Tatônnement

Turnabout is fair play

2009-06-23T21:35:00.004-05:00

French President Nicolas Sarkozy has spoken out strongly against the wearing of high-heeled shoes by fashionable women in France.

In a major policy speech, he said stiletto heels objectified them and undermined their dignity.

Mr Sarkozy also gave his backing to the establishment of a parliamentary commission to look at whether to ban the wearing of high-heeled shoes in public.

"That is not the idea that the French republic has of women's dignity.

"We cannot accept to have in our country women who are prisoners teetering precariously on pencil-thin points, fetishised for the male gaze, deprived of identity," Mr Sarkozy told a special session of parliament in Versailles.

"The stiletto heel is not a sign of style, it is a sign of subservience. It will not be welcome on the territory of the French republic," the French president said.

But he stressed that France "must not fight the wrong battle", saying that "these fashion choices must be respected as much as any other" in the country.

A group of a cross-party lawmakers is already calling for a special inquiry into whether women who wear high-heeled shoes is undermining French gender equality, the BBC's Emma Jane Kirby in Paris says.

The lawmakers also want to examine whether women who wear these shoes are doing so voluntarily or are being forced to sexualise themselves, our correspondent says.

Members of the French government have been divided over the issue.

The immigration minister, Eric Besson, has said a full ban will only "create tensions" while the junior minister for human rights, Rama Yade, said she would accept a ban if it was aimed at protecting women forced to wear high heels.

France's fashion designers have criticised the debate.

To raise the subject like this, via a parliamentary committee, is a way of stigmatising fashion and the fashionistas of France said Pierre Cardin, French Council of Haute Coutoure.

France is home to about fifty million fashion victims.

Original Article

CRIKIT!

2009-04-21T23:39:00.004-05:00

Headline that actually has nothing to do with Superman

2009-04-11T15:55:00.000-05:00

Clark call-up forces Kent rethink.

Are you a colossal dick?

2009-03-01T23:54:00.005-06:00

Ask yourself the following question.

You come across a man sitting on the street. His head is shaven, his face is adorned with an expression of detached serenity. His robes suggest austerity and righteousness. His body is in a posture of equilibrium, suggesting balance. The flames surrounding him suggest he is on fire. The stench suggests he probably doused himself in petrol before setting himself alight.

What do you do?

A) Keeping your wits about you, do a quick visual scan for a container of non-adulterated liquid, and splash him with it until the flames are doused. Then attempt to get him to a hospital as quickly as possible.
B) Scream "OHSHITOHSHITOHSHIT HE'S ON FIIIIIIIIIIIIRE! HALP!", and run around flapping your arms like a chicken about to be culled for carrying bird flu.
C) Stand still with your mouth agape. Keep stopping people to ask them "What's with THAT guy?"
D) Pull out a camera and click away.
E) Shoot him.

If you answered A), then you, sir, are definitely not a dick. Please report to the nearest recruiting office for the Salvation Army. We have much need of you.

If you answered B), then you're not so much a dick as an annoying twerp. Please stay indoors as much as possible.

If you answered C), then you are a dick. This is tempered by the fact that you're clearly an idiot, so its not so bad.

If you answered D), then you're a malicious dick. Please report to the nearest Indian news media office. There are some girls being molested we need you to film.

If you answered E), then you probably work for the Chinese government. You, sir, are a COLOSSAL DICK.

Thank you for taking this quiz. Please feel free to post this on Facebook, Twitter, Booger, or whatever you use to substitute for a real life.

Marijauana needs to be legalised

2009-02-24T13:57:00.002-06:00

Without it, there is no way in hell to understand this.

This told the story of how an evil god escaped death by falling backwards in time, while a mad monitor of a parallel world used this to pull the wool over his fifty-two colleagues' eyes in league with a vampiric protege, as heroes fought to save the world while time collapsed on itself, and was finally saved by heroic sacrifices, subatomic trans-reality bridges, subethereal mind machines, and consultation with alternate futuristic geniuses.

Yes.

To even grasp at the faint edges of this epic, this might help.

A sample:

There was once a being, I do not know if he even has a name, but above I call him the “Over-Monitor,” so let’s go with that. This being discovers the multiverse and sends a probe to explore the multiverse (the Monitor). However, the multiverse is a lot more complex (and quite a bit seductive) than he expected, and the probe was split into two equal and opposite probes, one good one evil, the Monitor and the Anti-Monitor.

After the death of the first Monitor and the defeat of the Anti-Monitor in Crisis, the Over-Monitor created a society of Monitors who lived in basically the ether of the multiverse. Their existence was discovered post Infinite Crisis.

The very first one sent by the Over-Monitor was called Dax Novu. There is some debate whether Dax is intended to be the Monitor of Crisis on Infinite Earths. I’m going with no, but it’s possible. Okay, so as this society of Monitors begins to grow, it slowly becomes apparent to Dax that the Monitors have an almost parasitic (one could call it vampiric) relationship with their respective worlds of the Multiverse. They sort of feed off of the stories of the worlds they monitor. They do not wish to believe him, so they shun him and imprison him “forever.” Before they do so, he leaves behind a thought-robot designed to defeat himself if he is ever freed, because he knows that cut off from society that he is going to go mad. Dax slowly descends into madness and becomes Mandrakk, a flat out evil jerk who wants to consume the universe.

Secretly, he gains a disciple named Ogama who bans Nix Uotan to Earth to clear the way for Mandrakk to escape.

The big reveal is that Nix is the son of Dax.

As for the first Monitor - he could be Dax, he could be just one half of the probe and long dead. I think Morrison leaves it intentionally vague.

On second thoughts, just pass me the bong, Mike.

Congratulations on your purchase of the Howrah Bridge

2009-02-15T21:57:00.000-06:00

Now that Slumdog Millionaire seems all set to replace Titanic as the least deserving winner of the Best Picture Oscar, America has lived up to its nickname of "Jesusland", by displaying an ability to forgive transgressions that the messiah himself would be proud of^[1].

Having lavished praise, awards, and money on a movie with atrocious acting, cringe-worthy dialogues, a plot that bends disbelief beyond its event horizon, characters with the depth of a chullu and a script more packed with cliches than the Virar fast during rush hour; white people have proved that colonial guilt makes better goggles than beer^[2].

Shortly after that, the first Bollywood movie to be released in the US by an American studio - Chandni Chowk To China - took Hollywood by storm. With borderline racist characters, brainless action, separated-Kumbh-mela twins and potatoes, it seems to be just the throwback to a more shameful time that Americans were craving. The movie is currently at number 13 on Rotten Tomatoes list of movies released in 2009, based on critical reception, with a healthy 46% positive rating.

Never one to let a trend pass by, Bollywood producers are lining up movies targeted at the most uncritical audience they have ever had^[3]. The first title to begin production is Yash Raj films' Akbari Lota^[4]. The plot details are hazy, but the title suggests that the movie will make references to India's medieval history (with the possibility of garish "period" costumes designed by Neeta Lulla), and will involve a macguffin that is commonplace in India, and is closely linked to human defecation; but completely unfamiliar to the paper-wiping world. The movie will star Amitabh Bacchan as an over-the-top Akbar, and Aamir Khan in a studiously underplayed role as a call-center worker with a hidden talent for riding elephants, and gentle bowel movements.

A sequel is already in the works, even before this surefire hit is completely. It is tentatively titled Jehangiri Anda: Son of Akbari Lota.

[1] - While it is certain that the great man would have forgiven the makers of the movie, his smile would have flickered a tad.

[2] - Its relative impact on unplanned pregnancies is yet to be measured, however.

[3] - Since India's literacy rate crossed 25%, that is.

[4] - With apologies to Annapurnanand Verma

Unforgivable curses

2009-01-25T00:58:00.002-06:00

I watched the delightful little The President is coming yesterday. I would strongly recommend it, unless you're the kind of person who doesn't laugh at politically incorrect jokes, in which case stop reading my blog.

But what I did notice, much to my surprise, was the frequency with which the word "fuck" was uttered. Also, "bitch", "bastard", "asshole", and the relatively mild "shit". Given that this was an Indian movie, I would have expected the censors to have a collective haemmorhage over the assault on fragile Indian sensibilities and the besmirching of culture. Instead the curses continued in a steady flow, and the total number of utterances would have put an R-rated Hollywood production in the shade. I offer my congratulations to the censor board from proving me wrong.

Interestingly, only one word was bleeped out in the entire movie. That word was... "Brahmin".

There's a piece in there somewhere, I just don't know what it is.

The revenge of maus

2008-12-20T15:30:00.001-06:00

Mice may be responsible for a blaze that killed nearly 100 cats at an animal shelter near the Canadian city of Toronto, officials say.

The fire at the humane society shelter in Oshawa also killed three dogs and some rats that were up for adoption.

In a daring attack, a group of mice chewed through electrical wiring that started the blaze, which quickly spread throughout the building, before rescue teams were able to respond. The mice themselves perished in the blaze, suggesting that this was a suicide attack.

Mouse leaders said that they would not allow the slain attackers to be buried at the pet cemetery. "They have violated the mouse code," said one. "By killing innocents, they have given up the right to be called mice."

Some people have claimed that the killers were not, in fact, mice, but rats. A leading news channel published audio clips of a phone interview, where the killers claimed to be rats. This was scoffed at by noted rat figures. "Its obvious that they are not rats," said a leading author and rat. "Their accent was all wrong. Everyone knows that rats use a low squeak, which is almost a grunt, while mice have a typical high-pitched squeak. They are just looking to make trouble between cats and rats."

Though the majority of the victims were cats, three dogs and some rats were also among the dead. The fact that the shelter is a preferred location for visiting dogs suggests that this was no coincidence. This would be the first time that dogs have been specifically targeted. Dog leaders were quick to condemn the act as "despicable and cowardly". However, a noted anti-terror dog, who preferred to remain anonymous, was harshly critical of the rescue operation. "We dogs have experience at this sort of thing. We offered our help, but the cats refused. I am convinced that we could have saved a few lives."

While most commentators have condemned the attack, some have raised a note of caution. One columnists pointed out that mice had suffered for years at the hands of cats. Even today, the average mouse is malnourished and unloved, while cats have prospered. In spite of this, cats see mice as outsiders, and are quick to label them traitors. As many as 200 mice died in the anti-mouse pogroms of 2002, but the perpetrators were never brought to justice. As a result, young mice, many of whom are unemployed, harbour a deep resentment towards the cat community.

Another warned that unless the problems of mice were addressed, there would be many more such attacks.

2008-12-06T21:35:00.002-06:00

In light of the recent terrorist attacks on Mumbai, I decided to post something sombre and analytical about such weighty matters as foreign policy, Islamofascism, federalism and representative democracy. Shortly after, I changed my mind and decided to do some navel-gazing and talk about quizzing instead.

I was an avid quizzer right through primary and middle school, regularly making it to the inter-house teams, but, largely due to chronic shyness, I never stepped forward to try out for the school team until 1994, when I was in Class 8. After performing unexpectedly well at tryouts, the teacher in charge sent me to an inter-school quiz as part of the B-team. My teammates on the school B-team were Dhiraj and Mihir, both of whom were trying to make the A-team at the time. The A-team consisted of experienced quizzers Riddhi, Amit and Ryan.

We all qualified for the semi-finals, but for some reason were drawn in the same one. As we waited to be called on stage, I hung out with Dhiraj and Ryan, both of whom were a year junior to me, but were much more experienced. As we waited, Ryan sang verses of Meatloaf songs, complete with the verses that were excised from the version that appeared on MTV India. When the A-Team went on stage, they did so with the easy walk of champions. They knew everyone and even made conversation with the girls - something that I would be unable to do for another 5 years. At that time, I was merely afraid that everyone was looking at me, and yet hoping that they were.

The quizmaster - a man who would later become my first employer - took the stage, and the quiz began. To everyone's surprise, we shot into an early lead, as I answered the first 5 questions of the quiz. This was particularly surprising because no one knew who I was, and in the hallowed world of school quizzes - you have to have been around for a few years before you get to win quizzes on your own steam. At the time, though, I didn't care. I was on a roll, and it was awesome. I insisted on taking first crack at every question, even though Mihir was the senior member. He didn't mind much then, though.

At the midway point, we had a comfortable lead, with the A-team quite far down the list. During the break, they came over and congratulated us. We wished each other luck for the second half, and then took our seats again.

For the second half, the direction was reversed, and suddenly our questions dried up - almost all of them being snapped up by Antara and her team. Also, a fist-pumping rearguard action by the A-team propelled them to within biting distance of us.

Our last direct question was a visual clue. Answering it correctly would have meant that we were through. We saw a photograph of an Argentine footballer with long hair. Confidently I identified him as Claudio Caniggia. Mihir thought it was Gabriel Batistuta, but at that point I refused to accept that I could be wrong and blurted out what I thought was the answer. Of course, it was wrong. The next team picked it up - it was, in fact, Batistuta. A couple of questions later, the regular rounds were over, and we had a 3-way tie for first place between Antara's team, the A-team and us, and only 2 would qualify for the final.

You can guess what happened next. We flubbed the tie-breaker question, and experience won the day. I missed the opportunity to reach the final four (and maybe even win) the first quiz I represented the school at. At the time, it was quite devastating. So much so, that I turned down the offer of a lift and decided to walk home. I was quite sure no one would have noticed anyway, and truthfully I wasn't yet able to take such things in my stride.

That was probably the most story of my first quiz. It is certainly the most self-indulgent post on this blog. But there is more.

Though I wasn't there, the rest of the quizzers met the teachers in charge, and reported that the new guy was actually quite good. Dhiraj and I were drafted into the A-team for the Limca Quiz, which we won beating out Sagnik and friends, and thus began a new chapter in my life. Quizzing gave me the visibility that helped me overcome my diffidence, and right now, it is the one thing that I still miss from Calcutta.

Mihir never let me forget Caniggia. Even when I met him years later at IIT Kharagpur, where he was studying at the time. Over time, I lost touch with them all completely, one by one, with the exception of Antara, who is getting married in a few days. I bumped into Riddhi many times during my college days, but the I met Ryan only a couple of times after leaving school.

The last time I met him, he was getting ready to run an obscene distance around the school field. He had decided that his dream job was in the armed forces, and he was appearing for the entrance examination for the NDA later that year. His academic record was good enough, and we knew he was smart enough to breeze through the interview, but he was afraid his weak eyesight might be counted against him, so he was making sure that he came out on top in the physical trials.

I heard later that he did make it to the NDA. Then like all the others, his name became yet another in a long list of people I once knew. A name to be mentioned once a year, when meeting up for coffee with school friends. Perhaps someone would start a story with - "Hey did you hear what happened to...?". Usually, the person in question would have ended up in jail, or something similarly sinister. Our school has a history of producing some pretty unsavoury characters.

A few days ago, I did find out what happened to Ryan. I was directed to this report. After a harrowing siege, a few heroes were revealed. One of them was Captain Ryan Chakravorty, NSG commando. A man who lived his dream, and in the process, gave a nation a measure of succour.

When I saw this, my mind flashed back to a day, 14 years ago. On hindsight, I realise that the better man won that day.

2008-11-13T10:18:00.002-06:00

It was Kaveri Jha who started this. Who, you ask. As it turns out - it doesn't matter.

So, aforementioned lady is soon to be appearing^[1] in a Bollywood movie titled Kidnap^[2]. Having never heard of her, I decided to turn to Google for sight beyond sight, in the event that I had actually seen her before in something^[4]. Google informed that I had not, in fact, seen her in something^[5]. But that wasn't what grabbed my attention. It was the URL of one of the sites on which one of the photos was hosted. This site was titled (ahem) Kaveri Jha Thigh Show dot blogspot dot com (/ahem).

Now this piqued my interest. An entire site dedicated to displays of a single body part of a completely obscure^[6] Bollywood starlet. I was reminded of a site set up by a friend of mine in honour of Britney Spears' navel^[7]. This was probably something along those lines, I thought. A fan site created as a labour of love to the unattainable object of his admiration. My friend would painstakingly scour the net for photographs of Ms Spears, in which her navel was visible, and then he would crop these pictures into neat squares with sides of 40 pixels. These shots of her cute-as-a-button bellybutton were then arranged into a collage set against a simple blue background.

The creator of this particular site, I thought, must have approached his goal with a similar zeal. Given modern actresses' penchant for short dresses, it must have been easy to collect photographs of his lady's (apparently) exceptional thighs and arrange them in a pleasing manner. Perhaps something a little avant-garde, along the lines of the Body Parts Exhibit.

I also wondered - why Kaveri Jha in particular? Why not someone with more exalted anatomical sections? Might not Madhuri Dixit have been a more worthy subject? The problem of course was with the selection of the appropriate appendage. Even though Madhuri has a smile that could light up an auditorium, and, at the peak of her popularity, an abdomen that could double as an ironing board; one never particularly noticed her thighs. This is more due to the fact that movie outfits in the 1980's had hemlines lower than the Hindu rate of growth, rather than any failing on Ms Dixit's part. In fact, I believe that they are exceptionally shapely, and that we are much the poorer for having not got enough glimpses of them. But that was an age ago. Now micro-minis are ubiquitous on screen, and it would be criminal for a young fan to let slip such an amazing opportunity to create a temple to his unattainable idol's perfect hamstrings.

Now imagine my crushing disappointment when I arrived at the site. On a simple blogspot template, in a single column, are five photographs of a woman^[8], sitting with her legs crossed on a chair, at what appears to be a public function, while clad in a white short dress. While these photos clearly satisfy the raison d'etre of the blog^[9], they fail on a higher level. As an illustrative example, consider your dining table. If you were a bit literal-minded, you could have places a plank of wood on four cinder blocks and used it. Technically such an arrangement would satisfy the definition of a "dining table"^[10], but I'm sure you would all agree that to call it such would be a travesty. So it is with blogs. If your blog were titled "Hillary Clinton's pantsuits", then I would feel terribly disappointed if it contained one shot of her concession speech. Its the worst kind of "gotcha".

I can picture the creator of the blog right now - fat and greasy with a bad case of acne and an unkempt bears. He sits at his chair stuffing a burger into his mouth, spilling mustard onto his already stained shirt. After five minutes of chomping, he notices you standing there, tapping your foot in annoyance. His mouth full, he jerks his head in your direction, as if to ask "What?". Indignantly, you point to the blog and say "Five pictures from a single event. Thats just shoddy. And lets not even start about your grammar." He grimaces and lets out a belch before grumbling - "Its Kaveri Jha doing thigh show. What is problem?^[12]". With a sigh, you walk away realising that there is no hope for redemption here, all the while holding your breath to keep out the stench of sweat, hamburger grease and loneliness.

Its amazing where too much time and unlimited broadband can lead.

[1] - Or has already appeared - my internal chronometer isn't what it used to be.

[2] - Or is it Hijack - some criminally-themed movie involving an underclad belle du jour, I can't tell them apart anymore^[3].

[3] - Neither the movies nor the women, sadly.

[4] - Not that it mattered. I have already forgotten what her face looked like, if she had one at all.

[5] - In fact she is rarely, if ever, in anything that can reasonably be referred to as "something".

[6] - As far as I know.

[7] - This was in 1997, so don't judge him too harshly.

[8] - Presumably the aforementioned - I'll be damned if I could remember her face.

[9] - Yes, some part of her thighs are "shown" in all of the pictures. Go look, if you're into that kind of thing.

[10] - Its flat, raised and you can eat off it^[11]

[11] - Not unlike Madhuri's abdomen.

[12] - sic

2008-11-06T15:44:00.001-06:00

Dear America,

Its good to have you back.

Love,

The World

Palin for President

2008-10-01T01:02:00.002-05:00

We, the writers of this blog, declare with conviction, our support for candidate Palin in the race for the presidency of the United States of America. We base this conviction on the fact that said candidate has successfully attained certain characteristics that we, the writers, consider essential for anyone aspiring to hold the aforementioned post.

Specifically:

1) Rugged, outdoorsy type from the northern frontier?

Check

Bonus - likes to wear high heels.

2) Believes in the use of torture in the crusade against terror?

Check

Bonus - is completely unexpected.

3) Opposed to the senseless murder of unborn children?

Check

Bonus - surrounded by a legion of children marching in step.

4) Loves guns?

Check

Bonus - is the scourge of young couples.

Please support our campaign. With your support, we can fulfill our long-standing goal of having a British man in the White House.

I'm John Cleese, and I do not approve this message.

Thank God for England

2008-08-26T21:41:00.005-05:00

The world today seems absolutely crackers,
With nuclear bombs to blow us all sky high.
There's fools and idiots sitting on the trigger.
It's depressing and it's senseless, and that's why...
I like Chinese.
I like Chinese.
They only come up to your knees,
Yet they're always friendly, and they're ready to please.

I like Chinese.
I like Chinese.
There's nine hundred million of them in the world today.
You'd better learn to like them; that's what I say.

I like Chinese.
I like Chinese.
They come from a long way overseas,
But they're cute and they're cuddly, and they're ready to please.

I like Chinese food.
The waiters never are rude.
Think of the many things they've done to impress.
There's Maoism, Taoism, I Ching, and Chess.

So I like Chinese.
I like Chinese.
I like their tiny little trees,
Their Zen, their ping-pong, their yin, and yang-ese.

I like Chinese thought,
The wisdom that Confucious taught.
If Darwin is anything to shout about,
The Chinese will survive us all without any doubt.

So, I like Chinese.
I like Chinese.
They only come up to your knees,
Yet they're wise and they're witty, and they're ready to please.

All together.

And now for something completely different...

Thank God for England.

What is your Smile number?

2008-08-10T20:23:00.001-05:00

Govinda! Why would any sensible person even watch his movies, let alone relax to them? If you asked this question, then let me ask you something in return. Could Marlon Brando/Lawrence Olivier/John Gielgud walk into a hospital in a blue dress, blonde wig and white stockings; introduce himself as “Bruce Lee ki behan, Choos Lee”, and then beat up 10 bad guys using a stretcher? If you fail to see the point of the above exercise, then I suggest you donate your eyes to science, since they're not much use to you anyway.

I could go on and tell you how entertaining Govinda's movies are, but that isn't the point of this article. The key question is – why is the man such an amazing stress-buster?

The most obvious reason is, of course, that he's side-splittingly hilarious. The health benefits of laughter are well-documented, so I shan't dwell on that. Instead, I shall address the question – Why him? Of all the incredibly talented comic artists the world over, why this particular red-sock wearing maverick? When you settle on your comfortable couch and reach for the remote, what makes you stop at Coolie No. 1, instead of the 7,000th rerun of F.R.I.E.N.D.S., or even the DVD of Yes, Minister that you picked up from the British Council on your way home (you insufferable snob)?

The answer is this – Govinda represents humour stripped down to its fundamentals. This is humour that exists in a realm outside of context, knowledge and culture. When Joey fixes a pretty blonde with a knowing gaze and mutter “How yoo dooin'?”, its not really funny unless you have watched the previous season, and realise the contextual implications of that statement. In Deewana Mastana, when Juhi calls Govinda on the phone and tells him that she would like to meet, his pajamas drop, revealing his striped chaddis, while the rest of him carries on as if nothing happened. If you were a Brazilian, watching a version of the movie dubbed in French, you would laugh. Hell, if you were Noam Chomsky, and had just switched channels a second before this scene you would still have laughed (unless there were people around, perhaps).

Legend has it that Homo Sapiens discovered the idea of comedy somewhere around 10,000,000 BC. I firmly believe that it involved a chap distracted by a comely cave-maiden, whose sabre-tooth tiger-skin loincloth chose to fall off at precisely that moment. That individual had awakened a stimulus that has since ensured the survival of the human race – had it not been for our ability to laugh, a million years of war, famine, death and pestilence would have led us to leap lemming-like from the nearest cliff. This is what Govinda taps into with unerring regularity. His brand of comedy traces a path directly from the senses to the humour-centre of the brain, while bypassing the higher functions, which are no more the collected concrete detritus of too much civilisation. There is no other part of the brain that needs to be taxed in order to enjoy this outrageous silliness. No references to remember, no wordplay, no hunting through Wikipedia to answer the question – What was so funny about that?

The caveman's idea of comedy was two guys hitting each other over the head with a leg of antelope until one of them passed out and Govinda has taken the metaphor to heart like no one else. At the end of the day, what better way to relax than to lie back and let the master tickle your brain directly through the eyes, until you dissolve into a gentle stream bubbling with giggles.

Movie Checklist:

Saajan Chale Sasuraal (1996) – Through a completely unbelievable sequence of events, Govinda ends up married to both Karishma and Tabu. Hijinks ensue.
Deewana Mastana (1997) – Govinda pretends to be retarded in an attempt to woo Juhi, with stiff competition from conman Anil Kapoor.
Gambler (1997) – If only for the songs Meri Marzi and Stop That!
Bade Miyan Chhote Miyan (1998) – Govinda completely overshadows Amitabh in this story of double-double roles. Chhote miyaan subhaan allah!
Aamdani Atthanni Kharcha Rupaiya (2001) – Govinda is the only good part of this Duryodhana-award-winning turkey, where he puts accusations of misogyny to rest.
Partner (2007) – Because he's still got it, baby!

2008-08-09T02:05:00.001-05:00

Likelihood of you being FEMALE is 91%
Likelihood of you being MALE is 9%

Site	Male-Female Ratio
google.com	0.98
yahoo.com	0.9
youtube.com	1
craigslist.org	1.13
facebook.com	0.83
blogger.com	1.06
flickr.com	1.15
weather.com	1.08
nytimes.com	1.13
usps.com	0.9
ticketmaster.com	0.79
homedepot.com	0.94
fandango.com	0.82
washingtonpost.com	1.15
fedex.com	1.06
allrecipes.com	0.57
victoriassecret.com	0.68
snopes.com	0.74
livejournal.com	0.68
usbank.com	0.85
bbc.co.uk	1.44
slate.com	1.11
aa.com	0.83
collegehumor.com	1.53
rottentomatoes.com	1.17
hotmail.com	0.83
greyhound.com	0.72
ingdirect.com	0.94
excite.com	1.13
petco.com	0.57
metromix.com	0.74
gmail.com	0.9
jibjab.com	0.98
newyorker.com	1.22
rediff.com	1.74
gm.com	1.3
opentable.com	0.71
kongregate.com	1.41
freerice.com	0.61
orkut.com	1.08
northwestern.edu	0.9
restaurant.com	0.71

2008-08-02T22:06:00.002-05:00

And now for some scripture

2008-06-11T09:34:00.003-05:00

From the Book of Obamaticus, 3: 16. The responsorial will be "Yes we can":

And the Lord OBAMA did smite the two-headed serpent Billary, and she did shed her delegates, and it was Good.

Yes we can!

And then did the mentally deficient rise up and say unto the masses,"Yea, though he be horrid, let us shift our vote to McCain, for our Hillary has been smote."

Yes we can!

Book of Mason-Dixon, 13: 15.

But OBAMA did so love the world that he sent before him a white man, called "running mate", of the South or Middle-West, of middle age, to clear the way and let the masses Know how He should be recognized. And they Saw the Truth, and yea, they knew Truth."

And the "running mate," his Hair was Good.

Yes we can!^[1]

And for more on the Messiah.

On a related note, the First United Church of Obama's Eyebrow held its first mass this weekend in Chicago, where believers gazed at the sacred relic, held in a temperature-controlled cubicle with pyrex walls. Some claimed to have experienced a feeling not unlike the rapture.^[2] Among the congregation was R&B sensation Beyonce, who recently topped the Billboard charts with her Urban Gospel number Barack Obama, I love yo' mama.^[3]

[1] Seen here.

[2] Snicker away, heathen - the day is upon us.

[3] This is not a title I made up. I heard the very same song performed by these fantastic people, who - in spite of their support for Sen. Obama - have made mocking his cult status a running gag on their shows.

Shock and awe

2008-05-16T12:40:00.003-05:00

Well, not so much of a shock. Amitabh Bacchan is a pompous, self-important bore with delusions of godhood. But we knew that already.

On the other hand - my love for Aamir Khan (in a heterosexual, back-slapping buddy kind of way^[i]) increases by the day. Naming your dog after the person you like the least, just so you can blog saying things like "Shahrukh stinks", is an old classic, but never goes out of style. Also his approval of all things Catan proves that he is a man of taste (Mamta Kulkarni notwithstanding).

I'm off to buy a goldfish. The person I meet today who is least nice to me gets the honour of having aforementioned creature named after him/her. I shall then proceed to milk the joke dry, until said person is forced to rip out their own Eustachian tubes to preserve sanity. So BE NICE TO ME - this is not a test.

[i] - Not that Aamir and I are buddies or anything, but I'm not saying I would mind being.

No laughing matter

2008-05-14T13:06:00.002-05:00

Shortly after the Kolkata Knight Riders' (wince!) website was launched, I looked through it (no time-wasting opportunity goes unexplored), and found a section titled "Humour", that was - much to my surprise - actually funny. And no, it wasn't Bollywood funny - which was even more surprising, given the Chief Performing Monkey who owns that bunch of clowns. This was intelligent humour. Whoever made these, picked their targets well, and played up their foibles just enough to be chuckle-inducing without being mean-spirited.

Now, imagine my surprise when I found, two days later, that the funnier ones had been removed. Luckily, I discovered that the jokes had not been taken down - you just couldn't reach them from the main site. However, I had sent the URL's to a friend earlier, so digging them up was a simple matter. So, in case you missed them, here they are:

I can never stop chuckling when I read these. In particular, the shot of Laxman saying "What am I doing here?", is hilarious.

Now here are the links to those jokes that remained on the site:

http://www.kolkataknightriders.com/ads.php?id=331&adsid=1
http://www.kolkataknightriders.com/magcover.php?id=311&magid=1
http://www.kolkataknightriders.com/magcover.php?id=321&magid=2
http://www.kolkataknightriders.com/newsarticle.php?id=361&newsid=3
http://www.kolkataknightriders.com/newsarticle.php?id=351&newsid=2
http://www.kolkataknightriders.com/newsarticle.php?id=341&newsid=1

Just looking at the two sets of jokes, it is quite obvious why some had to be removed. Each of those that was removed pokes fun at someone directly, while the ones that remain make fun of concepts such as sledging and match-fixing.
I can imagine what must have happened - Shahrukh Khan, who, it must be said, actually has a sense of humour, must have okayed all of them, and then someone decided to take offense and sent a rude message. Perhaps the Yuvraj Sena or some other gang of perennially unemployed Indians threatened to set fire to theatres showing Bhootnath. Whatever the reason, they went.
At the end of the day, humour is always the first casualty of war - whether it is the war on terror, or KARMA YUDH.

Requiem

2006-10-30T19:30:00.000-06:00

It is with immense sadness that I am here to make an announcement.

I am shutting down my blog.

Pause for dramatic effect. Gasp of horror from the audience.

Nope, its not a joke. I realise that I don't have enough time to write on all my blogs, so I'm downsizing.

And yes, the sharper knives in the drawer would have spotted the glimmer of light here - not all the blogs are to be shut down, only one.

Nope, not this one. I admit I haven't been updating it for ages, but thats an entirely temporary phenomenon. I should be back to blogging here starting December.

And no, its not the comics blog either - that one is very dear to my heart, and no matter how much you insist on avoiding it, I will NEVER, NEVER shut it down. It will be reformatted sometime soon, once I find time, but remain it shall.

As for Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, a whole bunch of bloggers with keen eyes, ears, and a sense of humour; have joined, so my leaving or not is immaterial (I'm not anyway, so thats not it).

No, the blog that is shutting down is this one.

Huh?

No, thats not a mistake. The blog I pointed to has, in fact, been written by me since its inception - something that will not continue.

No, I didn't ghost write for Vishnupriya. The truth is slightly more mundane.

There is no Vishnupriya Roychoudhury. There never has been.

So, not only is this an elegy, it is also something of a confessional.

Vishnupriya Roychoudhury is entirely a figment of a very colourful imagination. She was brought to electronic life by a slightly diseased mind with a tiny bit of a god complex.

Mine.

She was created as a prank. In order to make the prank work better, she was fleshed out. She had a personality, a history, friends and a family. She had interests and opinions. Most importantly, she had three things:
a) an email id
b) an Orkut account
c) a blog

By the time, I was through, she was absolutely bullet-proof. As far as many people were concerned, she truly existed.

The prank ran its course. All of a sudden, she had no purpose. She should have died there and then. But I had grown attached to her, like an artist to his creation. I chose to let her live.

For two more years, she continued to blog. She expressed her opinions, got into fights, made friends with other bloggers and was even attacked by the anti-femblogger brigade.

Now finally, her time is up.

To those who know both me and her, you will probably be extremely annoyed. Angered even. To them, I express my apologies. It was not my intention to deceive. At that point, she had acquired a life of her own. I couldn't bring myself to kill her off.

To those who read her blog and enjoyed it, I thank you on her behalf. Her opinions were entirely her own and I may or may not subscribe to some or all of them.

To those who have known all along, thank you. A special nod to the only one who figured out, and continued to stay mum - well mostly.

I did learn a few things from this exercise - the virtual world treats men and women very differently. Perhaps I am now a little more sensitive to the unique problems that women have to face, than I was before. Perhaps at some point I will write a series of posts on my experiences as a female blogger.

That is pretty much all.

Rest in peace, Vishnupriya Roychoudhury (2003-2006). You will be missed.

Silly

2006-09-07T20:07:00.000-05:00

The GreatBong himself has demanded that I post a silly pic. And as the old jungle saying goes - "Demand of Greatbong can freeze leopard's pee". Hence...

Grandmaster G-9?

2006-08-27T06:00:00.000-05:00

Many moons ago, a young boy was looking to step into the portals of gamesmasterhood. The year was 1991, the boy was 12. He had recently learnt the rudiments of that king of all games - chess. At that point, being blessed with the two necessary requirements for indulging in such misadventures - youthful enthusiasm and a doting grandfather - he proceeded to sign up for the Telegraph Open Chess Championships.

Now, you must keep in mind that this was before the days when a child's success in the mohalla depended on the number of appearances on Boogie Woogie Junior. In those more cerebral times, children did more meaningful things like writing essays and playing brain games. All the supposedly smart kids in school turned up with a guardian in tow, at the Gorky Sadan that day. The number of contenders was well over a hundred, and all participants were below 18 years of age. Geeky kids in horn-rimmed spectacles read from "1001 ways to win using Nizmo-Indian Defence", as they stood in line to register. As for me, I signed up without fanfare, and waited to be called, feeling quite out of place.

Well, the tournament began. The rules were as follows - everyone would play three matches in the first round against randomly selected opponents. Then at the end of the first round, anyone with less than two victories (or a victory and two draws) would be eliminated. After that, the serious stuff would begin.

My first opponent turned out to be a little girl no older than myself. A trifle quiet, but given the way her father was fawning over her, she seemed to be one of them prodigies. My dear grandfather (rest his soul) was a doter, as I have mentioned, but he had the good sense to sit in the reception area of the Gorky Sadan while the matches were on. This gentleman was not cut from the same cloth, clearly. Little Miss Prodigy sat down, and he whispered furious instructions into her ear. I was quite disconcerted at the way he would occasionally point at me during his pep talk. Heaven knows what he was saying. Maybe it was - "You can beat this punk!" or "Remember that thing we discussed about feminine wiles?". Well, probably not (she was maybe 11, for heaven's sakes), but who knows what goes through the heads of parents of possible prodigies (look up Tathagata Tulsi, if you get a chance).
Right, so back to the match. We tossed and the girl won. "Take White", the father hissed. She meekly complied. We sat down and the the signal was given for everyone to play the first move. Just as she was about to, along came an official and sized up aforementioned doting parent. "Why are you here?" he asked, which seemed to me to be a perfectly reasonable question. "__ is playing", replied daddy, mentioning daughter by name. "Well, __ can play on her own. You have to leave", and the big official man proved that some girls' daddies are not strongest. Screaming protestations, daddy was propelled out. Official entered a while later, gave us Very Stern looks and deciding that there were no more annoying parents hidden under the table, signalled for us to play on.
Game on it was. Little Prodigy moved a pawn and struck the knob of the clock placed on the table. This greatly disturbed me. In all this I had failed to notice the device. It seemed to be a clock of some sort, and my opponent seemed all too familiar with its functionings. Then I saw her scribble down her move on a piece of paper. This got me back in my element - chess notation, huh? Two can play that game, bitch! Here's my pawn at yours. And I can punch knobs too, see. And ha! I too shall note down my move using the ALGEBRAIC method, and not your sissy descriptive ones. Your move!
2 minutes and 4 moves later, it was over. The prodigy was down. My queen sat, a mere square away from her king, backed up by a bishop. It was checkmate in the cruelest way. I think I was grinning. She didn't move a muscle. Just stared at the board with the same blank expression. After a minute of this, I was feeling distinctly uncomfortable.
Once again, the official turned my saviour. He walked over and noted that the game was over. As he was jotting it down on a clipboard, up walked the previously mentioned parent. "I forgot, I had to give __ something", he said. "__ has lost", said the Main Man, with his back turned to him. I spotted a smile playing on his lips as he jotted away. Clearly he felt strongly about such parents and what needed to be done to them and their progeny. "WHAT!" bellowed the angry father, and at that moment I actually felt sorry. I was too young then, but I would probably have thought of Jim Pierce, had he been famous enough. The official motioned for us to get up and shake hands. I extended mine, and shook hers limply, all the while she stared blankly. Then she got up and her father marched her out, his humiliation stamped all over him. If that girl reads this blog, I apologise for causing whatever it was she faced that evening.

So, being quite pleased with myself, I went up to the grandfather and announced my triumph. He was extremely chuffed, and that evening was spent calling everyone I knew. "Five moves!", "future champion" and other laudatory phrases were trotted out. I could already see Vishwanath Anand's toothy grin staring at me in the distance.
The next day, I was back again. This time my opponent was a boy, even younger than the girl on the previous day. This chap had no parent in tow, but had the same blank stare. The procedure was as before. We tossed. I won and picked white. We shook hands and sat down. The first move was mine, and I grandly struck the clock when it was done. The kid did the same, but after a couple of moves he stopped bothering. Clearly not a stickler for the rules, this one. Five moves passed and the boy was still in the game. This one needed a little more strategy, it seemed.
Soon, it became apparent to me that things were not going as they should be. The kid with the buck teeth was clearly not going down, with a fight or without. Every move I made was frustrated. Every plan I had was shot down the moment I moved the first piece. My major pieces were picked off one by one, until my forces looked like the human army facing the orcs at Helm's Deep.
But this wasn't what bothered me. It was the way the boy was going about it. He had established beyond a shadow of doubt that he was the better player. He could have checkmated me many times over. He was CHOOSING not to. He was dragging out my humiliation before finally plunging the sword. I made moves that were totally random. Didn't faze him. Nothing did, it seemed. He countered with equally silly moves, as if saying to me that he could beat me no matter how I played. Finally after 30 moves on either side, he forced my king into a corner and applied the death stroke. The game could have ended 15 moves earlier, but that would have not been a great enough victory. I left, smarting.

Why this long and pointless reminiscence? Well, a couple of days later, I learnt the little boy's name. A couple of days ago, on the 18th of August 2006, the little bugger went and won himself an Arjuna Award.

And that, loyal readers, is the closest I have ever come to sporting greatness. You think that's funny? Well, how many of you have played an Arjuna Awardee in a competitive sporting match, huh, huh?

Oh, and as for the final match, it was against a pleasant 17-year old from Dhaka, who also came into the match with one victory and one loss. I turned down an offer for a draw, about twenty moved in, and finally went down in a hard-fought endgame, when he slipped a rook into my back row, which I had stupidly left undefended. Two losses meant I was eliminated, and I never participated in that tournament again. I'm told its much more competitive these days.

Making babies, not war

2006-07-10T13:28:00.000-05:00

Meanwhile, on the blogsphere...

Annie Zaidi said -

...and since they make life, they are stronger and smarter than the other half. And they wouldn't have fought wars, since thats not what life-makers do.

And there was much rejoicing...

Dilip D'souza was among those who were impressed.

Fine, fine! He declared.

And all was happy in the world.

But not quite (dun! dun! dun!)

The Great Bong didn't like what was going on. No sir!
...said he to Supergirl.

And then turned his attention to Dilip.

And there was much rejoicing.

"Man, I'm good", thought Greatbong, and since he was on a roll, he went and beat up on Superman.
And Krrish too...

OK, OK! I'll stop now.

But, seriously, the question of women in the army is one that needs to be looked at more closely. So I shall turn to the opinion of Brian K. Vaughan, who knows all about women, the army and mutant superheroes too. So we asked Brian the following questions.

Q: Well, Brian, since women are not known for starting wars, raping, pillaging, looting, and doing all those other nasty things that people trapped in men's bodies to, don't you think that we could just stop wars by doing away with all the men?

BKV:

Q: What! But all wars in the past have been fought by men over land, women and other shit. Isn't it all about boys and their pissing contests?

BKV:

Q: But why would women want to take anything by force? They're not biologically created that way?

BKV:
Q: Umm, well that may be true, but in the past women have never shown any desire to start wars. And since women have been the biggest losers in war, wouldn't you think they would do their best to maintain peace?

BKV:Q: Well, I suppose it makes sense that women would wage war. After all, they're stronger, can take more pain and are more courageous than men. In fact, don't you think they're more suited to being in the army than men are?

BKV:Q: Oh, come on. Who needs physical strength in the army these days? How much strength or skill does it take to fire a missile? And anyway, women are better at handling ferris wheels and other similarly complex machines.

BKV:Q: Are you saying that women are weaker than men? That they don't have the balls for a fight? Is that what you're saying, Mr. MCP?

BKV:
Q: But all these women had to beat the system in order to rise to the top. Ultimately, they were robbed of their identity as women by the oppressive patriarchal system.

BKV:
Q: Church? Where did that come from?

BKV: Sorry, I meant 'world'

Q: Aha, so you CAN write. You were just showing off with those pictures, you typical egotistical man!

BKV:
Yeah, I know I was being flippant over a serious issue. If I feel like it, I might even do a more serious analysis of the women-in-army thing. For now, just humour me.

PS: All later scans from Y: The Last Man, by Brian K. Vaughan for Vertigo.

Getting her wet

2006-04-08T13:42:00.000-05:00

One had the incredible misfortune of catching a section of the ridiculously unimaginative Chocolate (with an 'e', as opposed Chocolat, which is quite the opposite). There is very little to say about the movie, that has not already been said by Arnab, so one shall say very little. But the sequence did catch my attention for one reason. To wit - it involved Tanushree Datta in a little pink dress touching herself provocatively while getting thoroughly drenched.

Oho, our man likes his women wet, eh? Well, that may or may not be the case, but its entirely besides the point. The point in this case being, that I felt compelled to add this sequence to my list of best Water On Women scenes in Hindi cinema.

Why, you may well ask, is it at all necessary to come up with such a list. What exactly is so remarkable about getting movie heroines in touch with the elements (or one element specifically)? And more importantly, what does one have to do to be on such a list?

Good questions all. To answer them, we shall participate in a quintessentially Bollywood flashback.

It all started when Raj Kapoor was sitting at the lunch table one day. His secretary entered and informed him that the censors had shot down his proposal for a moving, yet socially relevant and meaningful movie, on the grounds that the corner of an uncovered breast had peeped out in one sequence. Try as he might, he kept coming up against the censors' immutable law "No cloth on breast, you fail the test". Enraged after yet another unproductive meeting, he slammed his fist on the table, and ended up spilling a jug of water on his little son's 16-year old babysitter. In the split second after that, Raj had received three epiphanies at once. They were.

A) The veneer between innocence and obscenity is as flimsy as a sheet of cotton cloth, and may even be torn asunder by water, that most gentle of elements.
B) Screw the censors. Now I know how to get around that stupid law!
C) Whoa! 16-year old titties!

A study of his work will serve to demonstrate exactly how significantly he was affected by this moment.

So ingrained has the Wet Scene become in Bollywood, that it continues to be de rigueur in all movies, even in an age when actresses are more than willing to skip the subtleties and get right down to the skin of it. In fact, now it remains more as a pleasant throwback to a more innocent era, than anything else.

Getting back to where we started, how does one pick the most memorable such sequences. What criteria can we use to differentiate between them? Well, I rate them on the surprise factor, and imaginativeness in the setup.

Let me explain what I mean by surprise. The truth is that a Wet Scene is a tease, rather than a blatant overload of eroticism, so it kind of kills it if you know exactly what's going to happen. Unfortunately, the setup for such a scene is quite standard. Hero and heroine are outdoors and caught in a sudden downpour. Cue song. Sometimes, it will be a rendezvous planned in a desolate spot. At other times, one of the protagonists will be lured there by a spot of trickery. Vehicular breakdowns are also common excuses to get them out in the open, just in time for the heavens to open. If you see any of these situations, you know exactly what the weatherman predicted. Another giveaway clue is when the heroine changes into a sari in the previous scene, even though she may have been trotting around in salwar-kameez right up to that point. The easiest way around this is to build a dream sequence, but that's just lazy thinking.

In order to introduce an element of surprise, the director needs to construct elaborate Rube Goldbergs. Getting the heroine to land up under a shower that miraculously turns on at the last minute, for example.

This is in fact related to imaginativeness. Rain is very, very cliched. There are variations involving waterfalls, swimming pools, and other water bodies, but again, they are accompanied by very standard dance steps, and are just carbon copies of one another. Interesting props like strategically placed tubs, or buffaloes, for example, can add a great deal to such scenes.

On these grounds, picking the all-time best scene involving Wet Women was quite daunting. Chocolate did have a lot going for it - it involved a water pipe exploding after a shooting spree by an enraged Emraan Hashmi, and a motorcycle. It was also set in London in December, giving it high points on the surprise factor.

But ultimately, it couldn't beat that all-time classic, Qayamat: City Under Threat, in which Riya Sen ends up in a flooded tunnel after falling through a hole created when the floor of a historic stone prison fell through after a metal pole under it was struck by a coal scuttle on rails, in which Ajay Devgan and Ashish Chowdhry attempt to run from the villains. Oh, and she also loses her shirt in mid-fall.

Whew - methinks that will take some beating.

Before I finish, I will point out that its not just Bollywood that engages in such contrivances. Hollywood film-makers may not have to deal with morality guardians protecting little children from the detrimental effects of naked nipples, and so charades involving diaphanous white cloth and aqua pura are quite uncalled for. But nobody can resist an overly contrived plot point, especially if it results in women showing more skin, even if its completely against the grain of the story.

Using exactly the same criteria as above, I think the movie with the all time best Getting-the-Heroine-to-Strip-down-to-her-Underwear Hollywood Scene is undoubtedly Deep Blue Sea, in which Saffron Burrows is forced to strip out of her wetsuit because of a subplot involving naked electric wires, super-smart sharks and a floating journal in an undersea laboratory. Do you really need to know the details?

PS - This post is very wannabe-great Bong, and I apologise for the plagiarism. However, if you must copy, its usually better to copy the best, though not always.

Also - Please read this blog.

Gym Dandy

2006-03-21T03:50:00.000-06:00

"I've never seen the inside of a gym in my life", said the blogger whose fabulous figure belied her words, as she picked delicately at her gelato.

"Gym! HAHAHA! YOU! In the GYM!! What are you going to DO there?", guffawed the blogger whose fantastic physique proved he really didn't know.

"Sorry, I have to go to the gym", I said.
"Pfft! Rubbish! What is this obsession with the gym anyway?", asked the old buddy.

An interesting time. An old and very dear friend tied the knot. We all attended. How could we not? After all, he was the first of us to take this step. Twenty-one bachelors turned up in spiffy suits, and had their photograph taken alongside one married man and his wife.

A special dinner, for close friends only. Plenty of alcohol.

"Do you know how they met?", asked the man who did, pointing at the happy couple.
"No, but do tell", said another.
"At the local gym", he revealed with the air of a conjurer pulling one out of his hat.

They told their own story then. How he noticed her at the treadmill, and decided to bench a few big ones. How she was puzzled when she saw the chap in the ill-fitting T-shirt grunting on the bench. How mutual interest turned to friendship, then to love and finally, to marriage.

"Is that why you keep going to the gym?", asked the knowledgable man. Most inappropriately, everyone at the table decided to momentarily ignore the newlyweds.

Back in Chicago, the Red Eye headline screamed "PHYSICAL ATTRACTION: How young Chicagoans head to the gym to try and meet that special someone". A stack of free issues placed at the door to the Northwestern Gym.

Inside, it revealed that 35% of men and 26% of women who frequent the gym, do so with the aim of catching someone's eye, with the long-term goal of taking the workout elsewhere.

"Yeah, for most girls in my class, its the gym and then the local bars", said the American undergrad. "But personally, I prefer church - guys who go to church tend to stick around longer."

The present.

"In my time", said the father, still macho at 60 with a glass of vodka and lime resting casually in his hand, "if you were sufficiently intelligent, you didn't need to workout in order to impress girls. The only people who went to gyms were the stupid ones who needed to have good bodies if they wanted to be in the race."

"Never stopped the same intelligent men from demanding that their wives always look good", said the mother, one-time model for a major coffee brand.

As always, the discussion ended there.

A copy of Health magazine, looking most incongruous in my hand as I sit at the computer in the faculty room at the institute. I am reading at an article on an experiment performed at UCLA regarding people's political preferences. I'm hoping there's a paper there. My gym bag lies next to my chair.

The cover screams "Flat abs fast." Inside, right next to the article I am reading is a write-up on how to look your best while working out. Avoid fitted tees, they say.

My colleagues - all past 35 - have the look which says - "These young people and their obsession with their bodies."

"I don't think going to the gym is having any effect. You still don't have any muscles", says a very considerate friend. "You should try yoga or Art of Living instead".

"How will you build muscle unless you consume protein? If you want gymming to have an effect, you have to quit being vegetarian", advises another.

"YOU don't need to go to the gym", says the pleasantly plump aunty. "Its us fatties who need to go. I wish I could be thin like you. I must resume my morning walks", she says to no one in particular.

"If you go to the gym, you'll lose whatever little ass you have left", says the less pleasant and less plump young chap. "And anyway, how do you manage to go in such hot weather?"

"I usually spend half an hour in the pool after that".

"Aha! I knew it. You only go to check out the babes in leotards and swimsuits. All this gymming is just a big excuse."

Flashback to a time many years ago, when my brother and I would go swimming together.

"Hey check out that girl. WOW! She is so incredibly hot!"
"Where? Where?"
"Over there at the other end. Oh, and did you see the one who just walked into the changing rooms?"
"Arrrggghhh!"

Nobody appreciates the problems of the heavily myopic.

Return to the present.

I walk into the gym in the evening. Its small and quite empty. A few people around. A very old lady is on the treadmill. Her outfit clearly used to be a salwar kameez once. She is clearly not a regular reader of the Health magazine. Nor does she care.

I go through a routine in silence. People file in and file out. The young couple come in with their adorable little daughter who draws little pictures in her book, while her parents work out. Her mother changes from a sari to track pants, but keeps her large bindi intact. Her father occasionally makes approving noises at her when she shows him her drawings.

A young woman in a smart business suit comes in, changes, works out and leaves. A muscular young man in a cutoff T-shirt keeps pumping iron. Nobody notices anyone else. The only conversation is when someone politely asks someone else if they are done with the machine. Nobody at the gym reads the Red Eye either.

I used to go with a friend, until he moved to Bombay. With him around there was a little more conversation, but not much. Just a few words of approval back and forth.

The pool is invariably deserted. Not that it matters because I am usually getting late anyway, and wouldn't have stopped to talk to anyone. Half an hour and twenty laps later, I'm off.

Why do I go, then if not to lose weight, or build rippling muscles, or to pick up chicks, or to do any of the other very interesting things that people are supposed to do in gyms.

Because its the one thing that I can force myself to do by routine. Because it keeps my life in some sort of order. Because I feel better after it.

Because its good.

Watching the Watchmen

2006-03-09T05:52:00.000-06:00

I give you - the city of Kolkata. A city of palaces, some say. Of decay and decadence, say others. But all agree that within the boundaries of this megapolis, you will find a dizzying variety of men...

Men? Ahem! you do mean people, right? whatever became of political correctness and gender sensitivity?

Um, no. I mean MEN. You know. Those interesting little fellows with Y chromosomes, an unhealthy fascination for cricket and a primal urge to grab any passing... you know. Yup, them. They are people too (most of them, anyway), but since they're the ONLY kind of people one sees on the streets, it really doesn't make sense to generalise.

Well, thats not entirely true. Sometimes you do spot the occasional woman or too out on the streets (you know the other kind of people - the ones with two... you know... well back to what I was saying). So - women. You might just spot a couple if you look hard enough. And therein lies the problem. Looking hard enough, I mean. Back when I was younger, I too would keep an eye out for specimens of the elusive homo sapiens duomammalius. It didn't take me long enough to realise that Every Single Man around me was doing exactly the same. When a woman finally did appear, there were 71 eyes staring at them on average (man, those crosseyed guys have it good). The combined pressure of so many optic beams usually had the effect of driving the woman back to where she belonged. Where that was is debatable, but it certainly kept them off the streets.

These days, I don't bother looking out for passing women. Enough time spent in the US of A makes you blasé to feminine beauty. Also, I have found a more interesting pastime. I watch the men who watch the women. And to my eye, these men provide a fascinating snapshot of urban society.

The first thing to do here, is to decide on a location. Public transport is a good place to start. Then of course, the Metro scores over buses because there are always some women travelling on it. Otherwise the exercise is pretty futile.

Next, enter the compartment and position yourself so that there a good number of men between you and the women. Now you are a fly on the wall. Sit back and watch.

At every stop some women will clamber on the train. Each of them will be perfunctorily scanned as they enter. In most case, the images will be filed away somewhere. If the women are marginally attractive, then some mental photshopping will occur (this is accompanied by a slow up-and-down movement of the eyes, much like a scanner bulb at work), and stored away for later use. Also, the watchers will only scan images of younger women. As a result, the friendly granny gets away because the men are too busy checking out her middle-school-going granddaughter.

But the largest factor determining the number of stares is attire. A sudden sharp movement of heads indicates that a pair of jeans or a skirt has walked in. In these cases, attractiveness ceases to be relevant. The suggestion of body shape, or the flash of bare skin around the ankles is sufficient to classify this as a watchable object (wo). Since these bottoms are usually teamed with tops that show plenty of arm and even hint at the shape of the bosom, its a double bonus for the watchers. An interesting phenomenon occurs now. The gaze of all watchers standing behind the wo dips gently, while that of those in front rises slightly. since wo tend to travel in pairs or small groups, this effect is not always visible, thanks to multiple foci.

Again, there are differences within dress. Jeans wearing wo attract less attention than those in skirts that bare some leg. However, this does not hold true for school uniform skirts. A section of watchers, mainly middle-aged men, draw the line here. I postulate that this sight reminds them of their own school-going daughters, and causes unwanted feelings of guilt, so they turn to those who are clearly someone else's daughters.

Also, watchers will stare much more intently at the back of a jeans-clad wo, than at the front. This is because some of those who still harbour feelings of embarassment, are in fear of being caught watching. It also perhaps explains why Indian men have such a fascination for derriere rather than faces.

The back-but-not-front category includes a very interesting kind of watcher - the segregated-school boy. Young and still not entirely clear on the fact that wo do not mind being stared (and in fact relish it - why do they wear those outfits otherwise?), these shy lads use an interesting technique while watching. They shoot sudden, nervous glances at the face and upper body, and then quickly stare around, look at their feet, or just read the poster pasted across with intense concentration for a few seconds. Then this is repeated. If his eyes ever make contact with those of the wo, then his ears burn red, and he spends the rest of his journey staring at the ground, trying to burn holes in it, much in the same way as the other watchers are trying to burn holes in the clothes of those they are watching. These lads probably grow up to write long whiny emails and blog posts about why women don't like "nice guys" like them.

The most obvious type of watcher, is, of course, the local stud. He wears polyester ripoffs of last year's Tommy Hilfiger fall-winter collection. He travels in packs and leers as he watches, Occasionally a wo will notice him staring, get flustered and look away. At this point the watcher will cast glances at his friends - sort of a telepathic high-five. Yup, yet another out for the count.

Let us move above ground now. If you have had the honour, as I have, of accompanying attractive young women on the streets of Kolkata, you might observe a little more. The only thing to note is that your presence can often violate the sampling process. Some of the more interesting watchers will choose to hold back. Others will be less colourful than they intended to be. While these are regrettable, it doen't mean that there's nothing to note.

For example, as you walk down the left of the footpath, you can note an interesting phenomenon. As the men file by a woman, they turn their heads ever so slightly. If the woman is shorter than them, as most Indian women are, the head will be tilted marginally downward in an attempt to catch a glimpse of cleavage. This phenomenon is even more fascinating to observe on an escalator. The three-dimensional movement of the escalator interacts with the head movements of the watchers on it to produce an effect that is almost artistic in its beauty. As a basis for comparison, also see if you can observe an unaccompanied woman nearby. Again, there will be the tell-tale head movement, but this time the glances will be longer. Allow yourself to take in these subtleties.

Occasionally, I try and make eye contact with these men. When it is clear that I am accompanying the wo they have just given the once-over, the typical response is to look away. This is not very interesting. On the other hand, if you do the same when the woman is clearly not someone you are acquainted with, the responses are noteworthy. The most obvious candidates are the shy ones. A little smirk as you make eye contact, as if to say - I know what you were doing - will cause a striking effect. If you're lucky you might cause some serious and long-lasting psychological damage to the subject. On the other hand, trying it on the local stud has a different effect. Usually the subject will defiantly meet your gaze. After a while, he will give up, when he notices you smirking nonchalantly, and mutter to himself. A point to note - do not try this in Delhi - you are liable to be shot in the head and the perpetrators let off.

Speaking of Delhi - this pastime loses its charm if tried there. Almost all watchers are professionals and hence, not given to sissy emotions as embarassment. As a result, there's very little variety in the view. The only thing that might strike your attention in Delhi is that sometimes, the roles are reversed - a wo might turn a watcher. This is rare, but not unseen, unlike in Kolkata. One presumes that this is a direct fallout of the number of attractive men in Delhi being greater than zero. Alternatively, it could be that the wo of Delhi have been pushed to a point where it really couldn't get any worse.

So there you are. Inveterate sportsmen are encouraged to try this game out at the next available opportunity. It can be quite rewarding, I assure you - and the possibilities for variation are endless. All it requires are a sharp eye and a strong sense of the ironic.

Is the timing of my return post calculated? The answer is no. I have always stayed far away from all Big Blog Events, being far too much of an individualist to participate in any team. However, you never know where and how an idea germinates. Also, I should note that I had finished writing a different post before this one, which will now be published later.

Bloggers Block

2006-02-15T13:53:00.000-06:00

OK, this is just terrible. I have no idea what is happening, but I just can't seem to write proper posts anymore. Not that I haven't tried. I have a host of half-written posts on the following topics

Weddings
Delhi
Girl-watching in Calcutta
Wet Sari scenes in Hindi films
The Calcutta Club
Gyms
Why I hate my High School

Now I start writing with good ideas in mind, but somehow along the line, it just peters out. And then I sit and stare for ages before giving up. I come back and try to rewrite it, but its I can't. Is this what they call the infamous bloggers block?

Suggestions from older, wiser and smarter bloggers will be appreciated.

However, its not like I've been doing nothing. I have in fact been posting on all my other blogs -

1) There's a post on The Calcutta Blog about the lost graffiti of Presidency College.

2) I've updated the 55-word fiction Blog. The total number of stories now stands at 110. Hooray! Please read all the new stories that have been so marked.

3) The comics blog is up again. The reason for its downtime was the lack of source material for the accompanying scans. Now that I have access to such a resource again, its back. I've just put up a post on the Girlfriend in Refrigerator Syndrome in comics.

4) In case people haven't noticed, I have started a new blog - Whiskey Tango Foxtrot. It has been set up with the express purpose of recording all instances of WTF-ery that I encounter during my wanderings in the city (and some older ones too). I have been joined in this endeavour by the sparklingly observant Rimi.

5) I also forgot about Putu the Cat. Samit, if you read this, please take me off that blog. I don't write there at all anymore.

Oh, and if anyone is interested, http://deathball.net/notpron has a supremely addictive online game that will keep you occupied for hours.

But what does one do about this blog?

Gah! I need blog-therapy.

Del

2006-01-17T13:08:00.000-06:00

Dilli was visited. What larks were had.

Old friends were met and new developments in their lives were discussed.

Blogger buddies were met in real life, and friendships carried forward.

Long-lost cousins were discovered. Ah, the UHF that is blogdom.

Faces were put to names. One would have liked to spend more time with everyone, but there's only so much time.

And one was introduced to many bloggers, and their fascinating blogs, which have since been added to one's reading list.

Many, many non-bloggers were met too. After all - why should you assume that none of my friends have a life. Some of them were convinced to start blogging. One feels responsible for the drop in GDP over the next year.

There will be a post on Dilli soon enough (I should give fair warning to all the Dilliphiles reading this - its NOT going to be complimentary. Apologies to everyone who made my trip absolutely wonderful, but all of you combined cannot make me see that... place you guys live in a positive light).

But before that, a couple of posts on the main purpose of the trip - an engagement in the family. My rockstar cousin proceeded to get himself hitched. The coming together of cultures in a Bengali-Punjabi wedding can only mean that the Gamesmaster is going to do his Salim Ali thing. And how can one forget the whirligig of random relatives - in fact, this will take up two posts.

One will now get on to doing other, less important things.

The Mark

2005-12-01T05:20:00.000-06:00

Update: Stupid, stupid Ani! (Hits self on head). You asked everyone in Calcutta about this damned mark, except for the person who was sure to know. And, as expected, Mr. Souvik Dutta - resident expert on all matters Hindu - has given us the answer. And here it is.

This is a Shiva-Shakti mark. The three lines represent the 3 gunas - Satwick, Rajasik and Tamasik or could represent the 3 worlds. The circle represents the representation of the Motherly "teep" (bindi). How could you forget that Banga was a matrikendrik samaj?

How indeed? It seems the matriarchal conspiracy runs deeper than was previously thought. They put a damn sign on every single wall, that literally screams "Mummy's got her eye on you". Could they BE any more devious.

SHUDDER!

Perhaps a little more information is in order.

The above motif is everywhere in Calcutta. More precisely, every residential building that was built before independence has this motif, or a variant thereof, etched in relief on at least one part of an outer wall.

Here are some variants that I have noticed (there are many more, I am sure - but they don't come to mind).
I have asked my grandparents and others of their generation, but nobody has yet been able to tell me. Is it some kind of good-luck charm? Does it ward off the evil eye? Is it some obscure Vaastu Shaastra mark?

Two things strike me about this motif. One is that it seems to be a Bengali tradition. Its markedly absent from buildings in any other city I have visited or lived in, but I have seen it in some semi-rural areas of Bengal. Secondly, it is markedly absent from all recent constructions.

This would suggest that placing the mark on a building is some sort of Bengali tradition that we seem to be missing out on. If that is the case, then its yet another piece of history that we are losing through ignorance. Alternatively, it could be a passing fad whose time has passed.

Either way, I would be most grateful if someone could tell me - WHAT IS IT?

Shit

2005-11-28T11:31:00.000-06:00

My parents live in a very nice part of Calcutta. New Alipore is one of the posher areas - pretty houses and tree-lined lanes. If you enter some of the inner lanes anytime apart from the rush hours, you will find them quite peaceful and deserted - remarkable for Calcutta. The reasons are not far to seek, either. Rich kids don't play on the streets. They have large houses with spacious lawns. If the lawn is not big enough to lay out a cricket pitch, then there are always corridors, terraces, or - at a pinch - drawing rooms.

So come evening - when the weather is pleasant, and the setting sun tints everything in orange hues - and you would think that a brisk evening walk would be in order - clear the head, get some exercise and return in time for a bracing cup of tea.

If you thought that, you would be wrong.

There is a fly in this ointment.

Shit.

Yes - I mean shit. Faeces, excrement - take your pick. Shit by any other name smells just as bad.

The roads of New Alipore are caked in shit. Fresh, moist shit. Ancient, fossilised shit. Lumpy shit. Melted shit. Coagulated shit. Spattered shit. Neat little piles of shit. Buzzing-over-with-flies shit. Tyre-tread-patterned shit. Pristine white shit. Sienna shit. Ochre shit. You name it - we've got it.

Venture sometime, if you will, into the bowels of some of Calcutta's most wretched slums. There too, you will see shit layering the ground. But that is human shit. It is the shit of people who have never seen a water closet in their lives. People who really have no choice in the matter. It is very different from the shit in my part of town.

You see, we deal strictly in animal shit. Birds, dogs, cats and the occasional monkey. Ours is pedigreed shit. Imported foreign shit. There is Great Danish shit, Alsatian shit and Doberman shit. Shit spewed by animals worth their weight in gold. Their owners must believe that even the shit of these fine creatures is worth some sizable amount in foreign exchange. Even if it isn't, its no shit on their brogues. The task of sidestepping their animals undigested waste is left to menials who are hired for that task alone.

In the United States, it is a criminal offense to let your pet soil the sidewalks. Pet owners walk around with little trowels and bags, cleaning up after their animals.

It would seem that our shit, unlike theirs, smells of roses. At least it doesn't stink of poverty.

Paper Idea No. 1 - A Study in Excrement: On the Inverse relation between property prices and position on the food chain of roadside defecators.

Celebrity Deathmatch

2005-11-23T00:33:00.000-06:00

They knew that this was the big one. They were ready for it when it came.

They also knew, realistically, that they could not win this. But like true soldiers, they went into battle anyway. They would not go down without a fight, and that was what mattered.

They were primed for it. Plenty of sleep on the flight had refreshed them. Large quantities of vitamin C had fortified them, and there was not a trace of alcohol in the blood - nothing that would reduce their fighting efficiency.

They had fought the good fight before. Each time, they had been beaten into near-submission, but there had always been an escape route. The option of tactical retreat had always been open earlier. Not this time. This time, they would not be able to run away to home base and heal their wounds. This time it was the long haul.

It began the moment they stepped out of the Dum Dum Airport. No warning bells sounded. Just and attack of brutal violence. The message was clear. No quarter would be given. There would be no respite.

Skin was the first casualty. This was not really a surprise. He was, after all, the first line of defence. He had prepared for this one before everyone else. Economy-sized packs of Vaseline Moisturiser (with Aloe Vera), exfoliating face scrub and Clean and Clear astringent had fortified him. But not enough... not by far. He was beaten by a devious double play. The smoke battered him down, while the retreating monsoons destabilised his units from behind. The oily T-zone had always been a weak link, and it was exploited to the hilt. When the acne hit, he had no response.

Respiratory System held up longer than expected. He was, after all, the weak link in the team. Unfortunately, his position was crucial, and replacements were hard to come by. RS had never lasted beyond one day. Also, they felt that he had become soft. Clean fresh zephyrs from over the Lake had spoilt him. He wouldn't be able to deal with the Smog, they said. But he showed them. He fought on. Days past, and he was still holding up. It was tear-jerking. It was inspirational. When he finally fell, he fell hard. But he had not deserted his post for two weeks. The Smog had to tear his cold, dead alveoli from their position.

Digestive System was the fiercest fighter in this battle. He had an ace up his sleeve. They hadn't seen the switch to vegetarianism coming. In one stroke, he reduced their modes of attack by three-fourths. He also had an advantage over the others. He had the choice of picking his battles. But he was no Iron Clad. All it took was one badly chosen battle. He was down.

With the big guns out of action, the fringe players didn't last long. Hair had turned to straw before anyone had even noticed. A voltage mismatch took care of the face. The eyes were never in it anyway.

The fate of the ears and fingers was sadder. They were done in during off-time. They all thought the pool would help. That it would strengthen all the players. They neglected to consider its effects on the ear. The weak eyes conspired with the murky water to take out the fingers.

Three weeks. The brain was left alone. Battered and bruised, and very much alone. Remix videos assaulted it from all sides. But it was only when it found itself looking at the Brain Killer itself, also called the ToI, that it knew this fight was over.

It was all over bar the shouting.

Which never happened, since the throat was too far gone.

But there was no reason to despair. Three weeks. It was a new record.

Well done, brave soldiers.

Not Funny

2005-11-22T06:35:00.000-06:00

Some are born funny. People such as myself fall into that category. There's an aura of hilarity that clearly surrounds me. Walking into Gyan Manch to see everyone grinning in my general direction has made me absolutely certain of that. I am pleased, since it has always been my fervent wish to spread the twin causes of mirth and merriment.

Some attain funniness. They develop and maintain a unique sense of humour. Some are subtle and yet cutting. Others believe in broad slapstick. Still others are skilled in feghoots that make you groan and laugh at the same time. They all have a hand in making the world a better, lighter place.

Some people try and thrust their idea of funniness down the throats of disinterested strangers. Such people are pricks.

A word of advice to those who aim to amuse. The following are NOT funny.

1) Suggesting to a cat lover that he drown his pets.
2) Making disparaging comments about the breasts of a fellow blogger.
3) Mentioning your classmates by name, and then insulting them publicly.
4) Calling your sister a slut.
5) Using your ignorance of Eliot as an excuse to insult men whose age and IQ are both twice as much as yours.
6) Using a half-baked knowledge of sociology to attack people without provocation.
7) Calling into question the legitimacy of the marriage of the parents of one of the few people who still tolerates you.
8) Homophobia
9) Stupidity

And above all

Threatening to hit people is NOT funny.

But you know what would be funny.

TRYING to hit those people.

Prick.

Calcutta

2005-11-21T05:40:00.000-06:00

Nine months. Nine months in Calcutta. True, 18 years have been spent in this city, but that was a different me in a different time.

The change of scenery entails a change in blogging habits. This blog will be updated more often henceforth.

One last thing needs to be said.

BROADBAND RULES!

That is all.

On the disappearance of Chicagoans

2005-10-19T05:42:00.000-05:00

Update: The number of short stories on the 55 Word Fiction Blog is nearing the 100 mark. Some of the stories are true gems and by branching out across the tag-tree, I have come across some amazing blogs. Right now, I am completely enamoured by this lady - if I can manage to make a list of the top 10 stories, hers would be undeniably at peak position - but there are many others too.
I also have a request - there are some plans I have for the blog, but my limited knowledge of HTML makes it impossible. If there is anyone who knows how to jigger with blog templates, could you please mail me - I have some specific questions I need to ask.

This is not a post so much as a series of announcements.

1) The compilation blog is well underway - it can be found at http://55-words.blogspot.com. Much thanks must be given to my co-compilers Teleute and Babelfish. Right now, we are trawling the blogsphere looking for posts that have addressed the tag - a task that makes me realise that there's a PhD on social networking to be had for some enterprising soul.
The task of compiling is made more difficult because we're making sure that we have the permission of each blogger to use his/her creation. If you would not mind waiving copyright of your work, you can leave a comment, or email me at the address that is mentioned on the blog.

2) Good news - This man has started up his blog - something I have been pestering him to do for months now. He also comes highly recommended by his beloved Uncle Prufrock. Do take a look.

3) I am in the final stages of departing for India, hence bloggin will be put on hold until I reach the motherland. The next many months will be spent there - principally Calcutta and Delhi. Fellow bloggers in both cities, please take note.

As an old friend would have said - "Peace out".

Arithmetic Progression

2005-10-11T06:28:00.000-05:00

I have, it seems, been double-tagged by Goti, in a post that signals his triumphant return to blogging - a brilliant example of putting coincidences to work in a double-play tag-out thats a double whammy. Read it. Also received one tag from a young lady who spends far too much time online with decrepit has-beens, and another from a young lady who is seen outdoors only after sunset. Both are in need of some sunlight.

Finally, one last matter of interest - my long-suffering roommate Siddarth, has started his own blog, after much pleading and cajoling (and a refusal to do the dishes). Here it is.

Right, so on to the task at hand. Shamelessly plagiarised from an old English rugby song, here is my attempt at 55-word fiction, dedicated to that world-renowned chick magnet - Samit.

Oh, my DEAR Master Basu! Please do NOT come closer!
Oh, my dear Master Basu! Please do not come.
Oh, my DEAR Master Basu! Please! Do NOT!
Oh! My dear Master Basu. Please do.
Oh! My dear Master Basu - PLEASE!
Oh, my dear Master Basu!
Oh my dear master!
Oh my dear.
OH MY!
Ohh!

As for the 23/5 post. Here is the offending line.

There always is.

Indeed.

Addendum: A brilliant idea has struck me. After seeing some of the exceptional things that people have been coming up with using just 55 words, I think a blog should be created to collect these stories, with their permission of course. Any thoughts?

Her suit

2005-10-05T18:43:00.000-05:00

Aaaand - back with our regular programming. This one could offend the squeamish - so be warned.

We recently had a heatwave (In Chicagospeak, that means we could feel all our parts), and as if to celebrate, the shorts came out in force for a week. Its interesting to observe that while men feel absolutely no embarrassment in displaying their foliated lower limbs to the general public, women wouldn't be caught dead in those outfits without a session with Mr. Gillette.

Many men I know have expressed surprise when informed that women are not naturally hairless. Yes, it is true that they grow less hair and less coarse hair than men do, but variablility across women is incredibly high. So while some get away easily, there are some who spend a significant fraction of their waking hours with scary-looking implements for cutting, tweezing or even yanking (OUCH). See what Belle de Jour has to say about it.

Even if we grant that the women have less to yank, I will just ask my fellow men to think back to the last time a razor malfunction cause a single moustache hair to be yanked out by the roots. Painful, wasn't it? Now think about a few hundred follicles being uprooted at the same time (YOWITCH). Over the entire body (OWOWOWOWOW). Weekly (AAAAAARGHGHHHH). Sometimes more often (STOP STOP STOP).

So why, why, why do they subject themselves to it?
Is it yet another conspiracy by a patriarchal society that seeks to force women to conform with unnatural expectations of external attractiveness, thereby further suppressing their ability to formulate independent expression? I am reminded of a legal eagle who, in her school days, had distracted her team to quizzing success on more than one occasion, thanks to a pair of legs which were a sight for sore eyes. Rumour has it that thereafter she chose to rebel against male notions of female beauty and left the aforementioned limbs in their natural state as a sign of protest.

Or is there more to it? Evolutionary biologists suggest that men's preference for silky smooth skin is a manifestation of an evolutionary instinct to choose a mate who is likely to ensure the safety of her child. Body hair tends to attract dirt (especially in a cave), and becomes a breeding ground for unfortunate diseases which could jeopardise the life of both mother and child. So clean sweet-smelling women just tended to be better suited to the task of keeping the human race alive.

And then we come to the next question - if depilation such a good thing, why have the men not bothered. Frankly, Salman Khan notwithstanding, men across the world keep their God-given overgrowth - like their cards - close to their chest.

And not without reason - the India Today Sex Survey reveals that 42% of women surveyed felt that a well-foliated torso was the most sexually attractive feature in a man (Aside - HAHAHAHA! Eat your heart out suckers!). What is that all about? Evolution, we are told designed men's bodies so that their more vital organs would be encased in a protective coat of armour, when they went to hunt the friendly neighbourhood sabre-tooth. Therefore, women were evolutionarily conditioned to be attracted to men who were more likely to return home alive from the hunt and so they developed a fascination for breastplates.

However, I believe that even Anil Kapoor would have difficulty stopping a .35 with his bare chest, so thats quite irrelevant nowadays. Why then do women retain their odd fascination? The only explanation I can think of is that evolutionary forces act much faster on men than on women - three times as fast, in fact. So women's tastes evolve at a much slower rate then men. So we might eventually see our grandsons fussing over the new Braun model in an attempt to win their ladys' hearts. But that isn't something we need to worry about.

And if the women think thats unfair - please also note that the average human male, in his lifetime, grows as much hair on his face alone as the average human female grows on her ENTIRE body (except her scalp), in her lifetime. So seriously, its just infeasible, unless you're an egoistical lunatic with lots of time and money to spare - or a Bollywood actor - which, come to think of it, is basically the same thing.

A case for Sex Education

2005-10-04T01:40:00.000-05:00

For the first time - a title which means exactly what it says.

In many ways, this is a continuation of the previous post. There, I attempted to show, through fictionalised accounts, how boys are scared away from physical intimacy through a series of subliminal messages that come at them from all directions. An unfortunate consequence of this is that Indian boys grow up either to be depraved boors who feel every woman is theirs for the taking, or repressed introverts who cannot get over their inhibitions about women long enough to pursue them on their own. Consensual sex is not common among either group, sadly (except post-maritally - and there too, the issue of consent is not quite cut and dried).

And where does that leave the Indian woman? Sadly unsatisfied, and yet afraid of her own sexuality. Quite a depressing state of affairs all around.

But this is not about the women - I have no locus standi on that issue. Further, I am not duly concerned with the depraved boor. Reams of newsprint have been dedicated to the analysis of rape in our society. I am more interested in the other kind of men - the sexual wallflowers. Their situation is all the more tragic, because they could have been the very men that most women spend their lives waiting for, but ended up as much less.

All this could have been avoided with a little bit of well-aimed education.

Here, culled from my own experience, are examples of the potential dangers of "learning it on the streets".

WARNING: EXPLICIT CONTENT

(mandatory white space)

YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED

(this is really going to boost my daily page hits)

IF YOU ARE UNDER 18, TURN BACK OR ELSE...

Yeah, I know. None of you turned back, did you? Bunch of salacious perverts. Right, so here we go.

You've already seen this one.

Girls have babies in their stomach. So if you hit them in their stomachs then it gets damaged and they can't hold babies there anymore.

Then again, it always worried me how most Indians use the local words for "stomach" and "womb" interchangeably. But it didn't stop there. Not even close.

There was also a friend who never ceased to amaze us with his in-depth (no pun intended) knowledge of women and their anatomy.

Hey, look at that chick.

The one with the pimples?

Yeah.

What about her?

She's really horny. I bet she's dying to be fucked right now.

Do you know her?

No.

Then how...?

Its the pimples, see?

Umm, no I don't.

You know what causes pimples, right? The extra flow of sex hormones. So if a chick has so many pimples, it means she produces a whole lot of extra hormones. That happens when they masturbate too much. So this girl clearly fingers herself three-four times a day. With that kind of a sex drive, she'd let you take her if you just said hello.

And my mother always insisted it was a result of not drinking enough water.

I was blessed to have friends who were so skilled in matters relating to women. One even explained an interesting phenomenon to me once.

You see, every time you put your dick into a woman's cunt, it gets wider. In fact, most prostitutes have been fucked so many times that you can easily put your fist in.
That's also where the Hindi word "bhosadike" comes from. Its a variant of an old Sanskrit word which means "A cunt you can put your head into". So its only the most slutty kind of whores who will have one of those.

The linguistics of fictional sex. I'm sure some school somewhere offers a PhD in that.

There was a time when I used to take the school bus. Most of the kids on it were far younger than I was. One day, the bus pulled up next to a school bus of a well-known girls school (of which at least one of my fellow bloggers is an alumna), when a brat of ten screamed.

HEY SEXY!!!

Stunned silence ensued. Dirty looks poured in at us from the fine ladies in the neighbouring vehicle - most of them directed at us older boys, who were (for once) blameless. Luckily the lights changed and the buses roared off in opposite directions.

YOU! KID! COME HERE!!

That was me, displaying ample indignation.

What did you just say?

Hee-hee. I said "Hey sexy" (with an impish grin)

Do you know what "sexy" means?

(shakes head)

Do you even know what the word "sex" means?

Ya! (An expression that sounds terrible when not uttered by a German speaker)

Well, what does it mean?

Its what homosexuals do.

Huh!!

Ya.

So tell me, what are homosexuals?

Boys who like boys.

Score one for gay rights, I guess.

Then there was the time a group of friends noticed a poster of an upcoming Bengali movie, starring a recently married actress, who had begun showing signs of the indolence that accompanies marital bliss.

God, look at how fat she's become.

Her face is still cute, though.

Yeah, but her arse is HUGE.

That's because her husband is so kinky.

Explain that statement right now.

Notice how her arse has grown while the rest of her is still the same. She doesn't even have a tummy.

And...?

So that can only happen if you have a lot of anal sex. Clearly he's giving it to her in the arse all the fucking time.

New butt reduction technique - don't break the Indian Penal Code.

It wasn't only the guys who were so grossly misinformed. I still recall the time I went to watch There's Something about Mary, accompanied by the Duck and some girls from our class. During the movie, the Duck and I were rolling in the aisles, but our female compatriots were strangely subdued. Their reaction during the now-classic "hair-gel" scene was surprisingly muted. After the movie, I overheard the following conversation.

So what exactly was that stuff on his ear?

I think it was some kind of cream. I know that guys use these lubricating creams sometimes.

Even while shagging?

I guess.

No, no! I'm quite sure it was a melted condom.

Sometimes, I find it difficult to imagine how family planning programmes are ever expected to work.

But the best of all was the following one.

What is "fucking"?

So, you know how a car has an exhaust tube...

(the remaining details are slightly fuzzy)

Do I really need to continue?

Maybe I'm overreacting. Its quite possible that people and attitudes have changed dramatically in the last five years, and I haven't noticed. After all, we were the last of the pre-cable TV generation who grew up in an era of blinding naivete.

To think now that I actually acted in a stage production of Lear's The Owl and the Pussycat, where I recited all my lines to my female co-star while tenderly holding her hand, without a single snigger from me or anyone in the audience.

The kids of today can just type in all their intricate queries about sex into Google's search bar, and be taken directly to the Jabberwock's blog, where all the answers to their problems can be found (along with a healthy dose of literature). If only that were true when I was young.

But thats just crying over spilt seed.

Therapist Sessions

2005-09-20T16:43:00.000-05:00

The following is a fictional story. Its my first attempt at a serious post. As it took all of 13 days to write, it will also be the last.

Parallax

Scene 1: age 3

Players: The Author and his doting mother (DM)
Setting: Home

DM: What did you do at school today?
A: I asked P to marry me.
DM: (switching to "ain't that cute" voice) And what did she say?
A: She said yes.
DM: Thats nice.
A: (very pleased with himself) I told her I would kill her if she didn't.
(stunned silence)

Ah, the innocence of childhood! Or was it?

Scene 2: age 4

Poem

What are little boys made of?
Frogs and snails,
And puppy-dogs' tails;
That's what little boys are made of.

What are little girls made of?
Sugar and spice,
Aand all that's nice;
That's what little girls are made of.

They're different from us, you see. They're sweet and spicy. We're only liked by Frenchmen with a taste for haute cuisine.

Scene 3: age 5

Players: The Author and his knowledgable friend (KF)
Setting: A playground

A: (fighting back tears) I hate her! She cheated! She always cheats!
KF: So what can you do?
A: I want to punch her hard.
KF: You can't hit her. She's a girl.
A: So what?
KF: You can't hit girls.
A: (defiantly) Why not?
KF: (in a conspiratorial whisper) Because if you hit a girl, she can't have babies.
A: (in open-mouthed awe) Really? Why?
KF: See, girls have babies in their stomach. So if you hit them in their stomachs then it gets damaged and they can't hold babies there anymore.
A: (slightly unimpressed) So I can punch her in the face.
KF: (hadn't thought of that) No, no... what if you miss?

The unfairness of life hits home for the first time. Ideas forming - the use of physical force is a no-no, and the reason has something to do with making babies.

Scene 4: age 8

Players: The Author, his class teacher (T), and various classmates (C1, C2,...)
Setting: At school

T: Lets play a word game. All of you sit according to your houses, and I'll write a word on the board. The house that can make the most words using letters from that word wins. Any questions? Good.
(Little boys scramble into groups. Teacher writes "PAINTER" on the board. Ten minuted pass)
T: All right boys. One boy from each house read out a word and I'll write it down.
C1: Paint
A: Rent
C2: Pin
C3: Pain
C1: Pant
A: Rape (pause)
T: (shocked) That doesn't count. Do you have any more words.
A: (protesting) But ma'am, it IS a word.
T: Don't argue with me
A. I say it doesn't count.
A: But ma'am, I read it in the paper.
T: OK, that's enough. Go stand outside for the rest of the period!
(A sulkily complies)

After class, C1 catches up with A.
C1: Hey, what does that word mean?
A: Its when you hit a girl.

There's the power of mass media for you. Children learn so much, so fast. Notice that A has no idea about sex yet, but is aware of rape as a vague concept.

Scene 5: age 10

Song - Billie Jean, by Michael Jackson

People Always Told Me Be Careful Of What You Do
And Don't Go Around Breaking Young Girls' Hearts
And Mother Always Told Me Be Careful Of Who You Love
And Be Careful Of What You Do 'Cause The Lie Becomes The Truth

Billie Jean Is Not My Lover
She's Just A Girl Who Claims That I Am The One
But The Kid Is Not My Son
She Says I Am The One, But The Kid Is Not My Son

Scary. And not just because it was sung by a paedophile

Scene 6: age 13

Players: various classmates (C1, C2,...)
Scene: Classroom, after sex education class

(relatively quiet, given that its break time. muffled sniggers and nervous giggles are heard all round, as little boys get confirmation of facts they only vaguely knew)

C1: Hey, C2 is crying

(everyone gathers around C2 who is quite inconsolable)

C1: What's the matter?
C2: (between sobs) My mother and father. They. They did. THAT.
(C2 throws up)

C1: Yuck! Someone call the sweeper.

How could they, who we held in such high esteem, stoop to such levels?

Scene 7: age 15

Players: The Author and an Excitable Friend (EF)
Scene: School

EF: Hey, you know what?
A: What?
EF: You know, we're going to study Shakespeare next year.
A: Yes. So?
EF: (sniggering) I read this poem he wrote. Guess what it was called?
A: Ummm, no idea. Tell me.
EF: (can barely contain himself) The Rape of Lucrece
A: Seriously?
EF: Yes, I swear. I read it from this collection my dad has.
A: Wow! Do you think they'll teach it?
EF: I don't think so. But you can borrow the book from me.

Such unhealthy fascination.

Scene 8: age 17

Player: Noted sexologist (S)
Setting: A talk show on TV

S: You see, women give sex because they want love, but men give love because they want sex.

Indeed, what filthy creatures we are

Scene 9: age 19

Song - Free Fallin' by Tom Petty

...
And all the bad boys are standing in the shadows
All the good girls are home with broken hearts

And I’m free, free fallin’
...

Ah, those good girls made of suar and spice. We thought they could do no wrong. How wrong we were.

Scene 10: age 20

Players: The author and his distraught friend (DF)

DF: How could she leave me for him? HOW? HOW?
A: Calm down. It'll be all right. This is for the best. You'll find someone better than her, I guarantee you.
DF: No, I won't. And you know what - neither will you!
A: What?
DF: This whole sensitive guy shit that we're pulling. Its a load of crap, man. Utter crap! The truth is that girls don't want to be treated with respect. That's just another of their lies. They just want to be fucked. They want to be fucked till their brains fall out. That's the truth.
A: You're being irrational.
DF: Am I? Then tell me, what did I do wrong? I treated her with respect. I never forced her to do anything she didn't want to. And this guy? He gets her drunk at a party and rapes her. I told her it was OK. That I'd still take her back. But she went with him anyway.
A: I'm not so sure this counts as rape.

But definitions are blurring around this point.

Scene 11: age 23

Player: Reputed Professor (RP)
Scene: Lecture on Game Theory

RP: As you must know, George Akerlof has been awarded this year's Nobel Prize in Economics. This is mainly because of his pathbreaking paper "The Market for Lemons". Akerlof concieved of a used-car market. Some cars are good (peaches) and some are bad (lemons). The seller knows which is which, but the buyer doesn't. Since the buyer knows that she might end up with a lemon, she is willing to pay less. However, peaches are more expensive than lemons, so at the lower price, the seller won't sell the expensive peaches. This makes the chances of ending up with a lemon higher, and the buyer further reduces her willingness to pay. Ultimately, all the peaches leave the market and only the lemons are left.

Now, if only I had understood that earlier.

Scene 12: age 24

Players: Ranting man (RM), calm man (CM)
Setting: Online forum for displaced Calcuttans

RM: Of course he deserves to die. He raped a little girl!
CM: While I'm not denying the severity of the crime, I am opposed to the death penalty on principle. I think that all civilised societies need to abolish capital punishment. Even if someone kills another human being, we can't take it on ourselves to kill him. Then we're just as bad as he is.
RM: Maybe what you're saying is right, but for rape we definitely need the death penalty. That's a fate worse than death.
CM: I've heard this being said often, and I disagree. Murder is the worst crime you can commit because you end a person's life - snuff out their existence. After rape, the victim has a chance, however small, to rebuild her life and put it behind her. Murder offers no such chances.
RM: You have no right to make such a comment. You can't begin to imagine the trauma of a rape victim. Go ask your mother and sister what they would feel.
CM: Whoa! Time out!

continued

Players: The Author and a female friend (FF)

A: Thats what these guys were saying. I don't know exactly where I stand on this issue. What do you think?
FF: I don't think rapists should be killed.
A: I'm glad you...
FF: I think they should be castrated!

So the equivalent fate worse than death for a man is to make sure he can never have sex again. I guess that makes sense at some very twisted level.

Scene 13: age 26

Player: The author and a much older acquaintance (MOA)
Setting: A restaurant

MOA: You see, women give sex because they want love, but men give love because they want sex. They want different things in a relationship. That's the basic problem.
A: You're still single, aren't you?
MOA: But so are you, smart-ass.
A: True.

I thought I was...

2005-09-01T23:16:00.000-05:00

...Jim Carrey in Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind,

but I found I was Govinda in Shikari.

I thought I was Charlie Chaplin making Monsieur Verdoux

but I found I was Subhash Ghai in Jogger's Park

The point of this being that I tried writing a serious post for once. Took me two weeks and ended up reading like something out of Edward Bulwer-Lytton.

No more, I say. Being serious is overrated.

Just an update to let everyone know I'm alive.

With apologies to Herb Gardner

2005-08-15T01:31:00.000-05:00

Hey Rappaport! What happened to you? You used to be a polite, laid-back individual. Now you're two raving lunatics.
I'm not Rappaport.
Hey Rappaport! You used to be a 26-year old Cancerian from Chicago, but now you're a 21-year old Libran from Delhi.
I'm not Rappaport, and I STILL live in Chicago.
Hey Rappaport! What happened to you? You used to write using full sentences, now you use obscure acronyms.
I keep telling you - I'm not Rappaport.
Hey Rappaport! Your blog was tongue-in-cheek and humourous, now its just plain offensive.
I'm not Rappaport.
Hey Rappaport! You always refrained from insulting people and stayed away from fights. Now you swear like a sailor.
But I'm not Rappaport.
Hey Rappaport! You used to write well (or at least well enough), now you use syntax that would make any grammarian shudder.
I'm not Rappaport.
Hey Rappaport! You used to be devoid of psychological issues. Now you have MPD.
I'm NOT Rappaport.
Hey Rappaport! You never really cared about me - whether I lived or died or blogged as long as I stayed out of your hair. Now you've gone out of your way to insult me publicly.
I'M NOT RAPPAPORT.
Hey Rappaport! You still use the word misogynist.
Huh???
Hey Rappaport! Your site still feeds from the same IP adress.
I have no idea what you said, but I'm guessing that all blogger sites feed from blogger's own servers.
Hey Rappaport! You used to grope in the dark, now you just scratch and grunt.
For the last time - I'M NOT RAPPAPORT!
You changed your name too?

New direction

2005-08-02T14:21:00.000-05:00

This is to inform everyone that I am starting a new blog. No, I am not abandoning tatonnement (for those of you who know French, that sounded AWFUL), but I realised that there's a great deal I have to say on one particular topic - namely comics - which will not fit with the format of this blog, which is more a freewheeling, pseudo-socio-economic commentary. Also I don't want to bore the readers here by being pedantic.

This second blog will be much more technical, and many of the posts will contain references that only a seasoned comic book reader will grasp. So, unless you consider Will Eisner the next great literary influence since Gutenberg, don't bother reading it. I realise it will have little readership, if at all, but thats not the point of this one. There's just so much I feel the need to say about comics, that I have to have a place to pen them down. And since I know nobody whose knowledge on this topic is as in-depth as mine (in spite of having got my brother hooked to Brian K. Vaughan), I can't dismiss the bug through discussion.

The new blog will have no comments, and no counters/trackers. If you still want to say something regarding a post, please e-mail me. My address is in my profile.

So finally, I give you, The Daily Bugle.

Update: Damnation! I wrote up a long post on Afghans in comics, following which I accidentally navigated away from the page and - poof! So I had to rewrite it. Within a day of its launch, the Daily Bugle has degenerated into the Semiweekly Bugle. Gah!

Also, something I forgot to do earlier - The Banguluru Bloggers have formed a little clique that will meet on occasion and hatch seditious plots against the nation. They are next meeting on Independence Day to launch 'Operation Shucks and Awwww', when they will caffeinate themselves until they become human chemical weapons. What they do next is top secret - If I told you, I'd have to kill you, or make you recite the OED to Arka, whichever is worse.

Those among you who would choose blogarchy over oligarchy, join the movement and be immortalised forever in Arka's sidebar. For more details visit co-conspirators-in-chief Arka the Orc or the Mysterious Mr. Desai

Hi jinks!

Entropy in the UK / Bloody Hell in America

2005-07-18T04:07:00.000-05:00

The Voice of Fate: Hrrmph, hrrmph (testing). The United Kingdom is one of the most fascinating places to visit. A nation with a glorious and proud history of conquering savage lands and showing them the light, as far as civilisation is concerned. The British can today rest easily knowing that the quintessential British culture has taken root in among all the world's enlightened people. So it is only natural for the native son of one such inferior race to wish to view first hand, the people who, out of the goodness of their hearts, converted him and his people from naked cavemen into propah gentlemen. Right then - so while this young lad tells you of his enlightening trip to the motherlode of culture, I'll carry on and grab meself some chicken tikka masala while I catch the latest episode of Law & Order. Cheerio.

Uncivilised Native: Indeed, one has heard so much about this land, that it would be shameful to pass up a chance to visit it. After a whirlwind tour of the island of Great Britain, here are some thoughts that I would like to share.

To begin with, for the benefit of those in my current land of residence, let me point out that language can be a problem for visitors from one side of the Atlantic to the other. Though both the Americans and the English claim to speak English, there are enough subtleties that you need to be aware of. So, I shall start with a list of Do's and Dont's

Things an American should not say in the UK.

Man, I am so pissed!
Do I want a fag?? What do I look like - queer??
Why yes, miss, I'd love some shag. Haven't smoked in ages.
I love football! What's your team?
Whaddaya mean, poor? I'm from the richest country in the motherfucking world! Get that right, assholes!
I asked for dessert, not genital warts!
So, I'm like, I totally like, like this guy. I mean like, "like-like", not like "like". And he was like "I fancy you". And I'm like, what is THAT? Like some, like code word or something?
Yeah - you're mates, right. So thats like mating. So, why did you say you weren't?
You suck big time!

Right, now that we've got the basics out of the way, lets get with the programme.

First of all,England is a very interesting country indeed. And for those of you who thought that all white people are basically the same - more so white people who profess to speak the same language - you couldn't be more... right!

Sadly, since the Boston tea party, its been downhill for the British. With their unparalleled arsenal that combines cheap burger joints with tales of the sexually unsatisfied Hausfrau; the Americans have won this one decisively. The baseball-ification of cricket (also known as 20-20), is merely the final slap on the face of the former empire.

However, there are some differences that are striking between these two cousins separated by a common language. I shall list them out for brevity's sake.

Notable differences on either side of the pond:

A British accent will get you laid in the States. An American accent will get you patronising glances in the UK. (NB: An Indian accent will get you nowhere in either country).
The legal drinking age is 16! And they serve subsidised booze in pubs on college campuses! AND they sell porn magazines alongside textbooks in college bookstores!!! (The upshot of this being that British teenagers indulge in drunken orgies DURING the school year and authorities have serious problems battling date rape, DUI and disorderliness. Quite... unlike... American teena.... Ummm - cancel that difference.)
British cops don't reach for their sidearms when you ask for directions. They don't wallop you if you provoke them. They don't suggest you had sexual congress with your mother while pulling you over. They ask robbers if they're all right before arresting them. To top it all, they also have a sense of humour!!!! (OK - this one REALLY threw me. Its the first genuine difference I've come up with and I think I will dedicate a post to it.)
I'm sure there must be more differences - Ha! Got one! All BORDERS outlets in the UK serve Starbucks coffee. (Why is that relevant? Well, in the USA Starbucks is served at Barnes&Noble, which is Borders' chief rival - see. Umm, and the fact that all the above are American corporations shouldn't really matter. Neither should the fact that they actually serve COFFEE over TEA in a bookstore in Britain matter)

Oh all right - they're really not different at all. But I will admit that I learnt a few new things during my trip. Once more they are enumerated below.

Fascinating concepts I was introduced to:

Sudoku - (Finally! An activity for those too dumb to do the Times cryptic on their way to work)
Black Pudding - (Neither black nor pudding)
Yobs - (Proving the British have not lost their propensity for clever wordplay)
Happy Slapping - (The reason Mallika Sherawat is NOT the president of the MMS-haters club)
Henman Hill/Murray Mount - (Idolatry of minor Gods that puts Temple Naghma to shame)
Happy Frog Ringtone - (...)
Balti Chicken - (The latest in the line of Indian dishes that no Indian has ever heard of)
Paki Bastard - (Me, apparently. Maybe it was the beard, or the green kurta. Or maybe not)
Tesco's - (Britons' favourite pastime)

The best part of the trip perhaps, was a little sojourn into the Welsh countryside. For the benefit of the Americans, Welsh are these funny people, who are basically Scots in trousers and without the endearing accent or sex appeal. Very scenic place is Wales, but I think that of all the Celtic races, they are the least likely to form a little nation of their own (in spite of having a Hollywood star espuse their cause). In short:

Reason why the Welsh will never be able to throw off the oppressive yoke of their English conquerors: Their pathological aversion to vowels.

No, seriously - the Welsh word for "visitor", for example, has ten consecutive consonants. How they manage to communicate at all is beyond me. A liesurely chat between two co-workers would go something like this

"Hyllw thr. Dyd yw c thw lytst Cythryn Zytr Jwnz mwvy?"

See what I mean?
For the want of a vowel (2 actually), the bttl was lost.

But its not only the Welsh who will never fulfill their ambitions of independence. The English - in spite of what they tell themselves - are firmly and obsolutely under the thumb of their former colonies. Furthermore they are likely to stay this way. To end, I shall point out why the English will never manage to regain their independence from foreign influence, or:

Why this Empire will not strike back

Their number one song is a ringtone. (No, seriously. Those little beeps that just disturb your concentration during the movie are now an art form)
Unlike Americans and Indians, their movie industry is not worth a mention. They don't even watch their own movies, instead preferring to rent out DVD's of old Hollywood (and Bollywood) hits. How do they expect to conquer nations that think of them either as lousy cricketers who sledge in poorly-accented Hindi, or as wizards who run into platform walls?
Nobody's heard of IMDB. And they call Americans ill-informed (see above).
The country is so damn small, they don't see the need to have sleeper coaches. (Whoa! T-I-N-Y)
Southall.
Bhangra. See above.
Their number one song is a ringtone. (Wait wait, I don't think you've got the import of this. Its a RINGTONE for Chrissakes)
They need to get drunk before asking people out. And they don't understand the concept of picking people up in supermarkets/churches/libraries. Clearly they don't get enough sex.
They invented every known major sport in the world (except Golf and Basketball), but can't win at ANY of them.
Tim Henman is a hero. (And you thought TOI(let paper) was making an unnecessarily big deal out of Sania Mirza.)
British women. (Sorry, but its true)
Tony Blair.
Their number one song is a RINGTONE! Don't you see how ridiculous that is. God!! This could be the death-knell for iPods. You could start a party by just phoning random people. The mind boggles!!!

So ended a wonderful little break in the land that gave us GMT, P.G. Wodehouse and not much else. Refreshing though, the break was, I was quite looking forward to the pleasant shores to the West. Two weeks of stuffing myself with every conceivable form of animal product from every conceivable animal does take its toll on the system (Edit - I am now a vegetarian). And two incidents of racial abuse over two weeks in the UK, compared to none over two weeks in the US, made it quite clear where I'd rather live given a choice. That and the money.

But there was more to come. After my flight landed in Newark Liberty Airport, I had another 4 days of vacation before I returned to my beloved Chi-town. The major part of this was spent in New York, New York - the city that never sleeps (alone). In this vibrant metropolis, here is what transpired.

Home Stretch

Number of six-foot tall African-American gentlemen with vice-like grips, named Saladin, with the self-confessed claim to fame of "breaking nigga's bones", who requested the contents of my wallet at 4 a.m. in East Harlem, New York City: 1
Number of six-foot tall African-American gentlemen with vice-like grips, named Saladin, with the self-confessed claim to fame of "breaking nigga's bones", whom I convinced to not separate me from contents of the aforementioned wallet: 1
Approximate difference in weight of the two protagonists above: 70 lb
Approximate difference in blood alcohol content of the same: 0.02
Parting words of above gentleman: "Yo' just playin' games wit' me, man."

(Yeah! Give it up for the GAMESMASTER!! Who da man!)

Money saved in the process: $6.00

Next stop was the city of brotherly love where, appropriately enough, I was treated to the following:

Number of times I was referred to as "brother" or an equivalent expression in Philadelphia during a 4-hour stay: 10
Number of teenyboppers heading for the Live 8 Concert in Philly, according to a friendly policeman: 1.5 million
Number of minutes the train from the Amtrak station to the Philadelphia airport was delayed by: 57
Amount paid to desi cabbie to make the aforementioned trip: $20.00

The final act in this wicked game was played out back home in Evanston, Illinois - a peaceful, upper-class suburb of the Windy City.

Number of mild-mannered Indian monks named Anil with funky 'Om' T-shirts and sing-song voices who attempted to introduce me to the wonders of yoga at 1 p.m. in downtown Evanston, Illinois: 1
Number of mild-mannered Indian monks named Anil with funky 'Om' T-shirts and sing-song voices who successfully parted me from half the money in my wallet: 1
Money lost in the process: $7.00

(Methinks this is the time to rethink the nomenclature. Something along the lines of SUCKER would do. Suggestions are invited).

Balance Sheet: -$1.00

Here ends my little travelogue. I hope you enjoyed it too. Now back to work. They don't pay me a stipend for doing nothing. (They do actually, but thats another matter). Hopefully, this will keep the Vulpes Biblios (resident of Calcutta and Bangalore) at bay for another week.

Tally ho, and pip pip!

Sont des mots qui vont tres bien ensemble

2005-07-12T18:45:00.000-05:00

Explanations are in order. And they shall be had. Some have enquired as to the absence of posts over a prolonged period of time. Others have threatened bodily harm (perhaps in the form a letter bomb, special delivery from Bangalore), but there's a good reason. There always is.

So where have I been, pussycats? Well, to London in fact - though the queen was given a miss. That and the getting back to work period after that have made sure the only sound on this blog (apart from the X-Men theme - nifty, ain't it?) was one of deafening silence. So, as far as the scorecard goes - we now have 14 of 51 states down (interesting thought - is the UK the 51st state, or states 51-53, since it does have four divisions. If the latter then its 15 out of 53).

I shall start posting in earnest. And now I intend to post once a week at least. The trip, if nothing else, gave me enough material for many posts and many reasons to procrastinate. I shall take a break from the Bengalis and say a few things about their cultural progenitors, the English. There are a good many things to say about that, especially vis-a-vis the inscrutable Americans. After that a few posts on assorted topics like sex, more sex, the lack of sex, paedophilia, more on the Chinese and other fetishes, skirts, miniskirts, jeans, rape, and why we are all doomed anyway so fuck it all. And perhaps a few more on why Bengalis and sex don't mix.

But first there are three obligations I need to get out of the way.

Obligatory Paragraph 1:

My best beloved buddy, Mr. Rajnarayanan Srinivasan Sriram Krishnan Iyer Ganapadigam, better known to friends as Sri has objected to my parochial obsession with Bengalis. He insists that the doughty Dravidians of Tamizh Nadu get as little action as their Eastern counterparts, even though they do not cower in fear before thousand-armed goddesses. So my analysis is apparently not valid for the Tamizh men, and Sri insists that out of a sense of fairness, I analyse the unique problems of his race too. So that is exactly what I am doing.

To understand the reason why Tamizh men cut sorry figures next to their womanfolk please read the 6th to the 11th word (inclusive) of the first line of the previous paragraph.

Q.E.D.
Thank You.
Next.

Obligatory Paragraph 2:

(Clears throat)

This post is dedicated to the beauteous, the bedazzling, the bewitching
...
Riya!!

Please feast your gaze on this winsome vision of pulchritude, this scintillating repository of wit and wisdom, this effervescent personification of endearing whimsicality, this...

ummm... no - that's a statue you're looking at. I'm referring to the other humanoid in the photograph. Yes, thats it - the one on the left.

Just to make sure, here she is again.

Notice how the wind and the sea complement her striking profile. Or not. Not that it matters really, either way.

Right, got that out of the way. And I think I shall also put a moratorium on dedications in posts. For the time being at least.

Happy now?

Obligatory Paragraph 3:

Note the title. This is in response to a word-tag that Mr. Arka Mukhapadhyay, in all his omniscience had decided to foist upon me. Though it baffles me why anyone would want to know about words I like (they're only words, people!), I am duty-bound to respond. So here's what I have to say about words.

English is not only my first language, but also for all practical purposes, my mother tongue. Also it is the only language I can speak with any degree of fluency. In spite of this - or perhaps because of this - the words that fascinate me the most are the ones that are clearly not of English origin. I can't explain it, but it is just adds something to your speech. Throwing in a Latin word makes you sound classy, a French word makes what you say a bit sexier. And If you can bring it with the Bengali and Hindi, then you're just bindaas.
Perhaps it is the beauty of the English language that it knows its own limitations. No combination of English words can describe the raw sexuality of a femme fatale, or the sickening sweetness that is schmaltz. So English just appropriates them into itself. Right now, English is drawing from the Indic languages in greater measure, so my list today will be of words that should be accepted into English pronto, for English ain't got nothing on these babies.

1) ñæka: - (adj. orig. Bengali) Usually applied to women. Possessing a condition that is characterised by coyness, whimsicality and an unreasonable degree of simpering. Demonstrative of feminine fragility.

2) funda: - (noun English var.) From fundamental. An atomistic piece of information that is the basis for thoughts and opinions. In plural (-ae), the collection of basic facts possessed by an individual.

3) binda:s - (adj. orig. Marathi slang) Possessing a devil-may-care attitude, savoir-faire, coolth. Having the ability to remain in a blissful state in the face of great adversity.

Its not many, I know, but I DO have work to get to. Maybe I'll update this post later. Then again maybe I won't.

Duties fulfilled. Breathe deep.

The Brian Cruz post

2005-05-25T09:26:00.000-05:00

Unlike many others, I don't touch on personal topics in my blog. However, much has transpired in the past 3 weeks, that warrants a brief heads-up.

On the personal front:
1) The parents arrived for a trip
2) The brother graduated and is well on his way to curing cancer
3) America was explored a little more (Scorecard - 13 states down, 27 to go)

On the blogging (professional?) front:
1) I was mentioned in Sepia Mutiny. Much pleased.
2) My post on nicknames has been using up precious bandwidth. Four people (including my mother and her friend, who is a gentleman of 60) I know received it from people I have never heard of. So I can say - yes, I have truly arrived. Thank you, thank you, you're too kind. Roll camera.
3) I was tagged by the world-renowned author Samit Basu, as part of this meme thing going around the blogsphere. Out of deference to him, I shall actually go ahead and join in this faddishness.

So here I go

Total Number of Books I Own: Hmmmm. Well, this is embarassing. I need to make two points before I come up with a number.
1) Buying books was never an option for me until very recently. One Asimov a year set me back by a month's pocket money in college, and I never found the books on Chowringhee pavements worth picking up. So five years ago, the only books I had were gifted or won. Those add up to approximately 200 books. I am not counting the fantastic collection of a thousand-odd books that I recently inherited from my grandfather.
2) I love libraries and bookstores. I can sit in one for hours on end with a book in hand. In India, I have been thrown out of every major bookstore in every major city at least once for hurting their business. Borders, USA is much nicer in that regard. In my lifetime, about 2,000-3,000 books have been read in this manner, and then I have not bothered buying them. Me - a miser? Nonsense, I only feel that libraries are public goods that need to be made more accessible, and show my support for them by... Oh, all right, I am a little tight-fisted. Lets not dwell on it.

But now, thanks to a salary(?), library sales, amazon.com, and American editions, I have started buying books with a vengeance. My current ambition is to possess the definitive collection of graphic novels, and that is well underway. Books bought now stands at about 50.

Last Book I Bought: Three together (to qualify for free shipping, I always buy them in threes). They were Ex Machina Vol 1:The first hundred days and Y: The Last Man Vol 4: Safeword by Brian K Vaughan, and 100 Bullets Vol 3: Hang up on the Hang Low by Brian Azzarello. Vaughan can do no wrong these days and he's one of the three writers whose books I look up every week, the other two being Grant Morrison and Bill Willingham.

Ex Machina deals with a world with only one superhero - a man who has the ability to communicate with machines. This man becomes the mayor of New York, winning by a landslide after he stops the second plane from crashing into the WTC. The book then covers his term in office. Won the Eisner award for 2005. In a word - brilliant.

Y: The last Man deals with a world where all the men but one are dead, and chronicles his journey. I've talked about it in a previous post, so shall not elaborate.

100 Bullets is very interesting - it reads like a crime serial rather than a book. Its in its 5th year of 9 and is a runaway critical success. The story is simple - in each episode, a mysterious man gives a person a gun and 100 untraceable bullets, together with undeniable proof that the person has been wronged by someone. The person is told that if he takes revenge, he will go unpunished. Then we see what the person does with the gun. In the background runs a story of the organisation that allows such things to go on.

Last Book I Read: V for Vendetta, by Alan Moore. An all-time classic about an alternate reality in which England is ruled by fascists. The beautiful inversion of the legend of Guy Fawkes is yet another reason why Moore is an all-time great. Soon to be made into a movie by the Wachowskis, starring Natalie Portman and Hugo Weaving.

Five Books That Mean A Lot To Me: I'm going to define 'Book' a little loosely here. They are, in no particular order

1) The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams

To call this a must-read would be stating the obvious. Sometime in the last century was born a man whose pulse points passed through his funny bone. This unusual defect caused him to see humour in every possible situation. He was thrown out of school for sniggering loudly during Easter mass, and fired from his first job as an undertaker for cracking jokes about the afterlife. Ultimately, he decided that if he could not be cured, he would infect the world, and so he did. The trilogy in five parts is undoubtedly the funniest piece of non-fiction ever written. To hold a copy in your hands and not roll on the floor is a sure sign of either illiteracy or death. Every line is funny. Even the punctuation is funny. Side-splitting, hilarious and a perennial mood-lifter, this gets prime position in my list. Warning - the next idiot who asks me if I've seen the movie gets a towel passed through his alimentary canal.

2) The Foundation trilogy by Isaac Asimov

Isaac Asimov was, simply, the greatest story-teller who ever lived. Stand aside Homer, Ved Vyas, Bill Clinton. I read Asimov's 'Nightfall' at the age of 15, and was hooked for life. This was a man who could write a story on any subject, of any given length, and with a variation in depth ranging from the utterly facetious (George and Azazel) to the wrenchingly moving (Bicentennial Man). His writings include a guide to Shakespeare, a book of jokes, a collected anthology of trivia, articles for Playboy, and some textbook physics to boot. His area of expertise is the short story, but his greatest work, in my opinion is the 14-book long saga that is comprised of the 4 Robot Novels, the 3 Empire Novels and the 7 Foundation Novels. These books span a period of a million years, and also the lifetime of the author (Pebble in the Sky, chronologically the third Empire Novel was his first novel; while Forward the Foundation, chronologically the second Foundation Novel was the last thing he ever wrote before his death in 1992). The core books in this series are the Foundation trilogy, comprising of Foundation, Foundation and Empire, and Second Foundation. The beauty of these books lies not in their sci-fi appeal, but in their beleiveable detailing of a decaying human society, and its rebirth. Through these, Asimov proved that his understanding of Social Science is unsurpassed among authors. He planned to extend the saga, but died before he could finish. At the age of 20, I was determined to read every book written by him. Since that number stands at around 600, it is possible my fate will be the same.

3) The Poirot stories by Agatha Christie

One of the most endearing literary characters - the Belgian detective with the egg-shaped head full of little grey cells and the odd mannerisms. Christie almost certainly had a soft spot for Poirot - her most well-known creation, as she kept her best plots reserved for books in which he appeared. And from a woman who excelled at setups that you never ever saw coming, this meant a great deal. The first Poirot book I read was Hickory Dickory Dock, way back in 1986. Since then I have read all the Poirot stories, and most of the ones starring Miss Marple, the Beresfords, Mr. Quinn and all the others. Through her mystery novels, she invented the term "unputdownable". Meals, naps and TV programs were forsaken so that the book could be read. Each page made the suspense more unbearable, until the parlour scene finally ended the suspense. And I always gave myself a pat on the back when I figured out (not guessed) the identity of the murderer. And though she always gave the readers a fair chance to work it out for themselves, I rarely managed. And that was the true charm of Christie.

4) The Uncanny/New/Astonishing/Ultimate X-Men by various authors

I can almost hear you people wondering how this genre, which is strictly infra dig, made it alongside the other greats. Well, get down from your high horse, flatscan - Superhero comics are a rich literature that can touch you in exactly the same way that the printed word can. And no, they are not just for children. In fact, given the trend of comics these days, I think children should not be allowed to read them. This growing-up of comics has much to do with the popularity of those second-tier citizens of the Marvel Universe - the X-Men. Stan Lee created mutants so that he wouldn't have to write a back story to reveal how each character got his powers - mutants had it in their DNA. To start with there were just 5 youngsters led my an enigmatic man in a wheelchair. Now the X-Men number in the hundreds, and have become a sub-culture among superheroes. This has allowed writers to use them to represent our very human prejudices against those who are different. Over the years, the X-Men have stood as a metaphor for blacks, gays, the incurably ill, and nowadays Muslims. The X-Men are very complex characters because they try to help a society that fears and envies them, and leads to a hatred for those things they do not understand. Because there are so many of them, it has allowed authors to explore group dynamics among them, and also to kill off older characters and introduce newer once, so that the X-Men are always interesting. The first X-Men story I read was X-Men:The Hidden Years #1, and there's been no looking back since. For the past two years, Marvel has been publishing 6-8 X-Men titles monthly, and I have yet to miss one.

5) The Five Find-Outers series by Enid Blyton

You always remember your first one, they say. Enid Blyton was the first author whose name I learnt. Her books were the first ones I read which did not have the word 'reader' in their names. The five find-outers - Fatty, Larry, Pip, Daisy and Bets were the first characters I met, and the first ones I felt strongly about. There were only ten books about these intrepid teenaged detectives, and it didn't take me long to finish them. Then it was the Famous Five, the Secret Seven, and all the others. And it was years after that that I realised that Blyton's writing was flawed at many levels. But the thing is, I didn't care. Those were the books that introduced me to reading for pleasure. And I still remember each plot, even though I was 7 when I finished all of them. That is probably the greatest credit to the writer.

Tag Five People And Ask Them To Do This On Their Blogs: Have tagged more than 5, since most of them are lazy bums, and will drag their feet over it. I expect 5 of them to put something up soon. They are -

1) Gati
2) Manish
3) Pratim
4) Rahul
5) Rohan
6) Rupu
7) Sayoni
8) Siddarth
9) Shoma
10) Urmi

May the Force be with them.

Married to the mob

2005-05-01T12:50:00.000-05:00

My good buddy Rohan had the some things to say about my recent spate of unprovoked attacks on the collective Bong machismo. I have reproduced the relevant portions of his argument, with his permission, of course. Here it is.

"...While I agree with you in most parts, some serious thought into the whole matter springs forth certain anomalies.

1. It was a bong man, Arobindo Ghosh who in conjunction with Tilak wrested control of the Congress from the hands of the "petitioning-moderates".

2. Chakki and his motley crew were the first to use force/violence in the agitation against the Brits. The de-railing of the train of the then Bengal governor, as an example. Gun and Bomb making, and their subsequent use during the freedom struggle, first found root in Bengal.

3. The Armory raid at Chittagong was as closest as you could get to guerrilla warfare. All bong men in that brigade, mind you.

4. Subhash Bose and the INA of course, and a lesser known gentleman called N.N. Bhattacharya who tried to gun run German made stuff into India during WW I.

Post Independence,

1. The whole Naxalbaari stuff, nearly all -young bong men.

2. South East-Asia’s last major revolution – Bangladesh. Yeah the bongs got slaughtered there, before Indira Gandhi decided to save the day. But in its very essence it was a very violet, up in arms sort of Freedom Struggle. No soft "petioning" here.

While we as a race do not readily conjur up visual images of "physical strength or vigor", a look at the history of the last one hundred years, as listed above does indeed paint a different picture. While we do not easily slip into the "image" of the warrior class and all it’s associated trappings, violent revolt and as an extension the alpha male attributes, are actually very much a reality.A bong man for his entire bow bazaar dancing girl decadence sets the stands on fire at the Eden or Salt Lake Stadium at the slightest provocation. For all its marginalization from mainstream Indian politics, Bengal has always seen the most violent of political agitations...."

(Copyright, Prasenjit Guha, 2005)

And like most of what Guha da says, this too makes a great deal of sense. Why does everyone assume that Bengalis are meek and mild, when they have such a rich tradition of violence? A North Indian friend commented, on meeting a Calcutta lumpen - "A rowdy Bong! Now I've seen everything."

To shed some light on this apparent dichotomy, let us recall a popular joke.

Q) What do you call one Bengali man?
A) Poet

Q) What do you call two Bengali men?
A) Political Party

Q) What do you call three Bengali men?
A) Two Political Parties

Q) What do you call four Bengali men?
A) A procession and a counter-procession down Chowringhee at rush hour.

So - have all you smart people spotted the pattern? Not difficult, really. For Bengalis more than other communities, the size of their immediate cohort almost completely determines their behaviour.

An certain Iyengar Brahmin says that Bengalis are fun to talk to one-on-one, but too many intimidate him. Individual Bengalis are quietly intelligent and sufficiently well-informed on many topics which makes them great conversationalists. Even two is fine - at worst they'll have an animated debate (UNLESS you have a North-South Cal split, in which case avoid mentioning football). However, things start getting out of hand when the number increases beyond that, usually culminating in large-scale screaming in Bangla, on matters none too serious, with the participants nearly coming to blows.

The average Bengali is a pack animal. Deep within the recesses of his soul lies a caged animal waiting to break out. The sight of other werewolves is just the spark he needs and Dr. Bruce Bandopadhyay finds himself answering the call of the wild - transforming into a green-skinned monster wielding a mashaal and laying waste to every heavy vehicle on the streets. Truly, the Bengali mob, or Bonglomeration if you will, is a sight to behold. Mild-mannered clerks, bureaucrats, insurance salesmen turned into bloodthirsty beasts all driven by a shared passion for unmitigated violence. Is it any wonder that Calcutta witnesses an average of nearly one lynching death a day?

To use a scientific analogy, the Bengali male can be likened to a 1Kg mass of Uranium-235. If you are exposed to one of these occasionally you will suffer from a bad headache at worst. However, bring 5 or more of them together and we have critical mass. Kaboom!

The Bonglomeration has risen in the past to fend of attacks from such savage races as the British and the Punjabis, who made the mistake of underestimating the capacity for violence in the Bengali, thanks probably to impressions formed based on Bengalis they personally knew. The following are transcripts of historic conversations.

Conversation 1: circa 1858

Lord Canning: Well, your Majesty, we now have to worry about ruling that bloody country.
Queen Victoria: Indeed, Lord Canning. I have no idea how we are to go about it. First of all, where in bblazes are we going to have a new capital?
LC: Don't worry m'lady. I have the perfect spot. Remember that town Cahl-cah-taa. The one that old Charnock stumbled on. I think it will be just marvellous.
QV: Why that place in particular.
LC: A little bit of research on my part, ma'am. The people who live in that god-forsaken place - Bungawlees I think they're called - are a bunch of spineless wimps. Wouldn't say boo to a goose. They'll give us no trouble at all, so its the safest spot on earth.
QV: How can you be so certain?
LC: I know a few of these Bungawlees myself. There's this chap Bonnerjee who takes shorthand at one of our offices - most subservient goose I ever met. Then there's Bose who practices law. Always gets shouted down by the judge and never says a word. Then there's...
QV: You've made your point, Lord Canning. Cahlcahtaa will be the new capital. I can see us ruling the bloody place for another millenium now.

Conversation 2: circa 1974

Gen. Yahya Khan: OYE! These bloody Bangalees have won! Oh meri maa ki ******. Abhi us Mujib ke bachhe ko dikhata hoon, behen****.
(Mujib answers phone)
Mujib: Hallo. Who eej thees?
YK: Oye, who eej thees ke aulad! Saale, mein tera baap bol raha hoon, madar****. You bloody phool. Just bikaz you er winning leckshun, you think we will allow you bh***********s into Slambad. Teri to...
M: Mishtar General Shaar. Pleej do not shwear like that. I am a bhadralok and I am bhery upshet at hearing shuch languages.
YK: Abbey beti****. Abhi tujhe dikhata hoon. You bloody Bangalees will never be aybull to faarm a gvernmant.
M: Thish ij outrageoush. Bhe bhill oppoj thish infrigement on our bashic democratic rightsh. Bhe bhill phight on the shtreetsh. Cholbe naa, cholbe naa... (cut off)
YK: Dekh loonga, madar****.
Aide: Sir, agar woh bagawat shuru karein to mushkil ho sakta hai.
YK: Oh behen****. Woh kya kar lenge? Bahut behen**** Bangalee dekhein hai maine. Tu meri gaari nikal, Shahi Mohalla jaana hai.

The rest, as they say, is history.

So, my fellow countrymen, remember that however mild-mannered your Bengali colleague may seem, do not provoke him in the presence of the Bonglomeration. Your life is forfeit if you do. Do not try shooting someone in the head, molesting a local damsel, or picking anyone's pocket in a public place in Calcutta. While these things are commonplace - and in fact encouraged - in Delhi, you will be pulverized by the wrath of the Bonglomeration before you completed the task. If you are a law-abiding citizen in the presence of this multi-headed monster, keep your hands to yourself, speak in hushed tones, and avoid all sensitive topics.

And in case I have given you the impression in this post, that Bengali men are as rowdy as their Northern counterparts, perish the thought. This is only an anomalous situation. We are actually a race of well-bred intellectuals interested in art, culture and the finer things of life. Gentlemen who watch cricket and... What's that you say? Dravid is a better captain!?! WHAT DO YOU MEAN, REMOVE GANGULY FROM THE TEAM!!! BOKA*****, KH***** CH****, LA****** B***! MAAR SHALA KE! KAALO HAATH BHENGE DAO,

etc.

PS - The term Bonglomeration is copyrighted to the Punjabi ex of a friendly Bengali Blogette. Other terms are in the public domain.

Conspiracy Theory - Part 1: Give a Bong a bad name and...

2005-04-13T03:06:00.000-05:00

Yes I'm back. And no, this post is not a rant about Dada. I don't do those. I do the whole shedding-new-light thing. So here goes.

This post is part of an ongoing series. In these pages, I will attempt to alert people to a great injustice that is being perpetrated upon the sons of Bengal. So you thought they were wimpy to begin with. Far from it, my friend. Their current state is a result of years of conditioning by the oppressors - namely the women. By using a variety of psychological weapons, they have reduced these fine men to what you see today.

Today we focus on the first weapon in their hands - the nickname.

When a son is born into a Bengali household, he is gifted with a resonant, sonorous name. Bengali names are wonderful things. They convey majesty and power. A man with a name like Prasenjit, Arunabha or Sukanta is a man who will walk with his head held high, knowing that the world expects great deeds from him, which was why they bestowed the title that is his name upon him.

But it simply will not do for these men to get ahead of themselves. Their swelling confidence needs to be shattered. How can one go about it? This task is left to the mothers of these lads and is accomplished by the simple act of referring to the boy, not by his fine-sounding real name, but by a nickname which Shakti Kapoor would be ashamed to answer to. Their are some rules for creating nicknames, which need to be followed. They are -

1) Nicknames must have no connection to the real name. Arunabha cannot be called Arun. No, for that would be logical, and such things are anathema in the world of women. Instead he shall be called Bhombol. If possible, the nickname and real name must have no letters in common, but an ancient alphabet proves to be the constraining factor there.

2) Nicknames must be humiliating. If you are a tall strapping boy, with a flair for soccer, an easy charm and an endearing personality, then you shall be nicknamed - Bhondu. And every time, you have set your sights on a girl, and are on the verge of having the aforementioned lass eat out of your hand - your mother will arrive and pronounce loudly - "Bhondu, chalo". The ensuing sea of giggles will drown out whatever confidence you had earned from that last winning free-kick.

3) A nickname must refer in some way to a suitably embaressing incident in your childhood that you would give your arm and leg to forget. If it took you a little too long to shed your baby fat, then years of gymming will not rid you of the nomenclature - Motka. If your face turned crimson when you cried as a toddler, you will be called Laltu. When you turn 40, your friends' children will call you Laltu Uncle. Even age will not earn you the right to be taken seriously thereafter.

4) Different members of the family will make up different nicknames - each more embaressing than the preceding one. If one member of the family calls you Piklu, then another will call you Mitul, and another will call you Jumbo. The humiliation multiplies.

5) You will always be introduced by your nickname until people forget you had a real name. Ranajoy might have taken on a gang of armed men single-handedly, but Toton really didn't have a chance. After a point Toton will completely take over the beaten body of Ranajoy,
weighed down by the pressure of a thousand taunts.

This strategy is surprisingly effective. Ask yourself - would you take Professor Rintu seriously? Or put much weight by the opinion of Dr. Bubai? Or march into battle under the command of General Thobla?

The power of the nickname has scarred the psyche of Bengali men everywhere. It follows them like a monkey on their backs. That too, a monkey with a flair for slapstick, that was gifted to them by their own mothers.

That, dear readers, is step 1 of their grand plan. I must leave now before they realise I am telling you all this. Step 2 of the plan shall be revealed in the next post. Now let me make my escape.

But wait! There's no way we can let you go now - you've seen too much. Not before you answer the question... "Tomar daaknaam ki, khoka?"

The crowd waits with bated breath in anticipation of the great warrior being hoisted by his own petard. They lick their chops hungrily. But tonight is not their night. He stands tall and straight and a smug smile plays on his lips. From his lips come the words -

"Mazhi aai Bangali nahee". And he survives to fight another day.

Nostalgia

2005-03-26T02:03:00.000-06:00

Still in Texas. Still not feeling like thinking up a post. So, in the name of preserving the planets scarce resources - I'm recycling.

Following is a piece that was published in the Presidency College magazine back in the days that I was a student there. It marks the beginning of my descent into silliness. Take a look.

Statutory Warning: Suitable but not appropriate for non-Presidencians
Statutory Declaration: This piece is copyrighted to me and the editors of the Presidency College Magazine. Neither of the two have any objection to its being reprinted (and the fact that the editor was my cousin has NOTHING to do with that). So much for legalese.

Presy Public
(A Perfunctory peek at the Presidencian of the present)

Over the years, many many literary pieces have been composed about the people who populate the institution that I, and 1,69,978 others, call The College (most of it hopelessly uninformed and utterly outrageous. So, deciding that enough is enough, I have put pen to paper and produced this piece for the benefit of outsiders, which should give them an insider's point of view about the kind of people they are likely to meet if they step into our hallowed portals. For the sake of convenience, I have divided them into twelve categories.

1) Pulchritudinous preener
Pseudonyms: Babe, WOW, The looker.
Peculiarities: Has the incredible ability to sit in one place and do nothing for hours on end. Extremely sharp and watchful, but tends to appear languidly bored, which encourages males (especially 3)’s) to approach. But be warned! She’s smarter than she looks. Displays strong repulsion for other members of the same species, but great affinity for 5)’s.
Plus Points: A sight for sore eyes (Especially in Presidency).
Potential Pitfalls: You seen one, you’ve seen ‘em all.

2) Powerful Politico·
Pseudonyms: The Boss, Neta, Sir·
Peculiarities: A firm stride and a head held high. Usually surrounded by members of subgroup 2a) – Not-so-powerful Politico. Will be at the forefront of every strike, gherao or rally. Has the innate ability to blame everything on the Government (State or Centre, depending on Party). Strong orator with ability to convince, confuse, or abuse depending on his audience.
Plus Points: Hang around him long enough, and you may become Secretary of something-or-the-other.
Potential Pitfalls: For every powerful politico in power there is an equally powerful politico in opposition.

3) Pathetic Pervert
Pseudonyms: Lech, Eeyuck, Sicko
Peculiarities: Tongue hangs out upon viewing members of 1). The degree of drool is found to be directly proportional to the physical distance from relevant 1). Has a perpetual leer on face. Known to dress in manner that would accentuate physical attributes in better species. A few tend to go over the top and become 6)’s.
Plus Points: Wherever you find him, there must be something worth looking at nearby.
Potential Pitfalls: That something worth watching may associate you with him, which could be fatal.

4) Poisonous Puffer
Pseudonyms: Chimney, Cough-Cough, Chainsmoker
Peculiarities: Generally masked by a smoky haze, which makes physical identification difficult. Is exclusively found in the habitat known as ‘Canteen’. They are sometimes 8)’s as well. A large number of their population is composed of frustrated ex-members of 1), 3), 6), 10) and 11). Usually found in large groups.
Plus Points: Smoke in the eyes is said to clear the head.
Potential Pitfalls: Passive smoking could lead to lung cancer

5) Ping-Pong player
Pseudonyms: Sportsman, Stud, Gambhat
Peculiarities: A very rare species. Is usually found hanging around the gym, the TT room or the Field. Comes out of hibernation a couple of times in a year to ‘Play’ and is not heard of for the rest of the year. In Presidency, this class of people are stymied due to lack of opponents in their sporting pursuits.
Plus Points: If he likes you, you could make the departmental cricket team.
Potential Pitfalls: If he doesn’t, you could make the ICU.

6) Poetic Piner
Pseudonyms: Bechara, Kabi Guru, Romantic
Peculiarities: Characterised by a lovelorn expression. Appears disinterested with life and is often found humming songs from movies by Guru Dutt. This class of Presidencian has a high output of Lyrics and Poetry, most of it grossly misunderstood by non-sufferers. Generally sympathised with. If not cured soon, may become an 8). Strong affinity for those of type 10)
Plus Points: Will convince the most hardened cynic that true love exists.
Potential Pitfalls: May recite his poems to you.

7) Peeking Pryer
Pseudonyms: The gossip, Blabbermouth, CNN
Peculiarities: An inquisitive look and a piercing stare. Rarely found in one place at one time. Degree of lack in its own life is directly proportional to interest shown in the private lives of others. Members of 1) and 5) are preferred topics of conversation. Is known to suffer terribly if unable to meet a member of its own species at least once every two hours.
Plus Points: You could become extremely knowledgeable about the secret rumours in college.
Potential Pitfalls: Those rumours might be about you!

8) Partaker of Potent Potions
Pseudonyms : Junkie, High there, Totally Haloo
Peculiarities: Is often mistaken for an alien creature from outer space. Speaks in a language that is understood only by members of own group. These people bond among themselves tightly but rarely with others. Are given to intense fits of emotion. Sometimes may also be a 4) or a 10).
Plus Points: From a high point, you can see a lot.
Potential Pitfalls: The higher you are, the further you fall.

9) Passionate pupil
Pseudonyms: Bookworm, Topper, Slogger
Peculiarities: Usually spotted in any of the libraries. Very rarely observed, if at all, in the canteen. Face is often obscured by a large book. Goal is an obscure ideal, generally referred to as 'First Class First'. Conversation limited to item known as 'Syllabus'
Plus Points: Some of their marks may rub off onto you.
Potential Pitfalls: Is it really worth it?

10) Pensive Ponderer
Pseudonyms: Vaguo, Deep Thought, Wierdo
Peculiarities: Greets you with questions like, “What is the meaning of life?” “Why am I on this Earth?” and, “Is there a God?” Has a vacant stare on his face. Often overcome by fits of depression, which may cause a mutation into item 4) or 8).
Plus Points: May change your perspectives for the better.
Potential Pitfalls: May change your perspectives for the worse.

11) Pretentious Pseudo
Pseudonyms: Antel, Intellectual, Know-it-all
Peculiarities: Has all the answers, even before you ask the question. Appears to be personally acquainted with gentlemen with unusual names such as Nietzche, Sartre and Trotsky. Has the incredible ability to explain every problem in terms of obscure philosophies. Usually found in pairs, or with members of 10).
Plus Points: If you have a question about life, the universe or anything, he will have the answer.
Potential Pitfalls: The answer will lead to a million other questions.

12) Perpetually perplexed person
Pseudonyms : The author of such ridiculous pieces
Peculiarities: Wanders around aimlessly, wondering how he gets himself into these messes.
Plus Points: Doesn’t have too many minus points.
Potential Pitfalls: Not likely to survive after publication of this piece.

Space Filler

2005-03-20T00:36:00.000-06:00

It seems both readers of my blog are wondering where I have vanished to. Well last week I was here, now I am here, and next week I will be here. As you can tell, I'm enjoying myself too much to blog.

But duty calls (sigh). So here's one more of those two-minute quickies to bide you over till I get back.

Mr. Sagnik "CS" Nandy has said in his blog that he has no clue what I (or any other social science person for that matter) do. So here's a little heads-up.

Basically there are three kinds of economists in this world. They can be classified as follows based on their modus operandi.

Type 1 - Blue Whales

1. Are struck by deep insights about why the way we look at the world is all wrong.
2. Formulate a model for how the world should really be.
3. Win Nobel Prize (unless they die prematurely)
4. Are worshipped for ever after.

Type 2 - Salmon

1. Observe phenomena in the world.
2. Formulate models which attempt to explain said phenomena.
3. Use lots of math and jerryrig the model so it fits reality.
4. Test model using doctored data
5. Claim success until someone comes up with an alternative explanation.
6. Are looked at with regard in the academic community but unheard of otherwise.

Type 3 - Plankton

1. Read paper by Salmon.
2. Tweak one assumption.
3. Use obscene amounts of math and every Greek letter possible, to show either that a) Nothing changes or b) Everything changes.
4. Die in menial obscurity.

So what can you do, plankton - asks Mr. Nandy. Well not very much really. You see, plankton float in their part of the ocean and have no idea what's going on in other parts of the world. As for me, I'm a budding Applied Game Theorist. What that means is that I cannot answer the following questions.

1. What will India's GDP be next year?
2. What was India's GDP last year?
3. What's a GDP?
4. How long is a year?
5. How will the stock market behave?
6. Which stocks should you invest in?
7. Which stocks do I invest in?
8. How do credit card companies make money?
9. Why does Citibank insist my credit history is poor?
10. Will there be more jobs outsourced to India?
11. Will there be more jobs for Indians?
12. Will there be a job for me?
13. Will there be a purpose for me to serve on this Earth?

Actually, stop there. I should point out that Game Theorists have answered a number of meaningful questions that have puzzled people for centuries. Some discoveries by those whose footsteps I aim to follow.

1. Marriages are more likely to fail if the partners are jealous.
2. The current rain-rule in cricket matches sucks.
3. A woman is more likely to fake an orgasm if she's in love with her partner.
4. If you like a girl, never let her know.
5. Richer men will end up with hotter wives.
6. Democracy won't work except in exceptional circumstances.
7. Though sex is fun, its not always a good idea to do it. (This is what I am reading now)

Hmmm... and hmmmm.

So - in a nutshell, my line of work involves using lots and lots of complicated equations to prove stuff everybody over the age of 5 knows anyway.

Is it any wonder I blog so much?

PS (i) I have no idea why this post vanished for a day. I think it had something to do with my not republishing after adding the new links.

(ii) For Samit - This gentleman has expressed a great deal of interest in the equilibrium properties of duck-gang-rape. He spent a great deal of time at the Northwestern lagoon observing this phenomenon and then explained it to an awe-struck audience (including myself). If you want, I can explain to you why it is an inferior Nash for male ducks to indulge in gangbanging.

...if you were the last man on Earth

2005-03-07T20:17:00.000-06:00

Today's post in celebration of International Women's Day asks what if women did indeed run the world.

...I wouldn't ride with you if you were the last man on Earth.
...I'm workin' on it.

- The Quiet Earth (1985)

This is actually a small post (relative to my usual standards). The reason for its brevity is this. Anyway, this is a continuation on the theme of "Why we men have it so bad". For those who came in late, the situation is something like this:

...If you were the last man on earth and I was the last woman on earth, and the future of the human race depended on our having sex, simply for procreation, I still would not have sex with you.
...What's your point?

- Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery (1997)

Also this ties in to one of my more favourite activities - reading comics (what DID you think it was?).

The comic in question is Y: The last man. I liked this one so much I actually BOUGHT the trade paperbacks. Right now, the series is onto the 5th paperback (out of 8). So here's the story so far:

A mysterious plague destroys every living being on Earth with a Y chromosome. Every man, boy, bull, tomcat, sperm cell - EVERY one. Well, not EVERY one, actually - that wouldn't make for a very interesting story. The plague leaves two survivors. A young escape artist by the name of Yorick Brown (the title character Y), and his pet monkey Ampersand. So we have this one chap and all the females in the world at his disposal - heaven, did you say? I mean, this surely beats 72 virgins hands down. In other words:

...I would'nt marry you if you were the last man on earth!
...If I were the last man on earth I'd be too busy!

- The Lambeth Walk (1940)

Umm... not quite. In the story so far, Y has had 7 attempts on his life, 3 rape attempts - one of which was successful - and been subjected to violence and humiliation by all kinds of nut jobs, including a gang of single-breasted warriors led by a former chess grand master, a whip-carrying S&M freak, the Israeli army, a bunch of motorcycle-riding surgically-altered hermaphrodites and a former supermodel who was upset because her boob job was suddenly pointless. And right through this a huge number of groups are playing tug-of-war over him to make sure that when the Earth is saved, they hold all the cards. So serious international espionage happens as well. All in all, hardly fun and games (it is peppered with witticisms, though).

But let us set our hero aside for a moment and look at the world he lives in. The authors actually come up with a pretty reasonable counterfactual description of a world without men. Some of the major changes are:

- Judaism, Christianity and Islam collapse completely because of the absence of women in all levels of their heirarchy.
- Some countries, such as the Middle Eastern ones, fall into complete chaos because of the complete absence of women in government.
- Israel suddenly has no enemies and civil war breaks out.
- In the USA, the Republican Party is almost completely wiped out. The Democrats take complete control of the Senate and the Secretary of Agriculture becomes the President. The wives of former Republican senators lead a march to the White House, leading to a gun battle in DC.
- Almost all aircraft are grounded, as 95% of pilots worldwide are male.
- Construction activity comes to a standstill.
- Transport, power, communications all collapse.
- All satellites go offline.

There has been no mention of India in the story till now. I'm guessing that if all the men were to die tomorrow, India would not collapse as completely as the Arab countries, but would be more crippled than the Scandinavian countries. Lets try and imagine what might happen if this happened today:

- Sonia Gandhi becomes the PM, declares a state of emergency
- The armed forces collapse, but so do their counterparts in China and Pakistan.
- Some insurgent groups (LTTE, PWG) launch crippling attacks in some states.
- Production falls in almost all sectors
- States such as UP, Rajasthan and Haryana fall into chaos. Women who have never stepped out of the house suddenly find that the responsibility for running the land is theirs and are all at sea.
- Kerala, Mizoram and Goa set up emergency response systems fastest.
- The Communist Parties shut down. Mamata Banerjee becomes West Bengal CM.

I think I'll stop here, but you could go on with many scenarios. None of them are pretty, but its just something interesting to think about.

And now the question to the men now is - would you really want to be the last man alive in a state such as this? Take it from someone who spent three years of his life studying in the best girls' college in India (i.e. the best college for girls, NOT the college where the best girls went) - you REALLY don't.

PS - Y: The Last Man is published by DC Comics under their Vertigo imprint. Its written by Brian K. Vaughan and the paperbacks are available at most bookstores in the USA. And no - I am not getting paid for this - its a public service announcement.

Banga santaan

2005-03-01T19:58:00.000-06:00

I noticed a number of my male Bengali friends had much to say about the previous post - much of it relating to their desire to bang random samba dancers. If you were from another country, you might conclude that the men of Bengal are a sad, frustrated lot. In fact, you'd be right. But give them a break - its not really their fault. I shall explain why in a scientific study.

Observation

I recently noted that my male friends - most of them Bengali - have been suffering from what is known as "doormat syndrome". In other words, throughout their lives, they have been trod on by stiletto-clad feet until it hurts (which is pretty soon, if you know your stilettos). The average Bengali guy is therefore a confused chap who, in spite of a towering intellect, cannot figure out why he's missing out on the action that the Singhs, Aroras and Sharmas are making the most of.
On the other hand, the women of Bengal are using the aforementioned stilettos to good effect. Oozing confidence, intelligence and serious attitude - the world is at the feet of these tigresses, just waiting to be trod upon.

Why this strange divide? Why have the sons of Bengal caught a collective cold, while the rest of India keeps its hankies firmly in its pocket? To answer this question, we will have to go back in time.

Reason 1

The area referred to as Bengal (including present-day Bangladesh) has seen much less military action than the other parts of South Asia. Note, for example, that the Bengali caste system does not include a warrior caste.
The reasons are mainly geographical. Bengal contains the riverine plains of the Ganga-Brahmaputra system, and is incredibly green and fertile. Also the multitude of streams divided the land into small self-sufficient communities, each of which could grow pretty much whatever it wanted. These factors combined to turn the Bengalis into a contented bunch who didn't really feel like getting out of bed in the mornings, let alone tramp across the countryside to conquer the next village.
Compare this to the arid North where fertile land was at a premium, and the ruler with the most land to his name was invariably the most powerful. So the Northerners were forever riding into battle in an attempt to boost their landholdings. In fact at the time that the Rajputs were battling the Turks in the Thar, the Bengali men were taking afternoon siestas.

So how does all this ancient history affect Mr. Basu's love life? Well, its like this - in times of war, the relative stature of men, with respect to women in the community, will invariably rise. If the men are forever on horseback fighting for the glory of the land, the women... umm... just hang around. Swordsmanship isn't really a woman's forte. On the other hand, even today, while making the idol of goddess Durga, the first lump of clay is brought from a prostitute's house (one of the FEW things Bhansali got right in that movie he made), showing that Bengali men are only too glad to grant the superiority of women in bed. And considering they spend so much time in it...

Segue to the present and - Reason 2

The primary deity of Bengal is Goddess Durga, the embodiment of Shakti - woman power! Right through their childhood, all little Bengali boys are treated to an annual spectacle of people praying to a violent thousand-armed lady on a lion spearing a male demon with a spear. Then there is Kali, who is quite, quite scary and is portrayed walking all over her husband (a prostrate Shiva) with her blood-red tongue sticking out. And lest we forget, there's Lakshmi and Saraswati as well. Male Gods? What are those? I mean seriously, Kartik was also Durga's child. How come HE doesn't get his own festival?
And this is unique to Bengal. The Ghatis have their Ganpati Bappa, the Northerners have their Shivratri (which gets the award for the ritual most demeaning to women), and there's Dussehra, which coincides with Durga Puja, but where the lead character is the virile blue-skinned Rama, and the only woman involved is his hapless damsel-in-distress, Sita. If you thought that was bad, the Southerners do one better - they show devotion by pouring milk over an idol shaped like Shiva's phallus. No seriously - "Just in case you women didn't get the point that you are completely subservient to us, we shall make you bow to a divine d**k". How sad is that?
So basically, the vagina monologues are limited to Bengal, and everyone else is completely (well?)hung up on male domination.

With imagery like this, the average Bengali boy grows up in the shadow of the Mother Goddess, in awe of women in general and utterly under the thumb of his mother. Every time our little lad has wanted to defy mummy, an image of a lion and a spear flash through his brain, and the thought passes. Is it any wonder he finds himself wanting in the battle of the sexes?

So, history and social conditioning combine to make Bengali men complete and utter wimps. At the same time, the women of Bengal are confident, powerful and very very dangerous. Not even a fair fight. In fact the Bengali women are even competent to take on the testosterone-pumping "Wham bam, Sat sri akal ma'am" brigade of the North. And they thought Turks on horseback were bad!

So Messrs. Mukherjee, Basu, Chatterjee, et al - its not you. Its fate. Tough shit, guys.

A small suggestion, though. Make a beeline for the towns of Haryana and Rajasthan. There you will find women who are still under the misapprehension that they are inferior to menfolk. They have had a different set of ideas drilled into their heads, and are so completely subjugated that even you guys will have no trouble handling them.

A final prayer to Buchuchandi, the wrathful Bengali goddess of South Asian History -

"Maa Buchu, I know have offended thee with my shameless desecration of ancient history. Please find it in thy heart to forgive me my minor shenanigans, and turn thy mighty vengeance to targets within thine own realm of Notoon Inglistan. Om Shantih."

Like a horse and a carriage?

2005-02-18T18:19:00.000-06:00

Today's post deals with a wonderful lady - Mom Nature herself. Like any mother, her intentions are perfectly noble, and whatever she does is (in her eyes) for our own good. Yet she manages to screw up our lives completely. To begin with - her children have serious problems in their marital lives, and a lot of it can be traced right back to her.

Dr. Shirley Glass takes a look at reasons why married couples across the world find their sexual desire waning over time. Among the various reasons she points to - here's the relevant one.

...Unfortunately, some individuals are in relationships where they have never felt "sexual chemistry" for their partner; they don't enjoy looking at their partner, touching them, or kissing them. There are DNA components which are part of the chemistry between two people which may simply be lacking. An unfortunate trick of nature is that we tend to be most attracted to persons whose DNA is most opposite to us. Therefore, we may be attracted to someone who appears very exotic and different but would be a very poor choice because of incompatible backgrounds and interests.

In short, we are programmed to lust after people we are completely and utterly incompatible with!

Further evidence is available. At the University of Bern, a group of men were given plain cotton T-shirts and instructed to wear them for a week and to not use scented at any time during the week. The now-ripe items of clothing were handed to a group of women, who were asked to smell them (I'm thinking they didn't know what they were getting into), and declare which men they found most attractive based on this olfactory evidence alone.

That's right - you guessed it. The women picked those guys who were as far removed from them on the genetic tree as possible. Opposites attract, you see. Go for the exotic, scream our bodies.

So why this twisted bit of programming? Well, you see, Mother dearest realised that the offspring of two parents with very different DNA has a greater chance of survival than the child of two parents with very similar DNA. So not only is incest sick, its likely to produce a sick child too. This is so because it allows genetic diseases to be muscled out of the double-helix by dominant genes from far away (Thats the best I can do - if you want a more detailed explanation, I'll send you my soon-to-be geneticist brother's e-mail). And since attraction is controlled by pheromones, Paramita Bhattacharya's nose is engineered so that she melts when Ricardo Gonzales walks by but gives Abhijit Mukherjee the cold shoulder.

Well, thats well and good, you say. Marriage is an institution thats on its way out anyway, and here's the final helical nail in its coffin. Back to nature's way - free love makes for stronger babies, so spread the love around. Those cavemen really knew where it was AT, dude!

Whoa, there - hold on to your horses. You see, mother had one last little trick to play. The aforementioned study also showed that women who were on the pill pulled a Younis-esque reverse swing. They declared quite firmly that exotic does not equal erotic. Bring on the similarly DNA-ed men instead. Now how did that happen?

Well, its like this. Standard birth-control pills fool the body into believing its pregnant. This leads to the release of a hormone with an unpronouncable name, also called the "cuddling hormone". As you must have guessed, it fiddles with women's scent receptors so that all of a sudden doing the Tango with Roberto doesn't seem like such a good idea and your fifth cousin, twice removed, starts looking strangely... attractive.

Basically, like all mothers, She knows that a woman should marry a man who has much in common with her. And that is TRUE LOVE, unlike lust which was dealt with above. Such a man will make a good father for her child. BUT - if everything went according to plan, he wouldn't get the chance to father her child in the first place. Oooooh - twisted! So the Abhijits of the world were supposed to raise half-Brazilian kids, while some other guy was playing pater familias to the seed of their loins. I'm sorry, but thats just WRONG!

But fear not good-husband-material-type - maybe there's a way out. Slip a pill into her drink when she's not looking, and suddenly she's falling head over heels for you. That should get you through the first phase of marriage. Unless, you want to actually have a child. Because once the bundle of joy arrives, Mr. Right suddenly starts seeming... bland! At this point cut to Dr. Glass.

But I really shouldn't bother. Considering the amount of inbreeding going on, we Bongs are going to drop off the earth very soon. Not before the Gults, though.

Detour

2005-02-04T01:13:00.000-06:00

Fear not, intrepid fans - I am back after a break (in more ways than one).

I shall take a break from my usual practice of tying this post in with the previous one, as a favour to my dear friend Antara. The background being that I recently explained to her the different stages of relationships, a fact she proceeded to publicise on her blog. The result was a flurry of e-mails asking her to reveal this valuable information (most of the people asking, quite naturally, being men). For fear of misreporting, Antara has passed me the buck and so I shall elucidate.

Note:
(i) These definitions are valid only in an American setting. Things are quite, quite different in India - going on a DATE is a BIG DEAL! Not so here.
(ii) My source for this information, as Antara has pointed out, is a woman who I choose not to name. Let me also point out that in spite of being in possession of this information, it seems I was never able to correctly judge exactly which stage my relationship with her was in. So, my facts may be far from accuarate or useful.

Anyway - here are the stages (or so I am told)

1) Dating
First a definition - A date is a situation in which two unrelated single people meet to take part in some (usually harmless) activity in the absence of any third person. Note that the purpose for which they met, their intentions, or even their relationship prior to the date are completely unimportant. You meet a classmate over coffee to discuss the upcoming exam - thats a date. You meet an old friend over dinner after many years - thats a date. You go to a movie and the only other person willing to go with you just happens to be of the opposite sex - thats STILL a date. So everyone has trivially been on a few hundred dates. That DOES NOT count as dat-ING.
Dating, is when you have been on a number of dates with a certain person, and intend to continue.

2) Seeing someone
Here's the tricky bit. Apparently the subtle difference between dating and seeing someone is the issue of exclusivity. You can be dating many people over the same period of time, but you can only be SEEing one of them. That person still does not qualify as a girlfriend/significant other yet, but she has unspecified rights over your time. Usually when you find that you are dating only one person, and are not thinking of dating anyone else - you're seeing her.

3) Going out/Going steady
Right - now we get to the commitment bit. At this point you are in a firmly established relationship with this person. Now she becomes a significant other, and you have the right to introduce her as your girlfriend. At this point, all other dating stops. If you meet a classmate to discuss the upcoming exam - thats NO LONGER a date.

4) Living in
Obvious. Often skipped. So shall we.

5) Marriage
The ultimate stage. By now you are a very very tired man.

?) The breakup
Can happen at any stage. Preferrably early. But if you get to stage 5 then you'll just have to wait for the divorce.

??) The sex
Aha - all important question. Now when is the good part supposed to happen? Actually, its unspecified. Some talk about the third date rule. Don't know anything about that, but yes - its usually a good idea to get it out of the way before stage 4.

There you have it, gentlemen.

And from tomorrow we shall go back to discussing the small, hairless Chinese (not to be confused with the great hairless Mexican, which is a dog).

Hindi-Chini bhai-behen ?

2005-01-21T13:23:00.000-06:00

A dear friend who shall not be named has complained that I'm giving away too many secrets on my blogs. So, as an apology, this post is dedicated to him. The topic is one that is both very dear to him, and also segues beautifully from the previous posts. This is about Oriental women, lovingly referred to as chaptis.

Right - so I wonder what it is about chaptis that gets some Indian men all worked up. Is it just some kind of irrational fetish, or is there something deeper?

The first thing that strikes me about Chinese women is that they tend to be small and fragile-looking.
(Note, however, that this impression is invariably misleading. Anyone who has seen Chinese women at the gym will have noticed that they can usually clock up a couple of hours on the treadmill without breaking a sweat. In all likelihood, they can outlast most Indian men in a cross-country challenge. If you want more proof - check out Zhang Zhiyi in any of her leaping roles)
Anyway, back to the point. I think the apparent fragility of these women is an immediate turn-on. Hindi cinema has always played up the 'nazuk' sensuality of their heroines. 'Sheeshe ke ang' sounds pretty scary to me, but then I suppose most guys prefer it that way. Women like these provide just the right opportunity to strap on the shining armour and mount the white steed. Makes them feel all strong and manly, and I'm sure the women don't mind the attention.

I think thats the big reason. The other thing that is common to most Orientals is their surprising lack of body hair. This, as we all know, is a huge advantage for the women. The psychology behind such thinking shall be explored on another post.

So to all those who feel the India-China rivalry is getting out of hand, I say - make love, not war.

Colour coding

2005-01-18T01:53:00.000-06:00

Speaking of people of other races - I'm sure every Indian gang in the USA has their own little code word - in whatever language they are most comfortable with - to describe people of other races.

Our gang of grads here at Northwestern is no different. Sadly, the terms we use are not very interesting. They go something like this -

Blacks - 'Kallu' (very standard - a bit offensive, I suppose, but only if they knew what was being said). Alternatively, among Bongs, we occasionally use the term 'Shyamborno'. Other interesting words I've heard are - 'Danav' (very offensive), and 'hupsi' (pronounced hup-see, hup rhyming with pup). The last word I heard used by my friend Gaurab, who is Nepali. Apparently hupsi is Nepali for black. Again, not much imagination, but its so bizarre-sounding, I don't think anybody will figure out what it means.

Chinese - 'Chinkie' has outlived its usefulness, since by now all Orientals know what it means, and are offended by it. So alternatives have to be thought of. The one we use is 'Chapta/Chapti'. It refers to the noses of the race in question, which tend to be a little on the flatter side. Also, its broader in scope because it covers all nationalities from Japanese to Thai to Mongolian. I don't think its terribly offensive either. One person I know uses the term 'ding-dong', which doesn't make much sense really, so I don't use it.

Latins - The only expression used for these people is 'Makku', which derives from the English 'Mexican' - i.e. residents of the nation of Mexico. Its used for all people South of Texas, and I'm quite sure that the Colombians would be outraged if they knew that they were (essentially) being called Mexicans, but what they don't know can't hurt them now, can it?

Whites - The obvious one is 'gora'. If you want to be a little rude, you can say 'chikne/chikni' (as in - "Yaar, ye chikni bachhiyan itni maal kyon hoti hain?" - very few real Hindi words used but I think everyone follows). Also for White Americans, there is 'Amroo'. If you're Bengali, you just use the correct word, which is 'Markin'. Like many Bengali words for people of other nationalities, there is no obvious link between it and the English word. I could also think of 'Farashi' (French), 'Tashkar' (Turkish) and so on, but I digress.

So the final question is - is it racist to use these expressions? Personally, I think it is. After all, we are typecasting people on the basis of their (different from us) skin tones. And its easy to fall into the trap of making insulting remarks about a community just because they can't understand what you're saying. That said, I will say that in a list of activities spreading hatred, this one lists right at the bottom. And I can live guiltlessly with something this minor against my name.

And then again, I'm sure the Chinese have their own word to describe us brown-skinned folk. And I'm betting its not half as polite as 'desi'.

All generalisations are wrong

2005-01-12T17:49:00.000-06:00

As you may have noticed, over the last few posts I have been ranting against people who make sweeping generalisations. In this post, I'm looking at it from the other side. So is it really such a bad thing to jump to conclusions about people?

Miss Marple did it, and solved murders. All she had to do was think who the dramatis personae reminded her of, and presto - you had your murderer.

This brings me to the first issue. In the USA, the police have recently been facing a lot of heat for treating suspects of different races differently. A black man who is speeding in Hyde Park will almost certainly be pulled over and seacrhed. A white woman in Evanston will probably get a friendly warning. Its also not just the police - many people, including Indians will walk the other way if they see a young black man walking towards them at night. These incidents do indicate a degree of racism present in American society - specifically the police. Critics point out that its things like this that are dricing a wedge between the blacks and the rest of the population.

But I'd like to look at it from the other side. If you are a policeman patrolling Hyde Park, you'd know that the chances were high that the driver of the car you pulled over had a gun on him. If you'd seen enough criminals, you'd also know that a large number of them were black. The cop's reaction is only natural given his instincts and his training.

Its unreasonable to expect cops not to work from generalisations like these. By pulling over old white ladies in Evanston, they'd most likely be wasting their time. If they need to be effective, they need to know which arrests are most likely to (not necessarily certain to) catch real criminals.

Again, the Indian guys who avoid all black men on the street after dark may be racists and will probably grow up to be bigots, but they'll most likely get mugged less often.

So do we really want to be policed by open-minded, racially sensitised, liberal thinking men? Or would we be happier knowing that trigger-happy mavericks were gunning down people based solely on their skin colour?

Its one of those nasty questions. But I think most people, if they were honest, would choose option 2. Ultimately when our lives and property are at stake, we can give high thinking a miss.

Probably what Joy Adamson thought, just before the lion's claws connected with her vital organs.

Rupu Gupta benefit match

2005-01-03T20:54:00.000-06:00

This post is dedicated to my dear old friend Rupanwita a.k.a. Rupu/Rupesh/Roopster/Rupert, depending on just how pseud you really are. The reasons for this dedication are the following:

a) She just revealed to me that she's always thought I was gay, and my previous post did nothing to dispel that notion (apparently 10 vs 1 is a no-contest)
b) Back in the days of college, she would hold forth on Linda Goodman's views on Cancerians (she's one too) and their likes, dislikes, relationships, mood swings, appetites, hair loss and pretty much everything else.
c) She is my cosmic dual and I just love her too much.

Well, since I assumed earlier that I could blame all my problems on the relative positions of heavenly bodies when I was born, I decided to delve a little deeper into that theory.

Test 1. My physical appearance. (Source)

According to the experts, the following are the characteristics of Cancerian men.
a) Height ranges from short to medium.
b) Plump with a full chest and broad shoulders.
c) Short arms, small feet and plump, stubby fingers.
d) Round face with small chin and large mouth.
e) Light eyes.

Ahem, well. Those of you who have seen me will be rolling on the floor by now. For those who haven't - I'm 5'11'', weigh 63Kg, wear a size 38 shirt and size 10 shoes. Not sure of my glove size, but you get the general drift.

Clearly, the planets not up to the mark here.

The score for the planets: W-0, L-1

Test 2. Mental/Emotional/Fluff (Source)

So this is how I should behave, say the men who know.

1: Often times, your biggest problem in relationships is your moodiness.
2: You are very protective and nurturing, especially toward your family.
3: Whenever there is an emotional situation, you're usually the first to laugh or cry.
4: In love, you prefer to be the one doing the pursuing.
5: People don't have to tell you how they are feeling, because you usually already know.
6: If you aren't getting what you want, you might resort to crying or sulking to get your way.
7: When it comes to dating, you strongly prefer a night in over a night out.
8: You are easily hurt and a bit suspicious of strangers' motives.
9: You don't get jealous easily, only on occasion.
10: When you get in a fight with someone, it tends to get personal fast.
11: You'd like to have a family with lots of children.
12: You have a huge collection of keepsakes from your past.
13: You are good with your money - never wasting it.
14: You've been known to express yourself through creative writing or art.
15: A person's past is very interesting to you, good and bad parts included.

Well - lets take them one by one.

1: Well, I suppose I am moody - can't say how it affects my relationships. I'll be generous mark this one right.
2: Pretty much. So also right.
3: Hmmm... the old "choose your answer" trick. Definitely the first person to laugh, but I can't remember having cried in 7 - maybe 8 years. So this is a half-point.
4: Though the sample size is pretty small, I'll say yes.
5: Well, I think I know, but how would I know if I was right. Bad answer. No points.
6: OK, how old am I? Wrong, wrong, wrong!
7: Don't really date, but if I did, I think that would be true. 1 point.
8: Another half-and-half. Takes a LOT to hurt me, but I will agree that I'm suspicious as hell. Half-points again.
9: True enough.
10: Nope. No points.
11: Please! Two would be quite enough, thank you.
12: Could they BE further from the truth? I don't possess a single photgraph.
13: Very true - have often been accused of being stingy.
14: Only if this blog counts.
15: Bang on! They don't get snoopier than me, dawg.

OK - so the that's 8 out of a possible 15. Just over the halfway mark, so I'll say they pass.

The score: W-1, L-1

So, its tied but only just. Time to take it into the decider.

Test 3. Relationships (Source)

To begin with let me clarify that I use the word "relationship" in its broadest sense. So I'm including my interactions with ALL people I know from the postman to my mother, and see whether their signs predict how well we get along.

a) Aries, Libra - Severe clash of personalities. Expect ego battles between cardinal signs of different elements.
b) Scorpio, Pisces - Excellent relations. These are the other two water signs, and there should be great chemistry and understanding between you and them.
c) Capricorn - The complementary sign. Very amicable relationship between very different people, with a lot of learning on both sides.
d) Taurus, Virgo - Earth signs. Friendly relations, but no strong emotions.
e) Gemini, Leo - Will affect your life a great deal, but the relationship will not always be cordial.
f) Sagittarius, Aquarius - Not much likelihood of relationships developing.
g) Cancer - Natural kinship between people of the same sign.

Right that was the synopsis. Now considering all the people who have had any major impact in my life and checking their signs we find.

a) Notable Libran - my brother. Clashes - certainly. Though personally I just think its a sibling thing, I'll take that prediction as OK. Few notable Arians, so we'll skip that.
b) Uncannily true. An OVERWHELMING number of my friends fall under these two signs. Also I've found that people I tend to enjoy spending time with turn out to be Pisceans/Scorpions. So this is accurate also.
c) Again true - the friends not covered in the previous category are pretty much all Capricornians. Also includes some people who I really respect. So 3 out of 3.
d) Well, my mother is a Taurean, so we'll say yes there (I know I'm being generous). And also true that I've had very stable relationships with both Taureans and Virgoans. Hmm - these guys are picking up.
e) Notable Geminid - father. Affected me - obviously. People born under these signs do tend to be very interesting - not always in a good way, though. Once again I'll say yes.
f) Hmm - of my many, many friends, I can pick out less than 5 born under each of these signs. My goodness, these guys are on a roll.
g) Well - its a perfect score, I think.

So the final score reads: Planets - W-2, L-1

Post-match analysis.

Expert 1: This was a well-fought series. Though the planets pulled through in the end, they did get trounced in first game, and the second one could have gone either way. I think the team needs to sit down and have a long look at their strategy. Maybe a few changes in the team are called for, and there is definitely scope for improvement in some departments. All in all, I think they should consider themselves lucky.

Expert 2: Lets give credit where its due. They did pull thorugh in the crunch game, and once they got in their stride, they never looked like losing. And you must remember that the match was played on a sticky wicket. If they had a short, fat, whiny crybaby like they expected, I don't think anything could have stopped them.

Commentator: And there you have it - the end of our exciting coverage of the RGBM. Tune in next week for more crap. And now back to the studio.

Sexuality Crisis

2004-12-29T01:21:00.000-06:00

Well, it happened again. Once again, someone assumed I was gay. If I wasn't so inured to this, I suppose I would be annoyed. But I'm past caring now.

In fact, there was a point when I had been hit on by more men than women (luckily, that has ceased to be the case). At that point I even considered whether I was actually in denial about being gay. Now in retrospect, I think I can do a re-analysis

Top 10 reasons in favour of my being gay
1) I have very good personal hygiene
2) I am terribly up-to-date on dressing trends
3) I notice people's clothes
4) I can tell the difference between peach, pink and salmon
5) I have colour-coordinated bath linen
6) I think plastic glasses are tacky
7) I think I look good in corduroy
8) I'm finicky about keeping my beard trimmed
9) I use conditioner and shampoo separately
10) I hate beer

Top 1 reason why I'm NOT gay
1) I close my eyes and picture Brad Pitt naked. Have to throw up and watch 1 hour of (FEMALE) porn to erase images from my mind. Lesbian action preferred.

Right then, so what does that make me?

Decided to claim I was metrosexual. Actually managed to pull it off for a while. Until a very fashionable lady from Bombay sniffed at me disparagingly and said "No metrosexual would be caught dead in those shoes. And shouldn't you be at the gym?".

Right now I have no idea. The only fear I have is that women will assume I'm gay and stop wanting to sleep with me. As if the situation wasn't bad enough already. I think some of this has to do with being born in July, 1979. That's the sign of the crab in the year of the sheep. For the uninitiated, these are both the most feminine signs in their respective mythologies. Just my luck.

Perhaps I should stop vacuuming.

Queer Eye

2004-12-28T01:31:00.000-06:00

Gay culture is a big deal in this country. In fact, its more than that. I have never seen a people so obsessed with stereotypes than Americans. And sexuality being a hot issue, the gay and the straight stand in two distinct cultural zones, and are being pushed further apart with the introduction of every new fall line.

So straight men drink beer. And gay men drink pink gins and prettily coloured cocktails. I still remember the horror on my American friend's face when I ordered a green apple martini (apparently its strictly a girls drink).

I also hear about this TV show Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. Basically five classy gay men (referred to as the Fab Five) burst into a scruffy straight man's life and drag him kicking and screaming to a beauty parlour to buff his toenails and teach him how to sip his martinis, both shaken and stirred.

Now I dislike this show immensely. The underlying premise is simple - to be neat, clean, well-groomed and cultured, you need to sleep with men. The men who sleep with women are all slobs, therefore, and the women tolerate them anyway. So some MSM's are needed to tell these walking testosterone factories to take a daily bath.

In this country there are just some things straight men can't do. Avoid anything pink (or close to it). Any kind of clothes that are slightly shiny are out. Personal hygiene and good grooming are to be avoided as far as possible, and expressions like "That's so sweet", "tacky", "bedskirt", "bath linen" and "you look fabulous", are to be avoided at all costs.

This reminds me of the days when I was 6 years old and got regularly teased by the bigger guys who concluded that by not joining them to play football, I was actually a girl. In the face of logic like that, I gave up.

Then I grew up. But sadly, many people refuse to.

Beverage of choice

2004-12-24T02:56:00.001-06:00

And since the word does appear in the title, I suppose we need a post on beer (hate the stuff myself, by the way).

Any beer commercial is marketed at morons, in my opinion. It's almost always "look, here's a big pair of tits--now drink this!"

...Not that I mind seeng a big pair of tits, I'm just saying.

- from a forum for beer drinkers

Well, there you have it.

Anyway, so I was hunting for a snap of the ad that I had mentioned in the previous post - the one with the UMich girl and OSU guy playing tonsil football - and I came across this witticism. Also a bunch of other ads. Considering I wasn't sure what brand of beer it was, my searches were pretty specific, and I found a bunch of unrelated, albeit interesting, stuff.

One thing that was completely obvious was that beer manufacturers believe very strongly that a fantastic pair of cans are essential in order to sell their cans. Beer drinkers are supposedly a very macho lot, and wear their male-ness on their sleeves (in the form of tattoos involving grisly murder weapons, usually). Such men are clearly cavemen who respond to very basic stimuli. The obvious one being sex. So show them tits and sell them beer.

I will briefly point out that not only is this completely anti-feminist, it doesn't help the image of the men of this world. We DO have brains you know. And we use them - not all our decisions are made 2 feet below.

That said, the interesting thing I noted was that Budweiser had actually run a series of controversial ads aimed specifically at gay men. The first ad showed two men holding hands, with a punchline - "Be Yourself". Naturally, this led to howls of protests from conservative groups in America. Typical, isn't it. Anyway, Budweiser continued running these ads for a while, but only in gay publications. Later, it ran ads with mildly suggestive gay themes in these publications.

Clearly, this showed that the company realised an important truth - a significant proportion of its customers didn't like big (or any kind of) tits, and they had to reach out to these people.

The story didn't end there, though. There's a bunch of e-mails doing the rounds from people on both sides of the divide, trying to rally support to their cause. Again, there is no shortage of people with no work in their lives. I feel sad for such people. They seriously need to see some tits - or whatever.

And speaking of men and women

2004-12-20T13:12:00.000-06:00

So why can Superman and Spiderman have ordinary wives who know their secrets, while giving Wonder Woman an ordinary husband poses huge problems?

On a related note, Rahul told me about an interesting thing that happened in Ann Arbor. As you may know, the University of Michigan (AnnArbor) and the Ohio State University have a huge rivalry going. Both are members of the elite Big Ten League (so is Northwestern, but thats another story), and are bloody good at football. So UMich-OSU matches usually lead to a great deal of fuss.
Anyway, so some beer company puts up a print ad, which was reasonably unoffensive as beer ads go (which isn't saying much). They have a girl in a UMich sweatwhirt and a guy in an OSU sweatshirt kissing. Both holding the relevant brand of beer, and the catchline goes "brings even the worst enemies together", or some such.
What was probably not surprising was that the students at UMich made a bonfire of these posters. What was surprising was their main objection - Why was the girl in the UMich sweat and not the other way around. In Columbus, Ohio, the reaction was one of glee. After all, they got to be the dominant partners in the relationship.

All this is similar to the objections that some Muslims had to Mani Ratnam's Bombay. Why was the female character Muslim and not the other way around?

Final example - Antara points out the following on her blog.

Indian men have this peculiar thing with white women...now I will say I noticed that more brown women date white men than the other way around. Part of me says, this isn't right- how much of this is exoticization and one of those 'Indian fetishes' (I've met white males who do have 'brown women' fetishes...trust me). But there's this whole power thing with white women I don't get, some post colonial condition I don't have an insight into.

The above is absolutely true. You see a LOT of white guys dating desi girls, but the reverse rarely happens. In the few cases that it does (I can think of a very obvious example close to home), the guy usually assimilates himself into the American milieu before going out, and for all practical purposes is a PIO, rather than an Indian strictly.

I trace all of these phenomena to a single point. Everywhere in the world, the woman is the one who marries into the man's family and not the other way around. Even in lesser relationships (not amounting to matrimony), the woman becomes the man's and not the other way round. The direction of the possession mapping is unequivocal and unidirectional.

So WW is marrying beneath her status and Supes is not.

So a guy kissing a girl is expressing his ownership over her (a better word is haque)

So a brown woman is upping her status by marrying into the superior culture, with no cost to the guy. If a brown guy married a white woman, he would have to first become part of American culture to prevent the girl from taking a step down.

And no amount of hyphenated post-marital surnames will change that.

Wonder Woman

2004-12-16T20:32:00.000-06:00

For those of you who have been living in a cocoon at the bottom of the Hudson river for the last 30 years, click on the link above.

After the post on Stevie boy, I wondered about the woman in his life. I think WW is a fascinating sociological specimen. Here - in a skimpy, spangled nutshell - you have an idea of gender relations - particularly the strange and laughably contradictory views that men have of how their women should be.

A little history lesson first.

Wonder Woman was introduced into the world gingerly in 1942. At that time, the big guns of comic books (Superman, Batman) were all male. The prevailing idea was that a female lead couldn't sell comics. To cover up for her unfortunate gender, the writers added a few ingredients - patriotism (star-spangled girl, also her debut was around the time of Pearl Harbour and she was married to a US airman); mythology (very bad rewriting of the Greek myths in her back story); and of course gratuitous T&A.

To begin with WW had only female villains to fight. To expect a woman - even with those cool bracelets and lariat - to kick the asses of male supervillains was too far-fetched for the public to swallow. Also WW was shoehorned into this odd relationship with the good Capt. Trevor. This is where the complex politics of man-woman relationships entered the picture.

Note that Superman could marry mortal Lois and Batman could (briefly) woo the winsome Vicki, but when you have a strong (and they don't come stronger than her) woman in a relationship with a decidedly ordinary man, things tend to look bad for the guy in question.

To save Steve from the severe embaressment of being regularly saved by his girlfriend, the authors played up his military history, his courage and fighting spirit IN SPITE of not having any superpowers. Finally Steve never realised that Diana and WW were the same person and often rushed in to save his damsel, believing her to be in distress. At times like these, WW was only too happy to simper "Oh Steve", and give our hero a long kiss.

Note: read about WW history here,

Cut to the post-feminist era. Now superheroines are accepted with open arms (yeah right!). In the DC universe, decidedly sexual women - Black Canary, Zatanna (Why would anyone fight crime in fishnets?) and more recently Huntress - take the stage. With kickass attitudes, they can take down any villain - male or female - and are incredibly slutty to boot.

Now the focus is back on our lady. She has the first-mover advantage. So she is already queen of the scene. Time to start taking WW seriously. So her godly powers are accentuated and she is made a UN ambassador (there has never been that much collective cleavage in any security council sitting). Now remains the problem of the insignificant other. Being a product of the 1940's, WW was strictly monogamous. So opportunity to position her as the pristine queen - to be admired and desired, but never attained. But what of Stevie boy? Well, take the easy way out. Steve (like all men with powerful girlfriends) has sudden ego hassles, walks out on her and marries the comic relief. So he is now a complete jerk (courageous World War heroism notwithstanding) and she's better off without him.

Now in this new avatar, WW is strictly kept out of any relationships. Subtle sexual tensions vis-a-vis Batman and Aquaman are being explored, but they are never overt (nor will they ever be).

The new WW is a beacon for her entire gender. She is smart, bold, ethical, and responsible. A complete role model, a woman to be looked up to. She can kick ass on an Olympian scale and remain the heart of the JLA. In other words, someone to be taken VERY SERIOUSLY.

Oh, and she still wears a high-cut, backless, strapless swimsuit that masquerades as a costume.

Men, you see, will always be pigs.

Prince Consort?

2004-12-14T01:52:00.000-06:00

Catching up on the JLA stories got me thinking - of all people - of Captain Steve Trevor. So who is he, you might ask. Well, Steve occupies pride of place in the comic book universe because he got to live every pubescent teenagers hidden fantasy - this is the man who actually slept with Wonder Woman.

This is, in my opinion, what sets Wonder Woman apart from all the other comic book heroines. She was a super-powered woman who settles for a very very ordinary man. True the reverse has happened many times.

Examples - Peter and Mary Jane, Ray and Jean, Ralph and Sue, Logan and Mariko and of course - Clark and Lois.

But when it comes to the comic book heroines, they just have to find a significant other who has some super-power too. List them all out - Jean, Emma, Ororo, Sue, Wanda, Janet, Barbara, Dinah - the lot of them have had relationships only with "more powerful" men.

All except for Diana, that is. This woman broke the stereotype. She was incredibly powerful (and had an outfit that was part of every geek's wet dream), but chose ordinary mortal Steve over the spandex-clad brigade.

Identity Crisis

2004-12-14T01:35:00.000-06:00

Well, holidays have begun in all earnest. So time for some serious randomness.

To begin with, I have been reading Identity Crisis. Described as the Comic Event of the year, it certainly lives up to expectations. OK, so its no Crisis on Infinite Earths, but if you compare it to recent comic offerings, especially Marvel's AWFUL Avengers Disassembled, it really stands out.

I have read #1 - #6 and am eagerly awaiting #7. The murder mystery they've spun is beautifully written, and everyone is churning out incredible theories to explain them. Issue #6 gave a possible direction, but I'm really hoping its a red herring.

A common argument against IC is that its way too gritty, and will only lead to the Marvel-isation of the DC universe. Thats possibly true, and its also likely to alienate a big section of the comic reading population - kids. However, as a 25-year-old I really couldn't care less. I just love it - and frankly, DC have been pushing the envelope with their other series. Side note - anyone who loves comics just HAS to check out Y: The last man.

I have my first comment!

2004-11-24T01:42:00.000-06:00

Yippeyahoo.

Thank you dear Psamit - may Outlook reserve the top right corner of its cover permanently for you.

Yippeyahoo again.

Which reminds me of Prince of Persia 2, which I haven't played in days.

Right... well then - onward!

2004-11-23T17:49:00.000-06:00

I can't believe there's already a Gamesmaster. I checked his blog - the idiot has never posted anything.

SQUATTER!!