Pop culture reared a most unfounded head long ago, where I've come from. Lead, valiantly, by the yuppies of here. Not those in the Webster. Those who live to adore Sweet Child of Mine. And Slash. (Not so much Axl Rose.) And every note in Comfortably Numb. And Bryan Adams on Thursday night. Heaven. No less.
These are the guardians of the Cool. The popular, cool.
Speak no words on Saturday night without the emphatic mention of the Motherfucker. If you are cool, that is. And if this cool seems "lame", find yourself a vague artform, a one-too-many-earring, and, my personal favourite, a hatred for the sport of cricket. But, try, out of respect, to mention the motherfucker anyway.
But I think now, albeit slightly, there is an uprising. Or maybe a cough. But with heart, nonetheless.
Of dinchak music, of flowery shirts and conmen. Of Bluffmaster and Johnny Gaddaar. It's urban but most visceral. And they like the dhol when it isn't played for Karan Johar. They like rust. They like dancing-like-you-mean-it! They like the occasional bhenchod. Because it doesn't mean anything. Except bhenchod. They want rights. They like dhotis and made up words. They like trying, failing even; screaming, love, anger and jumping. They like hope. They like the real.
To these men and women, I raise my glass. Happy new year.
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Friday, December 4, 2009
The familiarity of coffee mugs.
A memory explosion, an instant bridge between that precise moment and this one. As I walk around the city, I step on little pockets of memory treasure that burst open and waft out their scents.
- Suketu Mehta, Maximum City
So, what really makes us pick the same mug every morning? Some households validate this little issue; a reminder just in case the haze gets the better of you at hours you'd rather not be awake.
I don't particularly care for the idea of a designated cup; allows me to pick my favourite out, on my own hazy, morning accord. But we all come back to the same cup.
My theory is hope. The almost trivial and yet, undying hope, that you savour that one great cup of coffee this morning thus setting in motion a series of fortunate and wondrous events in the day ahead. The bait here is the ailing memory of taste, unable to get your tongue around the taste from the other day. That one cup of coffee that sucked you into possibly having another not-as-satisfying second round. Turned out too sweet, too heavy, too much milk. Every mug since has donned a minor defect in aroma and taste, and hence the result has been just short of gratifying.
Rid yourself, your day, your life, even, of the imperfections, small and large, in that one mystical, epiphanic caffeine-ridden hallucination. Towards the bottom of the cup lies a sour coffee residue. Forcing us to try all over again. Same cup.
- Suketu Mehta, Maximum City
So, what really makes us pick the same mug every morning? Some households validate this little issue; a reminder just in case the haze gets the better of you at hours you'd rather not be awake.
TUSHAR
And the truth behind his enslavement to caffeine.
And the truth behind his enslavement to caffeine.
I don't particularly care for the idea of a designated cup; allows me to pick my favourite out, on my own hazy, morning accord. But we all come back to the same cup.
My theory is hope. The almost trivial and yet, undying hope, that you savour that one great cup of coffee this morning thus setting in motion a series of fortunate and wondrous events in the day ahead. The bait here is the ailing memory of taste, unable to get your tongue around the taste from the other day. That one cup of coffee that sucked you into possibly having another not-as-satisfying second round. Turned out too sweet, too heavy, too much milk. Every mug since has donned a minor defect in aroma and taste, and hence the result has been just short of gratifying.
Rid yourself, your day, your life, even, of the imperfections, small and large, in that one mystical, epiphanic caffeine-ridden hallucination. Towards the bottom of the cup lies a sour coffee residue. Forcing us to try all over again. Same cup.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Ajab Prem Ki Ghazab Kahani : A Review
Nearly 16 years ago Rajkumar Santoshi put his best foot forward with a comedy starring Aamir Khan, Salman Khan, Paresh Rawal and Shakti Kapoor. While even Raveena Tandon, Karisma Kapoor and Viju Khote come to mind with the mention of Andaz Apna Apna, Rajkumar Santoshi doesn't necessarily induce a sense of hope. A shame, considering he probably gave us some of our best laughs. Since then though, he has stumbled through creative disasters, the names of which are better off left unattended to at this point.
With the suggestion that he may be able to recreate the magic once again with a fresh take on an old story sends most of us staggering into theaters this weekend.
And here we are. 2 and a half hours later. One word. Jaded.
Santoshi's latest, Ajab Prem Ki Ghazab Kahani, for starters, does little for the laughs. Once that's out of the way, we dawdle into finding reasons for actually taking the time for this one. Ranbir Kapoor is undoubtedly the industry's biggest hope and he falls flat on his face this time around. He's come out being both quite dumb and often, over the top. He has his moments, but he doesn't have the timing.
With the exception of Zakir Hussain as Sajid Don, a Crimemaster Gogo spin-off, Katrina Kaif, with due respect, is shockingly the most likeable aspect of this film. The one thing she certainly does get right is her timing and she does keep you amused for much of her scenes. Santoshi has an odd liking for shooting his song sequences very artistically, relatively speaking. They have a serious disconnect with the rest of the movie but his DOP does everything to show off a lovely Ms. Kaif. A small consolation for the randy viewer.
Barring the one riot in a soap factory or some such (Long story.), the movie allows a few strained giggles and a whole lot of shuffling in the seat. Cliche protagonists and the presence of a smattering of side actors and corresponding characters and the Ooty/Goa locales takes us back to a bad place in the early 90s.
There really is no story. Once the interval gives you temporal respite, you realise the writers felt like Steve McQueen's Capt. Hilts.
"Hold on to yourself, Bartlett. You're twenty feet short."
And a whole freaken movie, by the looks of it.
Special Mention: Upen Patel. We wonder, whenever we are both bored and our pressed to reluctantly consider one such as Upen, what's that language he mutters as buff crashes heavily against an overdose of steroids.
With the suggestion that he may be able to recreate the magic once again with a fresh take on an old story sends most of us staggering into theaters this weekend.
And here we are. 2 and a half hours later. One word. Jaded.
Santoshi's latest, Ajab Prem Ki Ghazab Kahani, for starters, does little for the laughs. Once that's out of the way, we dawdle into finding reasons for actually taking the time for this one. Ranbir Kapoor is undoubtedly the industry's biggest hope and he falls flat on his face this time around. He's come out being both quite dumb and often, over the top. He has his moments, but he doesn't have the timing.
With the exception of Zakir Hussain as Sajid Don, a Crimemaster Gogo spin-off, Katrina Kaif, with due respect, is shockingly the most likeable aspect of this film. The one thing she certainly does get right is her timing and she does keep you amused for much of her scenes. Santoshi has an odd liking for shooting his song sequences very artistically, relatively speaking. They have a serious disconnect with the rest of the movie but his DOP does everything to show off a lovely Ms. Kaif. A small consolation for the randy viewer.
Barring the one riot in a soap factory or some such (Long story.), the movie allows a few strained giggles and a whole lot of shuffling in the seat. Cliche protagonists and the presence of a smattering of side actors and corresponding characters and the Ooty/Goa locales takes us back to a bad place in the early 90s.
There really is no story. Once the interval gives you temporal respite, you realise the writers felt like Steve McQueen's Capt. Hilts.
"Hold on to yourself, Bartlett. You're twenty feet short."
And a whole freaken movie, by the looks of it.
Special Mention: Upen Patel. We wonder, whenever we are both bored and our pressed to reluctantly consider one such as Upen, what's that language he mutters as buff crashes heavily against an overdose of steroids.
Sway. Stop. Stop. No, really. Stop.
Last night, Dubai saw the end of its largest music festival, with 70+ bands from across the table, in terms of music and geography.
Dubai SoundCity, if you know the city, makes for a terribly misleading title. I am certain many considered parading the nether regions of the country searching for an abandoned construction site west of an abandoned construction site. That said, the culture nomads and beer-chugging entourage find themselves back in the popular bars and lounges across the city for a promising international indie line-up including the likes of The Doves, Nitin Sawhney, Super Furry Animals, Post War Years and Human League. Old-timer British pop seemed like the calling and since a series of unfortunate events had me elsewhere when The Doves and Nitin Sawhney performed, I chose to skip the rest of the shenanigan.
The last night, though, at Dubai Festival City, I had the fortune of playing another gig with the increasingly intriguing Gayathri Krishnan and the supremely talented Aaron Kim on cello. More on that in a bit.
By default I managed to catch a few artists, some more artistic than others.
First off, Parisian dance/pop/rock (this slightly enigmatic description finds itself on their MySpace page) duo, Slutterhouse donned the unsettling floating stage for an extended show. Polite applause ensued. And then, I sense it was a tad less polite and more, suggestive, most certainly expecting to mark the end of a song, and hopefully the gig. I trust Slutterhouse and their Russell Brand-esque frontman were better suited to a smaller stage facing dark shadows and brighter lights.
The night's find had to be, perhaps, Canada's finest singer-songwriter since the lovely Leslie Feist, Dan Mangan ably accompanied by his trusty guitar and quick wit had the laid back setting to his liking, I suspect. I listen to his older album, Postcards and Daydreaming, as I type this post. While he often stands close to wearing into predictability, he does undoubtedly have strong penmanship. He immediately reminds a listener of Glen Hansard or Damien Rice on their stock tracks. His rendition of Tina's Glorious Comeback from his newest album was quite simply, super. He's got the number on his acoustic guitar. It didn't seem obvious at first but his music leans toward the likes of Joshua Radin. End of the day, he is another indie folk artist, with good writing, acoustic guitar, and guttural voice, and may just wane away unnoticed. Shame.
(Note: Not What You Think It Is on the aforementioned album. Worth a listen. Smooth trumpet accompaniment.)
We got on stage post a shake of the hand and slap on the back for Mr. Mangan. We float on a dinghy toward the spectacle that is the floating stage. More in terms of "Why? Oh, Why?"
So, we are on stage, my first show with a slightly moody electric guitar and the most amateurish patches on a Digitech pedal. I try. 45 minutes, one rough bout of waves that sent our frontwoman into a tizzy and the nagging hum of a poor guitar pickup, and we were back on blessed land.
Feet on harder surface, a tight grip on sentiment.
Four weeks, four major shows, TV and festival included, and Gayathri and The Immigrants (I make this bit up...but it's catchy eh? No?), had made the mark they most certainly didn't foresee. My weak link of a guitar sense was hidden in plain sight by the supreme cellist, Aaron Kim. If time and place are on his side, look out for him. Herbie Hancock, we hear, might just nod his agreement. If not, Howard Shore. As for Gayathri, they isn't much else stopping her anymore. There's talent and there's talent. And there's her. Reminds us amateurs of our place. We'd never ever mind it coming from someone as beautiful as her.
Caught a glimpse of Saudi-based hiphop act, Qusai and the Jeddah Legend. Didn't see enough to reiterate but there was a sense they were more professional than they'd give up. Very good sound.
The night ended with a few Stellas down the hatch at the Belgian Beer Cafe. Excellent place. Drop in when you get the chance.
Over and out.
Dubai SoundCity, if you know the city, makes for a terribly misleading title. I am certain many considered parading the nether regions of the country searching for an abandoned construction site west of an abandoned construction site. That said, the culture nomads and beer-chugging entourage find themselves back in the popular bars and lounges across the city for a promising international indie line-up including the likes of The Doves, Nitin Sawhney, Super Furry Animals, Post War Years and Human League. Old-timer British pop seemed like the calling and since a series of unfortunate events had me elsewhere when The Doves and Nitin Sawhney performed, I chose to skip the rest of the shenanigan.
The last night, though, at Dubai Festival City, I had the fortune of playing another gig with the increasingly intriguing Gayathri Krishnan and the supremely talented Aaron Kim on cello. More on that in a bit.
By default I managed to catch a few artists, some more artistic than others.
First off, Parisian dance/pop/rock (this slightly enigmatic description finds itself on their MySpace page) duo, Slutterhouse donned the unsettling floating stage for an extended show. Polite applause ensued. And then, I sense it was a tad less polite and more, suggestive, most certainly expecting to mark the end of a song, and hopefully the gig. I trust Slutterhouse and their Russell Brand-esque frontman were better suited to a smaller stage facing dark shadows and brighter lights.
The night's find had to be, perhaps, Canada's finest singer-songwriter since the lovely Leslie Feist, Dan Mangan ably accompanied by his trusty guitar and quick wit had the laid back setting to his liking, I suspect. I listen to his older album, Postcards and Daydreaming, as I type this post. While he often stands close to wearing into predictability, he does undoubtedly have strong penmanship. He immediately reminds a listener of Glen Hansard or Damien Rice on their stock tracks. His rendition of Tina's Glorious Comeback from his newest album was quite simply, super. He's got the number on his acoustic guitar. It didn't seem obvious at first but his music leans toward the likes of Joshua Radin. End of the day, he is another indie folk artist, with good writing, acoustic guitar, and guttural voice, and may just wane away unnoticed. Shame.
(Note: Not What You Think It Is on the aforementioned album. Worth a listen. Smooth trumpet accompaniment.)
We got on stage post a shake of the hand and slap on the back for Mr. Mangan. We float on a dinghy toward the spectacle that is the floating stage. More in terms of "Why? Oh, Why?"
So, we are on stage, my first show with a slightly moody electric guitar and the most amateurish patches on a Digitech pedal. I try. 45 minutes, one rough bout of waves that sent our frontwoman into a tizzy and the nagging hum of a poor guitar pickup, and we were back on blessed land.
Feet on harder surface, a tight grip on sentiment.
Four weeks, four major shows, TV and festival included, and Gayathri and The Immigrants (I make this bit up...but it's catchy eh? No?), had made the mark they most certainly didn't foresee. My weak link of a guitar sense was hidden in plain sight by the supreme cellist, Aaron Kim. If time and place are on his side, look out for him. Herbie Hancock, we hear, might just nod his agreement. If not, Howard Shore. As for Gayathri, they isn't much else stopping her anymore. There's talent and there's talent. And there's her. Reminds us amateurs of our place. We'd never ever mind it coming from someone as beautiful as her.
Caught a glimpse of Saudi-based hiphop act, Qusai and the Jeddah Legend. Didn't see enough to reiterate but there was a sense they were more professional than they'd give up. Very good sound.
The night ended with a few Stellas down the hatch at the Belgian Beer Cafe. Excellent place. Drop in when you get the chance.
Over and out.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Standy...15!
Television. Live.
I didn't think I would ever do that. Live on TV. Playing guitar. It was an adventure. Being a part of something you don't entirely understand (it was shot in Arabic, no we weren't dubbed), is slightly surreal. Almost metaphorical.
I'm becoming less and less impressed by that term.
Talisker. Spice.
Vodka is a choice. Except the potentially damaging Romanov. That's a mistake.
Vonamor? F*ck you Shilpa!
But I've been more recently introduced to the single malt experience. I think you need to earn your stripes here. It's quite worth the trouble. Makes you seem a whole lot classier. Even if you sip in boxers.
Travolta. Old.
The escapades of Johnny Dancing Shoes have been well received since 1975. Even when it involved tolerating an insufferable hairdo. The man's got the look. Well, he did have the look until he decided to hijack a train by scaring the motorman with his wrinkles. The movie is a Sunday afternoon jingbang. Watch it, don't, I don't think anyone cares lesser. Least of all Botox Inc.
We still love you, sir. We do.
I didn't think I would ever do that. Live on TV. Playing guitar. It was an adventure. Being a part of something you don't entirely understand (it was shot in Arabic, no we weren't dubbed), is slightly surreal. Almost metaphorical.
I'm becoming less and less impressed by that term.
Talisker. Spice.
Vodka is a choice. Except the potentially damaging Romanov. That's a mistake.
Vonamor? F*ck you Shilpa!
But I've been more recently introduced to the single malt experience. I think you need to earn your stripes here. It's quite worth the trouble. Makes you seem a whole lot classier. Even if you sip in boxers.
Travolta. Old.
The escapades of Johnny Dancing Shoes have been well received since 1975. Even when it involved tolerating an insufferable hairdo. The man's got the look. Well, he did have the look until he decided to hijack a train by scaring the motorman with his wrinkles. The movie is a Sunday afternoon jingbang. Watch it, don't, I don't think anyone cares lesser. Least of all Botox Inc.
We still love you, sir. We do.
Monday, October 19, 2009
The month that definitely did happen, else I wouldn't be writing about it.
This is no time for introspection. This isn't time for anything but a pillow. It's got flowers and pink. So does the quilt.
But the fluff shall wait.
The month did not wait for a breath or stance. It just happened.
First off, I am going to Hamburg. Yep. It happened. Ad School awaits.
I got done with the elusive portfolio earlier this month. Sent it over as was destined and it took the fine peeps from Miami Ad School a bat of an eyelid. I will always take that as a compliment. I've been advised a minor detour from graphic design for, perhaps, a more fetching option - art direction. I pounced at it. I'm going to Hamburg. Right now, in this tiny bubble, that's all that matters.
But you win some, and lose some. And I'm going to have to relocate as of mid November, head back to India and find myself a visa, in the iron slum labyrinth of Chennai. I am not a fan. Alas, it must be done.
Dubai oscillates for me. Creeps in and out of mind, clouding judgement with instantly gratifying opportunity and then slipping in itchy truth and then back to the tonic. It is a strange place with strange people and strange ways. It has an ability to suggest Utopic potential to its patrons and when the inebriation wears off, it reveals its organised chaos. That is Dubai. Chaotic - in mind, heart and action. It blurs boundaries of right and wrong and encourages "opportunity". It isn't all bad. I wouldn't suggest that. And since all of this literature is personal, I am just going to say, 'just not my kind of place'.
You keep yourself busy enough in the dust storm though, and you don't have the time to think. Good ploy.
In other news, Dravid gets dropped from the team. Unforgivable.
Wake Up Sid finds a footnote. Ayaan Mukherjee will hold my attention, I sense. Ranbir Kapoor will not. Konkana Sen though. Sigh. We like Konkana Sen.
Cliche idea, well executed. Definitely worthy of a Sunday afternoon escape.
Note: Bollywood needs more movies like this one. Something with a little bit of heart in it. And minus too many elementary fuck-ups.
That's all for now I sense. IKEA cot beckons.
To what lies ahead!
But the fluff shall wait.
The month did not wait for a breath or stance. It just happened.
First off, I am going to Hamburg. Yep. It happened. Ad School awaits.
I got done with the elusive portfolio earlier this month. Sent it over as was destined and it took the fine peeps from Miami Ad School a bat of an eyelid. I will always take that as a compliment. I've been advised a minor detour from graphic design for, perhaps, a more fetching option - art direction. I pounced at it. I'm going to Hamburg. Right now, in this tiny bubble, that's all that matters.
But you win some, and lose some. And I'm going to have to relocate as of mid November, head back to India and find myself a visa, in the iron slum labyrinth of Chennai. I am not a fan. Alas, it must be done.
Dubai oscillates for me. Creeps in and out of mind, clouding judgement with instantly gratifying opportunity and then slipping in itchy truth and then back to the tonic. It is a strange place with strange people and strange ways. It has an ability to suggest Utopic potential to its patrons and when the inebriation wears off, it reveals its organised chaos. That is Dubai. Chaotic - in mind, heart and action. It blurs boundaries of right and wrong and encourages "opportunity". It isn't all bad. I wouldn't suggest that. And since all of this literature is personal, I am just going to say, 'just not my kind of place'.
You keep yourself busy enough in the dust storm though, and you don't have the time to think. Good ploy.
In other news, Dravid gets dropped from the team. Unforgivable.
Wake Up Sid finds a footnote. Ayaan Mukherjee will hold my attention, I sense. Ranbir Kapoor will not. Konkana Sen though. Sigh. We like Konkana Sen.
Cliche idea, well executed. Definitely worthy of a Sunday afternoon escape.
Note: Bollywood needs more movies like this one. Something with a little bit of heart in it. And minus too many elementary fuck-ups.
That's all for now I sense. IKEA cot beckons.
To what lies ahead!
Thursday, September 10, 2009
The Wonder of the World
The Boat That Rocked is rock and roll uncut, undone and visceral. It grabs you by the nuts and stares you in the face. And it wins.
Director Richard Curtis, who brought us the delightfully diabetic Love Actually, retains the famously appreciated sardonic, wry humour. Very British. And now, very Bill Nighy.
A period comedy of sorts, The Boat That Rocked, speaks of pirate radio jockeys and their music. Curtis has brought us some of our more memorable romantic comedies and is perhaps hard pressed to avoid a soppy dilution. It does breakdown a little. All bass every now and then. But he succeeds with commentary, classical even. He manages to pull off a rock and roll party reminiscent of Almost Famous (minus the divine Penny Lane). There is a depth to his characters despite Mr. Ilfans.
Phillip Seymour Hoffman is inspiring, Rhys Ilfans is an absolute nut and Bill Nighy is downright hysterical. None of it matters though. Because this movie speaks of the best days of our lives, that we never lived.
Watch it.
Oh. Also, the music is fucken great.
Director Richard Curtis, who brought us the delightfully diabetic Love Actually, retains the famously appreciated sardonic, wry humour. Very British. And now, very Bill Nighy.
A period comedy of sorts, The Boat That Rocked, speaks of pirate radio jockeys and their music. Curtis has brought us some of our more memorable romantic comedies and is perhaps hard pressed to avoid a soppy dilution. It does breakdown a little. All bass every now and then. But he succeeds with commentary, classical even. He manages to pull off a rock and roll party reminiscent of Almost Famous (minus the divine Penny Lane). There is a depth to his characters despite Mr. Ilfans.
Phillip Seymour Hoffman is inspiring, Rhys Ilfans is an absolute nut and Bill Nighy is downright hysterical. None of it matters though. Because this movie speaks of the best days of our lives, that we never lived.
Watch it.
Oh. Also, the music is fucken great.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Fried Chicken and a Cup of Normalcy.
Predispositions, I believe, are meant to be shot down every now and then. First, because it gives potty thinkers like myself a kick and secondly, because it pleasantly reminds us that things could be different.
What if we were capable of handling intimate and direct situations with a third party perspective? As though seemingly detached. As though the stark emotional disillusionment were non-existent and involvement was merely to seek solution.
It would make us cold perhaps but this is a thought I have pondered, and sometimes discussed with a fair bit of Smirnoff within. It seems fair to apply such a theory at times when situations don't go to the head at an instant. A deep breath. Another. Moment to swing has gone by. Now you'd just be a mercenary if you hit him.
Third party perspective brings me back to where I began. If societal inference were just momentarily ignored, even forgiven, maybe we would appreciate the psychedelic. White suits and gold chains and their lack of predetermined aesthetic. Bright lights, loud music and crazy moves. Rap music, except 50cent.
What is normal? Just a thought.
What if we were capable of handling intimate and direct situations with a third party perspective? As though seemingly detached. As though the stark emotional disillusionment were non-existent and involvement was merely to seek solution.
It would make us cold perhaps but this is a thought I have pondered, and sometimes discussed with a fair bit of Smirnoff within. It seems fair to apply such a theory at times when situations don't go to the head at an instant. A deep breath. Another. Moment to swing has gone by. Now you'd just be a mercenary if you hit him.
Third party perspective brings me back to where I began. If societal inference were just momentarily ignored, even forgiven, maybe we would appreciate the psychedelic. White suits and gold chains and their lack of predetermined aesthetic. Bright lights, loud music and crazy moves. Rap music, except 50cent.
What is normal? Just a thought.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Things that matter : Part I
Doing a little mini-series on things that matter to me. Small or big. But matter.
Was listening to a little anecdote about the concept of "self-made" men or women and how it's a bit of a farce. Probably is the truth. People you know, the work you do (whether you like it or not), your dream(s) - these things at the end of the day make you. Unless you're a spy. Which is awesome, but I probably don't know you.
Materialism.
I got my first computer when I was in primary school. This Windows 95-run junk box. Frustrating, cantankerous, moody and often in need of a beating. I kid you not.
Ol' Betsy, in her hay day, was hardly prime property. But it was a goddamn epiphany.
I could safely say her presence changed things around a little bit. Perhaps came close to changing my life. If only she had it in her.
Stacey had no mom. Unless we get emotional about it and say Betsy...well you get the point. Stacey came to me on July 11, 2001. Yes, I remember the date. Because it mattered to me. First time I went computer shopping. Now Stacey needs more than a few lines dedicated to her. Stacey did change my life through her Windows XP OS and Pentium IV chipset. Well, now I'm plain geeky. Who am I kidding?
Stacey brought design to me. And this LCD-adorned piece would unknowingly change my future. Today here I am on the brink of a design career, however menial. For this I thank Stacey, my comrade. It's a wonder how she even handle the ruthless indifference of Adobe to old school desktops such as her. But she did. Until I burnt her insides and left her to a dude named Amol for a couple of grand. Oh well.
Now we come onto the little beauty that is Norah. I gently stroke her milk white buttons while I type this post. Norah was a compulsion. And now, she is irreplaceable. Apple Inc. perhaps brought Norah to me but I'd like to believe it was destiny. ("Cut!")
My first laptop, my first Mac, and perhaps a stepping stone toward a real design career. Since it has been only a couple of months (June 3, 2009), my adventures with Norah have only begun. We shall speak of them over time.
That was the first bit on things that matter. To me. My machinery, I salute.
Was listening to a little anecdote about the concept of "self-made" men or women and how it's a bit of a farce. Probably is the truth. People you know, the work you do (whether you like it or not), your dream(s) - these things at the end of the day make you. Unless you're a spy. Which is awesome, but I probably don't know you.
Materialism.
I got my first computer when I was in primary school. This Windows 95-run junk box. Frustrating, cantankerous, moody and often in need of a beating. I kid you not.
Ol' Betsy, in her hay day, was hardly prime property. But it was a goddamn epiphany.
I could safely say her presence changed things around a little bit. Perhaps came close to changing my life. If only she had it in her.
Stacey had no mom. Unless we get emotional about it and say Betsy...well you get the point. Stacey came to me on July 11, 2001. Yes, I remember the date. Because it mattered to me. First time I went computer shopping. Now Stacey needs more than a few lines dedicated to her. Stacey did change my life through her Windows XP OS and Pentium IV chipset. Well, now I'm plain geeky. Who am I kidding?
Stacey brought design to me. And this LCD-adorned piece would unknowingly change my future. Today here I am on the brink of a design career, however menial. For this I thank Stacey, my comrade. It's a wonder how she even handle the ruthless indifference of Adobe to old school desktops such as her. But she did. Until I burnt her insides and left her to a dude named Amol for a couple of grand. Oh well.
Now we come onto the little beauty that is Norah. I gently stroke her milk white buttons while I type this post. Norah was a compulsion. And now, she is irreplaceable. Apple Inc. perhaps brought Norah to me but I'd like to believe it was destiny. ("Cut!")
My first laptop, my first Mac, and perhaps a stepping stone toward a real design career. Since it has been only a couple of months (June 3, 2009), my adventures with Norah have only begun. We shall speak of them over time.
That was the first bit on things that matter. To me. My machinery, I salute.
Monday, August 10, 2009
For these men, we wait.
The world of cricket has seen one too many come and go. They walk in and play with unjustifiable hope. That of their own and those of millions that momentarily back them. Memories though are fickle in sport. Goldfish-like. And not once does reason come into play. I don't think anyone knows what its like to walk onto a green outfield with a low hum of ten thousand that builds to a noise that is the commentary and belief of thousands more. It is pressure unthinkable unless you've played for your country.
Every one of them though has a moment. Some live on to make finer moments. Others wither.
Below, a mere chronicling of some of the youngest, most promising stars of world cricket today, lest they fall and we forget.
1. Alastair Cook - 25 (England)
England and world cricket found their brightest beacon in Alastair Cook in England's 2006 tour of India. A captaincy hopeful in the next decade, Cook, stands tall as an irreplaceable member of England's Test side.
2. Gautam Gambhir - 27 (India)
India's biggest 'rebirth' and one of the top batsmen in world cricket today, Gautam Gambhir, some would argue, had more than ample opportunity, and had been possibly written off courtesy his flamboyance that more often than not, wasn't backed by runs. But today he finds a spot in the Indian National side in all forms of the game and was recently crowned the top batsman in the world.
3. Rohit Sharma - 22 (India)
Rohit Sharma was described by Ian Chappell as having the best defence he had seen since a certain Sachin Tendulkar - a complement that would serve as a warning to rivals. Complements though haven't put runs on the board for Sharma, and he has often found himself underperforming. Sharma's effortless play on the offside and an equally venomous hook and pull have prompted glimpses of greatness and if we are lucky, we just might catch one of the great players of our times. He hasn't played a Test yet. Why?
4. Marcus North - 30 (Australia)
At 30, North isn't exactly young, but that often is the case with new finds in Australia. Age hasn't stopped North from finding himself a firm spot in the Australian middle order in the longest form of the game. Only 6 matches old, North promises to hold our attention for a while ahead. The three hundreds in that time speak for themselves.
5. Michael Clarke - 28 (Australia)
Clarke and Cook are among the more experienced members of this list. But the aforementioned nature of Cricket Australia and their 'aged' rookies puts Clarke among the younger members of the Aussie side. Clarke has no doubt proven himself over the past 6 years. Ably replacing the likes of Waugh and Martyn, Clarke has also made clear his allegiance to his country side (read: No IPL for Michael). This really puts Clarke up there among the potential future leaders of the Australian side. His competitor is perhaps Andrew Symonds. Ahem.
6. Shakib Al Hasan - 22 (Bangladesh)
The world's disregard for the brilliance of this young Bangladeshi, Shakib Al Hasan, is nearing ridiculous. The man is perhaps solely responsible for the somewhat revolution that is the new Bangladeshi side. His work during the West Indies series cannot be ignored. His exclusion thus far from the IPL has already sparked a few raised eyebrows.
7. Denesh Ramdin - 24 (West Indies)
The inclusion of Ramdin in this list has two reasons. Firstly, I needed a wicketkeeper. Secondly, I actually like Ramdin. The un - Calypso - esque ways of Ramdin have more than once proven to be an unlikely boon to the West Indies side. His statistics don't speak much of Ramdin with the bat. But he is more than adequate with the gloves and has definitely brought an end to the hilarious string of keeper recruits the side has had post-Ridley Jacobs.
8. Irfan Pathan - 24 (India)
The enigma that is Pathan's form over the past 3 years cannot be the only reason for his continuous exclusion from the Indian side. Tagging him and his half brother as T20 experts is hysterical. The recurring habit of excluding young hopefuls and the politics that rides the BCCI are perhaps more logical conclusions. Marked as one of the finest emerging players in world cricket at one point, injury, team bias, poor form and bad luck could undeniably end the career of one India's brightest. I sure hope not.
9. Mitchell Johnson - 27 (Australia)
The now infamous Australian exodus has more recently had a lasting effect on the bowling attack with the likes of McGrath and Warne out, Lee iffy with injury, and a new pool of bowlers wallowing in inexperience, Mitchell Johnson probably stood out as the most significant find in the past 4 years. The Queenslander has significantly brought back speed to southpaws. Even more recently he has carved himself a niche with the bat proving to be no mug with a willow.
10. Saeed Ajmal - 31 (Pakistan)
The oldest member on this list, Ajmal is fortunately a spinner and if popular belief is anything to go by, he could potentially get better with age. He has lifted his game, particularly his bowling, rapidly over the last year and has more recently broken into all forms of the game. While his fielding is mediocre to say the least, Pakistan could have finally found a spin demon to follow the likes of Mushtaq and Saqlain.
11. Ishant Sharma - 20 (India)
A startling find at 20, Ishant Sharma has very quickly had to face the burden of media hype and more significantly, spearheading the Indian pace attack. While Zaheer's recent and most fortunate purple patch has helped Sharma case a wee bit, there is no denying his future prospects. He is of course, still only 20 and personally, we shouldn't expect greatness so early. Scares me that he is my age. What the hell does that feel like?
12. Jean-Paul Duminy - 25 (South Africa)
Duminy perhaps rose from nothing. One moment South Africa lacked a significant young addition to their middle order and the next, Duminy cracked a majestic 166 at the MCG. The timing of Duminy's entry into the national side is perhaps perfect as he augments the likes of AB DeVilliers, Amla and Kallis in the middle. The middle order spot has perhaps been shared off and on by many before Duminy, but it would be safe to say, the Proteas have found a keeper. Also, Jean-Paul is a great name.
13. Dale Steyn - 26 (South Africa)
Steyn walked into International cricket a while ago with South Africa hunting for a more stable prospect in the post-Pollock era (read: Andre Nel). Steyn has perhaps found his place more recently with what seems like significant work on his line. Fast, but wayward evolved to lethal and aggressive. The past two years have seen the birth of a brand new quickie.
14. Peter Siddle - 24 (Australia)
Siddle's beginnings were perhaps overshadowed by the rounding up of a strange bowling attack in Australia's away series at India. While Jason Krezja and Doug Bollinger seem unlikely to make a comeback, Siddle stuck it out and has pushed his way into the side alongside Johnson and another surprise, Ben Hilfenhaus. Brett Lee finds it hard to get himself into the Test Side now. Sacrilege.
15. Nuwan Kulasekara - 27 (Sri Lanka)
While the inclusion of Kulasekara could be argued, it is undeniable that a huge burden awaits the man that could spearhead a new, young Sri Lankan side minus Murli and Vaas and it really seems like Kulasekara would hold the reins in the near future. The reason to look out for Kulasekara would not be for what he has done thus far but for what he could possibly do in the future.
The likes of these fifteen wouldn't make a World XI today, but we would certainly be fortunate to watch any of them come into contention in the years ahead.
Stats and Info: Cricinfo.com
Every one of them though has a moment. Some live on to make finer moments. Others wither.
Below, a mere chronicling of some of the youngest, most promising stars of world cricket today, lest they fall and we forget.
1. Alastair Cook - 25 (England)
England and world cricket found their brightest beacon in Alastair Cook in England's 2006 tour of India. A captaincy hopeful in the next decade, Cook, stands tall as an irreplaceable member of England's Test side.
2. Gautam Gambhir - 27 (India)
India's biggest 'rebirth' and one of the top batsmen in world cricket today, Gautam Gambhir, some would argue, had more than ample opportunity, and had been possibly written off courtesy his flamboyance that more often than not, wasn't backed by runs. But today he finds a spot in the Indian National side in all forms of the game and was recently crowned the top batsman in the world.
3. Rohit Sharma - 22 (India)
Rohit Sharma was described by Ian Chappell as having the best defence he had seen since a certain Sachin Tendulkar - a complement that would serve as a warning to rivals. Complements though haven't put runs on the board for Sharma, and he has often found himself underperforming. Sharma's effortless play on the offside and an equally venomous hook and pull have prompted glimpses of greatness and if we are lucky, we just might catch one of the great players of our times. He hasn't played a Test yet. Why?
4. Marcus North - 30 (Australia)
At 30, North isn't exactly young, but that often is the case with new finds in Australia. Age hasn't stopped North from finding himself a firm spot in the Australian middle order in the longest form of the game. Only 6 matches old, North promises to hold our attention for a while ahead. The three hundreds in that time speak for themselves.
5. Michael Clarke - 28 (Australia)
Clarke and Cook are among the more experienced members of this list. But the aforementioned nature of Cricket Australia and their 'aged' rookies puts Clarke among the younger members of the Aussie side. Clarke has no doubt proven himself over the past 6 years. Ably replacing the likes of Waugh and Martyn, Clarke has also made clear his allegiance to his country side (read: No IPL for Michael). This really puts Clarke up there among the potential future leaders of the Australian side. His competitor is perhaps Andrew Symonds. Ahem.
6. Shakib Al Hasan - 22 (Bangladesh)
The world's disregard for the brilliance of this young Bangladeshi, Shakib Al Hasan, is nearing ridiculous. The man is perhaps solely responsible for the somewhat revolution that is the new Bangladeshi side. His work during the West Indies series cannot be ignored. His exclusion thus far from the IPL has already sparked a few raised eyebrows.
7. Denesh Ramdin - 24 (West Indies)
The inclusion of Ramdin in this list has two reasons. Firstly, I needed a wicketkeeper. Secondly, I actually like Ramdin. The un - Calypso - esque ways of Ramdin have more than once proven to be an unlikely boon to the West Indies side. His statistics don't speak much of Ramdin with the bat. But he is more than adequate with the gloves and has definitely brought an end to the hilarious string of keeper recruits the side has had post-Ridley Jacobs.
8. Irfan Pathan - 24 (India)
The enigma that is Pathan's form over the past 3 years cannot be the only reason for his continuous exclusion from the Indian side. Tagging him and his half brother as T20 experts is hysterical. The recurring habit of excluding young hopefuls and the politics that rides the BCCI are perhaps more logical conclusions. Marked as one of the finest emerging players in world cricket at one point, injury, team bias, poor form and bad luck could undeniably end the career of one India's brightest. I sure hope not.
9. Mitchell Johnson - 27 (Australia)
The now infamous Australian exodus has more recently had a lasting effect on the bowling attack with the likes of McGrath and Warne out, Lee iffy with injury, and a new pool of bowlers wallowing in inexperience, Mitchell Johnson probably stood out as the most significant find in the past 4 years. The Queenslander has significantly brought back speed to southpaws. Even more recently he has carved himself a niche with the bat proving to be no mug with a willow.
10. Saeed Ajmal - 31 (Pakistan)
The oldest member on this list, Ajmal is fortunately a spinner and if popular belief is anything to go by, he could potentially get better with age. He has lifted his game, particularly his bowling, rapidly over the last year and has more recently broken into all forms of the game. While his fielding is mediocre to say the least, Pakistan could have finally found a spin demon to follow the likes of Mushtaq and Saqlain.
11. Ishant Sharma - 20 (India)
A startling find at 20, Ishant Sharma has very quickly had to face the burden of media hype and more significantly, spearheading the Indian pace attack. While Zaheer's recent and most fortunate purple patch has helped Sharma case a wee bit, there is no denying his future prospects. He is of course, still only 20 and personally, we shouldn't expect greatness so early. Scares me that he is my age. What the hell does that feel like?
12. Jean-Paul Duminy - 25 (South Africa)
Duminy perhaps rose from nothing. One moment South Africa lacked a significant young addition to their middle order and the next, Duminy cracked a majestic 166 at the MCG. The timing of Duminy's entry into the national side is perhaps perfect as he augments the likes of AB DeVilliers, Amla and Kallis in the middle. The middle order spot has perhaps been shared off and on by many before Duminy, but it would be safe to say, the Proteas have found a keeper. Also, Jean-Paul is a great name.
13. Dale Steyn - 26 (South Africa)
Steyn walked into International cricket a while ago with South Africa hunting for a more stable prospect in the post-Pollock era (read: Andre Nel). Steyn has perhaps found his place more recently with what seems like significant work on his line. Fast, but wayward evolved to lethal and aggressive. The past two years have seen the birth of a brand new quickie.
14. Peter Siddle - 24 (Australia)
Siddle's beginnings were perhaps overshadowed by the rounding up of a strange bowling attack in Australia's away series at India. While Jason Krezja and Doug Bollinger seem unlikely to make a comeback, Siddle stuck it out and has pushed his way into the side alongside Johnson and another surprise, Ben Hilfenhaus. Brett Lee finds it hard to get himself into the Test Side now. Sacrilege.
15. Nuwan Kulasekara - 27 (Sri Lanka)
While the inclusion of Kulasekara could be argued, it is undeniable that a huge burden awaits the man that could spearhead a new, young Sri Lankan side minus Murli and Vaas and it really seems like Kulasekara would hold the reins in the near future. The reason to look out for Kulasekara would not be for what he has done thus far but for what he could possibly do in the future.
The likes of these fifteen wouldn't make a World XI today, but we would certainly be fortunate to watch any of them come into contention in the years ahead.
Stats and Info: Cricinfo.com
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Your shlong can be shlonger.
Not many can speak of a stint with the Turkish Porn Industry. I find I have done my bit for them though.
I recently found that my hotmail account was being encroached upon by certain horny miscreants. A quick use of the language tools on Google brought out a side of me I was quite unaware of. I am in fact, responsible for spamming people with libido-driven mails in a Turkish dialect.
Awesome.
I got myself a new camera recently. A smooth Canon 1000D. First timer with a DSLR, I am. Also Yoda, apparently.
Thought I'd visit the "Add Image" option here at Blogger. Show this august gathering of readers some of my brighter talents.
So we went to Coorg last week. Family in tow, we spent three days at a resort, Kadkani, in Coorg. I was really looking forward to shooting with the new piece. It was a great place. Lot of green. I'd go as far as saying I've never seen forest cover and foliage like that. Overwhelming.
That second image is the view from our chalet. Paddy fields to rubber plantations to semi - rain forests. The whole hog.
We did a little moving around as well. Saw the nature park along the river Cauvery. Also made a trip to Bylakuppe, which houses the largest Buddhist schools in the world. Also, one of the largest Tibetan settlements around, outside Tibet. Quite a sight.
Back on deviantArt since I have my tools again. Have a look at my stuff if you find the time.
Or if you are reading this. Which I doubt. Hence, I can rant every now and then. Over and out.
I recently found that my hotmail account was being encroached upon by certain horny miscreants. A quick use of the language tools on Google brought out a side of me I was quite unaware of. I am in fact, responsible for spamming people with libido-driven mails in a Turkish dialect.
Awesome.
I got myself a new camera recently. A smooth Canon 1000D. First timer with a DSLR, I am. Also Yoda, apparently.
Thought I'd visit the "Add Image" option here at Blogger. Show this august gathering of readers some of my brighter talents.
So we went to Coorg last week. Family in tow, we spent three days at a resort, Kadkani, in Coorg. I was really looking forward to shooting with the new piece. It was a great place. Lot of green. I'd go as far as saying I've never seen forest cover and foliage like that. Overwhelming.
That second image is the view from our chalet. Paddy fields to rubber plantations to semi - rain forests. The whole hog.
We did a little moving around as well. Saw the nature park along the river Cauvery. Also made a trip to Bylakuppe, which houses the largest Buddhist schools in the world. Also, one of the largest Tibetan settlements around, outside Tibet. Quite a sight.
Back on deviantArt since I have my tools again. Have a look at my stuff if you find the time.
Or if you are reading this. Which I doubt. Hence, I can rant every now and then. Over and out.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Brace yourself.
It has been a long while since I've posted here. There was a time when it seemed like there lived little to speak off in my daily habit but that isn't the case anymore. Laze perhaps. A lack of initiative even.
That said, perhaps it is time I returned and what better way then to aim for downright depressing. I share with the blogosphere my smorgasbord of ailments:
1. Burn skin, burn!
Skin ailments are often underplayed in the field of laymen and their awe of medical misfortune. But that really shouldn't be the case. They are both ungainly and uncomfortable.
I wasn't a day over eight when I was introduced to the lesser known ill-effects of air-conditioning*. The dryness of skin caused by A/Cs, I have come to understand, can worsen to a skin inflammation called "atopic dermatitis".
Rajesh Khanna in Anand, one of my all-time favourite cinema melodramas, makes clear his appreciation for scientific sounding ailments. I agree. There lay a subdued pride in between pangs of pain.
2. Stop. Oh wait, you can't move.
Twelfth grade in an Indian school and its unmistakable angst often boils down to a series of examinations that make you wish you had zits instead. (I would never mean to undermine the pain that zits cause adolescent readers but really, I know I won this one.)
For me though, it boiled down to a life-changing episode of ayurvedic E.R**.
My first altercation with what came to be known as "cervical spondylosis", was in April 06. Snap! And I think I lost a sense of feeling below my neck. Perhaps it was because of the insane fucking pain in my neck but I could be wrong. Oh and all I was doing at the time was eating a bowl of Chocos and watching some Speed Racer.
The next time this brilliant shot of painful life ran through my back, it got me down and out. I felt like Quasimodo for a few days but the embarrasment was the last thing on my mind.
What ensued, was a forced treatment in an Ayurvedic clinic under the able guidance of an unforgettable Dr. Alladi. Don't get me wrong. He probably knew what he was doing. But it is hard to tell when hot oil burns your back. Oh, did I mention I was held down on a plastic stool in a dungeon and beaten up with dal***.
3. Bringing up the tail...
Like the average unfit kid of this world, I had a series of sicknesses - some feigned, some real. I had a bad bout of bronchitis once when I was in the 11th grade. It made me lose all my fat. So, not such a bad thing. Most of that is a haze, because I slept through it courtesy some bad ass medication.
I don't like diarrhoea. I don't like water in Bangalore. Do the math.
*I believe in eczema. Not global warming. This one's for you Mr. Crichton.
**Another Crichton reference. More on that later.
***Maybe I'm being dramatic. The stool may not have been plastic.
That said, perhaps it is time I returned and what better way then to aim for downright depressing. I share with the blogosphere my smorgasbord of ailments:
1. Burn skin, burn!
Skin ailments are often underplayed in the field of laymen and their awe of medical misfortune. But that really shouldn't be the case. They are both ungainly and uncomfortable.
I wasn't a day over eight when I was introduced to the lesser known ill-effects of air-conditioning*. The dryness of skin caused by A/Cs, I have come to understand, can worsen to a skin inflammation called "atopic dermatitis".
Rajesh Khanna in Anand, one of my all-time favourite cinema melodramas, makes clear his appreciation for scientific sounding ailments. I agree. There lay a subdued pride in between pangs of pain.
2. Stop. Oh wait, you can't move.
Twelfth grade in an Indian school and its unmistakable angst often boils down to a series of examinations that make you wish you had zits instead. (I would never mean to undermine the pain that zits cause adolescent readers but really, I know I won this one.)
For me though, it boiled down to a life-changing episode of ayurvedic E.R**.
My first altercation with what came to be known as "cervical spondylosis", was in April 06. Snap! And I think I lost a sense of feeling below my neck. Perhaps it was because of the insane fucking pain in my neck but I could be wrong. Oh and all I was doing at the time was eating a bowl of Chocos and watching some Speed Racer.
The next time this brilliant shot of painful life ran through my back, it got me down and out. I felt like Quasimodo for a few days but the embarrasment was the last thing on my mind.
What ensued, was a forced treatment in an Ayurvedic clinic under the able guidance of an unforgettable Dr. Alladi. Don't get me wrong. He probably knew what he was doing. But it is hard to tell when hot oil burns your back. Oh, did I mention I was held down on a plastic stool in a dungeon and beaten up with dal***.
3. Bringing up the tail...
Like the average unfit kid of this world, I had a series of sicknesses - some feigned, some real. I had a bad bout of bronchitis once when I was in the 11th grade. It made me lose all my fat. So, not such a bad thing. Most of that is a haze, because I slept through it courtesy some bad ass medication.
I don't like diarrhoea. I don't like water in Bangalore. Do the math.
*I believe in eczema. Not global warming. This one's for you Mr. Crichton.
**Another Crichton reference. More on that later.
***Maybe I'm being dramatic. The stool may not have been plastic.
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