Saturday 19 October 2013

Bullet Wounds and Dynamite

There's been a near supernatural aura around this year's Nobel peace nominations and the buildup to the award last Friday. Jon Stewart turned pantomine for that one night, prodding that deadly combination of white guilt and media aggrandization. Amazon probably drowned in request from places  like North Carolina ordering in their prized copies of 'I am Malala', a title that's preciously close to being a palindrome (that, frankly, was a dabble in the irrelevant). Most copies will spend eternity gathering dust, much like the statuette or medallion in the great decorated halls of OPCW.
There was a mad flurry articles in the Guardian, NY Times, and the 3 pages Huffington post dedicates to something that isn't Miley Cyrus's arse (I stole that joke from Jimmy Kimmel, that is how little effort I'm putting into humour for this piece). A subset of those claimed that it would be wrong for Malala Yousafzai to win the 2013 Nobel Memorial Prize for peace. Quite a few others claimed that Malala's win would have signified a triumph of western celebrity, and thus, deviate her from her cause. Here, I seek to do one or both of 2 things: firstly, and most importantly, I'd like to put it out there that the making of a Western celebrity wouldn't really be so bad for Malala. Secondly, a considerably more subservient and derivative point, almost to the extent of being a corollary, that the award to OPCW is a waste of humanity.
Right, so getting to it. The west, whatever that term may encapsulate, has a love for celebrity. For that sad story which they can 'awwww' over and feel better about the lives they think are miserable. The elimination of some rathher overweight contestant from X-factor or the plight of rape victims in Congo, it doesn't really matter, its the same hormonal rush followed by paste satisfaction upon having somehow, telekinetically, contributed. However, there is a tangibility to this claim to betterment that the awwwwers have, because it seems clear that massive corporations have harnessed the power of awwww by making people pay to text a vote for whomsoever Piers Morgan has bashed that week. And the cause of people like Malala, or Dr. Mukwege from Congo, could really benefit from similar tactics.
Her appearance on the Daily Show and the link to the MalalaFund exponentially boosted the monetary contributions from Americans and global fans of the show. A rise in sales of her memoir would also allow her a greater coffer with which to actualize the dreams, hopes and other intangibilities that would remain as such if it weren't for the increase in money. It is exactly in this venture that a Nobel would be bloody useful, to make people believe in the legitimacy of the cause, since, if the Swedes believe it, it must be good.
The other bit about awarding it to OPCW for I'm not sure what. Giving it to Mukwege's clinic in Congo would just make a much bigger financial difference, allowing a better influx of machinery and skilled workers.
The recent past has seen quite a furore about the Nobel committee's decisions with the peace prize, most notably for Barack Obama's hope and change and words. The prize hasnt lost legitimacy or status, but its becoming increasingly hard to understand the merit of the award. It would've been nice to see Malala give post-award interviews and see some suited agent make a tonne of money for all the books and pens she spoke about at the UN. Making it a panto won't be so bad.

Thursday 22 August 2013

Show me the Funny

Tiny rooms. weird lighting and the everlasting wait. There really isn't much to distinguish stand up from any other artform in terms of the build up to the act, but there's a surreal charm to the whole package. Stand-up, for me, had an immediate connection, a sense of purity like Colombian cocaine (read:coffee), and it all 'clicked' (a phrase I relate more to ignition that to art).

My introduction to stand-up was through a host of panel shows, DVD's and skits, the classic way. However, there was something different about my reaction to stand-up as opposed to other things I've tried like music, poetry, etc. With either of those, it was always a compelling need to reach some benchmark, or play a particular piece. There was never an innate connection, that one extra step where true happiness met a pot of gold with a talking monkey. But with stand-up it seemed like that'll all change. Largely, because it demands the least amount of paraphernalia, and im lazy to the bone. I quite liked the harmonica and thought of giving it a try, but couldn't be arsed to buy and/or learn. With comedy I just decided to think up some jokes, but them in an order decided by the cosmic justice of 'eenie meenie and miscellaneous other names that rhyme' and voila, there was my cauldron of embarassment, waiting to be showcased.

So it all began (like last week or something, this is just poor story telling) at a nice little pub in central london. The city boasts of phenomenal open mic nights, where first-timers are given a free shot to do whatever, whenever (well, within the five minutes). Being the second to last act didnt help, with a plethora of material to listen to, while running that one horrible pile of dust masquerading as a joke in your head.

Mustering the courage to not just hiss at myself for the length of the set, I somehow pieced the one-liners with the longer build ups and ran in a few circles for a bit. The audience reception was fantastic, which essentially was the impetus to pick it up in the first place. Ah! the thrill of making people laugh. If only I could do that through this post.


Sunday 18 August 2013

Yenna, Something, Blah!

Sundays are horrible if you've gone the whole morning  without an espresso, when Katrina Kaif starts to look like Bar Rafaeli. it is now theoretically impossible to open a webpage without Shahrukh's Khan's holographic image dragging you to a theater to watch the shambolic casket of racism that is Chennai Express. This is probably the umpteenth attempt at trying to make sense of the neuron killing machine that is a Rohit Shetty movie. So there have been articles, comic strips, lampoons, reviews scribblings on the back of a pigeon, graffiti written with saliva that have either praised and/or decried the phenomenon of marketing louder than a Punjabi wedding about Bollywood's official horror show.

This post claims to do something a bit different. Like not claim to be funny (no pretences, also), talk about how irrational the movie is (but its fun no, LOL, play badminton) or why that sequence of dance steps has been imprinted onto my occipital lobe even before the release. This is just a simple step back, to ground zero to see what it is we are going crazy about.

Clearly, Chennai Express doesn't announce itself as a film of the French independent era caliber. And everyone somehow excuses it for that. For the amount of money that even the spot boys on the set would make, you'd expect the movie to rebuild the Amazon rainforest. The idea here is simple, its not enough to take the public and squish them into a giant mass of zombies (unless they're on an island in Goa with a Russian Saif Ali Khan), calling it just 'fun'.

Why? you might ask. Yes, the two of you who're bothering to read this. Well, because its not like these movies are a new wave or provide a break from serious cinema. This IS serious cinema. Its come to the point that when silly lightbulb dances, a whole host of stereotypical nonsense and an objectified lead female are what is normalized as the 'expected' routine, there is very little impetus for anyone to make a movie that has two bits of sense in it. Its created a massive vacuum, which prevents any innovation or artistic credibility.

Moreover, its nefarious (haan, because humour nahin toh ek do angrezi ke bade words!) to acting and cinema in society. It trivializes the problems, like the bigotry that residents in North India face, if from any other part of the country. It legitimizes viewpoints of those who haven't been exposed to new ideas and are big Bollywood fanatics. This 'ah! its a no-brains movie so let it go' attitude needs to stop. There may be jokes in the next piece. Till then: Mind it. 

Wednesday 31 July 2013

The Apotheosis of Tushar Kapoor

This post is what I think 'randomzzzz 4' facebook albums should be made of. You know, the kind that are about 'collage lyf' and 'mah besties <3 XOXO' (an emoticon that is acutely like a one-dimensional game of noughts and crosses. and since when does an X look like a hug.) As a clear forewarning it has nothing to do with Tushar Kapoor, which takes the grand total of people disappointed to 1 (his mum).

So the previous post was about gender sensitivity and this is an agglomeration of things that pop in and out of my head. For starters, a pure unadulterated hate of Katrina Kaif. Her extreme provocation leads to commodification of women while she, in blissful ignorance, continues  to  whilstfully jalao beedi chillums with the teeli of husn as the national bird of America (read: Sanjay Dutt) tries to find an expression that isn't a  2 parts remorse and 2 parts heroin with a dash of bomb blast (yeah, no subtlety there). Her fans counter this hate with astute argumentation from a metaphysical standpoint of 'kya raapchik maal hai yaar', but even that is baseless. Every time she emerges from the sea, shakes head and droplets fall on champu looking guy, a part of me dies, for she isnt even pretty. Yes, there, I said it. She's just white. Take a moment to mentally darken her (not blacken, because Race issues, and Saif Ali Khan doesn't like that) and there is nothing left swoon over, expect for her blatant disrespect for the Hindi language.

Even though its free, I can't spend time and space on that waste of cells import. So lets talk about how ugly Ashish Nehra is. He looks like Chewbacca shagged Sharad Powar (try, try as much as you want, but that image is going nowhere. btw, powar's the taker). And he bowls like an R.K. Puram kid with Down's syndrome. Or one that didn't clear JEE, whichever's worse.

Telangana  happened, giving Punjabis more states to call 'Madras'. That last sentence was a vague attempt to direct this post somewhere reasonable. England is still facing its weird speaking criminals to fight for an urn. And that too in a sport 12 countries care a monkey nut about. That didn't even need exaggeration. Some Kate chick gave birth, and they named the baby 'Pippa's Arse'.


Friday 19 July 2013

Mere Baap Ki Accord

Gender is an issue in delhi. Even Stevie Wonder can see that (no, that is not race fuelled humour, the bigotry is in your head). Lets be constructive here, there isnt a point in blaming, raging and fuming. Nobody but Sushil Kumar Shinde has brought about any positivity with a solution. his miraculous idea of improving the auto system, which fell through due to 'resources' or the opposition, whichever one the public is more mad at, shows the intricacy with which the Home Minister understands domestic issues. But, enough of fuming and name calling ,lets deal with this head on.

How do we stop perversion from terrorizing women. My solution is going to seem a bit quirky, but lets give it a shot.

Step 1: Buy 10 Maruti Swifts. The colour of a Rajouri garden hosuewife's nail paint. Make Rohit Bal design the insides like the accompaniment to music by DJ psych-a-funk (or whatever these turntable wasters call themselves nowadays)

Step 2: Hire 50 bulky men to pretend to be homosexuals. If they naturally are then, your work is done. Dress them up in snazzy pink t-shirts with 'Drag Queen' or something written across their chests. They should be the kind that look like they gave their Cerebrums (cerebra, anyone?) as deposits to Gold's Gym.

Step 3: Put the men in the cars, with music from B-grade bollywood movies, ideally item songs and make them roam the streets of Delhi at night, randomly friskly, inappropriately touching and partially sexually harassing 'rapey-looking' men.

The results are simple. Men with a propensity to rape (read:Delhi men) are going to have their souls contorted and slef-esteem decimated by incidents where they have been fooled around with by a guy, because if there is anything that Delhi Men are more scared of than the moral abomination that is gender equality, it is the unnatural phenomenon that is homosexuality. The imprint of a pink-clad bulky man making you 'his bitch' is going to prevent potential rapists from ever leaving their houses, let alone think of violating anyone else's bodily autonomy. Moreover, the crass item song will make them associate their pains with Bollywood music, making them unwilling to salivate at the hyper-sexualisation of women.

If nothing else, this move exonerates chowmein, mini-skirts, alcohol and the night time.


Monday 15 July 2013

Suit Up

Brace yourselves (a phrase, so irrevocably tied to the image of some fancily dressed chappie holding a sword, thanks to the internet phenomenon that is the 'meme') for a barrage of 'OMG ILY Harvey and blah!' statuses from duckfaces on facebook. Im guilty as charged, in that I actually know what this TV show is, and have spent a while swooning over its female cast, so these updates are going to be more intelligible than the pick 'red wedding' or 'blue wedding' drama (ah, the pleasure of offending both GoT and Matrix fans in one sentence, if only I could add live long and prosper to it). Suits was quite a breath of fresh air, with a more menacing and rancid taste of what legalities and jurisprudence are all about. There was enough sass and razzmatazz (words that start to rhyme after 3 espressos) for an Indian wedding and twists like a DNA molecule (a joke for the biochemist).

It returns to grace our screens from sidereel and onechannel (because who's gonig to pay for a TV license or bother to do things the right way round, esp. after seeing the first two seasons of aforesaid show) as of the 16th of July. Although the second leg of season 2 was a brilliant concoction of how, not only the protagonist, but the entire organisation dealt with suffering and attacks, it really, quite frankly boiled down to a case of how moronic can a guy be to get laid. No spoilers for those who haven't seen it (yes, I'm talking to the two of you playing space invaders 3000 X), but it really had the messiest of endings. Im going to confess, I understood precious little of the finale and was far too exhausted to find the ability to give a toss and rerun the episode, but from what I've gathered, it just seems like a vague attempt to allow for any possible turn in the storyline come the following season.

So here go some guesses. harvey may get married, Donna might leave, Mike and Rachel start dating again and split up again (what's with that name Rachel), and the firm gets overshadowed by their British buyers.
Now the logical flow for the above is, I got shit-knuckled bored and wrote the first words that popped into my head. All said and done, minor critiques aside, this return will be swashbuckling (I love that word, for no particular reason). If my predictions don't come true, then you can 'FML LMAO Harvey 2cute 4lyf <3' me. 

Deck the Halls

'Twas a stroke of genius to see blades of grass and decide to make a racquet sport on it. Somebody went 'twack', and then got a 'thwoop' back (that is somewhere between actual racquet-ball contact noises, and the thing that video games in the '90's passed for a forehand). And then everyone applaud the guy with the hardest 'thwoop' (the innuendo's all in your head) or the quirkiest 'thwunk' and Wimbledon was born. That and vaguely high levels of posh-ness in South West London, garnished with a neglect for croquet (even AELTC has dropped croquet from its intials, so it has about as much of a point as a deranged right wing news anchor).

Alas, it all boiled to nothing, for when you add British expectation to  British tennis, it just means a waste of newspaper space in the Daily Mail that should go to immigrant bashing or house price furores. Its a perfect formula of lets take a system that produces one guy who knows which side of a racquet to hold and weigh him down with history and the absence of glory. And imagine how hard it is when the guy is Tim Henman, who injured a ball girl for beating him in straight sets (that might just as well have been the cause).

So right, back to the point (or lack thereof). This Wimbledon hoorah has to stop. One must realise that there is no lesser or greater feat that Murray achieved this year than what Djokovic, Federer and Nadal have done in the past. Quite simply, its another match well won, and thats about it. So while he did have the hopes of a nation and had more mental preparedness than Novak who only wanted to mock Maria Sharapova and other Russian who wouldn't Djok him (and thats how we make bad Serbian puns), he did essentially no more or less than win 7 matches, and a total of 21 sets, or as FedEx calls it, streak against Hewitt.

This Wimbledon should be remembered for its plethora of giant killing. Darcis beat Nadal, Stakhovsky-Fed and Lisicki beat one of the Williams brothers. I did wait till all the celebration simmered down so that this didnt look like an antagonistic hipster piece, but now it just looks like a pointless wallow. Or as Tim Henman called it, the first. set.  

Intro



So while google really really wants to take over the world, it does give a decent number of free platforms for expression and what not that seem all cogent with ideal of democracy. This blog is just a cohesion of my willingness to write about anything and everything, because articulating ideas and emotions through is better that just going "duh! pssstang blurggh", and extreme homesickness that made me want to exploit whatever is free (seriously, I get horribly distracted by those big signed in shining neon lights that give off anything and everything for discounted rates, except maybe petrol).

The intro will be simple. I just want to get a point across. Doesn't have to be the wittiest or the cleverest (still not sure that's a word, irony anyone??), just a point on some pressing issue. The acquittal of George Zimmerman, Indian elections, cricket, your mum (freudian slip) or debasing intellectual humour. Watch this space for your periodic dose of something to make you think and then hopefully laugh.