Maa da laadla bigad gaya (Mom, your son's become... spoilt?!) :)

So, I'm supposed to see K.Jo's new movie Dostana with Stephen when he hits New York City later this year. While the movie's been much-hyped about being the first gay Indian movie yadayadayada, to tell you the truth, I've kind-of thought the promos looked a bit... well,... homophobic. The usual stuff about "haha, laugh at the pansy gay guy!" crap. And that's felt weird, what with me being a long-time fan of K.Jo, even before his Koffee With Karan days - which was a fag-ulous show, by the way!

But then, I get an email this morning from SnowWhite's Stepmom with the lyrics of Dostana's newly released song. And no, even though my knowledge of Punjabi is terribly rusty as best (and non-existant at worst), I didn't need to really know the language very well to understand that this is K.Jo at his tongue-and-cheek best! :)

So, yes, I really, AM looking forward to NYC movie-time with Stephen in December now!

And, in more serious news, this was MSNBC anchor Keith Albermann's emotional reaction to Proposition 8 last week...



Nice, Keith... but perhaps a bit too late?

Next Up: Closetalk's shenanigans on Halloween '08!!!

KA-BOOM

So it's like that Huntington guy said, the Clash of Civilizations... I'm far away from home, and Proposition 8 is a far cry away from Section 377, but am I really surprised that Californians, Arizonians and Floridians all voted overwhelmingly to ban gay marriage, and Arkansas won't let gay couples adopt children? Not really - well, maybe a bit on California, but only cuz I let myself do the wishful thinking bit. I know I've blogged about this before, but I'll reiterate again that America seems much more tolerant and open-minded from outside than from inside.



But then, perhaps the question is not one of tolerance - given that America now has its first African-American President - but, rather that basic brick wall that one comes across now and then (but which we academics paradoxically see as co-constructed and eternally shifting!): culture. That's the same excuse proponents of Section 377 back in India use: that homosexuality is simply not in our 'culture', society is not ready for it, and the majority should not be force-fed something by a minority group.

And that's the argument here in the United States by many as well: it's not 'our culture'. By 'culture', I mean that Barbie-Ken perfect marriage in the perfect suburban home with white picket fences, and large boisterous families replete with bratty kids. For so many Americans, the word 'marriage' has a special sanctity that they are loath to see embraced by non-traditional folks. And if that cultural block is the real deal here, then is it really fair to spew about minorities like the African-Americans and Hispanics who, because of their traditional stress on family values, have apparently been blamed by No on 8 activists for voting for proposition?... So there we are back again: the age-old tussle between traditional and not-so-traditional, culture the brick wall versus culture the shape-shifter that we academics (and it seems, not many others) believe in.



To be sure, there are brick walls on either side. There are many determined gay rights activists here who will settle for nothing short of Gay Marriage in capital letters. It has been suggested that activists should compromise for civil unions with similar legal benefits, rather than insist on the Big M - as was the case in Florida, for instance. There have been suggestions that perhaps with his new-found majority in the US Congress and Senate, Obama might be able to bring in a federal mandate on civil unions - something like they have in Britain. But, again, I'm not holding my breath for that. Not least because I'm sure there will be several gay activists who will oppose that too...

And I'm not sure I can blame them.

Isn't it just another case of (excuse my use of academese) Othering? Isn't it a case of "No, you're fags, and we don't care if you want to call your union a 'marriage', even though we all grew up in the same cultural space, believing that marriage was the be-all and end-all of life, but you still can't have it, cuz it's ours, so you have to be satisfied with a civil union"? The irony of the whole culture-thing of course is in that fictional retort of mine: it doesn't matter that marriage has been so completely sanctified (by religion, state policies, whatever!) for ALL Americans, gay and straight, but marriage with a capital M cannot be granted to anyone not... traditional.



Where am I going with this, and why do I care? To tell the truth, I haven't really ever looked forward to getting married - well, at least, not since I was 14 in Calcutta and dreamed of that fabulous garden wedding and me in a yummy sherwani (yep, the dominant theme of my dream wedding was my wardrobe!). The most I've hoped for in my adult life has been... to find someone to fall in love with, who loves me back, so that we can be happy for a long, long time. It's been the romance angle with me, not too much the legality - perhaps, quite simply, because I never saw any scope of that legal framework back in India. It's been some 1-year-three-months for me here in the US, and to be honest, I don't see a legal framework happening here either. Even though I would love to live in New York City, I don't see myself moving there just cuz I can get my Connecticut-sanctioned marriage approved there. But I don't count, since I'm an alien (legally speaking!) in the country.

The people who do count are those like Irish Coffee, who's infuriated that if he were to marry, he would not enjoy any legal benefits or rights. He rants about moving to Canada pretty much in the same vein as a bunch of people were, when asked about a seemingly-stupid scenario now, if Obama were not elected. People like Stephen, who emailed his friends' parents, trying to get them to vote no on proposition 8. And so many others like them.

To all of them, I say (cornily enough): lick your wounds, and come back to the ring boys; it's going to be a long haul. I'm Indian, I know all about waiting it out.

Yes, I'm happy... :)

The next step? Use the complete control in the legislature to put into place a Federal Mandate that'll overturn Proposition 8, and extend full rights to civil unions for gay couples...

Do I hear a refrain of Yes, we can?

Let it be said...

Sarah Palin is not a nice person.



O, believe me, when I said that sentence aloud awhile back, there was something else at the end of it, other than "...not a nice person". But while I'm not exactly too shy of calling a spade a spade (or a bitch a bitch!) my refraining from using some of the 10,000-odd colorful invectives that are at the tip of my tongue right now serves to make a point. A point of contrast.

Not only is the woman stupid/dumb/moronic/take-your-pick, the woman is one of the most aggressive hate-mongering creatures from that right-wing bastion of the Republic National Party. (Yes, what makes you think I'm a liberal now? Just cuz I'm gay? *grin*) At yet another rally, she called Presidential candidate Obama a terrorist - something which even her running mate has desisted from (or tried to, at any rate, even though the infamous robot-calls kept up the hate on his behalf!). And to make matters more laughable, the conservative camp cries shrilly that Obama is lampooning Palin and denigrating women! The focus of their fury? - this perfectly tasteful ad that simply shows you her lack of experience and knowledge on (let's not get into numbers now) a wide variety of subjects!



O, except hate - she's very qualified at that!

You want the real deal? Here he is...



And let's not even get into the debate on why an international grad student should even care about American Presidential politics... I'm damned if I know... except that, yes, he's the real deal.

Truffle/Trifle

One thing common to love and stress is chocolates. When it's love, you're left panting for that next delicious mouthful of caramel from your main squeeze, and when it's stress, the squeeze-ball doesn't help much and it's all you can do to not pop the entire box of caramel down your gullet and directly to your waistline. *sigh*



Due to a host of circumstances involving both, I've been inundated by chocolates.

The love factor hasn't come exclusively from the boyfriend either. Several of my best friends back home are currently seeing people they believe (fingers crossed) to be the loves of their lives. They're doing the whole razzmatazz, so to speak: the bubbling champagne late-nights, the jet-setting holidays, the dancing-till-dawn and happy, happy, happy grins, and the jaw-dropping sex. Not too sure about the jaw-dropping sex, though, since my friends are by no means the kind of slut I was in my singleton days and even if they were, they know that if they tell me it's liable to end up here.

As for me, I've been indulging in the more homely kind of love-shove. As I told Vivian the other night, it's almost a shock to realize how domesticated my love life has become. I sit at the desk and write my academic papers while Irish Coffee potters around the fish tank and the television and his computer; we go for long walks together with the dog; we concoct fabulous (and not so fabulous) meals for dinner; I wake up in the morning and make a large pot of coffee for the both of us (OK, so he does coffee most of the time, I lied!); he slides a chocolate bar to me sometimes, a bottle of Diet Coke at others, when I'm busy working on my papers; we quietly watch his fish in the fish-tank swim in circles or ellipses or what-have-you; we go shopping for foodstuff, groceries and clothes (he hates the clothes-shopping part; I of course love it); dinner-time is followed by some snuggling on the couch and some late-night TV with the occasional white wine.

And no, I don't seem to part-ay any more.

My room-mate and his friends head out practically every Thursday and Friday, and I turn them down every week because I have tonnes of work to complete, books to read, papers to write, tests to grade, and basically be a melancholic old curmudgeon. My boyfriend tells me, I have much too much on my plate to be a frat-boy party animal like them, so it's OK to concentrate on my books and my studies. And while I do think he's right, and I DO try concentrate as much as I can on one other element besides the workload and the stress - that's my love - I can't help wondering sometimes: where did the party slut in Closetalk disappear to?



Where's that fagulous creature who loved to dance all night long, down his vodkas and shag a new guy practically every night? Why on earth did I have to turn *gasp* 27 - why can't I remain forever a "dancing queen, only seventeen"?! And, yes, how warped must I be to grumble at my comfortable life and yearn for that extra zing? Is this how married people get: all happy and complacent and whiney at the same time? But then, from my experience, that's also how single people usually are: happy and complacent and whiney about never meeting Mr. Right ! Trust me, not only have I been there/done that, I've seen firsthand so many accounts of that same avatar that it's quite... numbing.

You know what helps get rid of the numbing? Chocolate.

O, and porn comes a close second.

Nuthin' wrong with a bit of Brilliance...

One of the virtues of blogging, in my book, is the self-reflecting and pondering that it affords you. Blogging for me is less of an anonymous confession to the faceless masses of the internet, and more of a process whereby one writes one's self into existence... if that means anything. To be honest, this has been more of a process for me than anything else, as I have come to realize: the understanding that a blog moves from being personal to confessional to communal, and then somewhere along the way, all of the above! It's a strangely cathartic journey, where one encounters a variety of people (readers, commenters, other bloggers) who become as important as the original blog-writer in determining the flow of the blog.



I know: I'm a nerd. I'm supposed to say, this is just an online journal, and that's it. Enough of the high-falutin' crap. :) I'm a nerd, though, cuz I really do believe all that high-falutin' ummm... stuff.

The immediate cause for this sudden reflection was the conferral of a blog award to Talking Closets, from two bloggers whose writings I have followed (pretty) compulsively for a loooooong time. Now, usually, I'm not one for blog-awards - some inane part of me thinks that you need to be a techie to really go for that stuff - but I guess the Brilliante Weblog Award is a bit different. For one: it's less of an award, and more of a vote of confidence by your readers, commenters and the larger blogging community one tends to inhabit. And it's a process of discovery, wherein you help that community enlarge, by discovering new writers and readers. By virtue of its sheer fluidity and its lack of a restricted organizational backing (that is, any particular high-profile site or blog that bestows awards), it becomes that extra bit more... brilliant. :)



So... all thanks to Pepe and Iz for thinking I deserve an award. Let me take my virtual bow now, and applaud both of you.

Pepe is an enterprising young Filipino (or was it Malaysian? Pretty sure it was Filipino...) settled in Chennai, who blogs about the "jumbled blah blahs" in his life. Between the terribly endearing stories of his love life and his shockingly brash takes on high-end consumption, his blog is a treat to pore through: you get the real deal from Pepe, and some heart-warming advice. Thanks, you.

Iz is, quite simply, audacious. She is survived by her terribly nice hubby Father A, and a pooch whose name I cannot recall for the life of me - or did she have to get rid of him? (Yikes, as I approach 30, the brain cells dry up, methinks!) I have no recollection either of how I originally bumped into her blog - or Pepe's for that matter! - but she turned out to be an old friend of an old friend - and the hilarious part is, she stll has no idea who I'm talking about! *grin* Iz chats about the wacky forces of nature, her screwed up take on life, and some random nuggets that are too hilarious to be remembered - so that's my excuse. :) Iz, thank you.

In keeping with the conditions of the Brilliante Weblog award and the whole communal nature of blogging, I'm to plug seven blogs which are, according to me, "brilliant in their content and design". So, here goes...

• The Reluctant Observer is Mahesh, an immensely sensible, sensitive, interesting guy based in Bangalore, who blogs about his life, the world around him, and his interesting interpretations of it. The best part about Mahesh? - he inspires you to think. :)
  
  
• Humming Bird in Hyde is "Elegant. Stylish. Quick. Colorful.", as he puts it on his blog. A London-based desi - at least, I think so - he's full of fabulous tidbits about the strange people who occupy his personal and professional life... And to read him talk about his gorgeous boyfriend is an awwwwww moment, if ever there was one (or several, for that matter!).
  
  
• Satori Stephen is currently in... New York, New York! When he's not striding all across the globe, Stephen is writing about the people he meets on his travels, the amazing cuisine and places he scouts out, and yes, how can anyone forget those deeeeeep introspections on the nature of humanity? *grin*
  
  
• An Actor in Search of his Stage, or Clockwork Orange as he's known on my blogroll, is your average bursting-at-the-seams-with-knowledge-and-great-style engineering grad student. We have quite a lot in common, he and I: we're both desi grad students in the States, but then he's in fabulous Pittsburgh and I'm in my Midwestern hamlet. :)
  
  
• Confessions of a Rambunctious WhipperSnapper, or Whippy as I have christened him, is one blog that has most likely been nominated for this 'award' before: but knowing that he's "fat, alcoholic and gay" (his words, not mine!), it's doubtful that he's gotten around to actually posting about it - so maybe this is the nudge he needs! Whippy reminds me a lot of my fabulous friends back in Bombay - thanks for the nostalgia, you.
  
  
• Bedtime Stories are not all about sleaze, really; in fact, if you're sharing beds with Paul, you're most likely to giggle yourself to bits rather than end up in a sticky, sweaty, sweet mess - O, but then, what do I know, I haven't really been pyajama-pals with him off-line! *grin* I've been following Paul's blog forever, really, though I'm not a very prolific commenter, and while his manic quirks alarm me at times, they keep inducing those fits of giggles!
  
  
• The Gay Banker is, frankly, my kind of banker! I first came across his blog ages ago and have followed it ever since (though I'm a silent reader rather than an outspoken commenter most of the time), and his travails of poly-amory and his boyfriends numbers 1, 2, 3... have often entertained me, as well made me think more seriously about gay relationships. GB presents an alternative view of things: that it doesn't have to be all about heterosexualizing gay relationships with townhouses and picket-fences - but then, the final decision really is yours: what do you want? And take a moment (or two) to think about it.
  

While you're doing so, happy bloggin', y'all! :)

My Bel Ami Life

So Georgia's not the only flashpoint in East European affairs, you know. Here's a strange situation. Closetalk recently moved into a brand new apartment with a brand new room-mate. The room-mate is an East European hunk, in his early thirties, married but his wife lives some six hours away so he visits her on weekends. Bit of a chatterbox, but then, in a fun way, and the two of us yak well into the wee hours of the morning, about university gossip and nerdy research stuff. Welcome to boring Gradstudentville. But then what happens when Pavel (that's my nickname for him, after the o-so gorgeous East European hunk I've lusted after since I was 18) starts talking about ummm... the dearth of romance in his marriage?



Here's a sample:

Pavel: After having having our second child, the li'l woman says she just stopped feeling romantic. And she's not in the least apologetic about it. Says that's just the way she feels. But then... my feelings for romance haven't changed, and I'm not sure she gets that!

CT: Aha. OK.

Then, again;

Pavel: O, she's really great with the guilt trip. She tells me before I head over for college: I'm a good wife, so don't cheat on me. But then, I'm thinking: why did you have to tell me that?! I mean, I wasn't even thinking of cheating but then by saying something like that, it just makes it seem all the more forced, you know what I mean...? You're supposed to be with someone because you really want to... not out of guilt. Now, if she really wanted to be that 'good' a wife, she should have said: you can go ahead, honey! *guffaws*

CT: Ummmm.....!

Scene Three -

Pavel: Do you think it's wrong of me to totally find my sister-in-law smokin' hot?! I mean, she's totally awesome, and it's all I can do to help myself! *guffaws even louder*

CT: *blank*

And then, of course, there was the 'confession'...

Pavel: So, yea, I wanted to screw my bitch girlfiend in college, so then I went and slept with all of her room-mates... in fact, my roomie in the fraternity and I did her best friend together! And she called back saying we took advantage of her friend, but yea, we knew she wanted some of that stuff too: she asked, can I come over to study? And is your roomie at home too? *cackle* O yea, I was quite good at sleeping around during my undergrad years!

CT, talking to himself mostly: So, shall I study Discourse Analysis tonight or Humanistic Audience Research, do you think?

So now... I'm left wondering lots of things, really. Number one on the list: am I turning out to be, of all things ghastly and horrific, a prude *shudders*?! Number two: is Pavel looking to cheat on his wife? And far more interestingly, Number Three: what with all the talk about how he believes sexuality to be fluid and not straight versus gay, and his insistence on spotting me on the weights at the university gym, is he perchance looking to me to provide him with some... aah... relief till he gets to meet his wifey next? I mean, not to sound like a mutton-headed egoist who thinks everyone wants to get in his pants, but the fluid sexuality speech is pretty much used by most guys who wanna play gay now and then, and the whole gym-thing is so out of good ole 80's gay porn... so it does give me pause to think... What the fcuk am I getting myself into?



And you'd think, this would be something I'd keep to myself and not blab to the boyfriend, right? Wrong. I go and tell Irish Coffee everything about the Pavel-thing, and of course his reaction is to guffaw even louder than Pavel, and growl that he'll tell him to "keep his filthy mitts outta my boyfriend's knickers!" the next time he meets him. (Yes, Irish Coffee can be quite the archaic speaker at times.) While I'm quite positive that that speech isn't going to happen anytime soon, I am looking forward to my newfound gym-routine and chat sessions with Pavel, if for nothing else than to explore where this goes ahead - purely research interests, of course *harrrumph*. As I recall, married men are usually lots of fun to play with - especially insistent and fired up! Aa, but then if I were a prude, I wouldn't be having these thoughts now, would I?

Hallellujah and praise the 'lawd' for something! :)

Another Ever-After Story...

Once upon a time (it seems ages now!), in a gorgeous city perched by the sea, with neon lights and shining skyscrapers, a boy sat on his sea-facing verandah-flat, poring over his laptop and was going about his merry way finding a fcuk for the night, as all devastatingly witty and cute gay Bombay boys who're not very modest do. A chat-window suddenly opened, however, and it turned out to be an American. Older guy, but with a grin so impish that it made our hero grin back unconsciously to no one in particular.

CT: "So, are you here in Bombay for a vacation?"

Irish Coffee: "Nopes, I'm in the States. In TheCityWhereYou'reTravellingToIn4Months."



After the initial surprise had subsided, the boy decided that this was a great opportunity to make 'first contact', so to speak, with the people whom he was going to stay with for at least a year of his life, in the middle of the American Midwest. So CT and Irish Coffee chatted, they laughed and they talked, exchanged emoticons, and enquired about each other. Irish Coffee wasn't single, he was planning to visit Southeast Asia next month with his boyfriend of three years, but he was very amenable to befriending new people. He even offered to pick up CT from the airport and drop him to his university, when the time came, four months later, and CT actually considered it.

His friends however had other views. SnowWhite's Stepmum made an O with his lips, and charged that horrible horrible things might happen to the traveling Bombay boy: "You could get kidnapped, and then maybe raped and he could maybe do wierd kinky stuff to you in his basement!"

CT, pauses: "Ummm.. Tell me again, why that's a bad thing...?"

Despite the brevity, our hero decides to follow his friends' advice and not trust the stranger for a pick-up ride. "Plenty of time for him to pick me up later," CT grinned to himself. In fact, as the weeks drew close to his departure from the fabulous city of Bombay, he didn't come across Irish Coffee again. Till, finally, just a week or so before he was due to catch his flight, they bumped into each other - virtually, of course.

CT: "I'm dropping in about 10 days or so!"

Irish Coffee (paraphrased): "My asshole boyfriend dumped me, and I'm heartbroken."

CT (paraphrased): "Well, you can give me your number, and when I'm down there, I can cheer you up so that you can forget all about asshole ex."

Or something like that.

So, our hero lands in this sleepy Republican Midwestern hamlet, applies himself to loads of orientations and introductions, runs around helter-skelter in finding an apartment for himself, and lands himself with a most impolite form of strep-throat, so that he goes out of circulation for close to two weeks. When his birthday comes rolling around, though, he decides that he needs to take his mind off things - of course, he's also explored all the men in the hamlet by this time, strep-throat or no strep-throat - and that's when he discovers Irish Coffee's number, hastily scribbled onto a patch of paper, creased and crumpled in his wallet. Perfect: Irish Coffee lives in a nearby city, he might be willing to show our hero around a bit, which would be just the thing to get over his funk. So that's what he does: "Hello? I'm the sexy smart Indian guy you chatted with ages ago. I'm bored. Can we do something?"



Despite SS' brilliantly suggested itinerary, however, CT and Irish Coffee decided to start off with vanilla. So that weekend, Saturday to be exact, they met up: our hero standing at the corner of the road in front of the Subway, and Irish Coffee's car whizzing by twice, and then stopping on the third round, his head poking around, and: "You wouldn't be CT, would you?" Yes, I am, and off they head to the gay bars. They talk some more, tell each other about the kind of work they do, they laugh at silly things, Irish Coffee tells him about America and why he hates Evangelicals, CT tells him about gorgeous Bombay and living the fast life of a PR con and what he wants to study here, and while the drinks flow, the music thumps, and they dance (sort of), time somehow whiles away. They end up heading back to Irish Coffee's place. And our hero ends up staying the whole weekend there.

***

A story I recounted to my friend in Cleveland, when she asked me at the fantastically romantic Italian place we were at: "Tell me the story of how you and Irish Coffee met!" And so I did. And, seeing that we crossed our first-year anniversary a couple of days back, I decided to re-tell it here. If only for myself. :)

Society Lads

I've wondered aloud earlier about the politics involved between tops, bottoms, and those in between, even when I hadn't morphed into this strange social sciences nerdy academic I am now. Wondered about the power strategies used by both tops and bottoms to get what they want, and the accompanying typecasting that even the most adroit of them cannot help but get mired into. The other day, however, I revisited that contentious lane, while chatting with SnowWhite's Stepmum who'd phoned in to wish me well on inching that one-step closer to the grisly morass of the big 3-0... namely, turning 27.



*CT shudders, as he hears the Ghosts of Gay Death creep up behind him*

Getting back on track, SS and I were talking about his new crush and my boyfriend (should I be all politically correct, fag-itistically speaking, and call him my partner? *giggle*), and his old crush and my old fcuks, and that's when the strange phenomenon of being a social top versus a sexual top cropped up.

You know what I mean: the social top is the swaggering guy who brags to all and sundry about how he had last night's trick squealing giddily with his legs apart, who spits regularly in good ole rustic Punjabi fashion, and who has zero imagination on the dance-floor...



... While the sexual top is the one who actually does the whole making-squealing bit (and not very gently at that, either), who doesn't brag about his exploits too loudly, who spits into bodily orifices rather than on pavements, and who can actually do a trick or two on the dance-floor not related to pelvic gropes... And there are many a times when the two are actually not the same person: the sexual top isn't really very top-ish when you first meet him, and the social top often turns out to spread his legs wide when he finally gets to the sheets.

And of course, that opens a whole-frikkin' can of beans: if there's a social versus sexual top, there's bound to be a social versus sexual bottom - I'm not sure versatiles qualify for this categorization, though. Unless... you consider power bottoms as both social bottoms and sexual bottoms - and the sheer intricacy of all those permutations and combinations simply leave one gasping for breath... not in a good way, if you follow my drift! *wink*

CT: "Would you believe me if I said I'm a sexual top, though not a very convincing social one?"

SS, squealing: "Never!"

CT, sulkily: "Well, don't give yourself too much credit either, dearie. You can be quite the hoity-toity drama queen, shooting looks and glares that can freeze the balls of the most horny stallion out there. You're quite the social bottom yourself!"

SS, falling off his chair while giggling: "O, you know I can! But then I'm quite the sexual top too! If one of those idiots try manhandling me in bed, they'll soon be missing their balls!"

CT: "That's true; you're also quite the aloof social top at times, as well, you know... I wonder if that makes you a social versatile...?"

SS: "You are so not writing about this on your blog...!"

Right. As if that ever had a chance of happening. *grin* I mean, come on: a boy on his 30's deathbed has to have some joy in life, right? I resolve hereafter to stop having birthdays once I reach the Big 3-0 mark. I'm going to be the one with the older boyfriend (or partner, however you like it), always in his 20s. *sigh* Social wishful-thinker, that's me.

Whirlwind

The world has been turning (as ever), I've been busy with a gadzillion things, and even when I thought things would just kinda settle down, either they didn't or I didn't let them - and it's taken me this long to reclaim this space. I have a theory that I actually like being all busy and buried under a pile of books and responsibility - and of course, the bitching that comes with it. It's a theory that Irish Coffee won't dispute too much, seeing that he's usually the hapless victim of my bitching! :)

It's strange to think that it's been more than a year now since I hopped on that awfully long plane ride, snarled at Heathrow officials, marveled in Chicago, and then dropped my jaw on arriving at my Midwestern hamlet. From initially looking at a one-year stint and then planning on running back to good ole Bombay, here I am doing the Whole Nine Yards, falling in love (I'm the hapless one, really!), and quite at ease with the whole poor-grad-student routine. Mind-boggling. As that fabulously profound facebook one-liner goes: I can afford to be a Humanities scholar, I'm marrying rich! *grin*

Cleveland went by all too fast, though. The Little Italy historic district was a dream: lazing on the sidewalk patisserie munching on cannolis and licking white chocolate gelatos, and then that amazing dinner with violins playing in the background, the laughter of friends, and a blurry picture on my digicam to make it all perfect. Gawking at the Terminal and Key Towers downtown, bracing in the cool Lake Erie air, shimmering in front of the Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame, doodling around the Western Reserve Historical Society, drawing patterns in the grass of International Park, and hushed silence at the Cleveland Museum of Art... A strangely harmonious, whirlwind weekend which sped by with crazy laughter, heart-stopping tenderness, and a strange buzz.



But Cleveland is over, and I'm back; graduation ceremony was the other day, and a very close friend is leaving soon, and while I'm feeling a bit sad, I'm also a bit excited because it's a whole brand new year, a whole new thesis to catch up on, and that hunt for graduate schools starts all over again.



Told ya I had a theory... :)

On the move...

In the morrow, I'm heading for Cleveland... :)



Yes, yes, I know that the city's economy really isn't doing too well and that it's been labeled the poorest major city in the US... but I can't help feeling excited about visiting the Rock 'n' Roll Hall of Fame, the Terminal Tower, the Key Tower, the Cleveland Museum of Art, the Old Stone Church, Euclid Avenue, University Circle, the Playhouse Square Center, the Cleveland Browns Stadium, the Cleveland Metroparks Zoo, and the Steamship Mather Museum... I don't have the energy to provide links for all of that, so if you're that curious (and one would have to be quite jobless, really, to plumb those heights), hit Wikipedia. It's great to make that long a list, it's another matter altogether whether I'll be able to make all of them though, but then I'll probably die trying - and kill Irish Coffee and my Clevelander friend while doing it! :)

Shucks... 1.30 am now, and I have to be up and outta my place by 8.30 am. How does a grad student survive in the harsh world 'out there' anyway?!

***

In other news, I hit the camping trail with Irish Coffee last weekend. No bears to scare away, and the 'skeeters were pretty godawful, but then camp fire nights and tent-sex are quite the thrill, I discover. Of course, being the sole Indian/Asian in the camping heartland of the American Midwest, I constituted quite the spectacle for your everyday-"normal" White folks, so I'm guessing they would have been quite shocked/stupefied/mortified/horrified/terrified by the "Cowboys 'n' Indians" game going on in our tent!



*grin*

Bollywood masala and Irish tom-foolery

A week or so ago, there was this end-of-term party at a professor's place, and I asked Irish Coffee to come along. This was going to be the big one, I decided: let's be clear and honest about who I am - a brilliant young gay scholar-in-the-making, and there's no denying it. According to my long-suffering boyfriend, of course, there was no need for any such grand gesture - as far as he was concerned, my "gayness can be seen from space", and everyone I come into contact with knows it. :) After all, my close friends and the profs I most interact with know I'm a flaming fag and all that jazz, but somehow, I guess I wanted to make it... official in some way.



Blame it on Pride Month!

So there we were, on a brilliant summer evening, over wine and amazing Indian food (yep, the prof is your quintessential NRI), me and the boyfriend talking with the prof and his wife, a bunch of other faculty members and grad students and their spouses, about all sorts of things under the sun. As is usually the case in such shindigs, after the booze and the great food, the host takes us down to his entertainment center, and shows off his collection of Hindi movies and Bollywood songs for his overwhelmingly White guests. So we all sit down, watch Ash dance around her hubby and dad-in-law to kajra re, Preity shake her booty asking where the party is, and Rani doing her balle-balles on a Sunday.



When the host announced that several Bollywood movies frequently depicted not just two women dancing steamily with each other, but also two men, Irish Coffee who was sitting in the front row let out a very audible Yay!

Of course, the room erupted into laughter. I guess I got my little "official announcement" after all. :)

Just some belated Pride on I-Day... :)

So last Friday, on the 4th of July, Irish Coffee and I headed down to the waterfront in his city, to join in the celebrations of America's Independence Day.



Back home in Calcutta, the Indian I-day wasn't really a cause for fireworks, as it is here, but we'd still get into the patriotic mood, dig out the national flag and fly it from our terrace, catch bits and pieces of the parade (did they have a parade for I-day, or am I confusing it with Republic Day?), and maybe head out for a special dinner later at night... A nice, relaxed day when the whole family would be at home, we'd just chill, take it easy, and feel... content, I guess. Isn't that the meaning of independence? - feeling free enough to be content? Anyhow, fireworks were reserved for Diwali - not for I-day.

Not so here in the US of A, evidently. Here, they're crazy for their fireworks to loudly (and dazzlingly, I might add) proclaim their independence? So, come July 4, Irish Coffee, his sister and I headed down to the riverfront, to stroll through the celebrations, listen to the bands, eat some of the fabulous food, and yes, watch the fireworks. Not too bad a display, given that this isn't a very large city here, not like SF or NYC - hell, they don't even organize a Pride here! (damn)

Anyhow, the fireworks were fun - lasted for a good 30 minutes, loads of oohs and aahs, honks from all the people in the cars parked around, kids clapping, and I'd be lying if I didn't say I felt like a kid myself! :) Brilliant to see the sky all decked up like that, so yes, Happy Independence Day, America. Now go and elect a President next year who'll legalize gay marriage (or at least, won't change the constitution to ban it altogether!), or is that too much to ask?!



*grin*

The next day, after his sister went back home, Irish Coffee and I headed back to the waterfront festival with the dog. It felt fabulous to walk through the grass, watch the water lap next to us, drink sparkling wine (yes, I mixed!), listen to music, smell (and eat) the amazing food, and swap sweet nothings. Walked under the bridges, made out a bit, laughed and ran around with the dog, and god, I felt like a silly gay boy from a silly gay novel! *grin*

The best part? Between the smoked ribs and the choco-caramel ice cream, when a boatload of Evangelicals unloaded from across the river, Irish Coffee and I showed them the finger and kissed. Cue to swoon. :)



Just a li'l Pride in the Midwest, y'all!

"Divine Decadence..."

So I rented possibly the camp-est and most fabulous movie in ages (forgive me, Carrie Bradshaw), popped open two bottles of sauvignon blanc, and settled in to watch Liza Minelli in Cabaret (1972)...



What good is sitting alone in your room?
Come hear the music play.
Life is a Cabaret, old chum,
Come to the Cabaret.



For the unlucky few who haven't seen it, I'd advise you to rush out and rent! Welcome to 1931 Berlin, when a beautiful world of glitter and glamor is about to erupt into Nazi ugliness. But till that time, there's the ever-eccentric cabaret diva Sally Bowles at the Kit Kat Club, her British bisexual lover Brian, playboy Baron Max, and star-crossed lovers Fritz and Natalia...

I started out thinking how fabulously similar to Holly Golightly Sally Bowle's character was, albeit smuttier, given that Holly played the Manhattan society girl and Sally the Berlin bar dancer... But there's a special flavour to Sally's risque "divine decadence...!", her penchant for fur and money, and her irrepressible ways with men, that Breakfast at Tiffany's simply did not have. Seriously... this gives Gloria Gaynor a run for her money - the song every gay man needs to listen to after a break-up, mein herr! :)



O, and as expected, my ever-so-straight boyfriend Irish Coffee detested the movie. :) (Though he did appreciate my "divine decadence" in the sheets after the movie was done, owing to both Liza's fag-ulousness and copious amounts of sauvignon blanc. *grin*)

Existantial Angst...

So there I am chatting online, when a window opens up on my screen. It's from Wandercock, who has a very appealing picture of himself pressed up against the wall, wearing some kind of stretchy tight pants, and that furry chest and clipped beard is kind hot, really.

Wandercock: 7'' here, lookin'? Need a tight ass to ram.

O, my. Very nice, I think to myself, saying that it can't hurt to be civil, but then a bit weirded out also that here's another guy who automatically assumes I'm a "bottom" without even bothering to ask first - must be the pic of me in the humongously sexy shades. Anyhow, just as I'm about to reply to Wandercock that I think his pic and his measurements are both abso-fuckin-lutely charming, what should happen, but...

*PING*

Assbanger27 pops up, with full frontal nudity, and very impressive apparatus of his own, proclaiming that he's Russian, wants to do exactly as his chat nickname suggests he should, and that I should get myself right there at his apartment in 20 minutes.

I mean... do I wear a sign or something around my neck that says B-O-T-T-O-M?! I have nothing against bottoms, and I think that's a fabulous way to get laid now and then, but I hate being typecast into either "top" or "bottom" roles. Especially, even before the guy has even spoken to me.

More importantly, how come I get hit on by Russians and Lebanese hunks (o, yes, did I mention that about Wandercock?) when I'm all cozy in a relationship, but none of these assholes give me the time of day when I'm single and actively lookin', as they say here in the Midwest?

***

Onto other, more important news, Queer Pride is marching into India: simultaneously in three cities: Delhi, Bangalore, and Calcutta, this Sunday afternoon, June 29. :) I am so frikkin' thrilled, and wish I could be there...!





'Fraid I couldn't find any logo of the Calcutta Pride march on facebook, where I took the Delhi and Bangalore pics from... But then, Cal was the first Indian city to have started the march thing in India, so hat's off to those guys! :)

I left my hat in... New York City...

So I don't have Tony Bennett's magical croon, and I worry about leaving my gorgeous fedora back in New York, New York much more than I do about my heart, but there it is: second time I've misplaced my headgear, after losing my cap in Chicago last year. :( In any case, I still have pictures of me wearing them, and that's one of the reasons that led me to post the picture below. That, and the fact that I'm finally breaking the ban on pictures of myself here (even though this one is suitably darkened via Photoshop), and also that I wanted to make a sort of "Fag-ulous Guide to the Big Apple in Pictures" kind of a post. So there you go - Closetalk, at the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art.



And when you're done with imbibing the arts, head over down to Broadway, rub shoulders with the pretty people and catch them on the stage. Now that you have to watch Mary Poppins in particular, but I mean - flying through the air with a magic rod... how fag-ulous is that?!



Time to hail a cab and walk down the meandering little streetways and not-so meandering avenues out at Central Park West. Stop for lunch at one of the gorgeous sidewalk cafes, and expect Carrie Bradshaw to pop out from one of those beutiful brownstones any second now...



Next stop: The American Museum of Natural History. So there was me and this Chinese chick in the Greco-Roman Sculpture Court, both of us looking for Hercules...



... Both of us moved in for the wide-angle kill. First, Hercules as the young man about town (what's with the teeny penis, though?!), and the second as the buff older guy in the lion skin. Now that's the kind of beast I like. :)



... And how strange is that... out of the sight of hunky young men (albeit, marble ones) and into the bedchamber.... *sigh* Look at me, going all ga-ga about satin sheets and brocade partitions and gorgeous gilted wood carvings... Get me a bed like that, baby, and I'm never surfacing for air! *wink*



When you finally get yourself out of the arty environs (despite the most stimulating visuals), head over to catch the most phallic statement of them all - the Empire State Building.



Imagine my surprise, though, when I spot rickshaw drivers in Manhattan! Thought they were a purely Asian phenomenon, but wikipedia informs me better now. Wowee... there really is a recession, huh?! Kidding aside, let's be honest: if they had yummy drivers like him in Calcutta, I would be ALL for keeping them around! Every city needs to look pretty.



And if you're wondering what to do, once you've mounted his machine, get a clue from this poster art I picked up from the Lexington Street Fair...



If it's the less carnal entertainment you're looking for, and Broadway is a bit too far for you to hike it, head over to the Winter Garden Theatre and catch the latest showing of Mamma Mia, the hit show. A whole play based on ABBA's songs - and soon to come out on the big screen... fag-ulous!



... Or, if you're more into the leg-kicking, soul-shrieking variety (Not that ABBA won't do that for you, too), come back in December to watch the Rockettes in action at Radio City Music Hall (love the costumes!)...



Towards the end of the "Fag-ulous Guide to the Big Apple in Pictures", so make sure you get your own cheesy pic of the biggest queen in the world - Lady Liberty. Just to let you know that phallic symbols like the Empire State aren't all they're cut out to be: grab a fancy hat, swishy robes and a torchlight, and you're all set for the good times! :)



Wanted to close the guide with a pic of the good ole Indian flag, on a nice mushy note. At the Rockefeller Center, with all the other national flags... It's amazing, to think that Calcutta, Bangalore and Delhi will have their official Queer Pride Marches next week.



Jai Hind! :)

Weight and watch

Alright then, so I've bitched here before about my propensity to gain weight unless I check my food intake and exercise regimen. But the thing is, I have a tendency to fall of the wagon, so to speak. Took an online quiz sometime last year that proclaimed I was one of the sad individuals who would forever be fighting to maintain their weight. *sigh* Such a tragedy for a cute gay boy like me. :( And though the boyfriend is terribly sweet to say he doesn't really care, somewhere there's that lost bit of Gay Thin Pride that's resurgent....

So, here I go again.



Realized the other night, that a large part of my keeping-trim strategy back in Bombay was thanks to the don't-give-a-damn nights of dancing at least once a week. And now that I'm this stick-in-the-mud academic who's up to his eyeballs in "Participatory Development..." and not really boogeying his way, it's no wonder that those ole skinny jeans are presenting an obstacle these days. *sigh* O, and the other thought was that, single boys get way more exercise than doubletons do - it's all that wham-bam-gimme-more-sam sex that Single Me used to have in those days that burnt up sooo many calories. Calorific sex doesn't happen quite as much, what with my being able to catch Irish Coffee only over the weekends! *double sigh*

It's like a curse, something like what supposedly happens to those Punjabi women after marriage. They have babies and eat a lot of dal makhni, and get fat. Gay academics don't have as much sex or dance as much as they did, and get fat. The sheer tragedy of it all.

(Can you believe I actually couldn't find a single pic of a "fat Punjabi woman" online to post at this spot, after hunting Google images for forty-fuckin-five minutes?! Damn Ekta Kapoor and her stereotype-busting, exercycle-running Punjabi bahus!)

But now, I'm on a Mission. Renewed my pledge to take my PHAT plan seriously, and really hit the exercise mats. No more fries with that burger. Get rid of the burger altogether, in fact. No more popcorn in the movie hall. Cereal in the morning - only, and no sugar. Lean chicken breast sandwich. Buy loads of those Lean Cuisine meals. Make sure to walk everyday. Buffets are bad, and sit-ups are sexy. Learn the new mantra. Dance everyday. Even if I'm the nerd who dances in the bedroom.

... O, and with the boyfriend due to return from his sister's place tonight, I can look forward to some calorie-burning sex, too! :)

How Cliched could my Lust Life get?!

Honestly. I never thought the day would come that I'd be this cliched! Of all the things/boys that could happen to me, this one did. How predictable. Sheesh. The Hot College Boy Lawn Mower. (in capitals, in case you fail to see the enormity of the porn-movie-touches-reality irony thing.)



So, no, he wasn't in a black tank top and cut-offs, but he was wearing a torn blue sleevless tee and some pretty nice tan shorts. He was hunched over his noisy machine and chug-chugging along outside my window, mowing the damn grass. Lucky grass. His motor kept giving way now and then, and he gave the sexiest curses - "Damn! Fuck!" - and it was not very hard imagining him saying those delicious things doing something else in here with me, loads more energetically. He grunted and kept up a steady sheen of sweat on his fabulous body, and wiped his face now and then with his wet (and strong!) forearm, tossing his dark brown hair back now and then. Again - "Damn! Fuck!"

:)

My reading of "Participatory Development Communication and A Thesis for Empowerment" didn't stand a chance. I was feeling empowered in quite a different zone of my body, rather than my cerebrum.



Now, I know I'm in a relationship right now, and I'm not really supposed to be naughty or anything, but Santa Claus, can I have that for an early-Christmas gift? I'll be extra bad, I promise! *wink* And as these (and other) idiotic thoughts went through my head, I sat there on my couch, book held open, trying my hardest to read while peeking out, not being able to prevent some doodling happening down there in my pants, and kinda hoping that the lawnmower hunk would notice... What would I say or do if he did? I dunno... maybe I'd do something corny like open the window, and call out to him - "Hey, that looks like hard work you got there! You wanna come in for a quick beer... or something?"

(Oops. Note to self: remember to stock fridge with beer for future imaginary encounters with hot lawnmower boys.)

... and of course, once I got him inside, there would be the suggestive POP of the beer bottle, the frothing on the top as I handed it over to him with another suggestive wink and then quite clumsily (but charmingly) proceeded to spill it on his pants, obviously necessitating their prompt removal... "O, maybe it'll dry faster if I blow....?"

*sigh*

He finished his noisy chore, packed up his trunk and left. And I went back to "Participatory Development..." How come they don't discuss the really important participation stuff (the kind with your hunky lawnmower) in these books...?

Wanted: Sanity

So, yes, I tend to be a bit... over-the-top, as I revealed in the last post. I tend to be a bit... insecure, for the silliest of reasons, when I'm with a guy. And that's why having a gay best friend is so bloody important for me. And this silly present situation, where SnowWhite's Stepmum is halfway across the world in frikkin' Bombay doesn't really help. It's tough being in a situation where your boyfriend is your gay best friend, as is the case here with me. I tell him things I should probably not, and I don't tell him things I probably should have... and God only knows what he thinks of me, then. Thankfully, as I realized last night, he doesn't think I'm too weird. :)

So this is how it all unfolded:

Irish Coffee's supposed to go to his sister's place some 5 hours away, and that means our usual weekend sojourn isn't happening. While he was initially supposed to go yesterday, that plan got postponed to today. So... I proposed that he come pick me up, and we spend the night together. All good and fine, till he has this really hard day where he had to travel all over the city, so he returns home at night and asks me on the phone if he can put off the trip down to my place, and we just meet up later today. Ummm... that actually sounds pretty reasonable on hindsight. So then, why on earth did I get all whiny and try my very best to coax/persuade/pressure him to shrug off his tiredness and drive 45 minutes to come fetch me...? The charitable answer is, I don't know. The less charitable one is: I'm a needy prick.

*sigh*

So he says then, that he'll call me back in about 30 minutes and decide, and I go back to folding laundry... and then reason hits me. Hard. (Thank God.) I'm a dummy. He's tired. He's had a long day. Why on earth am I getting on his back and forcing him to make that long trip all the way here, and especially so, since he has to leave town in less than 24 hours?! O good gosh, I'm like one of those horribly nagging wives who want everything done their way. I've probably already irritated him, now I'm going to completely annoy him with my crap. Where on earth is SnowWhite's Stepmum, with all his brilliant advice on playing it cool in relationships and not throwing oneself at him... O, damn.

So, I called Irish Coffee back, told him I'd been acting like a dunce, told him why, and that I was sorry, and that he should understand I'm a flake, but usually reason does shine through (though it may be a bit late), and since he's got to make that horribly long trip in any case, it doesn't make sense for him to come by. He laughed, said I wasn't too weird after all, that he understood, and we ended up having a nice long chat over the phone, till we both got sleepy. And yes, he's coming over for a late lunch here, on his way to his sister's place.

All's well that ends well, I suppose, but see - flakes like me NEED gay best friends around in my immediate vicinity! *sigh* Perhaps I should put out an ad in the local paper or something.

Confessions. Confusion. Connotations. Conundrums... And, Closetalk.

Whippy wants to know ten secrets about me. Now, while I have done a me-me of this sort earlier (I think it was six secrets in that one, not ten!) I haven't been able to find that post in my archives, and since it's been absolutely ages since I've done a me-me (partly because I used to get inundated with them in the early blogger days, so much so that I hated them after a point of time), I thought I'd give it a shot. Not very sure about how "secret-y" they are, though - I pretty much do spill all the beans here in the closet...

1. I love to dance. I do, I do, I do. I always did. Ask any of my friends of boyfriends. I don't care much either whether what I'm doing is the right way or the wrong way. As far as I'm concerned, it's all just about expressing that I'm likin' it! *head jerk* So, I tap my toes, move my shoulders, wiggle my body, thrust my pelvis, and then we have lift-off. MY specialties: steamy dances in the gay clubs, to which SnowWhite's Stepmum will attest to, and a peculiar motion that Irish Coffee calls the "happy jig". Hint: the "happy jig" is performed without pants on. *giggle*
   
   
2. I love "dressing up". Ummmm... yes. That means, owning clothes in fabulously weird fits and patterns. That means, having an authentic pair of black tight overalls that I wear to the gay club. That means, buying Irish caps, leather duds, a fedora, a cowboy hat, pointy shoes, cloth mojras, silver dogtags with pink pigs emblazoned on them, tee shirts with wonderfully suggestive slogans and a host of other delightful accessories that I could never do without. :)
   
   
   
   
   
3. I'm histrionic, they say. And if you want an objective opinion, check out the results of the online quiz I took ages ago. I'd like to say I've improved, but I was never very good at lying. Why do ya think I switched from PR to Academese? :) In my defence, I have to quote good ole Willy: the world's a stage, guv'nor, and all of us got a part to play, so gimme more drama, blimey!!!
   
   
4. I can actually do without Indian food for an appreciably long amount of time. Not that I don't like Indian food - much to the contrary. But the thing is, I can actually survive on burgers and fries and salads and chicken breasts and American Chinese food for a loooong time, without turning green and sickly. That comes in for a lot of perplexed looks flashed my way from the Indians here in the midwest whom I may chance to meet - and that leads on to the number 5 below.
   
   
5. I'm persona non grata in the South Asian community in my teeny midwest hamlet. I don't become "best buds" with every Indian/South Asian around me, regardless of whether or not I like the person, have anything in common with him/her, have a reason to know the person. I don't take every opportunity to yak in either Hindi or my native language, and even dream in English. I don't try to flirt with Indian/ South Asian girls (and the boys are too yucky here). I take every opportunity to head off to the "big" city where Irish Coffee lives, rather than stick around for "desi" parties in the midwestern hamlet with the rest. Ergo.
   
   
6. I'm lazy. I'm lazing right now. I'm supposed to be doing a million other things. I'm supposed to be making coffee. I'm supposed to be researching my final term paper. I'm supposed to be rehashing scores of my earlier papers for publication. But... I like to vegetate. O, and surf porn. (Which is actually a fabulous way of vegetating...)
   
   
7. I write fast. I'm doing it right now. It's my saving grace, given my many deadlines and my tendency to procrastinate and vegetate. Irish Coffee says, my typing speed is in BPS - Bullshit Per Second. :)
   
   
8. I love being gay. Is there anything really to add to this? :) And yes, this isn't really a secret, since it's pretty clear in almost every post on this blog. Yet, it's a truth. An undeniable one. And so it bears mentioning.
   
   
9. I do care about the comments. There. I said it. I do, I do, I do. I told myself at first that this blog is about catharsis, and it's about me. That part is true enough. But I'm also honest enough to realize now that no blogger is an island. The comments and feedback that every blogger receives is so frikkin' important to the whole blogging process. It's about holding a mirror forth, it's about dialogue, it's about thinking how one blog post could be interpreted in so many different ways. And yes, let's be honest, looking at that surge in numbers on google analytics does feel good! :)
   
   
10. I've often toyed with posting a picture of myself here on the closet. But I guess that defeats the idea of "the closet", doesn't it? I mean, it's not that being in the closet in the conventional gay sense is all too important for me in the my current situation, but being faceless and nameless in the blogging community does afford you certain.. privileges. And yes, part of that is you get to be catty and melt into the darkness! :) But the picture idea is always tantalizing...