Tiptoeing on the in-between

How many of you remember Val Venis? Not the WWE-era Val Venis, but the WWF one. Not the member of Right To Censor but, this guy. The faux pornstar character, who was supposed to act all ladies’ man-like and was supposed to preen, posture and pose to put on the impression of being irresistible to women. In WWF-world, it was still humorous to see him put on a deep voice and try and seduce women with the narrowing of his eyes and a pelvic thrust here and there. Over the years, that tired routine made me cringe. A lot.

Of course, pro-wrestling or sports entertainment is devised to tell its stories through exaggeration. And so a character like that would be perfectly acceptable. However, I cannot for the life of me, work out why a character like that would be acceptable as a cricket presenter. Sporting some ridiculous tight and gaudy-looking shirt with the top four buttons undone to show off his heavage (a word I learnt recently. Apparently, it means man-cleavage), some ghetto-as-hell gelled-up hairdo, slouched in his arm chair and making eyes at the camera like he were Don Juan de la fuckin’ Nooch.

But then, maybe I’m being too harsh. Sameer Kochhar does have a few good qualities... a philanthropic side, for one. He is the only man to make Arun Lal, Shonali Nagrani and Archana Vijaya (Revisit this if you need a brush-up) seem like good presenters, who know what they’re talking about. Kudos for your selflessness. Sacrificing your own dignity, so others look good. Anyway, long story short. IPL-3 drew to a close a few days ago.

There’s a number of good things about that fact. Not least of which is that we don’t have to see Kochhar trying to be Val Venis (unless he moves to a different channel) for at least another year. With Modi or without Modi, that remains to be seen, but it’s not for another year. No Citi Moments of Success for another year. No more people with poor eye-hand coordination trying to take catches and dropping them spectacularly in a bid to win themselves a cheap phone. No effin’ DLF Maximums for a year!

The other upside is that we can finally get back to some real cricket. It’s a shame that it’s again of the T20 variety, but that’s fine. The Lord of Pestilence reminisced recently about the magic of the 5-day version of the game. It’d be nice to have some more of that but for now, T20 will have to suffice. That it is international T20 obviously makes it better. The players aren’t playing for some cement manufacturer, hirsute newspaper owner or stylishly gaudy liquor baron. They’re playing for national pride.

We stand right now on the thin line between a big-money, glitzy and yet ultimately meaningless tournament and a far less money-addled, less glitzy but slightly more meaningful tournament. (T20 champions of the world doesn’t mean shit. ODI and Test championships matter, to me at least) It’s an exciting place to be standing — this thin border between the past and the future. Let me tell you why.

Looking back at the IPL, I can do so with perspective. Sure, for a large part, it was entertaining enough. Some shades of brilliance did shine through in the batting, bowling and (to a much much much lesser extent) fielding departments. A few outrageous shots and insane catches were all good to watch. However, a lot of this for me at least, was tainted after the whole Income-Tax department swooped down on IPL Inc. It got to a point where matches were being watched closely with viewers conducting detailed analyses of the tournament among themselves... Not about the state of the match, but about which matches had been fixed, how much did one think they’d been fixed for and so on. It was like 2000 all over again, as The Lord of Pestilence also points out.

At the same time, looking forward, optimism overpowers all else. Watching Afghanistan playing for the first time in a major international tournament is something I really really want to see. Will they be able to pull off any major upsets? If so, I tip India as being the team that will be turned over by the Afghans. Will they qualify for the next round? Could they, just maybe do a Kenya and get to the semis? Given the unpredictable nature of T20 and the power of momentum, could they, just maybe have a hope in hell of becoming finalists? Okay, I’m getting ahead of myself but that’s a team I plan to follow as long as it’s in the tournament.

Another clash I’m looking forward to is how people who played in the IPL fare against those who (for one reason or another) didn’t. Should they meet, I believe this time around’s India-Pakistan match, more than some in the reason past, will be the ultimate grudge match. Of course, like I said, optimism overpowers all rational thought.
Rational thought suggests that there’ll be a ton of one-sided contests.
Rational thought suggests that there’ll be at least one utter mauling of a minnow.
Rational thought suggests South Africa will ballz it up again.
And so on and such like.

And then, you feel a sense of happy anticipation when rational thought and optimism come together and you realise there’ll be no MRF blimp, no DLF Maximums and no exaggerator-in-chief Danny Morrison (God-willing). You realise there will be the commentary brilliance of David Lloyd, who won’t feel compelled to call every shot “amazing” or “fantastic”. You realise there will be some very good performances and really tight matches. And best of all, you realise there’ll be the distinct lack of that stupid Spanish horn and... Sameer Kochhar.

Mrs G and Dr S, you really dropped the ball

This isn't Montreal...
We're not talking about a legacy of over a decade...
Our protagonist doesn't have a very long history in the business, as it were
He doesn't even put opponents in the sharp-shooter...
Our antagonist isn't a scheming businessman... Far from it...

And no matter how loud I scream this phrase, even until my lungs burst, it will never reach the ears of the people in power. So, I will do my shouting here, in my sanctuary. It's not going to be pretty. It's going to go against a lot of my faith in the only party I feel can make a difference to India and rise above petty politics. But it has to be said. Mrs Gandhi and Dr Singh, listen the fuck up...

YOU SCREWED SHASHI!!!

Do I need to repeat it? No? I will anyway...

YOU SCREWED SHASHI!!!

Don't blame the opposition. Your opposition comprises bigoted communalists, archaic fossils, racists, sociopaths and murderers. And there are plenty of the same in your own party, don't deny it. But, in order to show yourself as blameless, you scapegoat Shashi Tharoor. Keep your nose clean and then go on the offensive. Of course, he's just a casualty of war, right? He's merely a fall-guy, so you can go on the offensive and get the upper hand in your squabbles with the opposition?

Backing a man who could've made a difference to your cabinet and Indian politics, in the face of all criticism, would've shown some gumption... some backbone. What you've done, is merely to consolidate the fact that as long as your surname is Gandhi or you suck up to someone with that surname (I refer not to the Mahatma, I talk about the Nehru-Gandhis), you can be in the Congress.

I was watching a talkshow a few moments ago, which actually prompted me to get on to the computer and vent my spleen. And on that note, I saw the editor of a magazine that I find to be a little hit-or-miss, making a very good point. "In Congress, you need to be a survivor," said Vinod Mehta, editor, Outlook. He was also of the school of thought, like me, that Shashi was a mere scapegoat. I disagree, Mr Mehta, I believe in the Congress, you need to be a domesticated animal who bows to every demand of the Gandhis.

Rahul Gandhi, for instance, has for a while been trying to portray himself as this charismatic politician. It would not surprise me if Rahul's mommy saw Shashi as a threat to Rahul's delusions of being the most charismatic and dumped him at the first opportunity. The people voted him into power. And here, you are cutting him down. Nice. You could've stood up to the dumb-ass opposition, but no, here you go towing the line.

To make matters worse, the aforementioned talk-show included that insufferable socialite (that's right, a socialite) Shobhaa De, who saw fit to pitch in about how inadequate a minister of external affairs Shashi was and how good his ouster was. What's the matter, Shobhaa? Facelift falling off? Or has Mrs G offered you a Rajya Sabha (House of Lords, FYI lukethenuke) seat? Or have you run out of bullshit to write about and those Paris trips don't quite do it anymore? Okay, those were spiteful. Answer this. Do you know shit about what Indian politics needs right now? Clearly not, because you were just commending the sacking of the type of irreverent and non-neta type we need.

But, I wouldn't expect you to know that.

I've been tingling with irritation since the news filtered in that Shashi'd been asked to step down and it got worse after watching that show. Lalit Modi is a piece of shit (sue me if you want, you piece of shit). Shashi spelt, to me at least, hope for a new breed of leaders. You cannot compare the two, just because they happen to be involved in some way or the other with the IPL.

I don't see enough members of the public backing Shashi or forcing a referendum or something to get him back as minister for external affairs. People still have heebie-jeebies because he's a two-time (nearly) divorcee, courting another woman and speaks his mind (sometimes foolishly). Hey, I'm allowed to hope, aren't I?

I hope enough people get behind Shashi.
I hope Shobhaa sticks to being a socialite (which is all she ever was and will ever be; no one gives a rat's testicle about your take on France's fashion or anything else you have to talk about)
But what I really really hope is that a man of the stature of Dr Manmohan Singh can shake off the Gandhi monopoly and kick Rahul out on his ass.
Else, I'm backing the Sena from now onwards...

In summation, I think the best way to put it would be as follows:
Dr S and Mrs G, get your act in gear. There'll be time to suck up to the Americans later. Show some backbone, because if you dont, remember forever: YOU SCREWED SHASHI!!!

With apologies to...

... Jishnu Dasgupta, Sid Coutto and Wesley (I’m sorry but I do not know your surname)

There’s no easy way of saying this, so I’d like to preface this post by saying that none of this is meant to be hurtful or malicious, but it is something that needs to be said. So, here goes. They say that the mighty French football team at the 2002 World Cup faltered and fell apart not so much as a result of being crappy. It wasn’t that they did so appallingly because the opposition was mind-blowingly better.

Napoleon didn’t lose out in Waterloo because he was a poor tactician. Goliath wasn’t slain by David because the latter was a champion fighter. The United States didn’t get ripped to shreds in Vietnam because the US Army was a shoddy armed force. The one thing that I can really put my finger on that is common to all these vanquished parties that I mentioned is their complacency, which led to their fall.

Similarly, I honestly believe complacency ruined Friday night for me. Yes, to a large extent, my own complacency did so too. I did take it as a given that a night with x performing at y venue would be a guaranteed awesome night. I got complacent and was ultimately shown up by a decidedly mediocre and — to quote Gautam Gambhir — ‘ordinary’ night.

To digress ever so slightly, I recall an orthodontist of mine in New Delhi over 12 years ago, Dr Vinod Verma (whoo hoo, I’d been killing myself to remember his name) said something that’s still stuck in my head. I was on one of the chairs there getting a tune up on my braces (yes, I did have braces; hence, my wonderfully shaped teeth today) and one of his assistants was working on this boy’s biters, rippers and gnashers. His dad — one of those typical businessman-types, who would probably have given his son a lame looking beige and orange toy car on his birthday instead of a nice red one, because the former cost a rupee less.

He looked disdainfully at the assistant and then at Dr Verma and said, “I don’t want the assistant working on my son. I came to your practice because I thought you would do it.” The assistant walked away a little hurt and after the man left with his son, Dr Verma said, “They think that because they pay a man, they own his soul.” Made sense then. Still does today.

So no, I do not believe that just because I pay a cover charge or a ticket fee that I own the artiste or venue management’s soul. Yet at the same time, I do believe I’m entitled to a certain quality of entertainment and service respectively. Let’s deal with the latter first. Dealing with the franchise that it was and with staff like Wesley (who is among the hardest working and yet, politest waiters I have ever seen), you would have thought that the Mumbai chapter of that rock music-themed restaurant/bar would put up a better show.

Sadly not. Poorly managed seating-standing coupled with insipid food (a far cry from what the food used to be like). Complacency.

But, I didn’t really go to that place for the food or the ambience. I went for the music. One band I’d heard good things about but never seen live really (apart from some semi acoustic show at a rooftop Bandra restaurant). I’d heard nothing but good things about them hitherto. We’ll call them A. Then there was a band I’ve seen live lots of times before and they’ve never failed to please. We’ll call them B. And band C, we’ll call them Pentagram.

A, for some reason I don’t really know, were abysmal. It’s even worse when the band you’re watching think they’re the cat’s whiskers. But really... Honestly, A... go back to the drawing boards. B realised that they’ve been complacently putting up the same routine day-in-day-out. It doesn’t work if the audience doesn’t really give a rat’s ass and would rather get a beer than listen to some childish “sixth grade Michael Moore logic” sociopolitical rants from an act that really ought to know better. That’s some more complacency right there. Change the routine and ditch the clichéd skit you put on every time, B and don’t for God’s sake, make the mistake of imagining yourself to be Rage Against The Machine, because you are not. That still doesn’t forgive the distinctly flat show put on.

Pentagram though, were incredible.

But I couldn’t help thinking that the show overall was a massive waste of time. I complacently believed that it would be as good as always. But then B probably went in with the belief that the crowd would be as receptive as always. Just as A probably believed that everyone was going to love their music as much as the small group of sycophants they deal with (or fans of the previous band they were in), did.

An unsatisfactory night begets an unsatisfactory post.

Prost!!


(sorry)

Bleurgh in the Gaudy Age of the Grotesque

I was taught at a young age that you should only fill your plate with as much as you can eat. (The phrase “having too much on one’s plate” rings a few bells I’m sure). Always serve yourself a little less rather than a little more; after all, there’s always second helpings, I was told. Made sense. Wasting food is a terrible thing to do.

The scene with putting food into your mouth isn’t very different. It’s quite an obvious one really. I was taught never to stuff too much food into my mouth. What, you may well ask, as I once did, defines “too much food”? If you can’t shut your jaw or chew with your mouth shut, you’ve got too damn much in there. It’s a basic rule of a thumb. Also, even if you do end up stuffing your face, you have to be a man (or if you’re female, then be a lady) about it and attempt to chew. Cover your mouth with your hand if you have to, as you gnash down on the massive slab of pizza or whatever to break it down. Similarly, if you shove smouldering hot food into your mouth, it’s your own damn fault.

Do whatever you have to, but you never spit food back onto your plate. It’s neither done nor acceptable (I believe) in civilised society.

Just a couple of days ago, I was feeling a bit of a dry mouth and throat coming on in the searing heat and popped into a restaurant that I used to frequent (considerably less so in recent times) and ordered a cold glass of watermelon juice to rehydrate myself. I looked around and sitting at a table, a couple of tables away from mine, was this guy whom my brain instantly tagged as a student-type. Spiked hair, beads around his wrist and neck... the usual Mumbai “Pink Floyd and Psy-Trance are rocking, dewwwd” stereotype.

Now, this lad has before him a plate of fried chicken drumsticks. (Interesting aside: I’ve always found chicken drumsticks to be the clumsiest food known to man. They’re awfully messy, awkward, that cartilage gets into your bite and ruins the taste — I used to be a non-vegetarian — and generally, they’re just a pain in the ass.) So, our man attempts to shovel one rather large and wieldy drumstick into his mouth, as his glazed eyes (probably due to a lack of sleep and excess marijuana abuse) follow it into his mouth.

He’s clearly bitten into too large a chunk, bitten off more than he can chew, as it were and it’s evidently quite hot as indicated by his almost spot-on impression of a gorilla in heat. Ptooie! He spits a glob of flesh and bone shards, laced with digestive juices, back onto his plate and throws back a glass of water down his throat gasping and panting. Meanwhile, I swear I saw that flesh and bone glob twitch a little while on his plate, oozing searing hot oil (as indicated by the steam rising from it). A few customers glared at the lad in disgust, while others tutted and some shook their heads. The waiters, for their part, looked on unperturbed and went back to discussing how Waiter A didn’t pay up after betting 50 bucks the previous night, on a team (that lost) in the IPL.

I’d promised myself I wouldn’t lower myself and deign to write about something as trivial as the matter I’m about to delve into. It’s a dumb topic to blog about, I’d told myself and I wasn’t going to write about it. Sadly, I happened to witness this incident and so, here we are.

I couldn’t help but draw parallels between the binge-and-purge display put on by Stereotype Boy and the way celebrity news is digested (or not) by the masses. With the advent of Twitter and its hashtags and whatnot, nearly everyone has now been empowered to chip in with their two cents about anything and everything. The fact that 70-odd percent of tweets (I read this somewhere... I can’t remember where) pertain to people who are ‘famous’ is a reflection of this binge and purge mentality. Can’t get enough of the Cheryl-Cashley Cole saga, Eva Longhoria and her active sex life and other similar tripe about who’s fucking whom and so on and so forth.

And then, purging in the form of tweets, protests etc. in a bid to enlighten the world with their views about how things should be. In the past week — perhaps a shade less — everybody and their uncle has emoted about why an Indian tennis “star” (more on that in a second) should marry a Pakistani cricketer serving a year-long ban. She’ll still represent India, say the soon-to-be-married couple, so what’s the big deal?

I’m getting impatient so I’ll deal with that “star” part first. Sania Mirza is not a tennis star. Read that again if you want. Leander Paes, Mahesh Bhupathi, Michael Chang, Goran Ivanisevic, Martina Hingis, Ana Ivanovic, Maria Sharapova, Lindsay Davenport and so on are tennis stars. Andre Agassi (so what if he wore a wig and was on coke?), Steffi Graf, Roger Federer, Martina Navratilova and Serena Williams are tennis superstars. Winning a couple of WTA tournaments that most of the big names didn’t take part in, does not a star make. Neither does a world ranking of 24 for a wee while.

Sure, you could turn around and say, “Who the hell are you to say she’s not a star? Have you ever won Wimbledon?” Fair question. And I reply, she hasn’t won Wimbledon either and neither the fuck have you. Winning a Wimbledon Junior Doubles title is good. But that doesn’t make you a star. Winning an Australian Open Mixed Doubles title is also very good, but everything Bhupathi touches in mixed doubles inevitably turns to gold.

Next you’ll say, well, she’s the best Indian women’s player ever. To which I will retort, well, that shows that we suck and need to start improving, not glorifying middle-of-the-roadness as stardom. We’re getting sidetracked here, but the bottomline is... she’s no star. Just a good player.

Anyway, she’s getting hitched. I’m very happy for her and Shoaib Malik. Whether she continues to play tennis or not, whether she changes nationality or not, whether she goes to live in Dubai forever or not is really none of my effing concern or anyone else’s. So she broke off her engagement to someone else, Shoaib allegedly broke off a wedding. Maybe he’s a user of women. Maybe he isn’t. I fail to see why a) it is anyone’s concern but their own and b) why people should invest their time chipping in with their opinion about the issue.

Why the family of the allegedly ‘used and discarded’ first wife should air their grievances on air. Why the geriatric head honcho of a dying party of hooligans (that’s right, I said it) should see fit to pass judgment And why the general public at large should feel it to be their moral responsibility to advise the duo on what they should do.

But that takes me back to the binge and purge theory. When you stuff yourself with so much info and ‘news’ about these people you claim not to care about, but can’t stop gossiping about, you’re bound to end up puking or spitting up at some point. Or maybe one morsel of info that you stuff down your throat is so damn hot that it burns your mouth and you spit it out (spit out that half-digested morsel with your own salival inputs). And what happens then? You end up looking stupid. Not to mention, spitting half-eaten food back onto your plate is pretty damn grotesque.