ironically the lyrics seem appropriate as Asha seems to be singing personally to me,

Duniya ne hum ko diya kya? (What has the world given us?)
Duniya se hum ne liya kya? (What have we taken from the world?)
Hum sub ki parva kare kyun? (Why should we care about everyone else?)
Sub ne humara kiya kya? (What has everyone else done for us?)

Chaho jiyenge, marenge (Whether we live or die)
Hum na kisi se darenge (We won’t fear anyone)
Hum ko na roke zamana (This age will not stop us)
Jo chahenge hum karenge (We’ll do whatever we want)

Of course as a family we all are currently acting like the weekend blow-up didn’t happen. It’s funny how strong the contagious the power of delusion is, I kept wondering why I felt depressed of sorts this week. The events some what being forgotten in my own memory. And then when I remembered this weekend, I think to myself, who wouldn’t feel like shit after that?

Not Part Two

I didn’t do it.

It seemed that perfect moment never arose. That moment where I imagine cheesy after-school special music to start playing, and I turn to my sister and say, “I’m gay.” A few times I braced myself, and opened my mouth to say the words, but my sister filled those moment of silence with banter. My sister talks a mile-a-minute, and it seems at times her mind drifts from one topic to another, as if she were playing hopscotch. I felt almost unable to take control of the conversation and say what I wanted too. Of course, I could have. I could have just started, I suppose there were many failed opportunities.

Sitting here, relating the day, I am amused that I had a hard time telling her. Our outing was so implicitly fabulously gay. I had suggested that we meet up after I was done work and go shopping. My sister looks up to me as a style guru, and was thrilled that we were heading down to the trendy Queen West area to shop. We had a blast.

We are in this one store, and are both slightly jittery as everything is 50% off.

“Oh my god, the Fred Perry is on sale too,” I say in a hushed awed voice. “Fred Perry never goes on sale.”

“They have Triple 5 Soul for $20,” my sister says over from the girls section.

We proceed to pick out items, and call the other over, seeking the others opinion. We approve of each other selections, using words like, “cute” and “hot”. We walk out of the store with a couple bags of purchases. Both of us are visibly excited over the gear we have acquired and keep repeating that we can’t believe that we got it for so cheap.

My favourite moment was when were in the Guess store, staring in astonishment at this hot pink bra top with big turquoise and red rhinestones stuck on. We seem to read each others minds.

“It’s like something they would wear...,” my sister starts.

“In a Bollywood movie...,” I continue.

“From the Eighties,” We both say in unison.

We treat ourselves to a dinner at Red Lobster. And while, I didn’t come out to her, I did broach subjects which I haven’t with my family. I tell her about going to therapy. She asks me if it was good, and inquires as to how much it cost. She says that she should probably get some too, and I nod my head in a sympathetic knowing way.

There really isn’t a dull moment. We laugh talking about our insane parents. And my sister, has me almost in tears as she imitates our mothers crazy dramatic dialogue. We slip in to Urdu to comment on the people around us, those whose judgment in clothing and appearance is beyond questionable. Our comments usually end with, “Gora longa” - white people.

I thought by giving myself a deadline I would be able to do it. It apparently doesn’t work like that. I am confident that I will do it soon. That the “right” moment will arise. I just have to get over myself. Get over my fear. Every time I wanted to say it, I felt paralyzed by that moment of uncertainty that lies after making the statement. It’s that unknown after, that uncharted territory that scares me. It made me doubt the whole course of action, and my whole rationalizing for telling her.

I believe that we take the actions we need to when the time is right. Hopefully, mine will be soon.

Coming Out - Part One

I have a sense of trepidation. I am planning to do it, but I can’t believe that I will do it. I’m slightly scared, as I am about to challenge my status-quo. It’s a long time coming, and I have stalled for long enough. I want to do it, I must do it, it’s inevitable, and will probably help me towards living my life authentically.

I’m planning to come out to my sister tomorrow.

At this point it’s really a formality. How can she not know? She calls me her “brother-sister”, asks me for fashion advice, and no-doubt has seen the gay porn which my computer is riddled with. I don’t not act differently with her, I don’t put up a front, I just simply haven’t told her. And she has never asked. In this fashion we are model South Asians, maintaining a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy; I might as well join the U.S. Navy.

I began my coming out process about eight years ago. First taking the crucial step of admitting to myself I was gay, which I had denied till I was twenty. Till then I had not even permitted myself to think in my head that I liked cock, even though it was a constant fixture in my fantasies. Thinking that I was evil and my orientation was akin to a terminal illness, I told a few of my closest friends. There reaction and taking a course in Queer Theory around the same time, helped me come to terms with my sexuality. I had initially been afraid that they would see me differently and reject me. I felt it was almost profound that after fretting so much over telling them, that after the fact, our relationships continued as normal. The Queer Theory, which I became slightly obsessed with reading, helped me see that homophobia was bullshit, and see the complex ways in which our society organized sexual desire. By the time I graduated from University all my friends knew. I had a low-tolerance for homophobic bullshit and would be quick to read anyone who talked any of that crap around me.

My family has been my final frontier. I am of Pakistani and Muslim background, being out to my family (my parents mostly) would make my life a perpetual torment. When I told my mother I had a girlfriend and that I was going to move in with her (yes, I had a girlfriend while I was gay, an exceptional circumstance which I may reminisce about in a future post) she fainted and pretended to have a heart-attack, while really she was only hyperventilating and I ended up having to take her to the hospital. My father and I don’t have much of a relationship, but I am sure that he would take a confession of my sexuality as further proof as to how much of a horrible person I am, and remind me in not so kind words how much of a disappointment I am to him. And, my brother, well we haven’t really spoken for more than five minutes for the past six years. Once upon a time, we had been close, but he decided that he was going to be a big macho man and that translated into meaning that he was going to be aloof to everyone else in the family.

My little-dear-cute sister, whom I love to death, is the only person in my family whom I feel close with and have a mostly functional relationship with. I have wanted to tell her for years, I feel that it would take our relationship the next level. And, it would be a burden lifted from me, that finally I will have been honest with one person at least in my family.

I am not afraid that she will lash out at me. She is progressive enough to also see homophobia as bullshit. But where she might be progressive, she is also quite simple and likes her world to fit into simple boxes, boxes that are usually shaped from celluloid images from Bollywood and Hollywood movies. She finds challenges to the norm to be hard to digest, and I think on a default impulse wrinkles her nose at them. I remember when I sent her to my hair stylist in the village, she remarked, “he was very funny, but kinda weird. He had a bull-nose piercing.” At the piercing comment she wrinkled up her nose.

At the thought of having this conversation with her tomorrow I feel uncomfortable. And I am sure it may be uncomfortable for a little bit. Hopefully it will go well. Hopefully I will be able to do it, and I won’t put it off, as I have so many other times.

I’m twenty-eight and I can’t believe I am scared of coming out to my twenty-one year old sister.

Getting Ready

I come to consciousness of-sorts and check the time – it’s ten to six - ten minutes before my alarm is set to go off. I lie in that hazy world, in which dreams still linger around, and reality seems a confusion. I have a mild headache, a state to which I have awoken to for the last month. I assume it is because I have not been drinking enough water. I automatically begin composing a list of “twenty things I should do to improve my life”. (1) Drink eight to ten glasses of water a day, (2) Be healthy by exercising and eating good for you foods, (3) Try to act less snobby and condescending. I am stumped and can’t seem to come up with anything else to add to my list. My hand wanders down gripping my erect cock as I intend to wrestle with my manhood, but instead sleep washes over me.

Eight minutes later my alarm is going off, and I pull my hands out of my boxers and press the snooze button. I keep meaning to get up after the next time the alarm goes off, so I can shower, iron the shirt I wanted to wear today, have breakfast, and transfer the Mary J Blige album which I downloaded last night onto my I-pod. I end up waking up with twenty minutes and counting before I must be out the door.

I jump in the shower and lather my hair with Fructise Anti-Dandruff Shampoo, brush my teeth with Glister Toothpaste, wash my body with Dove soap, and clean my face with Nivea Men’s Oil Control Face Wash. I race to my room and rub Life Brand Nut and Honey Body Lotion liberally over myself, apply Adidas Active Anti-Perspirant under my arm-pits, and spray Escape by Calvin Klien over myself.

I slip on my boxers – and quickly select the Mary J Blige album to copy onto my I-pod. I sit on my bed while the album is copying, and contemplate what I want to wear. I want to look cute today, and stare at my closet for ideas. The outfit I had planned before I went to bed requires ironing which is at this point out of the question. I consider wearing this white Polo shirt with pink, black, and blue vertical stripes and black Docker khakis, an outfit which always garners complements. The thing is I wore the Polo shirt last week, and wearing it so soon would break my, no-repeats-within-a-month rule. I feel I have nothing else exciting to wear, and with five minutes left before I must be out the door, I break my rule and don the outfit in question.

I run back to the washroom, style my hair into place with Frucitse Styling Gel, and moisturize my face with Nivea Men’s Oil Control Face Lotion. I have two minutes left at this point and begin frantically looking for my black scarf. After having located the scarf, I put on my black wool Petticoat, grab my black knapsack, I-pod, and cell phone and run downstairs. I seek out my faux-alligator skin loafers and slip them on. I take one last look in the mirror, and smile pleased with the effect I have created for the day. I turn side-ways, making sure the effect holds true from the side profile.

Ready and dressed for success I head out for the start of my work-day.

A Letter

Dear Pussy Ass Bitches,

You are fucking pathetic. You have a sad excuse for a life. You need to go get laid or something – cuz straight-up – why the fuck are you so interested in my life? Are me and my man like super-stars or something – because you make us feel like that – when you spend your free time chatting about our business. You’ve gone and dug up who I slammed 4 years ago, crank called me, sent emails, spread lies, gossip, and study my blog. Shit dude – your fucked – you don’t even know me.

And you’re a mother fucking pussy. Bitch, you saw me at Besharam twice – and you fucking didn’t have the nerve to come chat to my face. You fucking talk shit behind my back but you can’t be a real man and come talk to me. Got shit to say – come say it to my face bitch. Your so fucking outraged – come bring it to me. But you won’t because you’re a little pussy-hole cunt.

I don’t know why your so obsessed with me. You heard how good my dick was and you want some? Or, you heard how sick my mans head is that you wanted in on it? Bitch move on because your ain’t getting any here.

Yeah I am a cheating bastard. But who the fuck are you? Why the fuck do you care so much. Whatever happened – happened between three people. And as far as we are all concerned it’s done. It happened and we ain’t dwelling on the past – so why the fuck are you all up in my shit for? All the shit you’ve done – just makes me laugh. You ain’t affected me any which way – but you sure have made yourself look like a big sad loser fuck. What goes around comes around – yeah I am getting mine – but ever thought bout yourself?

So read this carefully motherfucker – cuz I know you like to study my blog. Fuck – memorize this entry – because when I see you next time – I’m going make you recite this back to me. You got a fucking problem – come say it to my face. Otherwise – get fucking lost and mind your own fucking business. Cuz if this shit goes on – I ain’t gonna ignore you next time.

Go Fuck Yourself,

Dutty

Party for Two

New Years was fucking amazing. One of the best I’ve had, I would have to say.

One of my managers asked me, “What did you do for New Years?”

“I checked into a hotel. The Grand Hotel.” I sway my head to the right as I say the word grand, as if this adds some emphasis to the word.

“Oh, that sounds nice. Did you have a party?” I look at her for a second and pause.

“A party for two.” She smiles at me knowingly.

“Oh my and my ex-husband used to that. It’s the best.”

It was. We checked in on the thirty-first and didn’t leave the premises for another two days. The mood was romantic, and we both had been looking forward to spending some intimate time together. The days seem to melt into a haze of bliss.

Ice was constantly clattering into a glass as we made drinks. We’d say cheers as we had shooters. At regular intervals I’d roll us a doob, or pick up a generous roach from the ashtray. We made the best of the pathetic CD player that was provided, blared tunes, spontaneously busting into dance. I would work my way over to where he was standing, and let him whine his bum cheeks expertly over buddy.

During the whole stay, we only got fully dressed once, for when we went down for breakfast. Otherwise, we sauntered around the hotel room in our underwear. They seemed to come off quite easily, as with steady ease we found are selves falling into long pleasure sessions. The sex was intense and frenzied, but at the same time lazy and leisurely, as we knew that we had no other demands. I emerge from the shower after one session and start talking to him about something, while he sat on the edge of the bed. While in mid-sentence, he pulls down my briefs and I am surprised that I am instantly hard as we just had sex ten-minutes ago.

Highlight of the stay would have to be being on the rooftop terrace in the hot-tub. There were traces of snow outside, but the water was a relaxing hot, and we sat and watched the jumbo-tron screen. We sipped our gin and tonics, taking in an excellent view of the city. Mr. Honey Tongue sat across from me, and under the water his foot was stretched out gently massaging my boys.

Conversation is easy, and we talk about everything under the sun. We joke and have ‘nuff laughs. We tease each other, trying to outdo the other with our sarcastic bitchy humor. Or, we snuggle in silence, muttering in intervals some sweet nothing into the others ears. Everything feels so right, I am just happy and satiated the whole time.

I wake up on the second day of the new year, and feel sad. I whine that I don’t want to leave. He says that he doesn’t want to leave either. I get my things ready, and as we are preparing to leave I want to cry. It’s not fair I think. Our little pretend world has expired, and we return to reality. Reality is that we live in opposite ends of the city with our respective parental units. It also doesn’t help that we have totally opposite schedules.

Must move out this year. Must leave this so-called home. Must regain a life.

Good Morning

My boyfriend deserves an award.

He’s watching a friends place while they are out of town, and so the other night I went over. At around 1:30 a.m. he passes out, and I am not feeling the least bit sleepy. It’s an old building, so the heat comes up through the floors. You can’t adjust the temperature manually, thus being left at the mercy of the super. The apartment feels like a Swedish sauna. The bed is incredibly lumpy, I can’t get comfy. I toss and turn all night, not being able to lay still.

I am prone to talking in my sleep, so I mutter utter smack to him while in some incoherent dream world. He thinks that I am talking about something real.

“What?”

“The Saab 4. Do you like that car?”

“What?”

“Would you like to call now?”

“Huh?”

I prop my head up, feeling utterly confused. My dream is still misting in my head, and I can see myself talking, but something seems wrong with this picture and I can’t seem to place my finger on it. I realize then that Mr. Honey Tongue is not dreaming the same thing I am, and that I talking in my sleep.

“Just ignore me, I’m just talking shit.” I close my eyes, and sleep takes over me for awhile.

Finally, around 11 a.m. I open my eyes. I figure that any further attempts at slumber are futile, so I turn around and face my sleeping boyfriend. He groans slightly, and I can tell he is not fully asleep.

“Good morning,” I say and lean in and kiss him gently on the lips.

“Guh-mur-ing,” he mumbles.

I feel bad. I know that I kept him up all night. He has issues sleeping. And I apologize to him. His eyes are still closed. I feel slightly frisky, and have an urge to press the other part of me that arose this morning on to him. But, I know better. He will get mad at me, and claim that I am violating him. So I resist the urge, and instead stroke his arm.

“Were you possessed by a spirit last night?”

“What do you mean?” I respond, putting on my most innocent of voices.

“You couldn’t lie still all night! You were tossing and turning all night!” His eyes are open now.

“I’m sorry.”

“Were you eating pizza at night?”

“No.”

“Yes, you were. At 5:30.”

“I don’t remember doing that.”

“So now you sleep walk.”

“No!” I say slightly aghast.

“Yes, I looked over and you were eating the pizza.” He shakes his head. Any trace of sleep is gone from his voice. “You were like a demon or something last night.”

My urge is now uncontrollable, and my fingers wander to the elastic of his shorts. He instantly slaps my hand, turns over and continues his rant. I lie facing the ceiling. I don’t feel comfortable so turn and try to sprawl myself into a decent position.

“You just can’t be still can you?”

“This bed is so lumpy.”

“Princess!”

“I am not a princess.” A few moments of silence pass. “I can’t sleep anymore!” I declare. He chuckles. I turn around and face his back now, and poke him in the ribs. “Play with me,” I say, laugh, and poke him again.

“Your bright!” He says. “First you keep me up all night, with your demon tossing and turning, then wake me up by talking shit in my ear, go around sleep walking. And now that your all good and rested, you wanna come say to me, I’m bored?”

“I didn’t say I was bored. I said come play with me.” With this I am daring and slip my hand on his generous behind. He pulls his blanket protectively around him, and I am forced to take back my hand.

I lie again staring at the ceiling for a few moments. Eventually one morning urge is replaced by another morning urge, and I get up to go relieve myself. Mr. Honey Tongue deftly turns around, and places one leg firmly over my leg. “But, I have to go the washroom.” His leg remains secure. I bring myself back into bed, and pull him beside me, resting his head on my chest.

In silence his fingers trail down my body, I take a sharp breath as he begins to toy with my manhood. My mind sinks into utter pleasure, as Mr. Honey Tongue proceeds to give me a proper wake-up call. I have to say, there is nothing fucking better than a hood-wash to start your day. And no one can touch my boys skills. By the time he is done, I am lying in bed with a smile spread all over my face.

We get up, have a morning cigarette, but seem to gravitate back into bed. I am lying in his arms. I had a question that I have meant to ask him. I figured that doing it on the phone would not be best. I had told myself I would ask him this weekend. But with the hours that we had left together today limited, I knew I had to ask him now. I psyche myself up for the conversation. I will myself to start talking, but only air rushes out of my throat.

“Uhm, ah,” I begin. I do this because now I know I have to say something. “Who…or uh…did you…got…or get…that D&G bracelet?” His chest heaves with a sigh.

“Why do you this?”

“Who got it for you?”

“Why does it matter?”

“Why won’t you tell me?”

“Why does it matter?”

“Why don’t you wanna tell me?”

“It doesn’t matter. It was a Christmas present. I got it when we weren’t together.”

This feels like a slap. He is referring to our estrangement, due to my infidelity. I am quite. I feel mad. I want to act immature and demand that he tell me. I see myself jumping out of bed, and going to the living room and lighting a cigarette. Instead I take a deep breath.

“Whatever, you would have taken it, even if we were together.”

“Why does it matter?”

“It’s an extravagant gift.” I screw up my face. “It’s a D&G bracelet, that has meaning.” Trouble with being a philosophy major, you are always concerned with meaning.

“It doesn’t mean anything.”

I supply him with a couple names. At the mention of Ex # 1, he shakes his head no. I am glad because that would have bothered me. I mention Ex #2, and he nods his head.

I don’t say anything and lie thinking. In my stomach I feel a hurt. I remind myself that I am the actual cheater and hold my feelings in check.

“Your upset.”

“I’m not thrilled.”

“He came down and gave me my gift since I wasn’t going to see him for Christmas and I gave him a bracelet for his gift.” I don’t say anything. “And I doubt it’s real. Like, he got me a D&G bracelet with diamonds on it. If it was real I wouldn’t have accepted it.”

“Sure.”

“I wouldn’t have. I wouldn’t take a $5,000 bracelet. There is nothing going on. He has his boyfriend. It was just a early Christmas gift. And I gave him a bracelet.” He looks over at me. “Your upset.”

“I’m upset that you wouldn’t just tell me when I asked you. Your right we weren’t together, and you could do whatever you want. I just wish you’d tell me when I ask you.”

“I don’t see why it’s so important.”

Through the course of the conversation I have shifted away slightly from his chest, and am now my head is on the pillow. We lie in silence. I feel that I don’t like the room right now, and decide to get up.

I get up and head to the washroom. I am in the shower, lathering myself, humming an old Indian film tune, when a sudden parting of the shower curtain startles me and I jump back and scream. Mr. Honey Tongue laughs at me. And I try to look stern for a moment, but a grin is itching on the sides of my mouth.

“Can I join you?”

“Of course.”

I watch him lather himself. We move around and allow each other access to the water spray in the small cramped shower. He makes fun of how I wash my ass.

“Your really mad at me?”

“No. I told you I am mad that you wouldn’t just tell me. If you don’t tell me stuff and leave gaps for me, then my imagination fills in the gaps.”

“Your one to talk about gaps.” I contemplate this while I am rinsing the soap off my back.

“Listen. I know your not going to forget what happened. I don’t expect you to. And your going to say stuff to me that might hurt. I will take that. But, that doesn’t mean you get to be all secretive and not forthcoming.”

“I see your point.”

We proceed to get ready for our respective days. I iron my shirt, while he makes himself breakfast. I have a few cigarettes while he gets into his fleece-tracksuit. I gel my hair into place, as he ties on his do-rag. I slip on my scarf and get into my wool petticoat as he puts on his bomber jacket. We are rushing around getting our bags together, and making sure we have everything before we leave.

I stop for a moment and look at him, he looks utterly handsome to me. I side step myself into his way and give him a quick kiss.

“I love you.”

“I love you too.”

We order a cab to the subway station, as we don’t feel we can take the bus in this area.

Even though this is a little weekend, make-believe, play-house, that we had, getting ready for work with him feels right.

“I can’t wait to move out next year.”

“Spring time?” He asks.

“Spring at the earliest. Summer at the latest. I could never live in this area though.”

“I can’t even take the bus in this area.”

We laugh. We have a lengthy discussion, which continues as we board the subway, as to the various neighborhoods that we would want to live in. Discussing all relevant pros and cons for every ideal neighborhood in question.

“Wow, I’m going to have start looking in a few months for a place.” He nods.

“It’s going to be fun. You’ll like house hunting with me.” He nods again. His stop is coming up next and he begins to gather his bag.

“Aigh’t see you later, have a good day at work” he says.

“Later. You have a good day too.”

He gets up for his stop. We make eye contact for a moment, and give each other a nod goodbye. I reach into my pocket and pull out my I-pod, and with the turn-wheel set it to shuffle.

I am sitting in the last train on the subway, and I look out to the platform which the subway is rushing away from. The opening strains of Let’s Stay Together by Al Green comes in through my headphones. I see Mr. Honey Tongue walking down the platform, and he is blowing a big-kiss at me in the air. I pretend to catch it and place it on my lips.

I turn around and face ahead of me. I start taping my feet to the beat of the song and start mouthing the words.

Life is ok

Favorite thing in the world currently is my new CD, Indiavision. It’s fucking great. I love it. It’s a collection of Hindi film songs and instrumental from 1966 – 1984. It ain’t no ordinary collection though, it’s all crazy, funky, obscure tracks. I had heard a few of them, actually my dad had them on vinyl, others were pleasant surprises. I feel that all the tracks on the album are solid. Plus, bonus, the CD is recorded in high definition, usually Indian CD’s don’t copy so well. The transfer on this CD is quality.

Work’s pretty cool. Love being acting-manager, or in-charge. Currently I am managing two classes, and later this week will have another class to look after. Bossman! My manger Sun King is going on vacation, and has gotten me to look over the training classes. I thoroughly enjoyed walking around with Sun King, and him introducing me as his in-charge. He’s a great dude, thoroughly respect the guy. He totally has taken me under his wing, and is pushing me forward.

Love my boyfriend. He’s such a sweetie. I don’t know what was wrong with me, doing what I did. He’s so good to me. I think about what I did. I felt so horrible during the whole shit. Why would I bring that upon myself willingly? I guess we have to learn lessons. But to know that he’s there for me, and that his love is unconditional is, I don’t know, it’s sublime.

Don’t like the fucking weather. It’s fucking cold outside.

Onward Troops!

This week I turned twenty-eight. Of course, a birthday is really just a normal day, and I did not feel any magical change.

I was reflective; this has been quite a dramatic year for me. The year started on a high note, I was making genuine progress in terms of living “authentically”. I was seeing a therapist, and the process was helping me come to terms with long-term issues that I had. However, the Big Evil Corporation’s insurance policy would only cover so much of it, and I had to start paying out of my pocket. It would burn me, having to pay $150 for weekly sessions. I kept imagining all the shoes I could have bought instead of talking about my feelings, and some obscure childhood incident. Eventually, I had to discontinue these sessions.

But, I felt some positive results from the sessions. I was able to sleep at night, I didn’t feel anxiety attacks pending at any moment, and had an overall sense of confidence which I had lacked for the longest time. And this was manifesting itself in real ways in my life, I was making serious advancements in my workplace. Even my boyfriend remarked he saw a change in me.

I remarked to Mr. Honey Tongue the other day on the phone, “I was doing good, and it was like somewhere I couldn’t stand that, and I fucked myself up to take myself back to square one.” I’m not sure where the downward spiral began.

I suppose I had made some superficial improvements in my life – but there were still deeper issues which had been ignored – mainly my relationship (or lack thereof) with my father.

Over the course of the summer I rekindled my romance with various letters of the alphabet. What began as a, “Oh I remember what this was like” and “I only do this a couple times a year”, became a monthly habit, then progressing into a weekly habit. I realize now, it was escapism, a desire not to deal with the here and now. I had been down this road before, ‘bout five years ago, during my rave days. Apparently, I hadn’t learned my lesson.

And, then I did the worst thing possible. I cheated on my boyfriend. But even after that situation had come to a head, I had lower still to fall. As my previous entry indicates, I basically doused myself with gasoline and set myself on fire, burning my self-respect for all to see in public.

I suppose the next few days brought my moment of clarity. That I was just running. That I had love in my life in the form of my boyfriend, and that it was a good thing. I still hold that occasional/functional intoxication is a good thing, but my partying habits were not functional.

I have a challenging road ahead of me, but I want to rise to the occasion for once, and not take the easy route. I’m verging on my thirties, and I don’t want to be a victim of my past. Conquering my demons will not be easy, but the way I have handled my problems for the last ten years is not the soloution.

I am looking forward to 2006. I feel it will be my year. I can almost see the looming battles facing me, but I will not sit on the sidelines, sticking my head in the ground. Like a phoenix from the ashes, I will rise again. Watch out now!

Crash and Burn

Last Friday…

I am pouring myself a drink in Special K’s kitchen. The glass is two-thirds full of Appleton Rum and I feel it could be stiffer still, I fill it pretty much too the top, and splash it with some coke. I take a sip, feeling a warmth spread through my chest. I smile contemplating how much I love rum.

I am enamored with my reflection. I keep staring at myself in the sliding glass doors that lead to the balcony, admiring how the jeans I am wearing make my rear-end look. I keep singing this line from some Missy song, “I’m really, really hot, radio won’t let me stop…”.

I feel that maybe I am getting too drunk, as I am a bit too animated when I am talking, and I am not sure that I am making sense. I figure that the e I will drop in a few minutes will negate the effects of all the booze I have consumed.

Me and my entourage walk into Besharam – this gay Indian jam – and I turn to Trini Gyal and exclaim, “oh yeah, I love that my e is kicking in right when I walk in.”

The coat-check line is way too long for me, and I feel that I need more booze right now. I give one of the girls in my crew my jacket and walk over to the bar. I figure I might as well start double fisting, and order two beers. I can’t seem to drink one without spilling the other all over my shirt.

….I am dancing and my left-knee is betraying me and won’t seem too support me, I clutch tightly on too Trini Gyal to prevent a fall. Cutie Bum comes in and supports us both and prevents a big wipe-out….

…The club has gotten ridden of the risers they had before. I access the big speaker next to me and feel that I can get on top of it and release my inner go-go boy. I get on top and realize this is impossible. I get down, and wonder why I haven’t gotten kicked out yet…

…I am dancing like an insane person, going crazy, moving ten-times to fast to the beat…

…I see gossipy bitches I recognize from the scene around me. People who have nothing better to do, than to chat 'bout next person’s business. I keep giving them all dirty looks, and hold my head high with some imagined pride…

…I am standing outside with my jacket on for some reason. I don't remember comming outside, I figure I must have wanted some fresh air. I can still hear strains of Indian music coming from the club. I decide I have had enough fresh air, and want to go back inside. This big black lesbian bouncer stops me and says, “you are not going back inside, after what you did.”

I turn my head side-ways to her, with a look of utter shock, and in a child-like voice say, “what did I do?” She just shakes her head. “But my friends are inside,” I protest. I feel this is a good enough reason for me to go back in.

“You are not going back in tonight.” I don’t believe this is the final word on the matter, and try a few more times to enter back into the club. Prince who was nice enough to come outside and keep me company, is laughing at me.

The entourage comes out, and Special K launches into a rant right away.

“You were a fucking asshole tonight, you were acting like a fucking diva bitch, you wouldn’t fucking listen to me…”

“Really?” I look around and the rest of the group is nodding they’re heads in agreement. “Oh, well.” But this isn’t enough to shut her up, and she continues her ranting.

I feel a momentary cringe. I push this feeling away, and say loudly, “oh, fucking well.” I make a big grand brushing away gesture with my right hand as to discard this topic of discussion.

We go back to her place. I take over the sound selection as I am the music Nazi. I am still over animated and am acting way to extra.

Cutie Bum is a dear and drives me and Trini Gyal home. I am falling asleep and seem to wake up right in the nick of time to guide him appropriately. I get out of the car and a sharp pain runs up and down my left leg. I hobble into my house, peel off my clothes and collapse in my bed.

I wake up around eleven a.m. and don’t want to remember what happened the night before, so I close my eyes tightly and go back to sleep. My bodily function force me out of bed around six p.m., I drink three glasses of milk to fill my stomach, as solid food seems impossible to digest. I go back to my room and lie down. Eventually sleep takes over me again. I get up around midnight, my body feels fully charged and won’t permit sleep any more. I take two-sleeping pills and unconsciousness takes over again.

What's a Fatwa Darling, Does It Make You Fat?

I would love to have dinner with Salman Rushdie, or at least coffee, and get to pick at his brain. I was just thinking this while having a cigarette.

I want to be published and catch his attention. He would write me a glowing review, and they would quote him on the back of my novel, “the voice of a new generation!” Quite the flights of fantasy I have, eh?

I remember being ten and entering into this kids short story contest the Toronto Star was running. The story was horrible, way too long, and riddled with grammar and spelling mistakes. Around this time, The Satanic Verses, was published and it’s controversy ensued.

My father, family, community, all were, aghast, appalled, outraged, over this book. This book they hadn’t read. They would ask, “How could he defame the prophet?” At the mere mention of the subject matter they would shudder, and curse Rushdie’s name. They were happy at hearing that people had taken to mass-burning his book. My uncle called my father and gave him this number, where Muslims were leaving messages en mass asking for a boycott of the book. My father called me over, and I was told to leave a message of my own.

I remember coming over to the phone shyly, with a bit of a smile, because I found the situation to be humourous and bizzare at the same time. I echoed some complaint that I heard my father make.

I of course finished the story in submission format the day before the contest was over. I asked my father, if he would go and deliver the story to the Toronto Star. He said he would.

Maybe a few weeks later, we were driving down the highway, passing the Toronto Star, and I construct this complex scenario. I imagine that I go to the Toronto Star building, to deliver my story. The lovely receptionist lady would point me down some hall. So, this ten-year old boy meanders through the Toronto Star building. I happen to take a wrong turn, and end up walking into a room I was not intended too.

In the room would be Salman Rushdie. As I recollect the memory, I recall the room to be spartan and blue. There would be a sole table and two chairs, constructed of steel maybe? Salman Rushdie would look at me shocked and surprised. He was of course in hiding, because the Ayatollah Khomeini had placed a fatwa on his head, he had only come here to give an interview in secret. And me this little Pakistani Muslim boy happened to find him.

I wasn't sure how, but I end up capturing Mr. Rushdie. I surrender him to some imagined Muslim Authorities. My deeds would fall on everyone lips and it would be related with such astonishment and zeal.

I construct this fantasy, while driving in the car down the highway, with my father, in silence as we never talk, past the Toronto Star building. As I write this, I wonder, did he ever submit that story?

Later that year, as I move from grade school to Junior High, I end up conducting a strange debate. Me and the librarian develop a repertoire, as I am a nerd, and always end up in the library searching for books. Somehow we end up discussing Salman Rushdie and the idea of censorship. I defend the fatwa, and say that Mr. Rushdie had no right to publish defamations against the prophet. The librarian engages me, and talks about "freedom of speech", telling truth in writing, and allowing for difference of opinion. I consider these arguments, but never change position while talking with him, but would go up to my grandfather's room, and start the debate with him instead. I take the liberal stance with my Nana, and learn counter arguments and then the next day argue again with the librarian. I must continue this debate for about a month.

Of course, now, I think Salman Rushdie is prolific writer, whose writing I so enjoy reading. His command of language and storytelling abilities leave me simply amazed. I remember practically getting wet at this one point when I was reading The Satanic Verses. He constructs this scene, where the protagonist is turning into a devil creature, while he is at the infamous afternoon parties held by South Asian teens in London, and starts discussing Franz Fanon's theory of liberation. WTF!?! That’s just sheer brilliance to me.

I remember reading somewhere in an interview that Rushdie did, that what made him sad about the whole affair, was that he had felt that he had written a book, for the Muslim community. That the story was for them. And that they blindly turned away from this narrative. I agree. That is sad, that the community would silence, one of it's own voices.

The Great Escape

I’m exhausted. What a weekend.

My Saturday starts off with a conversation with my boyfriend Mr. Honey Tongue. We are currently estranged - due to my infidelity - and this is our first real conversation after a month. I run a gambit of emotions during the call. But overall feel happy to have talked to him, to have laughed with him, and even while he is yelling at me, I am smiling because I am talking to him.

After the call ends I am left confused. My classic problem is that I am indecisive. I am unable to make up my mind, I will consider all options, and really only make choice when forced too. I once spent two hours in a video store trying to pick a movie, ultimately, became so frustrated and self-conscious because I was convinced that all the store employees were staring at me, I left being unable to choose.

I feel for the past month I have ignored my emotions, that I have tucked them away somewhere. The call brings my feelings centre stage and I feel sad. I am not sure what I want and how to tell I am making the right choice.

I am saved from a night of isolation and self-pity, because, it’s my homegirl Lioness’s birthday, and my good friends from university are all congregating to celebrate. It’s actually been a good four years since we have all gotten together as a group, and I am looking forward to our meeting. Me, Rasta Lady (my ex), Lioness, and Music Man, were all philosophy majors, and shared a love for music and having a good time. We snubbed our noses at everyone else, and thought we were too cool for school.

Lioness picks Thymless as the venue for her b-day celebration, this roots reggae bar, which plays dope tunes. They have a sick-ass sound in the club, and the place has a real cool vibe. Lioness, of course, turns up an hour-half late, I tease her about this. She retorts, “It’s my birthday, and I’ll be late if I want too.”

I am feeling depressed at being alone. I watch the couples in my group, and I wish Mr. Honey Tongue was with me. Music Man and his girlfriend Yosemite Pam seem to always have their hands interlocked, and they refer to each other in endearing terms. And I watch Rasta Lady while she whines her bottom on her new boyfriend.

I am lost in a moment while staring at her. We dated for three years. And, had a fairly intense relationship. Now, when we talk we struggle to keep the momentum going.

“So what’s new?”

“Oh you know, same old, same old”

“Your still working at…?”

“Yeah, and your still at…?”

“Yeah….”

And then awkward silence. I am slightly saddened by this. Here is a person I lived with for three years. Someone I woke up with and went to bed with, and now we can barley hold a conversation for ten minutes. Of course, it is a given. What are we going to talk about? We haven’t really spoken in the three years since our relationship ended. Still, we had been such good friends first. I make a mental note to myself, that no matter what happens, I won’t let this happen again with Mr. Honey Tongue.

I decide that to combat my glum mood, I need to take a happiness advance. So I split a candE with Music Man, and order myself a double rum and coke.

While at the bar, I notice a cute Indian girl who seems familiar. I realize it’s DJ Amita, resident DJ at Besharam, a gay Indian jam that I like to frequent. I love the music she spins, and think she’s great for creating such a positive and necessary environment.

“DJ Amita?” I ask leaning towards her.

“Yes,” she says looking up at me slightly quizzically.

“I’m the guy that has been coming up to your DJ booth and harassing you the last few months.”

She smiles. “I thought you looked familiar.” We start chatting. I tell her I think she’s a great DJ. “Oh thank-you, I really needed to hear that right now.” We inquire about each others backgrounds, and what kind of music we liked. We both share a love for reggae, and I tell her she should play more. I’m glad that we were able have an exchange.

I get a text-message from Super Size Me, “What you feel bout an afthrs loft party complete w/ party favours? J” I text back “I’m down.” I tell Music Man, and he is interested. I am excited. Me and Music Man haven’t partied in ages, it should be good. I call Super Size Me, tell him where I am, and he agrees to meet me.

Yosemite Pam is not pleased that Music Man is deviating from the original plan, that he will not be returning home with her, and instead going out partying with me. She causes a stink, and I start finding her voice annoying. I get up and leave to let the couple hash it out, at the same time bringing my jealous feelings in check. Yes, it is nice to have someone whose hands you can always hold. But, then you have this, having to deal with their disagreement. Still, isn’t conflict necessary and healthy in a relationship? Two-people will not always see eye-to-eye. This internal debate is bothering me, and I head to the bar and order another double rum and coke.

The night progresses on, we’re all appreciating the serious good music being playing, and even though I kind of want to leave for the after-hours jam, I can’t seem to tear myself away from the music. Eventually, at around 2:45 a.m., Music Man, Super Size Me, and myself bounce, and we taxi ourselves to some warehouse.

We walk into the warehouse, house music is playing, and I instantly want to do a line of coke. I feel too sober to be at a place like this. The e I popped earlier only ended up giving me a tingle, and with my tolerance for alcohol I am nowhere being drunk. I feel burdened by my emotions and want release. Thankfully, Super Size Me invites me to the washroom, and while avoiding touching the pee which was sprayed all over the stall, I lean over and do a couple lines.

I lose myself to the music for awhile. The music is excellent. The DJ is playing some serious old school house, and the beat is conducive to escape.

The high doesn’t last to long. I want more. I am not sure if I have built up a tolerance for chems since I rekindled my affair with them recently. Or, if the emotions I am feeling are too strong to be drowned out by drugs. I decide there’s no point in doing more, it will only bring me back to this same point, only I will feel more sketchy.

Me and Music Man sit down, and have a coke induced heart to heart. I tell him I love him, and we hug. I blather on about my situation, and he listens. He tells me about his situation, and I listen. I am left more confused now, I just want an answer. How do you know that, that person is the one? How can you make that choice confidently? I try to get up and dance, and even though the DJ is now playing sick Latin house, I can only barley shuffle my feet.

I end up crashing at Super Size Me’s place.

I wake up the next day mildly hung-over and extremely hungry. Good thing is, I have lunch today at Red Lobster compliments of The Big Evil Corporation. Our team at work, won some Halloween contest, and our prize was a dinner at a restaurant of our choice. I lobbied that we go to Red Lobster, and my selection won out.

I walk in with my Prada shades on, receive compliments on my appearance, which makes me momentarily happy, and order a double bloody Caesar. The meal is amazing. We order various appetizers, and I must say their lobster rolls - a spring roll filled with lobster - is to die for. I order the Ultimate Feast, which includes, lobster tail, crab, deep-fried shrimp, and garlic shrimp, with a side of mashed potatoes. I am practically forcing myself to finish my meal, because I am so stuffed.

We end up spending four hours at the restaurant. We are all joking and enjoying socializing out of the work environment. My manager whom I normally can’t stand I find amusing now, as she has let her guard down, and is drinking with us. I make a couple attempts to leave, as I am feeling particularly tired, but my co-workers keep insisting I stay and have another glass of wine. I protest, and they say, “c’mon sit down.” It is of course really easy to twist my arm, especially with the offering of alcohol, so each time I sit down rather quickly and pour myself another glass. In this social setting, in the conversation, the making of jokes, teasing each other, I forget about my problems.

Eventually I trudge my way home. And my gloom has descended back. Maybe after a goods night sleep I will wake up with clarity. What I really need, is some good porn to take my mind off my problems.