doof doof doof doof doof
thish thish thish
doof doof
Check 1, 2... Check...
ffsssshhhhhhhhhh *a smoke machine belches out a thick cloud forming a near-opaque mist*
It’s that tingly few seconds after the last support act of the evening has wrapped up. The drumkit’s been replaced, but you can’t see it because of that curtain. Sure, you can hear the mammoth sound the drumkit makes during a simple soundcheck, but you can’t see a thing, save for a tiny bit of smoke slipping out from below the curtain. If the weight of expectation, impatience and curiosity could be transformed into a physical object, it would most likely bring the curtain down to the ground and with it, smash the stage in half. Which is fair, considering this is the first show of a whole new tour, in support of a whole new album.
“I hear they’ve changed the musical style completely,” you hear one voice pipe up. A deeper voice rebuffs, “Yeah, but it’s not all that drastic a change... I hear”. Hmmm... That’s neither here not there. “The band’s changed its ideology though for this album. They’re less shrill about their viewpoints and more refined when it comes to putting them across,” squeaks a little voice. Is that a good thing? If it ain’t broke, why fix it?
You ask yourself questions, knowing full well that you don’t have the answers. But the answers are only a matter of a few seconds away. “What have they changed for this tour? Have they changed costumes, stage placements or props? Are there some new band members? Has the old guard been replaced? Will they still do that extremely childish-but-fun thing where an effigy of some idiot is set aflame on stage at every show?” Each second drags on and on and on...
Until the curtain rises...
Pompous? Perhaps
Self-aggrandising? Slightly
Overly indulgent? Possibly
Typical View from Beneath? You betcha!
Welcome to VfB version 5.0. Or Vv5-... no wait a minute!! VvV, if you REALLY wanna be cool (that is frickin’ awesome, if I do say so myself — Ed). It’s the first design revamp in over two years and I think it’s pretty cool. How the content will differ after this four-month hiatus, remains to be seen. In fact, that’s for you, the VfB Massiv’ (formerly known simply as the VfBers) to tell me. And now, on with the show.
Given that there’s a glut of terribly bitter bile waiting to be spilled, let’s kick off this new era on a positive note. In the time since my last communiqué, I managed to acquire an absolute beast of a computer. *Leans forward and kisses the starship-looking mofo of a black and white CPU* Oh. A speck of dust. Best get rid of that. There we go. So as I was saying, I finally have a machine capable of playing every single PC game available today (not counting old ones with backward compatibility issues *sniff* Full Throttle) and I decided to make the most of playing a tonne of different games. FPS, RPG, RTS and all the other little abbreviations you can think of. I binged like there was no tomorrow.
But just like a womaniser, who after years and years of fucking all sorts of women gets that little moment of clarity, that epiphany if you will and goes back and knocks on the door of his one true love, I too had my epiphany. So the womaniser goes and knocks on his one true love’s door. Most often, she’ll let him in and agree to talk. Or they talk on the porch. It’s all good. Mushy shit follows and they end up in each others’ arms, slobbering all over the other and marvel at the fact that their bodies still fit so snugly together like jigsaw puzzle pieces.
And then there’s those times when the one true love introduces our womaniser to her husband, who introduces himself with a finger-crushing shake of the hand. Obviously, he has a solid well-paying job and no vices whatsoever, as our womaniser nervously thumbs the top of a hastily ripped open pack of cigarettes in his pocket. If that wasn’t a big enough kick in the crotch of our womaniser, this guy who just happens to be in good physical shape, is a devoted husband, a doting father and a generous and gentle lover (the womaniser can only assume). The best part comes when the one true love politely requests our womaniser to leave, because the family needs to pack and head to the airport as their perfect little child enters the room to politely say that he has completed his homework for the week and the next and then jumps into his father’s arms. The perfect husband and father has, after all, planned a vacation in Galapagos Islands. As you do.
In a related scenario, the womaniser knocks on the door and finds that his one true love is dead. Okay, that’s not quite as funny, but you get my point. Fortunately for me, my one true love was neither dead nor in the arms of some guy with a laptop who was going to take it the Galapagos Islands.
In fact, my one true love had gone and gotten herself an almost complete makeover. The proud owner of what can only be compared to a body sculpted by angels, one true love hadn’t lost a shred of the intelligence and wit that I’d fallen in love with so many summers ago. Gorgeous, smart as ever and so understanding (no backward compatibility issues here). Sigh. Thank you for coming back into my life, Monkey Island.
This series by the infinitely talented team at LucasArts, originally launched in 1990 (so you can imagine what the graphics must have been like). I played The Secret of Monkey Island at the start of 1999, if memory serves and I played the sequel soon after. I remember how I laughed at the dialogue and some of the inane things that happened. Even with those blocky as hell graphics, the changes of expression were noticeable and added so much (surprisingly) to the experience. The games and indeed the series, were essentially point ‘n’ click adventures. It was a crisp and compelling storyline laced with memorable characters that kids could get into, combined with the kind of wit and satire that would make adults chuckle, that made the Monkey Island franchise such a tour de force.
The series was responsible for getting me hooked onto other point ‘n’ click adventures and later, full-blown role playing games, where a story-driven narrative (as opposed to bang! bang! driven narrative) had me hooked. Kudos Bioware for Knights of the Old Republic (obviously), Mass Effect and the delectable Dragonage: Origins. These restored my faith in gaming in an age when (without a sliver of offence meant, I assure you) games like Manhunt, GTA: San Andreas, Bully, Rapelay (utterly disgusting concept) and their ilk were all out to garner controversy by alienating gamers rather than draw in new gamers and watch the community multiply.
Anyway, it all came back full circle when I got hold of the Special Editions of the two Monkey Island games I’d mentioned. Totally revamped graphics (with the option to switch back to the classic look at the touch of a single key) and smooth voice acting make it seem like a new game, but the humour and wit that drives the story forward is classic old-skool stuff. While I’m sure the idea that something related to Lucas was going to be involved in retouching up a classic (RE: All the belly-aching about Star Wars and Indiana Jones), must have sent alarm bells ringing across the world in the minds of all sorts of fanboys (big and small), it’s incredible that the game’s charm and beauty has been preserved, while dressing it up for the 21st Century.
Sigh.
Right, well, seeing as how I’ve just gone on and on and on with the good stuff, I’ll leave you to bask in the warm and tingly sentiment expressed so far. The unpleasantness shall commence in the next post.
(Note: To you lazy members of the VfB Massiv’ who seem content to read this stuff on Facebook, I urge you to actually see the new look VfB and tell me what you think.)
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
The Human Salt
Usually, salt in one's wounds isn't the pleasantest of things. Salt, as you all well know, stings like a mad hornet in your ass if it enters a wound. Take for instance, the extremely common example of having a cut and finding sweat running into it. It stings. A lot (depending on the nature of the cut). Now in a far more painful and sadistic example, imagine a fistful of salt being rubbed into a gash in your flesh. That hurts like crazy, but fortunately, I've never had to experience it.
I can only imagine that it hurts like crazy.
Now, I haven't decided to hammer out this post to discuss the pain inflicted on your self by the salty injection into your blood. I'm looking at the obnoxiousness of it all. Salt in a wound is the equivalent of someone who barges into your home uninvited. Maybe you don't even know the person. But he/she storms in and proceeds to spend a few moments just barking at you about how screwed up your home and your life is. He/she will then spend the next few moments screaming at you about your faults and things that went wrong in your life. (Think about salt in your wound if you will. "Yes, I bloody know I've got a massive gash in my arm. I don't need to be reminded of it by you hurting me more, salt") The person will then swing into action with a tank of acid and throw it all over your home burning your possessions, your memories and your personal effects.
And for what? Just because he/she is salt.
And this salty individual won't tell you the obvious problems politely. Oh no, this person is hell-bent on screaming about everything. And it's not a pleasant scream either. He/she possesses the shrillest, most eardrum-ripping and piercing voice known. (That's why it stings so much more) Naturally, at the end of it all, you feel violated, angry and yearning to slap said person upside his/her head. Pushed enough as you would with salt, you usually end up wanting to introduce his/her lips to the barrel of a shotgun and tell him/her to pucker up.
This brings us very neatly to who I believe is The Human Salt... (I won't go as far as to say, Devil Incarnate). I have seen/met a number of people who irritate me. I'm sorry, but I'm a bit judgmental that way. A lot of people make me angry as hell, but very few people make me seethe as much as The Human Salt. A number of people have pointed out the obvious to me, made foolish arguments to me and expected me to buy them, given me idiotic rationale and excuses (like for instance claiming never to have heard of a CD that they were lent, when it went missing and suddenly appearing with it a few days later). Still, that doesn't so much as hold a candle to The Human Salt.
I remember being extremely irked by the loud, self-aggrandising pomp of this person during the lunch break of a Test match between India and Sri Lanka in the first half of the 2000s. My dad and I laughed about how irritating he was. Flash forward to today. He is the toast of a television channel, run by the most narcissistic man on television today. I'm not going to even discuss the horror and wholehearted practice of urinating on the face of journalism that this narcissist indulges in on a regular basis. I'd rather get onto blasting this specimen whose identity I'm sure you've guessed by now.
That's right, The Human Salt is none other than Boria Majumdar. Google him and see how many hate sites come up. The man is without the shadow of a doubt, the most irritating and obnoxious person on television today. (Just for the record, second place is in the safe hands of a rival news channel's number one reporter) Now I've heard tales of Majumdar's influence in sports circles and the wealth of knowledge that he is. So fuckin' what? I've met a lot of reporters who can squeeze a quote out of ANYONE related to their beat at any time of the day. I happen to work with a couple of such people, who also happen to be the humblest and least obnoxious people I know.
Wealth of knowledge? I'm a bloody wealth of knowledge... And there are numerous people I know who possess far more knowledge in their heads than I could ever imagine, who are gentle with its dissemination. Even when they know I'm wrong and they're right. I fail to see how yelling and screaming shrilly on television makes any point whatsoever. More so when you have someone on the next channel conveying the same point in a far more docile manner.
You have an exclusive, you say? You have an exclusive spot on my wall, is what I'd like to tell you. An exclusive shooting range devoted only to you. (I really hope you read this and scream on television about how you're getting death threats. I'd laugh my ass off, since this is anything but a death threat) It's a plea to you, Boria. Please stop hurting my ears with your high pitched high decibel tripe. And please stop burning my retinae with that smug "I smell my own farts and they smell like roses" look on your face.
Is that too much to ask? Stick to writing about the history of a bail or the first time in recorded history that someone ever threw a small spherical object at someone else. That way I don't have to feel like I'm going to need surgery everytime you feel the need to screech about something. I don't come and screech in your face, do I? I blog. You could try doing that. Maybe you have one. I wouldn't know since I want nothing to do with you.
Regardless, I guess what I'm trying to say is that the above is just an example of some of the range of painful emotions that i undergo when the thought of The Human Salt even enters my synapses. Seriously though, so the Indian team got knocked out on its collective ass in this T20 World Cup. They played like fools. Don't act like they owed you something, Boria. And get all shrill about it and rope in former players who will say whatever you want just to ensure that you shut the hell up.
I don't want to be mean to you, but I'm compelled to do so since you won't meet me halfway. You won't tone down your bullshit and so, neither will I. I'm sure you have your legion of "fans". Meet them, hang out with them. But for God's sake, get off the tube. By the way, BM, do you know your initials also stand for Bowel Movements. Intentional? Perhaps.
I'm done now. It's off my chest. I feel much happier. Especially since this was post number 100 on this here blog. Tooooot!
I can only imagine that it hurts like crazy.
Now, I haven't decided to hammer out this post to discuss the pain inflicted on your self by the salty injection into your blood. I'm looking at the obnoxiousness of it all. Salt in a wound is the equivalent of someone who barges into your home uninvited. Maybe you don't even know the person. But he/she storms in and proceeds to spend a few moments just barking at you about how screwed up your home and your life is. He/she will then spend the next few moments screaming at you about your faults and things that went wrong in your life. (Think about salt in your wound if you will. "Yes, I bloody know I've got a massive gash in my arm. I don't need to be reminded of it by you hurting me more, salt") The person will then swing into action with a tank of acid and throw it all over your home burning your possessions, your memories and your personal effects.
And for what? Just because he/she is salt.
And this salty individual won't tell you the obvious problems politely. Oh no, this person is hell-bent on screaming about everything. And it's not a pleasant scream either. He/she possesses the shrillest, most eardrum-ripping and piercing voice known. (That's why it stings so much more) Naturally, at the end of it all, you feel violated, angry and yearning to slap said person upside his/her head. Pushed enough as you would with salt, you usually end up wanting to introduce his/her lips to the barrel of a shotgun and tell him/her to pucker up.
This brings us very neatly to who I believe is The Human Salt... (I won't go as far as to say, Devil Incarnate). I have seen/met a number of people who irritate me. I'm sorry, but I'm a bit judgmental that way. A lot of people make me angry as hell, but very few people make me seethe as much as The Human Salt. A number of people have pointed out the obvious to me, made foolish arguments to me and expected me to buy them, given me idiotic rationale and excuses (like for instance claiming never to have heard of a CD that they were lent, when it went missing and suddenly appearing with it a few days later). Still, that doesn't so much as hold a candle to The Human Salt.
I remember being extremely irked by the loud, self-aggrandising pomp of this person during the lunch break of a Test match between India and Sri Lanka in the first half of the 2000s. My dad and I laughed about how irritating he was. Flash forward to today. He is the toast of a television channel, run by the most narcissistic man on television today. I'm not going to even discuss the horror and wholehearted practice of urinating on the face of journalism that this narcissist indulges in on a regular basis. I'd rather get onto blasting this specimen whose identity I'm sure you've guessed by now.
That's right, The Human Salt is none other than Boria Majumdar. Google him and see how many hate sites come up. The man is without the shadow of a doubt, the most irritating and obnoxious person on television today. (Just for the record, second place is in the safe hands of a rival news channel's number one reporter) Now I've heard tales of Majumdar's influence in sports circles and the wealth of knowledge that he is. So fuckin' what? I've met a lot of reporters who can squeeze a quote out of ANYONE related to their beat at any time of the day. I happen to work with a couple of such people, who also happen to be the humblest and least obnoxious people I know.
Wealth of knowledge? I'm a bloody wealth of knowledge... And there are numerous people I know who possess far more knowledge in their heads than I could ever imagine, who are gentle with its dissemination. Even when they know I'm wrong and they're right. I fail to see how yelling and screaming shrilly on television makes any point whatsoever. More so when you have someone on the next channel conveying the same point in a far more docile manner.
You have an exclusive, you say? You have an exclusive spot on my wall, is what I'd like to tell you. An exclusive shooting range devoted only to you. (I really hope you read this and scream on television about how you're getting death threats. I'd laugh my ass off, since this is anything but a death threat) It's a plea to you, Boria. Please stop hurting my ears with your high pitched high decibel tripe. And please stop burning my retinae with that smug "I smell my own farts and they smell like roses" look on your face.
Is that too much to ask? Stick to writing about the history of a bail or the first time in recorded history that someone ever threw a small spherical object at someone else. That way I don't have to feel like I'm going to need surgery everytime you feel the need to screech about something. I don't come and screech in your face, do I? I blog. You could try doing that. Maybe you have one. I wouldn't know since I want nothing to do with you.
Regardless, I guess what I'm trying to say is that the above is just an example of some of the range of painful emotions that i undergo when the thought of The Human Salt even enters my synapses. Seriously though, so the Indian team got knocked out on its collective ass in this T20 World Cup. They played like fools. Don't act like they owed you something, Boria. And get all shrill about it and rope in former players who will say whatever you want just to ensure that you shut the hell up.
I don't want to be mean to you, but I'm compelled to do so since you won't meet me halfway. You won't tone down your bullshit and so, neither will I. I'm sure you have your legion of "fans". Meet them, hang out with them. But for God's sake, get off the tube. By the way, BM, do you know your initials also stand for Bowel Movements. Intentional? Perhaps.
I'm done now. It's off my chest. I feel much happier. Especially since this was post number 100 on this here blog. Tooooot!
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
SOS (Same ol’ Situation)
I write the next few words in the expectation that you, VfBers have read or at least watched the Lord of the Rings trilogy. If you have, then it’s brilliant, because you will actually get what I’m trying to say. If you haven’t then, you should. Why? A) You will read/watch/both a brilliant story about a fantasy universe and B) You will totally get what I’m about to rant about.
Nevertheless, here goes... The Ents, whose turf was invaded by Merry and Pippen — who hoped to rope them in for the war on orcs and Uruk-Hais — held a long board meeting. Hours later, Treebeard came to Merry and Pippen to inform them that the meeting had been held and they had decided that... Merry and Pippen were not orcs. That’s right! Fuck whether or not they would go to war. They decided that Merry and Pippen weren’t orcs.
Why is that relevant? Well, it’s relevant because that is exactly what our judicial system has coughed up. Now, frequent readers of this blog (that in my personal opinion, is a surefire thing to read and make yourself look busy at work) will know of my love for playing cricket. I was told that this year’s Media Cup was shifted because the Ajmal Aamir Qasab (26/11 terrorist) verdict would be delivered on May 3. So mediapersons would need to do a lot of work over the weekend. Fair enough.
May 3 came. And there I was, watching it all unfold on television with the jarring loudness of Times Now, the cluelessness of CNN-IBN, the indecisiveness of NDTV and the sheer moronic behaviour of India TV. Seventeen months after the horrific attacks and months (i think more than 12) since the trial began, the judge put down his judgment.
Qasab, he had said, was guilty.
What?
What in blue blazes?
We saw him kill civilians and policemen. We saw him hauled up from a car that him and his homie had hijacked. It was established that he was guilty! I thought the trial was to decide just how guilty he was. Maybe I’m naive that way, but honestly, what in blue blazes?!? I can’t say, “What the fuck?” because it’ll probably be seen as contempt of court. Seriously though, Mr Court McKenzie... What gives? He’s as guilty as guilty can be. We know that. Where’s the verdict.
Oh, that’s been postponed till Thursday. Tomorrow. Why?
Just say it, chief. “Hang the fucker!” Besides, it’s not like doing anything to that pawn is going to stop terror. Qasab was a barely educated fellow picked up and promised his share of virgins in heaven if he killed and maimed in India. Just yesterday, a Pakistani-origin fellow in New York was picked up for setting up a car bomb in New York City. Now, tell me that country isn’t the world’s biggest breeding ground for terror.
Sorry, I’ll return to what I was saying. Death penalty. Afzal Guru has been on death row for ages (for attacking Parliament). I havent’t even heard of a thread being brought near him, leave alone a noose. So, why should I believe Qasab will be hanged? Well, let’s say he was hanged. What would it prove? What point would it make? None! Killing brainwashed fools merely speeds up their martyrdom. And so, dear Mr Justice McKenzie, I implore you not to give him a quick exit tomorrow.
Make him suffer.
Subject him to being made to work as a slave at the residence of every person he and his cronies harmed.
Make him stand at the side of a road holding a garbage can all day.
Make him clean out our sewers.
Force him to be the guy that biological weapons are tested on... I mean cosmetics, hehehe
Freeze him in cryo and defrost him regularly so he can be tortured.
And then freeze him again for 10 years or so.
But for the love of all things sacred, don’t kill him... It’s too easy an exit.
Nevertheless, here goes... The Ents, whose turf was invaded by Merry and Pippen — who hoped to rope them in for the war on orcs and Uruk-Hais — held a long board meeting. Hours later, Treebeard came to Merry and Pippen to inform them that the meeting had been held and they had decided that... Merry and Pippen were not orcs. That’s right! Fuck whether or not they would go to war. They decided that Merry and Pippen weren’t orcs.
Why is that relevant? Well, it’s relevant because that is exactly what our judicial system has coughed up. Now, frequent readers of this blog (that in my personal opinion, is a surefire thing to read and make yourself look busy at work) will know of my love for playing cricket. I was told that this year’s Media Cup was shifted because the Ajmal Aamir Qasab (26/11 terrorist) verdict would be delivered on May 3. So mediapersons would need to do a lot of work over the weekend. Fair enough.
May 3 came. And there I was, watching it all unfold on television with the jarring loudness of Times Now, the cluelessness of CNN-IBN, the indecisiveness of NDTV and the sheer moronic behaviour of India TV. Seventeen months after the horrific attacks and months (i think more than 12) since the trial began, the judge put down his judgment.
Qasab, he had said, was guilty.
What?
What in blue blazes?
We saw him kill civilians and policemen. We saw him hauled up from a car that him and his homie had hijacked. It was established that he was guilty! I thought the trial was to decide just how guilty he was. Maybe I’m naive that way, but honestly, what in blue blazes?!? I can’t say, “What the fuck?” because it’ll probably be seen as contempt of court. Seriously though, Mr Court McKenzie... What gives? He’s as guilty as guilty can be. We know that. Where’s the verdict.
Oh, that’s been postponed till Thursday. Tomorrow. Why?
Just say it, chief. “Hang the fucker!” Besides, it’s not like doing anything to that pawn is going to stop terror. Qasab was a barely educated fellow picked up and promised his share of virgins in heaven if he killed and maimed in India. Just yesterday, a Pakistani-origin fellow in New York was picked up for setting up a car bomb in New York City. Now, tell me that country isn’t the world’s biggest breeding ground for terror.
Sorry, I’ll return to what I was saying. Death penalty. Afzal Guru has been on death row for ages (for attacking Parliament). I havent’t even heard of a thread being brought near him, leave alone a noose. So, why should I believe Qasab will be hanged? Well, let’s say he was hanged. What would it prove? What point would it make? None! Killing brainwashed fools merely speeds up their martyrdom. And so, dear Mr Justice McKenzie, I implore you not to give him a quick exit tomorrow.
Make him suffer.
Subject him to being made to work as a slave at the residence of every person he and his cronies harmed.
Make him stand at the side of a road holding a garbage can all day.
Make him clean out our sewers.
Force him to be the guy that biological weapons are tested on... I mean cosmetics, hehehe
Freeze him in cryo and defrost him regularly so he can be tortured.
And then freeze him again for 10 years or so.
But for the love of all things sacred, don’t kill him... It’s too easy an exit.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
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!!!
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!!!
Sunday, April 18, 2010
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)
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)
Saturday, April 3, 2010
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.
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.
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