February 27, 2009

Gay is as Gay Does

Apparently Guy Ritchie (yeah Madonna's ex-husband) is making a movie on Sherlock Holmes. That sounds awesome. Doyle is a fine writer and a good flick will get lots of people reading his books. But get this, he is going to portray Holmes as being in a gay relationship with Watson!!! What the ....?

Why is the world so obsessed with the gay community? Throughout the earth's history, most homosexuals were hiding in the closet, marrying members of the opposite sex and having confused babies who wondered why daddy spent so much time with Uncle Harris from work, the one who talked like a girl. Then came the stage where the doors started to open and gay people came forward to express their orientation and the world seemed okay with it. So you're different, well I have an earthworm fetish. Live and let live. It was great at that point, and the whole thing should have just stayed that way.

But we always ruin the good stuff and hence there was this statistical explosion. Hundreds of homosexuals started crawling out of the woodwork. In the last few years, everywhere you turn, you hear someone say, yeah I'm gay. Look at me, look at me I'm gay. It's suddenly way cool to be gay. So super cool that it has reached heights of ridiculousness. Even in the fashion industry of extremely conservative India, the gay designers are thought to be more "artsy". And yes, yes, yes, guys who wear pink, you do look homo. Please don't think otherwise. Metrosexuals, ewww! Give me a caveman anyday!

Gay rights are suddenly more important that starvation deaths, the Taliban and child abuse. There are so many marches in the U.S, though you never see the same person twice. So you go, wait, isn't there anyone straight around to make babies with? People who aren't even remotely homosexual get really offended when you make gay jokes. You can make a joke about a person's religion. Christianity takes the biggest and cheapest hits in America. (Ironically, there is the greatest reverence for other religions like Paganism, Buddhism or Hinduism. Ever heard jokes about pagans? See what I mean? They receive respect. Don't get me started.) You can make jokes about race, to a certain extent. What can a Brown do for you? Ha ha ha. But about homosexuality? Oh no, you go to jail, bad boy!

It's like gay people are somehow more special, better than the rest. Put on a pedestal. Given standing applause and psychological medals just for their orientation. Made to feel superior to plain ole boring man-on-woman-lovin' heterosexuals. The whole thing is bullshit, blown out of proportion. Look at Katy Perry. Her "I Kissed a Girl" is so extremely, mind-numbingly stupid that you can't help but wonder about the kind of people who made that song top the charts. Seriously. Exactly where is the world going to?

Coming back to Mr.Ritchie. Sir, you probably never had normal, healthy relationships with great guy friends. You probably find having chest hair uncomfortable. You probably have sexually-charged situations with your doggie and the door post. I can excuse that, and it's nothing a little psychotherapy can't cure. But don't you dare belittle the bond Holmes and Watson share. They come from somewhere you can never go, and Doyle had the kind of genius you can never match. 

Back off, and do a remake of Brokeback Mountain (yes I know it won), the second-worst movie made after The Terminator. You, sir, are a disgrace to the entire human population of right-thinking individuals. Just because you couldn't make it with your wife doesn't mean that you are gay, or everyone else is, so calm down. Next you will be saying Poirot and Hastings are maybe, you know, "sharing their peewees"? Or that the Bronte sisters were not so sisterly? Fuck you Ritchie boy. Know when to stop. I know your movie will probably be a hit. But remember, it's the same people who like Katy Perry who are watching it. Suck it up.

So go on, get a life. Gay people, get some perspective. The rest, get some sleep. And try to streamline the closet doors a little bit. They are falling off the hinges.

February 09, 2009

The Experiment

"And she finally stopped playing their song, when she realized she was dancing alone.”

(I wrote this a long time ago, when things were different. A lot has changed, I have grown and nobody is "too young, too dramatic" anymore. But I love this story and I wanted it on my blog.)

The rat sat on the mat in his boxy cubicle, waiting, waiting. He didn't have much time for the neighbors with their small talk anymore. The rat next door had been feeling sick and a few people around the corner of the room had been dying. He felt puzzled, but his little mind was busy with other things. Like love. That brilliant sensation you get when you eat too much of that good cheese. Knowing that the world was just a moody blur under her pretty feet. He remembered how it felt, his skin against her. His fur prickled at the thought. The smell of her body came on a bolt of desire. A paddy field in summertime.

The scientist looked at her watch. It was time, then. There was so much money invested in this thing, it HAD to work. She bit nervously on her perfect nails. Then laughed. Second manicure tomorrow in two weeks. Oh well. She called the technician and they entered the lab together.

Here she came, the queen of his life. The rat tried to perk up and sit erect. Lately, he had been feeling a littled dizzy and had stopped feeding. This was it, he thought. Love so pure and good, the dead rose from their graves and sang "Love Me Tender".

She spotted him the minute she walked in. How could she not? This was the "king" rat, the crucial animal in their year-long experiment. He had a bigger box which was set a little apart from the rest. "Hey darling, how are we doing this morning?", she asked teasingly. She inspected him closely. If she had her way, she would have preferred any other rat. He was so ugly. Bald in several places, and lots of scar tissue from previous experiments. She didn't have a choice in her selection though, this one being the oldest of them all and the most sensitive to the antibodies. She hated those beady eyes that stared so at her, pupils widely dilated. Probably crazy from the drugs, she thought. She stroked his fur gently, automatically.

The technician brought in the equipment on a special silver tray. Making a ceremony of it. The scientist put on her gloves and loaded the syringe. The rat quivered in anticipation. He loved these shots. There had been more of them in the last few days, but he knew why. She was testing him. She wanted to see how much pain he could endure. And oh, he could endure. He could endure anything. Each shot proved his loyalty and he welcomed the adrenaline rush.

They watched the small drops of the precious serum fall, indicating everything was good. Today's injection was different, the rat noticed. It was green in color, not the usual white. And the dose looked much bigger. He hoped it wouldn't hurt too much. He was a little weak after all.

The scientist experty dabbed his leg and poked him. The fluid entered him smoothly. The rat was suprised. Today it didn't hurt at all. It felt rather... good. Finishing up, the two humans took a step back and stood there, motionless.

The rat was confused. The scientist was a busy woman who usually rushed away with sweet, whispered promises of returning the next day. Now she stood there, just looking at him. What was happening? In a flash, he got very sick. His body started jerking uncontrollably. His involuntary brain took over and threw him against the bars of the box. Pain, worse than anything he had ever experienced coursed through his nerves, screaming, screaming. Help me, he gasped. Please, you angel of goodness. Save me.

The scientist watched the rat convulse, scattering his food grains and water bottle. She calmly inspected him from her spot. His eyes were blood-shot, paws rigid. He was pissing and excreting, unable to control his bladder and bowel movements. Blood appeared from his nose, and soon was pouring out of his mouth and ears too. This was going to take a while.

The rat kept looking at her. He understood everything. The increase in frequency of the shots, the nausea and guidiness, the inability to feed. It was all leading up to this, his undignified death. His queen was was a murderer. She was laughing now. Apparently this was what she wanted, what she wanted all along. The pain started to decrease and his convulsions became less marked. Well, he thought, in death he had given her all he could. He smiled at her. It was romantic. It was beautiful. And yes, it was pure and true. Then he died.

I'm so glad that stupid ugly rat is dead, squealed the scientist to the technician. Look how its nasty eyes are still open. And it looks like it's even smiling. It was one really weird piece of shit. I don't even wanna think about it. You know what this means don't you? A bigger pay-check and more money for our research. Heaven! The technician took her into his arms and right there, in front of the dead staring rat, they became one. Nobody belongs to anybody.

February 04, 2009

Good Food, Not for Thought

I've been home for nearly a week now and I still can't get used to all the food. So I try to eat as much of it as possible, greatly benefiting the American food economy during my brief stay. Last night, when all was still, I snuck down the creaky wooden steps and opened the fridge door and stood looking at it in naked greed for a few seconds. Then, overcome with desire, i pulled out a box of ice-cream and started gorging. I ate about half, and only replaced it because I thought I heard someone coming down the stairs. I know what would happen if they caught me. Shudder. Salad.

That's right. I would be made to eat salad. Because in the last four days, my body has ballooned and I'm starting to get a double chin. So I decided to call it a night. I pour myself a glass of cran-grape, my eleventh that day (I have to have at least ten, it's a ritual, albeit new, and untested for nutritional benefits). I creep up the stairs and snuggle under my blanket. Stupid snow. Then I realize I forgot something. I forgot something really big. Dessert. So I went down again. This time I was caught and sent to bed with dire warnings that included descriptions of how low-fat dressing tastes. Nasty.

Sleep overcomes the Fat One and I snore, my mouth open, reeking and spittley. My dreams are of valleys of cheese among mountains of sausages and bacon and other things Indian people think are way cool. I am woken up by the sound of the alarm, which was set to automatically go off the first misguided day I landed, convinced a little jogging in the snow at dawn can do no harm. Of course it can't, but dawn? Right. I cuss like a mofo and turn off the sound. My stomach grumbles. It wants nuggets. It really, really, needs them. Now.

I stumble down, and grope for the kitchen light. Which is already on. Coffeee?, my mom asks brightly. I nod, exhausted from the hunger and hopelessness of it all. Darn. Go shovel the drive, it snowed like crazy last night. I put on some warm clothing and head out. The air bites. I shovel. My food-deprived brain makes sausages dance in front of my eyes. I slip on the ice. I give up and go inside.

My mom packs mutton biryani in her lunch box. Yum. Indian food is good too. My mouth salivates. But I daren't ask for any. Because that would mean immediate salad. We joke about how the food stinks up her office microwave. She describes the food her co-workers bring. Oh, the pure torture of it all. The nuggets are screaming now. I lock the door behind her and take a deep breath. Then run, run, run and throw open the fridge.

I take the huge pack of nuggets and indiscriminately drop them onto a plate. Six, seven, eight, nine, ten... eleven.... twelve. Okay, a tiny thirteen. This of course is Round One. As it heats, I get the biryani ready. Oh, awesome, there are two slices of pepperoni pizza left. Great, I can always used those. I pour my first glass of cran-grape for the day. I munch on a special Indian Cashew Sweet and Hershey's Kisses combo I quickly made to pass the time as the other food is warming. This day shall be called fulfilling. There is nothing more to ask for.

You know, the meat industry will be sad to see me go. But... que sera sera. Burp.