Monday, November 28, 2005

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…?”


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.

Wednesday, November 23, 2005

Number 6

I ask my mother what kajra re means, while I am grabbing some milk from the fridge.

It’s the name of a hit song from the Bollywood movie Bunty aur Babli, and quite a hot a tune.

She glances upward for a second, considering how she will explain it to me. “Kajra re means…,” she then starts moving her eyes around, while her head is bouncing in that particular way which is intrinsically Indian. She continues this, as if her movement is a working definition. I must be looking at her confused, so she tries to explain herself, “to play with your eyes…,” and she is pointing at her eyes as she says this. She then breaks out into some other song that uses that term.

“So it’s only used for girl?” I ask.

“Ha, only a girl could be kajra re, a boy can’t.” She shakes her head, at the absurdity of this. “If a guy is kajra re, then he is,” and at this point she put her one palm out and hits the wrist of her other hand with it.

It’s a motion I have seen before. I have seen hijra’s, Pakistani eunuch transvestites, do this motion. They occupy a strange role in Pakistan. They are commonly prostitutes, who also beg to get by. They are called into dance at functions like weddings. But, what I found the most oddest, they are considered to be able to give out blessings.

I remember one time when I was in Karachi a few years back, having ice-cream on the boulevard in the car, my mother called over a hijra, and asked her to wish good tidings for her son. The hijra came over to where I was seated and started reciting this litany of prayers over me, “Oh Allah get him a good job, oh Allah let him make good money, oh Allah let him prosper.” While the hijra gave me her benedictions, she was slapping her palm with her wrist. My mother looked pleased, while I sat feeling weird.

But back in the present she is explaining to me the importance of gender roles. “If a man starts doing things that girls do, then he is a number 6.” She is laughing because she thinks she is making a joke.

“Number 6?”


I stare at her blankly for a moment, and do a half-smile. I put the milk back in the fridge. Give her a general nod. I feel the need to leave the kitchen immediately.

“A man should behave like a man, and not do girl things.” I hear this and walk out of the kitchen.

Later, I am cleaning my room and my sister is using my computer.

“I can’t wait till my birthday,” she exclaims to me. “You have to take me shopping.”

I stop and smile at her. “You want me to help you pick out a outfit?”

“Two outfits. I am going out twice. And this one night this guy is going to be there…,” her voice trails off becoming dreamy.

I laugh at her. My sister doesn’t formally know that I am gay. She might as well. But for some reason, I can’t bring myself to tell her. I come quite close, but I can’t seem to find the right moment.

“So you can be my shopping consultant. So make sure you clear out a week for me. I need new shoes, something sexy.”


“No, not slutty, sexy, like I’m a good girl, but hot.” She leans back a bit, tilts her head down, and looks up at me with her eyes rolled up, to demonstrate exactly what she means. “Look at him, dont you think he is cute?” She is smiling. She is perusing some online photo album which features a fair number of pictures of this guy she likes. “But he’s a slut.” She is clicking. “He looks weird in this picture.” Click. “He’s so thuggish.” I pause occasionally to look at these pics. She gushes, “oh he’s so cute."

I look at the guy. He is cute. It’s scary me and my sister have similar tastes in guys. I nod.

“I have to look hot for my birthday,” she exclaims again. And then my sister launches into a list of all the things she is doing to ensure that she will look good. Her zits are a concern to her, and she is drinking lot’s of water, and using a army of facial cleansing products to give her clear and radiant skin.

She sounds like me. Our likeness frightens me. These are the things that I think about. She sounds like my inside voice realized. Of course, I think I would go for slutty over just sexy.

Tuesday, November 22, 2005


I can't sleep. I try to meditate to calm my mind.

I focus on the breath. I take deep breaths, instead of shallow breaths. I let the belly expand, like a balloon while I inhale, and let it slowly collapse while I exhale. I focus on the beating of my heart. As always, it is a startling sensation, this constant beat within me, this heart which gives me life. I try to quite my mind. I focus on the breath. I focus on the beating of my heart.

I think about focusing on the breath, and as such my mind is not quiet. I recall from various readings, that you should be patient. Count the breaths, one, two, three, and if you notice that your mind has drifted, bring it back gently, and begin again, one, two, three. I don't seem to pass one.

This deep breathing and focusing on my heart, brings my attention inward. As I sink inward, my heart seems to take a painful beat. I am instantly tense. A vision passes before me. I am some snarling beast, a werewolf maybe? I have red eyes, and I am clawing with rage. I continue breathing. Focus on the tension with the inward breath, release the tension with the outward breath.

The image is gone, and I feel sadness. A pure ache covers my chest. A trapped sea of tears, makes me want to weep, but I seem to have forgotten how. I feel the belly expand, I feel a sense of lightness. I exhale. I inhale. The heartbeat is enthralling. Breath is life.

Now my lips are curling at the sides into a small smile. I still feel the ache in my chest. But I feel humorous at the same time. I sense of happiness coincides with the sadness at the same time. Two-sides of the same coin.

As I let my chest expand, I feel like an eagle. Breathe in, breathe out.

Words no longer apply. Time no longer has meaning.

My eyes automatically open.

I sit there for a few moments, noticing the difference, from the inner and the outer.

I still can't sleep. I get up and light a cigarette.

Sunday, November 20, 2005

Time Pass

Having spent all of yesterday indoors, I am feeling claustrophobic, and feel the need to venture outside, also I have ran out of cigarettes. I decide that I need a few things, so go on a shopping excursion. Here's a list of the things I buy.

Jalapeno Havarti Cheese, Old Cheddar Cheese, a bag of Pre-Cooked Shrimp, Crab Meat, a box of Fusil Pasta, bunch of Green Onions, a Orange Pepper, a jar of Hellmann’s Mayonnaise, Fructise Anti-Dandruff Shampoo, Vegetable Thin Crackers, a 2-litre of 7-Up, Snickers Chocolate Cake, 2 pairs of Puma Underwear, the new Kardinal Offishal CD Fire and Glory, 3 pairs of dress socks, a 4-litre jug of Milk, and a small pack of DuMaurier Extra Light King Size cigarettes.

This shopping excursion costs me approximately $100. I have to put in a day of work, seven and a half hours, at the Big Evil Corporation to earn that much money. It takes me approximately two hours to spend this money.

I am particularly happy with my new Puma underwear. I have wanted them for over a year, since Puma originally released them. They are quite sexy, with Lycra and mesh siding. However, they always sell for $30, and even though I can burn money quite easily I can't bring myself to spend that much money on material that will hold my privates, and get rubbed up with fecal matter. I see them at Winners and feel excited instantly. They are $16.99, I grab two boxes, one in black and one in grey. I avoid the white, which would look sexy against my dark skin, but eventually would suffer irremovable "skid-marks". I feel depressed for a moment when I get in my car and start the ignition, I have no one to show my underwear too. No one, who would coo with excitement seeing me in my gitch, and after admiring me look to see the surprise it contained. I sigh, and instead think how yummy my Jalapeno Havarti cheese will be.

I am pissed when I come home and try to copy the new Kardi CD to my ipod. EMI the asshole music company has built in some form of copy-protection, which makes it so my computer doesn't recognize the CD. I rarely buy CD's now, and having given this CD a listen to at HMV, decided that I would support this local artist. And, what do I get, the inability to use the product as I would like. I curse EMI's name repeatedly, as I search the Internet for a way around this nuisance of a problem. Within half-hour, I am successfully transferring the songs to my ipod. Fuck you, EMI and your stupid copy-protection, you can kiss my mother-fucking balls. For more details, on how to defeat this problem visit,

I am now faced with the mammoth task of cleaning up my ipod, as I have been listing to the same 900 songs for the last few months. I have tons of other CD which I would like to have accessible from my touch-scroll wheel. I have been procrastinating, as this task will take me at least a good couple of hours.

Interesting facts about myself, the most listened to track on my ipod is Is That Your Wife? by Elephant Man. A line from the song goes, "some man wife, is next man fuck-a gyal". The next most listened to songs are, Desi Rock by Swami, We Can Work It Out by Stevie Wonder, Rock the Boat by Aaliyah and Wicked Slam by Beenie Man. That's my top five songs, I wonder what that says about me?

Saturday, November 19, 2005

Oh Baby!

My best-friend T. Diddy is in town, she has an adorable five month child, and yesterday I was over visiting. She doesn't believe in modern contraceptives, so has managed to get herself preggers again. As such, she is always ravenous, she jokes, "the only thing more hungry than a pregnant woman, is a breast-feeding pregnant woman". As she is with child and has a child, our old life is somewhat over. We no longer go bar-hopping, getting absurdly drunk, thinking last-call meant it was time to order ten rounds of tequila shots. So instead, we have been doing a tour of her favorite Toronto restaurants. My other good friend Music Man, who is also a parent of a pretty four year-old girl, was in the neighborhood, and wanted to come visit with T. Diddy and her baby. I was happy when setting up the meeting, saying, "oh yeah, we can all get together, and pretend to be a big happy family".

I was sitting watching the two parents talk and felt out of place. There they were Music Man and T. Diddy, holding a conversation about the finer points of pooh, and how the smell can vary depending on the child's food intake. This conversation lasts a good a ten minutes. They both have their off-spring hanging off their laps, one constantly saying, "daddy, daddy" while Music Man tried to talk, and the other, smiling and then getting overwhelmed with the attention he was receiving and burying his face in T. Diddys breasts.

I am caught-off guard for a moment. These children things, have an entirely different relationship with my friends than I do. I realize I am stating the obvious, but I am overwhelmed by this. For them, my friends are their parents, providers, care-givers. The infant will start wailing if his mother leaves his line of sight, and the little girl can't seem to have a thought without running it by her father. For them my friends, are currently the centre of their world. Children aren't a novelty to me, I have fifteen cousins which are all under the age of twelve, so I have seen the parent-child relationship before. I am just unnerved watching my friends, my peers, move on into this realm of life.

Earlier, T. Diddy was recounting the lack of sleep she got, "he kept waking up every half an hour, and wanted the boob...Finally at 5:30 he went to sleep good, and I got two straight hours of sleep". I was staring at her with a mixture of pity and astonishment as she is recounting this to me. She looks at me and says, "Dutty, I don't think you will ever have kids".

I feign surprise. "Why would you say that?"

"Because, look at you, I can't ever see you giving up your sleep. I haven't slept properly for over a year, and it will probably be another two years before I have good nights sleep".

Theoretically, having a child does seem to be an exciting prospect. I am watching my parent friends, and even though their lives are heavily taxed by children, I can tell their children bring unaccountable joy into their lives. And, I enjoy playing with children, I loved spending time with all my little cousins, and acting silly with them for hours on end. But, I am glad to be able to hand the child back to their parent, and go home. I am afraid I would make a horrible parent. Sometime children are prone to be unruly, more often than not I can handle that, but sometimes they get extremely out of control, and I channel the voice of my father which brings the children into instant control. I don't want to be my father.

Also, I am currently fairly self-centered, and don't see myself sacrificing my life for a child. I see it as gay privilege to not have a life encumbered with a child. I see myself settling down with a partner, and us both bringing roughly $50,000 a year. And, with no children, then we would have $100,000 annual disposable income. I see us having a fabulous lake-front condo, with a summer cottage, taking lavish vacations across the world. I would play the favorite uncle to my various nephews and nieces (by blood or friendship), spoiling them rotten, so they would love me and I would be spared giving them complexes and being brought up in future discussions in therapy sessions.

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

Divine Intervention

Oh my god! He works here. He works at the Big Evil Corporation.

I am referring to the Indian guy I was enamored with on Friday night (see, who we shall refer to from now on as Possibly Metro.

I was standing having a discussion with a co-worker and out of the corner of my eye I catch a cute Indian guy walking down the hall next to me. My eye’s immediately widen with recognition, and my neck turns like the freaky girl in The Exorcist, my eyes soaking him in till the last possible second. I was in mid-conversation with the co-worker at this point, and he was waiting for an answer to some stupid inane question. I return to the conversation totally forgetting what we are talking about. “Yes, yes, of course,” I say, hoping that will satisfy him in terms of a response. He the co-worker stares strangely at me, and continues blabbering on. I keep nodding at what he is saying, searching desperately for an exit queue in the conversation. None comes up. I want to scream at him, “Shut the fuck-up, I don’t care about your stupid life.” Instead I stare at his pants, noticing that he has them pulled up to his belly-button, and how the pants are to big for him as the buttons for his pants sag below the belt. I eventually just give him one more nod and walk away while he is taking a breath.

My initial reaction is to start jumping up and down and clapping my hands and thank the gods for throwing him back in my path. I want to chase after him, and ask him if he has read The Celestine Prophecy’s. Because, in The Celestine Prophecy’s it tells us, that when we encounter random people again and again in our lives, that it is not coincidence, rather they have been thrown into our path to help us with our life goal. Cosmic guidance. Fate. Karma.

I would ask him, “Don’t you remember me, I was the guy that was staring at you at that bar on Friday night”. He would probably nod, with alarm growing on his face. “Well, I can’t believe that you work here also, what are the odds.” As he would be walking away from me at this point, I would say loudly so he could still hear me, “In The Celestine Prophecy’s it tells us that there is no coincidence, that people we meet again and again are meant to help us in our greater life purpose, our greater life goal.” He would look at me as if I were insane at this point. Having got his attention, I would close with, “Well, my life goal at this point is to bring you maximum sexual pleasure, what’s your number?”

I feel that maybe this would not be the wisest course of action. Instead I run to Special K’s cubicle, slap her desk, and say, “You won’t fucking believe it, he works here.” She looks at me for a second, and continues talking to the customer she is on the phone with. I can’t believe her. Here I am, with the universe speaking to me, with cosmic guidance happening to me, and she has the nerve to continue doing her job. I am disappointed, as a proper fag hag she should place her customer on hold, and press for details. I stand by her desk agitated waiting for her to finish with the customer. She finally does, and we revert to proper fourteen year-old girl conversation mode. “Oh my gods” are exchanged, and I teeter tooter to from side to side. The discussion doesn’t last as long as I’d like, as we move on to discuss some possible job promotion she has coming.

I summed up from the direction that he was walking in the building, he must have a much more important job in the Big Evil Corporation than myself. He was wearing a nice expensive suit, so maybe he is like some sort of financial big wig. I work in the call centre environment, which is considered the bottom of the barrel. We the call centre employees are the menial labourers for the Big Evil Corporation. Our social positions are not matched – which will add to an interesting twist in the romance between Possibly Metro and me. It will be like Brad and Traci on The Young and the Restless. Brad worked as a gardener for the wealthy Abbots who ran Jabot Enterprises. Traci Abbot fell in love with him, and eventually Brad rose from being a mere groundskeeper to head of sales at Jabot Enterprises.

I will have to start coming in early to work, and dwell in the area where the people who get paid better than me work. I will look dashingly handsome everyday, and then Possibly Metro will see me, becoming smitten with me. We will exchange cute emails at work, which will lead to a night of mind boggling sex, resulting in an instant promotion at work.

I am so glad I saw Possibly Metro again. I have the opportunity now to construct all sorts of complex fantasies, and feed the obsessive part of my personality.

Yes, I am slightly insane.

Tuesday, November 15, 2005

Maybe Next Lifetime

Today we had a pot-luck at work. It was great, the spread was nice and diverse. I love having variety when eating, being able to choose from various items when devouring a meal. We have a special "celebratory" meal at the end of the new hires training period. As a trainer, this was my 8th time in the year partaking in such a meal. This time there was new twist.

One of the girls requested to hold a prayer before commencing eating. She asked for permission from the training manager, and checked with all of us to see if we were not offended by the pre-meal prayer. No one mounted any form of objection. I nodded in general agreement with this novel idea. "I have no problem with that".

I thought that she would say a few words, the "believers" in the group would bow their heads, and we would commence eating. I was startled when she requested that we all join hands. Now the situation was moving from unique to bizarre. I hesitantly join hands with my neighbors. Only one girl out of the group of fifteen or so abstains. I turn to the guy next to me and whisper, "is this a seance?". He ignores my comment. She commences to intone blessings for everyone and the unfortunate. I don't bow my head, instead, keep my head-up with a slightly bemused expression. There's four other guy's at the table who are also from South Asian backgrounds, and they are doing likewise. At one point we South Asians all end up looking at each other at the same time, and we share a private collective smirk. Or, at least that's my interpretation of events.

Later, I am outside having my second cigarette to aid the digestion process. I feel quite sleepy from having stuffed myself fully. The girl who requested the prayer comes out in tote with one of her friends. I am surprised to see them coming out to the smokers pit, as they don't smoke. They are holding in their hand a plate, and heading out towards the street. I put two-in-two together, and am left speechless. "Awww, that's so nice, they are taking food out to the homeless." I say this slowly, haltingly, as I don't fully comprehend what they are doing.

The smokers I am with are all equally confused. We stare at them trail out towards the street silently. I keep thinking, I would never have thought to do that. After our pot-luck we always had excess of food, and we would go around trying to get everyone to finish the food. But never once did the belly's of the unfortunate cross my mind.

I of course would never take food to the resident homeless man on the block where we worked. I did not like him. He was insane looking, and was prone to harassing people if they did not give him money or cigarettes. Many female friends of mine complained that he would make vulgar comments regarding there private parts when they walked by him.

I am talking to Trini Gyal on the phone, and she tells me that she went to see the Pope when he came to town for International World Youth Day. I am surprised at this.

"Yeah, I believe in Spirituality," she says. "I believe in spirits, and shit, I believe that we all believe in one God, or whatever the fuck you want to call it, Allah, Jesus...".

"Brahmin...," I say adding to her list, while nodding on my end of the phone.

"Yeah, but I don't believe in the men, priests, gurus, whatever, who just become so focused on one thing, that they lose sight of everything else, you know?"

"Well, your basically talking about organized religion, right?" I ask. I continue without waiting for confirmation, "Your talking about how religion just becomes a bunch of rules, and people telling you what to do".

She pauses for a beat. "Well, you gotta have some sorta rules. If your going to say you believe in something, then you gotta show that your serious about it. People need some rules and guidelines in their lives, and yeah some of those rules can be arbitrary. But if you wanna show commitment to something, you need structure".

I consider this. It's an argument I haven't considered before. To acknowledge that rules set by religion is arbitrary, but to follow them because you have belief in a greater truth. "Hmmm, I've never thought about it that way before." Trini Gyal continues to expand on her point. And I listen with interest, while still searching for a flaw in her argument.

A light bulb goes off in my head. "I can see how it's easer for you to think that way, but, you had a Hindu upbringing. Hinduism has so much more of an open understanding of the world. I had an Islamic upbringing." I pause to flesh out my argument before continuing. "Islam, Christianity, ... They are all about, do this, don't do this. It's all about heaven or hell. It's like don't drink..."

Trini Gyal giggles, "Yeah we Hindus, we not like that." She chuckles now. "We be like, don't drink, but if you do drink, then don't drink in the next life. We be lax like that." We both break out into laughter. "We get many tries to get it right."

Of all the religions Hinduism & Buddhism make the most sense to me. Their cyclical account of life, the vicious cycle of death and rebirth, seems to stand true next to observation of the world around me. Nature seems to be proof of the constant drama of creation and destruction. I feel I have been here before. I feel my understanding of this world is not just from this life alone, now wither I lived in the past or in the future, these are questions I can't answer, but I still can't shake that feeling of being and "old soul".

I don't think I am going to achieve Nirvana this lifetime. I am to shallow, self-absorbed, and materialistic, to become one with Brahmin. I do try to do good. I lean left in my politics, and will always in theory argue the cause of the less advantaged. But I feel this is maybe my hedonistic incarnation. And maybe next lifetime I can try to do better in terms of working on my soul, going up to the mountain and meditating till I attain enlightenment. Don't you need the ying and the yang? Don't you need the bad to understand the good?

Sunday, November 13, 2005

He's a Ho!

A few weeks ago, while at work, I received a strange call. Someone was playing music, it sounded like a house song, and the lyrics seemed to go, "there's a hole in this house", and then the crank caller hung-up.

I thought that maybe it was my boyfriend calling, he had been known to call and play me music before. He says no he didn't call. I describe to him the strange call. He tells me, "there's a cunty house song that goes, there's a ho' in this house".

A few days later I am in his car, he is exploding at me, and I am sitting in the passenger seat transfixed by a scratch on the glove compartment. "Whoever called you was right your a ho". He at this point has every right to be mad at me. I committed the most heinous of crimes. I cheated on him.

However, I must disagree with the term ho. You see to me, ho is short for whore. A harlot. A prostitute. I am not any of these things. A whore is someone who goes out and barters their body for exchange of money (or at least some other commodity). While theoretically that does seem like an appealing idea, I could never do that. The other person would always have the upper hand, and plus living like that would probably leave me feeling empty.

The only setting I would agree to reduce myself to a ho', would be in a little fantasy I have constructed. I imagine being Sean Paul's boy toy. In my fantasy we walk into the Louis Vuitton store, my eye covered in some expensive shades a la Whitney Houston. All the store employees are burning with envy at me, because of my prize catch, yet they grovel at my feet because they know my sugar daddy can buy me the whole store. I walk around haughty because I am riding high on some primo ya-yo. I proceed to try on an outfit in the change room, powder my nose, and suggest Sean Paul join me inside. I giggle as he slaps my bum while I change. My shopping costs $10,000 and he pays for it without a second thought.

Sean Paul is the only man I would reduce myself to such a level for, and since we have yet to hook up, I am not ho. Now, you could call me a slut. A slut, would be someone who is eager to have sex, and has had a great number of partners. A slut is easy, and does not take much convincing to get them into bed. The trouble with the term slut is that it such a loaded term, in our sexist patriarchal culture. Slut is a term usually reserved for females, and is meant to put them down for showing sexual desire. And, if a male displays similar sexual characteristics he becomes a stud. I would of course rather be seen as a stud.

It would be nice to explain my cheating heart by simply saying I'm a guy. I did feel caught up in some big role-play during the "affair". There we were in a playground, me pressing for greater access to his body, and I was in perfect wardrobe in the requisite black leather jacket. We could have completed the scene by breaking into song from "Grease".

A few weeks ago over dinner me and my mom were discussing Tawaifs. Wikipedia, gives the following write up on the Tawaif,

"Historically, a tawaif was a courtesan of the Muslim noble classes in South Asia, particularly during the Mughal era. They were known to be very knowledgeable in North Indian forms of singing, dance (usually kathak), and Urdu poetry. They were generally regarded to be highly educated, erudite ladies, and the high-class tawaifs could often pick and choose between the best of their suitors. The tawaif culture was made famous by the Indian films Pakeezah and Umrao Jaan. Today, the term in Urdu is almost synonymous with prostitute."

Having seen the above mentioned movies, I had this idea of lavish ornate brothel houses, where these woman would dance fully clothed, and spend the night with the Nawab (Muslim noble) that would throw her the most money. I ask my mother if such places still exist. She ponders the question, and smiles slightly at the naughty turn in our conversation, and shakes her head. "There used to be places like that, but I don't think they exist anymore". I press for more information, "So there really were Tawaif houses, like in Devdas?" I seem to push a nerve in her. She becomes angry slightly, "Ha, asshole Nawabs would go, and waste there money, create unnecessary drama and have illegitimate children".

I feel like an asshole for what I've done. Having sex is not wrong. Ho, slut, stud, these are all terms that deal with sexual choice. To me an asshole is someone who shows a lack of moral judgment, who does not care for for how their actions affect others. And that is what I am guilty of, my crime, my sin, was that I was obsessed with my own pleasure and did not take other peoples feelings into consideration. This being an asshole business is slightly new to me. I have normally been the "nice guy". Now, I have turned into the guy that most of my female friends date. They would relate to me their relationship problems, and I would respond aghast at their boyfriends antics, and say, "what an asshole".

My good friend T. Diddy said to me, "Dutty, you made a mistake, but you are not your mistake". I find this a hard concept to wrap my head around, I will have to meditate upon this.

Saturday, November 12, 2005

Just Give Me The Night

I woke up this morning feeling incredibly refreshed. This feels like a novelty to me. Normally, for the past few weeks I have woken up on Saturday, my brain reeling from utter pain. The difference was last night I only drank, no letters of the alphabet were up in the mix. I am practicaly reveling in the clarity my mind has this morning. I feel like someone who has started eating healthy, and notices the side effects in their bowel movements. Of course, it is disturbing to consider a night of heavy drinking as healthy, and that for me to find that refreshing even more disturbing.

Last night was mostly a dud. Had the day off, and ended up at Special K's place with some other co-workers and indulged in some drinking and spliffing. We should have called it a night around midnight, and I should have made my way home. I felt like I needed some excitement in my life. I felt like I wanted to see what trouble I could land myself in.

Buddies this bar in the village was having a funk and hip hop night. I was curious to see what this meant. Really though my ulterior motive was to see if I would be able to get with something nice. We go in, and the music is decent. They are playing some De La Soul. But the crowd is utterly whack. The place is filled with boring dykes, oriental twinks who were walking fashion disasters, and white KKK fags.

We do a tour of the place. Have a single beer each. And exit the joint.

I am still itching for some fun, and would like to stay in the village. Though being the sole gay guy in the group, I have already used up my gay card for tonight. Super Size Me suggests another bar, and we taxi ourselves there.

It's 1:00 a.m. at this point, and I commenced drinking at 8:00 p.m. the day before. All the alcohol is having a sedating effect, and I am slightly craving some chems because they will provide me with the rejuvenation I need. I push the craving aside, doing E at this point would be pointless.

Next bar is good. The DJ is serving up an excellent selection of old reggae. The bar has a real lounge setup and me and the crew settle up in nice velour couches and continue drinking. There is a small dance floor, but I don't feel like busting a move. I sit, and every once and awhile when appropriate to the song throw up my gun finger in the air.

A group of guys walks in and they commence playing pool in front of us. I am enamored with this one guy from the group. He's Indian, well groomed, cute, and dressed slightly on the fruity side. He comes up on my gaydar, though I am unable to deliver a final verdict. I turn to Special K, and start singing, "do you see what I see?" She smiles and nods. I ask her if she thinks he is gay, and she also is unable to deliver a firm verdict. "He could be metro," she says.

I stare at him for the rest of the night. I transmit my attraction, and hope to have him drawn to me like he were in a magnetic field. This does not happen. I imagine myself going up to him, and dropping my number, and then leaving. This also does not happen.

We leave and head back to Special K's place. I should have gone home and saved myself $40. Why can't I listen to my inner voice? I usually listen to the little devil on my shoulder. He usually pokes and prods me with promises of hedonistic pleasure, and I being weak usually succumb to his suggestions.

Friday, November 11, 2005

Nostalgia Echo

It's true I am becoming a fob. I can't stop myself, it's an obsession. My sister confirmed this, "You only listen to Indian music now."

The only music I seem to download right now is Hindi filmi music. It's a particular kind, all old songs. Ranging from the early forties to the eighties.

It's like I'll hear an echo of a song from a childhood memory. I remember just a ghost of a line from the song. I'll ask my mother if she recognizes the song, or if she remembers what movie its from. More often than not, she will not know what I am talking about. I act disappointed in her, and inform her that she should know this.

I'll google the line of the song, and some how magically I find all the relevant info for the song in question. And some how this obscure song is located on limewire and I am listening to a song I remember from twenty years ago. Sometimes the search is harder. The ultimate source for an answer is the India Country Chat Room on Some of those boys are brilliant, they are an instant database of 80 years of bollywood films.

As nerdy and particular my selection is I have to say I found some great music.

A lot of it is stuff that my dad listened to. I love my find today especially. Aziz Mian. He is a qawali singer from Pakistan. Qawali music is folk based Pakistani Sufi devotional music. It is truly appreciated live, where the performance is intended to work the performer and the listener into spiritual ecstasy. The scenes are reminiscent of southern Baptist churches.

Here are some quotes from wikipedia (the free encylopedia) explaining Qawwali music,

"The songs which constitute the qawwali repertoire are mostly in Urdu and Punjabi (almost equally divided between the two), though there are also songs in Persian, Brajbhasha, Siraiki and Sindhi. The poetry is implicitly understood to be spiritual in its meaning, even though the lyrics can sometimes sound wildly secular, or outright hedonistic. The central themes of qawwali are love, devotion and longing (of man for the Divine)."

"The singing style of qawwali is different from Western singing styles in many ways. For example, in words beginning with an "m", Western singers are apt to stress the vowel following the "m" rather than the "m" itself, whereas in qawwali, the "m" will usually be held, producing a muted tone. Also in qawwali, there is no distinction between what is known as the chest voice and the neck voice (the different areas that sound will resonate in depending on the frequency sung). Rather, qawwals sing very loudly and forcefully, which allows them to extend their chest voice to much higher frequencies those those used in Western singing, even though this usually causes a more noisy or strained sound than would be acceptable in the West. "

Nusrat Ali Fateh Khan is a more popular Qawali singer that people know of, Aziz Mian is a little more obscure. He was this 5'4" nothing man, who looked sort of like a munchkin. But he was able to wax poetic about being religious and profane at the same time. He almost sounds like he is rapping. Of course to fully appreciate him you have to understand Urdu. His poetry is deep, and he makes clever play on words.

My favorite is "Mein Sharabi", "Im a drunk". As you may know in Islam drinking is strictly forbidden. The Quran mentions over 300 times that one should not drink. In the song he imagines meeting the prophet, and he describes his love for him, his utter attraction to him. He talks about how beautiful the prophets face is, and how much he is adores this face. There is definite implicit homosexual subtext here. And then he says, "I had no intention of drinking, but if they give me a drink with their eyes what can I do?." The line may sound cheezy but his delivery is amazing. He then breaks into a chant, saying over and over again, "I'm a drunk, I'm a drunk". Remember this is a religious Islamic song.

Anyways, instead of just babbling on about something that really should be experienced, here is a link I found for some songs by Aziz Mian.

Thursday, November 10, 2005

Music is Life

"tum hee mere mandir, (only you are my temple)
tum hee meree poojaa, (only you are my worship)
tum hee dewataa ho (only you are my deity)
koee meree aankhon se dekhe to samaze ke tum mere kyaa ho (if someone looked in my eyes they would understand what you mean to me)"

I am listining to this on my ipod, full volume, walking down the street mouthing the words, in my big parka jacket with the hood down, shivering slightly from the cold. It's a classic Hindi song. My dad loved it, he would blare it in our car. He had it on a tape, "Lata's Golden Classics".

What a sight I must of been. I am mouthing the words with full intensity. It's 1:30 a.m., and no one is around, and I have a serene expression on my face, and have my mouth open wide like I am realizing the words not Lata ji. I am drawing implicitly on classic moves that I had seen Rekha, Zeenat Aman, Sri Devi et al, do when they would lip sync in their bollywood romps.

Me and Lioness last week were driving down the 401 at 7:45 a.m., I am only dimly awake. My brain feels like it has been skinned and it seems a supreme effort to try to act alive. Chug. Pop. Sniff. That had been our night. The full works. It's like when you go out for dinner, and you order an appetizer, an entree, and dessert.

She has blaring the early morning Freddie Macgregor reggae show on 105.5 F.M.. It's full blast, so your heart beat and the bass become one. There's some sick dub reggae playing. The soundscape is intense. And the guy singing is talking seriously, really emotionally, regarding the truth of his love.

Were both are lost in the song. A big part of our relationship (Lioness and I) is based on loving and enjoying really emotional love laden songs. In university we would go crazy jumping around to motown. Stevie was a favorite. Marvin, Aretha, Al Green, the list goes on and on.

I ask, "Do you think we feel emotions in song that we don't in "real life"?" I put up my hand to make rabbit ear gestures when I say real life.

She considers the questions. Nods her head.

"Yeah, sometimes you do go someplace you normally don't when listining to music, that you don't in real life." She takes one hand off her steering wheel and does the rabbit ear gesture in the air.

Many of my friends tease me calling me stone cold, the tin man, heartless. They would all agree that I am a nice guy. That I am not a mean spirited person. But that I do lack emotional display.

When I listen to music I feel.

I fairly atheisict in my understanding of the world (in a Buddhist sense). And I am fairly Anti-Christian. Though the Sermon on the Mount is a beautiful piece, I feel that Christianity in general today just conotates a big joke.

But when I hear Aretha Franklin sing gospel, I believe in Jesus.

I am fairly twisted though in how I feel through music. A few years back when I broke up with my girlfriend, I listened to for a week sad songs about being left. I had no right to be listining to these songs. I was the heatrtbreaker. But I felt them none the less. They spoke some truth to me. Love is understandable in song.

In real life I was emotionally unavailable. In song, I would be begging the love of my life to stay. However, how can you not have that reaction, when listining to Ottis sing "These arms of mine"?

I close by quoting Nietzsche, "In music the passions enjoy themselves".

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

Ganja Flex

So I blog.

I feel comfortable now. It's after work (2:20 a.m.), I have a nice glass of Rum condensing next to me, and I smoked a small little joint. At this moment I am particularly enjoying the sound the glass makes when I pick it up, it's like bangles jingling.

I enjoy being intoxicated. I admit it. I feel that even as a child, I had a fascination with the idea of being "high". I remember being in grade one, sitting cross legged in the library, watching some presentation by a police officer, telling us how bad drugs were. We would watch some movie showing how depraved teens became when under the influence of drugs.

I wondered, what did it feel like? What was the nature of this high? And even though at such a young and tender age, when I had no concept of what a high was, it seemed like some appealing experience. See the result of advertising, "just say no?"

I started doing drugs slightly late. Many of my peers had tried it earlier that me. I started smoking pot, in grade 12. I loved it from the first time. I remember thinking, why hadn't I tried it before?

I don't ever see myself stopping smoking pot. Of course my habits will change. I don't have to smoke it every day. And I can see when I have more serious life responsibilities (i.e. a child) that I my intake would drop radically. My therapist, suggested that I not smoke pot. She asked, "doesn't smoking marijuana cause you to feel paranoid?". She was right, there are times were smoking does cause intense paranoia and anxiety in me. I took her suggestion.

It was a good idea. I had been high literally for three years. I had smoked a joint every single night. My boyfriend confirmed this, as I would usually talk to him while smoking. The break was nice, it lasted maybe three months. I found myself getting high off of being sober. That clarity of mind, not smoking was bringing was refreshing.

I resumed again. But this time with a more varied intake. I could go a few weeks without smoking, and then enjoy a week having a supply. And, I feel now that paranoia was more the high highlighting issues that I had, and that having worked through those issues in therapy, the paranoia is not so bad now.

Why get high? Isn't just being yourself enough? Isn't just the state your in fine? Of course it is, but being high is also an equally enjoyable state. Maybe I do prefer it more. I do have a tendency to romantasize being smacked out. I guess its one of those things that you enjoy - or you don't.

I was going to go on and talk about my relationship with other stimulants I enjoy. But I feel this is post is becoming very long, and probably no one cares how I feel about various drugs. And that this post is just pure self-indulgence. Blogging - is all about self-indulgence I suppose.

Ah well. This will have to do for a first post.