To all believers:

When we die, one of us is going to look very, very silly. But there's still a chance I might be able to explain to someone that I backed the wrong horse. Who are you going to talk to?
Picture Courtesy: www.CartoonStock.com

The Antichrist Walks Among Us

Kook Warning: This post is the product of too much spare time and some insanity, and is not meant to be taken seriously, and/or offend anyone. You have been warned.
I have a pet theory about Saint Angelina and her twins. Remember the Astronaut's Wife with the delish Johnny Depp? I enter that movie into evidence as Exhibit 1: the aliens walk among us, and are trying to have alien babies.
I argue, milord, that Angelina Jolie is an alien, whose purpose on earth is to bear the twins who will destroy all creation. On what, you ask, do I base this valid and insightful theory? Well, the answer lies in that picture above. Look closely. How is anyone human supposed to be that perfect-looking? How, I ask? And I'll tell you also. Because she's not human. She's the aliens' idea of what perfection looks like. Her task was to find the perfect genetic material to reproduce with. Presenting Exhibit 2: the perfect genetic material standing next to her. I mean, he may not be to everyone's taste, but it doesn't get any more perfect than Brad Pitt. And now she's subsumed his identity, making them: BRANGELINA. It's too much. Angelina Jolie (and don't even get me started on that name) and Brad Pitt have twins in the South of blessed France. I rest my case. The end is approaching, ladies and gentlemen. You'll find me in the nuclear-proof bunker, clutching the cans of spam and the flashlight.
Oh, and picture courtesy the lovely Jezebel. Right, where's that garlic-garland?

Taking Back the F Word

Kira Cochrane's got an interesting piece in the Grauniad today, about how the campaign for gender equality is regressing. Women's bodies, she says, are being picked apart today as never before. Every wrinkle, every 'extra' pound on a celebrity's body is up for scrutiny by the public. Go look at ANY issue of any tabloid, and behold the criticism on what Equality in the employment field is a distant dream, with women recieving up to 17% less pay for full-time jobs than men on average. And that's just in Britain. I'd be frightened to hear the figures for that in India. Of course, that's not even taking into account the fact that women tend to go into fields of employment that are traditionally associated with care-giving (nursing, old age support), or appearance-related, which tend to be lower paid, and don't have as much labour representation. It's still accepted for women to be passed over for jobs because, you know, we have this annoying habit of giving birth to children and allowing the maternal instinct to turn our brains to mush.(Alan Sugar on this lovely trend: we're not allowed to ask, so it's easy. Just don't hire them. Thanks, Mr. Sugar. Now we know why all of your apprentices seem to come with penises as a prerequisite.)
Rape convictions in the UK are dropping, rates of single motherhood the world over increasing exponentially. Pro-choice is still a bad word, because you know, what a woman does with an unwanted conception is still apparently everyone's business but her own.
I heard today about a case over the New Year where two women were assaulted and molested in front of the Gateway of India (symbolic, what?) by a mob of forty men, and a Google search for 'women molested New Years' turned up not just this one story, but ELEVEN others.
The Times of India says there's a rape every hour in Delhi, the vast majority unreported.
We all know that bunch of guys, whether at a club, a pub, in class, at work, who 'rate' the women in the room. One of the gems I once heard, from a group of guys I know, looking at pics of a mutual acquaintance, 'What are you talking about? She's not fat!' In a different situation, about a different woman, by different men: 'Yaar, she's a bit of an enthu-cutlet, but killer boobs'.
Then there's Zoe Cruz, senior executive at Morgan Stanley, who had contributed billions to the organisation, slated to be the next CEO, who was the first to be turfed out when the subprime crisis hit. She was nicknamed 'the witch', 'the czarina', and 'the cruz missile', because a woman that reaches the top has to be, you know, a ball-crusher. Morgan Stanley also settled a massive sex discrimination case out of court recently, brought by dozens of female employees who argued that women were not given the same opportunities for advancement.
I can't count the number of times a woman has said to me, 'oh, but I'm not a feminist. I love men.' When did feminist become a bad word? When did it become the new F Word? When it did become about man-hating, flag-waving, bra-burning (and for the fortieth time, that NEVER happened) lesbian viragos? Well, hell, I'm a feminist. I'm not a victim. I'm no survivor, either. I'm just a person who won't be told that her uterus will dictate her life choices, and who wants what anyone else wants. The right to live her life on her own terms. Those choices might include marriage, children, and a home. Or a career. Or having a BMI of 45, or getting cellulite on my face, if I choose. Or walking home at 3 AM by myself. Or wearing a short skirt on a summer's day. Or, you know, AND, or any combination of the above. But I don't believe there's anyone that can tell me which of those choices is the right one, because of which gender I choose to identify with. So there. I'm a feminist. I'm taking the F word back.
Oh, and I'd just got to this point of righteous rage, when I found this little gem. Hee hee hee. All is well with the world. You've got to love the delicious buffoonery of comparing MEN to the Jews in 1940s Europe. Chortle chortle. Who's an angry little mannie then? Who is? Chuckle.

We Live in Interesting Times

Here's a charming set of three (allegedly) Chinese curses:
May you live in interesting times.
May you come to the attention of those in authority.
May you find what you are looking for.

One down, two to go.

Beijing Welcomes You! Enjoy the pwetty video!

Wachau!!!!!

When they told me about it, I giggled desperately. How do you not giggle at a word that sounds like a shootout scene in a Rajnikanth movie? But then I was fascinated. The idea of a valley on the Danube, where fruit trees leaned over the road, their heavy heads meeting over secluded bicycle paths, was an alluring one. This valley had sustained life for more than 10,000 years, without a break. Not even forty kilometres long, the valley, they said, was peppered with medieval castles, roman ruins, stone age settlements, renaissance monasteries, baroque churches, early gothic shrines, 16th century houses with ancient wooden gables. And through it all flowed the Danube.
I've seen the Danube in several parts of its journey so far.
In Vienna this is a contented river, flowing happily along, supportive but not interfering, like a good friend you've known for years. When you go to see it, it is delighted to see you, but not effusive.
In Budapest this is a different river altogether. It is darker, broader. The city is defined by it, divided into two almost equal halves by it. Distances here are measured between bridges. The Danube in Budapest is ancient, cosmopolitan, and very non-messable-with.
In the Wachau the Danube sparkles its way around plump, low hills. The water is a soothing green, with none of the icy blue of the Rhine or the rushing white of the Alpine rivers. It is fringed on both sides by vineyards or forests, the forests growing so thick in parts that the lower reaches are colored a deep rust red from lack of sunlight.
The words 'the good life' take on a new meaning in the Wachau valley. Yes, the villages are every bit as charming as advertised, their old houses and cobbled streets were filled with the sound of church bells as I clattered by on my rented bicycle. We stopped in the bright white sunlight to eat apples and pears in the shade of vines laden with grapes. The bicycle paths were flat for the most part, with occasional steep inclines and declines into tiny villages, and the path was clearly marked for the whole fifty or so kilometres. We visited ancient ruins on wooded hills (unfortunately the ruins have been tourist-ed out of any of the atmospheric quality that ruins in India have; that undefinable quality of unknown hands having touched the rock where your hands rest, and of real lives having been lived there, with real fights, and jokes and quarrels) For instance, in this valley is Durnstein, where England's Richard Lionheart was imprisoned. On the way back home to England after the crusades, Richard seems to have thought that it was a good idea to insult the Austrian flag. He was promptly kidnapped and stayed, cooling his heels at Durnstein until England paid thirty kilograms of silver for his release. Richard was promptly sent home with a warning, and a few years later, Vienna Neustadt was mysteriously financed and built out of nothing.
We stopped for lunch in adorable villages, where we ate huge, delicious meals and drank cold beer, and four hours later were hungry again. We waved at other bikers, who waved back, mellowed by the incredible weather, the ridiculously good food, and perhaps by the unreality of it all.
Perhaps this incident will explain the 'unreality' part of it. As we pedalled through the fruit orchards, there were carts with a sign that said 'obstverkauf' (fruits for sale). On the cart were bags of bright red apples, bottles of homemade peach schnapps, grapes and marmalade. A price list (a euro for a kilo of apples) was tacked up to the cart. There was a box for the money. And there was not a human being around for miles. We could have taken the bottles, the apples, and the cart for good measure, if we had wanted. Or stolen enough fruit to feed a country by stretching out our hands as we cycled through the trees. But we paid, and bought more than we needed. Because when you're in Utopia, that's what you do.

A Delicious Little Detective Story

For some reason I find myself blogging more about music and TV than international politics and the environment. Does that make me frivolous? Or merely honest? Ah, well, I won't self-diagnose. I'll leave that to the experts. Enter Dr. Gregory House. BRILLIANTLY played by Hugh Laurie of the piercing blue eyes, and the straight-faced delivery of some of the funniest lines i've heard on TV in the recent past. ('You're going to the Galapagos islands? Why?- 'To visit family. My uncle is a giant turtle.') or try this one, when House is looking in his boss' (Lisa Cuddy, as played by a painfully fit Lisa Edelstein) drawer for the painkillers to which he is addicted, and is caught in the act by his one and only friend, oncologist James Wilson. 'What are you doing here? Where's Cuddy?'- 'In this drawer. It's a rescue mission.'
House is special to me for many reasons. It's the first show I've watched entirely online (not one episode on a regular TV), and also it will always remind me of some great online TV watching sessions with some of the best (and most unexpected) friends I've ever made. But over and above these (boring) personal reasons, House is one of the most intelligent dramas to hit the screen in living memory. Its protagonist is a mean, cantankerous, evil, withdrawn medical genius who gets his kicks from playing God with his patients' lives. Hugh Laurie takes the character from the two-dimensional and transforms him into someone real, live, and breathing, down to the pain lines on his face and makes him someone we all love to hate. And in the process, makes a fairly formulaic medical drama into some REALLY entertaining TV. Without him, the show is nothing. (The supporting cast is very efficient, and provides an excellent background blah blah, but it's House we all tune in to watch).
The character is based on Sherlock Holmes (something I am proud to say I noticed even before someone pointed it out). Holmes-homes-house-House, get it? Watson-Wilson, there's even a shadowy character called Moriarty, who is House's alter-ego in much the same way the original is Holmes'. He lives in 221 b, and is addicted to vicodin, a painkiller (remember Holmes and the cocaine?). He also plays the piano (Holmes preferred the violin) and makes a living by following tiny clues to their logical conclusion, his speciality being the ability to see things that others miss, and make sense of seemigly inconsequential details. (sound familiar yet?)
And for my last reason for loving House: the soundtrack. It introduced me to a song I cannot get enough of at the moment: The Who's Baba O'Riley is the greatest track I have heard for a looong time, from the synthesised opening chords to the violin solo at the end. Here's what Wikipedia (which is a whole different story altogether) has to say about the song:
"Baba O'Riley" was originally written by Pete Townshend for his Lifehouse project, a rock opera that was to be the follow-up to The Who's 1969 opera, Tommy. Townshend derived the song from a nine minute ARP synthesizer demo, which the band reconstructed. "Baba O'Riley" was going to be used in the Lifehouse project as a song sung by Ray, the Scottish farmer at the beginning of the album as he gathers his wife Sally and his two children to begin their exodus to London. When Lifehouse was scrapped, many of the songs were released on The Who's 1971 album Who's Next. Baba O'Riley became the first track on Who's Next. The song was released as a single in several European countries, but in the US and the UK was only released as part of the album.

Drummer Keith Moon had the idea of inserting a violin solo at the coda of the song, during which the style of the song shifts from crashing rock to a klezmer-style beat. Dave Arbus, of East of Eden, plays violin. In concert, lead singer Roger Daltrey replaces the violin solo with a harmonica solo. The Who have produced a live version of the song with a violin, provided live by Nigel Kennedy, during their November 27th, 2000 concert the Royal Albert Hall.

And finally, as a special treat, here's a video of House, set to Baba O'Riley. How perfect is that?

And before you watch the video, one final joke. Holmes and Watson are out camping. Some hours into the night, Holmes wakes up and nudges his faithful friend. "Watson, look up at the sky and tell me what you see."
"I see millions and millions of stars, Holmes" replies Watson.
"And what do you deduce from that?"
Watson ponders for a minute.
"Well, astronomically, it tells me that there are millions of galaxies and potentially billions of planets. Astrologically, I observe that Saturn is in Leo. Horologically, I deduce that the time is approximately a quarter past three. Meteorologically, I suspect that we will have a beautiful day tomorrow. Theologically, I can see that God is all powerful, and that we are a small and insignificant part of the universe. What does it tell you, Holmes?"
Holmes is silent for a moment. "Watson, you idiot!" he says. "Someone has stolen our tent!"

Chuckle. Enjoy the video. And hoot if you agree.

Of Grace Kelly and Ice Cream Sodas

Guess what I'm humming these days? A super-successful single by a Lebanese-born, London-based, curly-haired, Freddy-Mercury-and-Queen-inspired, sexually amorphic singer with dyslexia, training in opera, and a high note that could fracture glass. Ladies and gentlemen, meet Mika. His real name is Mica Penniman, which he changed for (justified) fears of the massacre that would ensue if the general public were allowed to pronounce it. His first single? 'Relax, Take it Easy.' Followed by 'Grace Kelly'. In January 2007, he came top of BBC News's Sound of 2007 poll. In March 2007 he appeared on the Jay Leno. In April, the Guardian decided they were intrigued by him, and that is how we met.
Mika is unadulterated pop. He is the essence of Freddy, Queen, Bowie, the Scissor Sisters, and various other dramatic pop icons distilled into one dimunitive mop-haired singer wearing tight jeans. (and this probably explains why all his songs sound vaguely like something you've heard before.)His songs are this close to being over-the-top, and generally parodies of themselves, but somehow he pulls back at the last minute. Maybe its because they're not cynical, his songs. They may belong to a genre (intelligent pop) that has been given over to cynicism and self-parody, but somehow he brings freshness to a brand of songs that never had it to begin with.
Take 'Grace Kelly'. This is a song about identity or the lack of it. The melody is apparently based on 'The Barber of Seville' (I don't know, haven't heard it yet, though I will soon). The song is about people who reinvent themselves to be popular (sound familiar yet) and I for one, found it a deeply distubing little molotov cocktail wrapped up in an ice-cream soda. 'I could be wholesome/I could be loathsome/I guess I'm a little bit shy/Why dont you like me?Why dont you like me without making me try?' Here's what the Guardian said about this little jewel of a song. 'The song asks two basic questions - who am I, and what do I have to do to be successful? It could be a knowing song about ambition and the music industry, it could be a song of straightforward desperation, it could be both. Like most things about Mika, it means what you want it to mean.'
Still here? Watch the video. And welcome to the world of earworm. Oh, and don't forget to let me know what you think.