word salad

Watched: Zindagi Milegi Na Dobara

2011-07-31T12:27:00.001-04:00

I just don’t know how to begin this review. I’m tempted to simply say I liked this movie and that was that. But then I also feel compelled to expound a bit more on its virtues. Forthwith, I present the following awards:
Surprise Package award: Katrina Kaif. Who woulda thunk? The Kaif is so perfectly cast in this radiant, likeable-girl role that one must actually congratulate the casting director. Kaif’s Laila the diving instructor is happy, impulsive, fearless, and needless to say, eye-poppingly pretty. She deserves the award because she actually does embody the spirit of the film and its message.

Best Moment award: Hrithik Roshan, when he spots a group of wild horses in the Spanish countryside during their road trip. Simply one of the loveliest moments he’s ever enacted on screen.

Most Baffling Hair award: Hrithik had his dishevelled mane, Kaif had her glossy curls, Kalki her straight, chic blunt, and Abhay his regular boy-haircut. But what, in the name of Egad, happened to Farhan? (And his wife in real life’s a hairstylist.) I just didn’t get his non-descript curly look. It looked sheep-like and cried out for a pair of shears. Super-interesting and engaging character, dud haircut.

Overshadowed but Still So Cool award: Abhay Deol. The night before I watched ZNMD, I had watched Deol in Road, Movie. So I had rather a lot of him in two days. Still, I’m being objective when I say he is slightly overshadowed by the other two boys. Never mind. His dimples seem to gain in worthiness as he ages, and his easy body language and demeanour are really neat.

Slap Her, She’s French award: Kalki. (I refuse to write her last name because I can’t pronounce it.) Now, I’m merely being silly by handing her this award. The girl is dashed cool and can certainly slip into a role with ease. I just wish to see her in more roles before I really decide on what award to give her.

As to the little matter of the film in its entirety, well, it has a lot going for it. A trio of friends takes off for Spain- a kind of extended bachelor party- to celebrate the impending wedding of one of them. While there, they each have to propose an adventure sport that all three must participate in. And that in effect is the story, with a layer of sub-plots of each character’s evolution through the trip. With a storyline like this, there’s plenty of room for meanderings in exquisite rural Spain, and also for lots of indulgent scenes with the three friends- and these elements I had no problem with. In fact, the chemistry among the three was really pretty terrific, and the sub-plots were also all fine.
In terms of pacing, the editing could have been crisper between the first sport and the next. There was so much time spent on each, too, that it became more ‘tell’ and less ‘show’ which was a bit of overkill for me.
Then there’s the matter of the ‘boy’ aspect of the friendship. I’ve begun to despair of ever seeing convincing and engaging stories of women’s friendships in Hindi movies, unless there are such films and I’ve never seen them. Not that there’s a problem with boys being friends and taking off to Spain on a bachelor trip, tra la la, which gets dampened because the fiancée (a GIRL) shows up. I just want to be shown similar stories from the other side.
That leads in nicely to the next minor but niggling grouse- why did Abhay’s fiancée, Kalki, have to be shown as nearly getting them all in a crash while she’s driving? I didn’t see what this scene added at all; it seemed a little patronising and off-track from the film’s sensibility. Also, too much face time with Hrithik. He’s the biggest star, so we had to sit through countless up-nostril shots of his head. This abated in the second half, but.
The title, although clunky, perfectly ties up the spirit of the story. I enjoyed myself thoroughly, travelling mentally to Spain again and revelling in its whitewashed rural glory. For that alone, I would watch the movie again. Slap me, I’m biased.

Tree

2011-07-15T08:19:00.002-04:00

It is foolish
to let a young redwood
grow next to a house.

Even in this
one lifetime,
you will have to choose.

That great calm being,
this clutter of soup pots and books -

Already the first branch-tips brush at the window
Softly, calmly, immensity taps at your life.

~Jane Hirshfield

Readings: The Everest Hotel by Allan Sealy

2011-05-04T17:35:00.001-04:00

Somewhere in the foothills of the Himalayas is a town called Drummondganj, where time is measured solely by the seasons and on the roof of a crumbling mansion lives a 90-year-old former mountaineer with a wandering mind. The mansion, once the Everest Hotel, is now a shelter run by an order of nuns who also look after the old man- Immanuel Jed- and a motley crew of others.
Ritu, the newest nun, arrives at Everest when the town is in the midst of a political upheaval- the struggle for statehood so familiar in the Indian milieu. That’s not all the upheaval either: Ritu bears a resemblance to Jed’s late wife, and this causes the old man’s mind to come further unhinged. (However, Jed’s mental wanderings are erratic; some days, he is lucid, a great raconteur and quite a wit.) Then there is his young friend Brij, who is a part of the statehood struggle, and who visits him often. And who, on the roof of Everest, among Jed’s bathtubs and other paraphernalia, begins a doomed attraction to the young nun.
The rhythm of life at Everest is then further rippled by the arrival of a young German tourist, Inge, who is on a unique quest- to unearth the history of a dead uncle, a former poet who is buried in the cemetery adjoining Everest. Inge is the fulcrum of the story in some ways. Her mysterious, drug-fueled passions, her abrupt German sense of observation, and her skill at sculpting a new gravestone for her uncle, all intrigue and disturb Everest in ways deeper than the inhabitants realize.
Of these inhabitants, I could not pick a favorite. They all seemed so complete- flawed and unique. And the story itself seemed to fall naturally into three parts: the arrival of Ritu, the arrival of Inge, and the arrival of the child Shama. Three completely different entities with completely divergent reasons for coming to be at Everest. (Also, Ritu’s name in itself was a brilliant yet obvious device- it means ‘season’ in Hindi.)
And lastly, the writing. It is, simply put, brilliant. Sensual, heavy with imagery and perfect shades of sepia and blue. The poetic division of time into the Hindu seasons- Asadh, Jeth, Chait, Kartik, and so on- the lyrical descriptions of the mountains, the flowers (Ritu and Jed share an interest in botany) and the heartbreaking decline of Jed’s mind all flow across the page with flawless pacing and structure. I wonder why Allan Sealy is not more famous. The Everest Hotel was nominated for the Booker, after all. I would definitely love to read more from him and am now on a determined quest for his Trotter Nama and other works.

Just because

2011-04-30T03:10:00.000-04:00

Because, predictably, one wants to be in Paris right now.
Paris Pink by fsudm on Polyvore.com

Readings: The Ingenious Edgar Jones

2011-04-22T12:10:00.015-04:00

The Ingenious Edgar Jones tells the story of a mysterious dark-haired boy, born ahead of his time on a lightning-filled night in the Oxford of the 1800s. Immediately upon his arrival, he disappoints and vaguely puzzles his mother- she had wanted a girl- and delights his father- but slowly, as his life goes on, this state of affairs is somewhat reversed.

The boy Edgar, while supremely gifted with what would now be called mechanical abilities, lags behind in reading and writing and thus remains functionally illiterate until as late as seven or eight. Constantly drawn to the great outdoors, he figures out ways to escape his lessons and roam free in the wilderness outside his home. Then, one day, on a sojourn right into the city, he comes across a fascinating place- an iron forge- and promptly offers himself up for an apprenticeship.

Later he is taken in by a Professor of Anatomy from one of Oxford’s colleges- the old man, never named, sees the spark in the boy’s creativity and takes him on in an apprenticeship of his own- for his grand dream project of a museum of natural history. But all the while, what Edgar wants as badly as he wants to invent things of metal and bone, is that eternal quest for most children- parental approval- and that espcially from his father.

His master at the forge, the Professor, and lastly his kindly master at the invention shop- Mr Stevens, all fall short of his desires for validation. Naturally. His father, William, is unable to look beyond Scripture and accept his boy’s somewhat different vision and talents.

And this is the crux of the story. A child, born both different and gifted; the religious climate in the England of the 1800s where Science and God are raging against two sides of the debate, and the devastating social justice of the time that Edgar finally comes up against.

The story ends with a somewhat different outcome- magical realism, almost, which did not jibe well with the rest of the story. However, Edgar is a curious and engaging fellow; you do want to follow along on his adventure, want to laugh with him (and he does laugh an awful lot) and weep when his brave heart is disappointed yet again. His inventions, whether of bone or metal or cloth, are marvelous, his imagination fierce and his spirit tender yet powerful.

Elizabeth Garner is a writer of both vision and precision, each of Edgar’s futuristic inventions outlined with spare yet well-rounded detail. Edgar's initial fascination with metal is well-structured into his curiosity for natural history, and then finally his joy of invention itself. The emotions are evoked more from the reader, rather than laid out on the page in grandiose prose. I enjoyed the tale as much as the telling, and would love to read more from Garner. (I almost wish for a sequel to Edgar.)

Elephant Bells

2011-04-06T11:03:00.004-04:00

He killed thirteen people, they told us. Would walk to a house at night, knock on the door. And whoever opened it, he would kill.

Well then, quite a story it was, especially for a Saturday morning in the shallows of a still, olive green river looking at his placid eyes. And he had a bell around his neck! Stories of horror seem hard to believe at this moment. I want to scratch his ears. And I do. I also wade into the water and lend a hand to his mahout in scrubbing him down- his tough, dark skin and massive body feel like a kind of living ship, a mysterious craft bound for the center of the earth rather than just the hide of a mere creature that can be tamed, be kept by the likes of us.

The rest of the afternoon flowed by in a mix of elephants (some so dangerous in mast, they are kept chained to a hillside) and black-faced langurs waiting to eat off the scraps of elephant meals, and then a tiny orphaned elephant that wrapped her trunk around your finger and pulled. My heart almost stopped when she did that the first time- right from the bristly hair on her head to her oval toenails, she was a miracle of longing and heartbreak. Sigh.

Walking back to our cottage, a familiar sight- the goats. And a herd of spotted deer off in the distance, looking up at us critically. One has fine, large antlers and a proud stance. He looks like he doesn’t approve. They stand under the golden droplet flowers of an acacia tree, tense and alert. Framed with a backdrop of a looming, dark gray mountain, they are unaware of the beauty they give to human eyes.

When I go away from the city, this is exactly what I want to see. Places where the mountain almost overwhelms you, and you can see each spot on a deer, and can recognize the faces of the goats and that of their ancient, gap-toothed herder- these are the places I want.

In the Company of Goats

2011-04-05T23:38:00.005-04:00

It is a strange experience to be at eye-level with a goat: particularly one that is kneeling down to have a drink from the swimming pool that you are in. When I thought about ‘wildlife’- we were in a National Tiger Reserve, after all, goats were not the first creature on my list. But these goats came, and they wandered, they drank, and they squatted or walked up and down on the porch of our little dark-red cottage in the woods as if it were home. And it was, for all intents and purposes, surely.

That first afternoon, after the encounter with these other-wordly, marble-eyed creatures, we made our way like lemmings down into the rock-framed infinity pool that we had so longingly eyed on our way to the cottage. It was everything. First we each chose one of the flat rocks bordering the water, and like lizards in the sun, simply sat the afternoon away. Oh how transparently city-weary we were! To hear the silence and to count the ripples on the water were for us, bliss. Then, a plunge. There was even a tree-house as part of the view, weaving in and out of sight with the wind.

Later, the rain. Not the weary urban showers that fill the city like a teacup, but wild, fresh rain that sounds like a war on the tin roofs.

I may never leave. Luckily, we have tomorrow.

and...

2011-03-16T09:37:00.002-04:00

Image via Wikipedia

the wave at dawn-
and one red parasol
among the ruins
---------

My heart goes out to Japan. While Spring is a riot of flowers here, there is a chill wind and bleak skies and flattened houses floating out to a black ocean. Beautiful babies are being tested for radiation.

I hope the cherry blossoms make it this year.

2011

2011-02-28T12:10:00.002-05:00

And I watched it live. Best Supporting Actress Melissa Leo actually swore- the f word, no less, but I barely registered it. The show was quite a snooze- I perked up when Javier came up as a nominee and also a presenter, but that was pretty much that. So, on to what really got my attention.

Can Berry do no wrong? Apart from having one of the FEW faces on earth that can rock a haircut like that, she also manages to look like a sort of human tiramisu with diamonds. Gosh, even though the back was a bit frou-frou with the frothy lace, my jaw dropped. I even forgot my hope that she would wear something in a jewel color from Versace. Oh well. Marchesa it was, and I shall be quite happy with it. (I love how fiercely determined the bald gent in the background is about looking away from Halle- protecting his jaw, no doubt.)

And this here is the most stylish alien ever to visit our planet. Givenchy and their weird purple creations! (Zoe Saldana last year in that confused pond overgrowth thing). What is up with that arch on this bodice? Is it the doorway to a Moroccan villa? I am equally confounded by the spots of yellow around the neck. What gives, Blanchett? Aside from your hair, which is unequalled in its buttery perfection, I am baffled, puzzled, vexed, stymied, and quite frankly, disappointed. Next exhibit!

And THAT is how you do purple! Mila Kunis stole my heart in this delicate lacy lilac, especially as I saw how it looked in the sunlight and when she moved. Despite (or maybe because of) being contrary to her heavily-cultivated 'dark and brooding' image, this Elie Saab dress stood out.

Here is Reese in her divinely classic snow-edged Armani Prive. It kills me how she is the very definition of sassy here: confidence, a high-wattage smile, big emerald earrings and that HAIR. It, in its magnificent and towering glory, has ceased to be mere hair and is now HAIR- and I kinda liked it. Many may have panned her for the very fact that it is HAIR, but not I.

But this new girl- Jennifer Lawrence- also with glorious golden hair (not HAIR, though) -did no one tell her that her dress was almost identical to what Scarlett Johansson wore a few years ago to some awards show or the other? This Clavin Klein sheath, though, paled just a tad in comparison with Scarlett's version. Sad, because Jennifer is such a knockout in her own right.

This picture doesn't do this gown justice- Anne Hathaway and her enduring partnership with Armani Prive works out a bit better than her partnership with James Franco, I'm sorry to say. I just loved the way this deep sapphire dress shimmered like a Blue Morpho butterfly, but one with red lips and wavy chestnut locks, har har. In the end, she will be remembered (by me, of course) only for this dress at the 2011 Oscars.

(All images from Reuters)

Watched

2011-02-20T09:02:00.003-05:00

It has been a relief to note that there are a few travel shows out there that do attempt to go beyond the bright-eyed, borderline overenthusiastic shilling that many travel shows often reduce to. The other night I caught Ian Wright in his new outing- Invite Mr. Wright- in Spain. Now, while I didn't watch the whole thing, what I did see was enough to bring joy to my heart. SPAIN. IAN WRIGHT. Pardon the shouting, but what's not to like? Sure enough, the Spaniards put on quite the show. The culmination was a performance in a magnificent church by a group of white clad Gypsy artists. Poor Wrightey had no choice but to admit that he was close to tears, and so was I.
Then there was an older chap on a show called Market Value where he traipses around in various markets. So he was in Istanbul, and who does he meet with but an ancient old charmer with a white beard and a fantastic accent, who happens to be a gramophone repair man. That's right. Oh my. Charm, vintage musical instruments, vintage crusty old man, exotic market- it was all quite wonderful.
My faith in television is slowly being restored.

Image via Wikipedia

Watched: Dhobi Ghat

2011-02-15T18:14:00.004-05:00

Kiran Rao's debut has been described as 'sparkling'- and I quite agree. Both in terms of freshness and simplicity, like a good glass of white wine. The movie itself, devoid of the pointless intermission, fits neatly into an afternoon and doesn't leave you with that heavy feeling of having given up an unretrievable 3 hours of your life.

On to the story- there is not much of that, in the strictest sense that we are used to. What it does have is characters, the city, and relationships. Interestingly, each of the four main characters has a relationship with the camera, and this acts as a kind of narrative thread. Main character one is Shai Eduljee, a nice,wealthy US-born girl who is in Mumbai for a project. She runs into main character two- grouchy Arun, a renowned painter who's just moved houses. Here he comes across a bunch of videotapes recorded by the young former occupant of his flat-she is character three. And the dhobi who happens to work for both Arun and Shai is character four- Munna.

All four, needless to say, become involved in the others' lives. In the backdrop, Dhobi Ghat is a visual journey of the famous Bombay in its many-armed splendor. Shots of the monsoon, chawl life, Marine Drive and haunting visuals of blue-lit night locals- all float past in a sort of dreamy roll-call. The performances are sweet and well fleshed out, with touches not normally seen in Hindi cinema. I was particularly impressed by Monica Dogra (Shai) and the dishy Pratiek as Munna.
All in all, I very much appreciated the director's eye, the light yet substantial story-telling, the haunting music score and the fine performances. Way to go, Kiran Rao. Please give us more!

Shadows

2011-01-11T12:00:00.004-05:00

The shooting of Arizona congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords- a dreadful, vicious act, but one that was tinged with a chill sense of foreshadowing. One column in the NYT outlined this precise feeling, that it was a disaster waiting to happen. The column touched upon the mean-spirited, incendiary and hate-based political rhetoric that is currently the norm in the US, but I think that there are also a couple of other factors at play.

One is certainly the gross neglect that many mentally ill patients suffer, both from the medical establishment and from society at large. The shooter in the Arizona case is said to be schizophrenic- he was expelled from college for profound anti-social behavior, and in his online profiles he ranted incoherently about government mind-control. Mental illness is often the least-discussed of illnesses, vastly under-diagnosed and poorly understood.

Then, there is the all-too-obvious issue of astoundingly easy access to guns. Agreed, that Americans are proud of their Second Amendment- ‘the right to bear arms’. While that may be fundamental to their identity as a society, I also would like to hear educated views about how much the world has changed since the days in which this tenet was framed. For today’s society as much as for those days- if there are no checks in place to prevent the sale of guns to the mentally ill, disaster lurks within a large number of those sales.

Also there is the undeniable tone of violence and bullying that marks much of the political discourse in that country. (Palin actually had a map of Giffords’ constituency marked with a cross-hairs on her Web site). Fed with a contant stream of hate and thinly-veiled exhortations to violence, armed with a legally purchased gun, it is no big shock that a young mentally disturbed male takes this horrendous step. While it is not known exactly why he targeted Ms. Giffords, the motivation is certainly political, and certainly anti-Democratic. Not to say that this tragic confluence of factors would have inevitably led to this same conclusion, but in this case, it did. (And he injured a good many others and killed six, including a 9-year-old girl.)

All this makes me wonder why the US seems to thrive on a culture of fear. No other developed country has quite such a record of homicides and public shootings, nor such ease of legally purchasing weapons. Needless to say, no other country has such an astonishingly long list of nations with which it has been or is, at war. This throbbing vein of fear seems to be at the heart of what is happening there today, the Arizona shooting being just a tragic and visible symbol of this fear.

Readings: Wonderboys

2011-01-10T23:08:00.001-05:00

A story about a middle-aged pot-head writer/professor’s crazy weekend: one that involves a transvestite, a tuba, a dead dog, an almost-suicide, a broken marriage, a pregnant mistress, and Marilyn Monroe’s coat? Absurd as it sounds, Michael Chabon manages to make a go of it. He accomplishes this by skilfully driving the novel on two levels- the superficial one, where the absurd events take place, and the other in the narrator’s inner life where sadness, regret, painful self-awareness and shaky integrity play out with adult seriousness and wry humor.

Thus we have one Grady Tripp- an author and English professor working on his long-awaited second novel, ‘Wonderboys’, after his award-winning first. Only thing is, this novel has taken on a life of its own: Tripp is simply unable to finish it. It’s only natural that this would strain his friendship with Terry Crabtree, also his agent. However, this aspect of Tripp’s failure we come upon later in the tale; most of the story is about his spectacularly bad behavior over the course of a single weekend involving all those crazy elements like dead dogs and tubas.

There are two young students, James Leer and Hannah Green, in Tripp’s writing class who are also involved in this wild weekend- and it is here that Tripp shows his best behavior- his sense of responsibility and protectiveness only appears when dealing with the youngsters, it seems. The talented and somewhat mysterious James is like a young bird that gets under Tripp’s wing, and the beautiful Hannah stays out of disaster by a hair’s breadth after her critique of the Professor’s work.

The only section I didn’t enjoy fully was the one where Tripp drives up to his wife Emily’s family home to share the Passover meal with them. It seemed to wander and was written too much like a witty screenplay, dying to be translated into film. And then the incident about the second dead animal was simply overkill, to use a crude pun. (Also was the very name- Tripp- a cute allusion to the Professor’s weed habit?)

Ultimately, Grady Tripp’s weekend ends with loss on multiple levels. Some caused by his own bad choices, some by pure dumb luck (even if we are led to believe that he is a somewhat reasonably happy man by the end of the novel). A lot of the story has to do with the art of writers- their world, academic and otherwise, their ‘midnight disease’ and their sometimes indistinguishable oneness with their own characters. Chabon once again conquers all with his own masterly writing, which makes the sad, drug-crazed weekend of a middle-aged rouè this layered and nuanced. An interesting sub-text of male friendship also runs through- with Crabtree, the father in law Irv, and even with young, semi-doomed James Leer that adds its own sweetness and longing, purer than Tripp’s disastrous loves with women.

I enjoyed Wonderboys for this superior writerly talent that Chabon posseses- each page yields a sentence or turn of phrase that one would like to underline and jot down in a notebook, to be read and re-read in later days with wonderment and appreciation.

Fists and words

2011-01-09T11:02:00.001-05:00

A group of girls in Bangalore has done what I and doubtless many, many girls want to do almost everyday: beat up a man for making sexual advances. However, they still took the 'precaution' of adding a few boys to their group before they beat the man. I would have been just a tad happier if they had decided to complete the task themselves-no need for bodyguards. Still, the man apologized. Is this going to stop him from sexually harassing women for the rest of his life? No-one knows. But it's a start, and a much-needed one. There is a lot to be said for the power of a well-timed thrashing.

Now, I am well aware that the general, catch-all term for sexual harassment in this country is 'eve-teasing.' I don't know whether it actually exists as such in the Constitution, but really, it has GOT to go from our daily usage. Why not call it what it is? Why hide behind this twee, outmoded and patronizing term? EVE TEASING? Really? In the 21st century? Anything short of rape, and it's coyly termed eve-teasing. Please. Words have immense power. Let's start using them appropriately.

Readings: The Final Solution

2011-01-04T22:58:00.005-05:00

Image via Wikipedia

The year is 1944 and somewhere in rural England, an ancient bee-keeper becomes involved in the life of a nine-year old mute Jewish boy and his pet parrot. This intriguing premise and the added allure of it being a Sherlock Holmes tribute drew me to this slim little novella written by the luminous Michael Chabon.

The Sherlock Holmes character, known through the book only as the ‘old man’, naturally, has a case to solve. The boy, Linus, having been separated from his family in Nazi Germany, lives with an English family which takes in boarders to supplement their income- it is the murder of one of these boarders that is brought to the old man for him to help the local police with. However, Bruno the African grey parrot (the boy’s only friend) also subsequently disappears. And it is this disappearance that draws the old man more to the case than the actual murder.

Each character is finely etched and has a well-defined motivation: as can be expected from Chabon, the prose is precise and threaded with an inherent understanding of the human condition. I find this aspect the most interesting in the book- whether it is the character itself or his or her reaction to the upheaval brought about by the murder, Chabon paints each man and the lone woman with steady, empathetic strokes. And what a delight to have a ‘barefoot, boot-black’ youth (now middle-aged) from Kerala as the pastor of an English village church!

Ultimately, the ending lives up to the title of the book with a subtlety that I did not quite grasp immediately- and when I did, it increased the book’s appeal manifold. Chabon is in quite fine, if unexpected, form. Sherlock Holmes would have been pleased.

What's done is...

2010-12-27T22:28:00.000-05:00

Image by ursulakm via Flickr

So, it has happened. I, lady-of-the-unchanging-locks, am a changed woman. Indeed, I chopped off the unchanging locks. And now, behold! Er. Or rather, I am dashed proud of myself. For not only snipping off a good five inches of ennui, but also tackling the Hairdresser-Hardsell with a light, frothy laugh.

Let me elaborate on the Hairdresser Hardsell: a phenomenon well-known to anyone who goes into a hairdresser to get their hair done. Ergo, nearly everyone on the planet. However, note that the Hardsell comes on that much harder when it is one of those vast, chic salons populated by vaguely-foreign and crashingly trendy hairdressers.

"Why don't you go in for a fullllll color?" she whispered enticingly, snipping dangerously. "Because I already have a fullllll natural color that most people would give their eye-teeth for!" I replied. (In my head, that is, since I have yet to overcome my innate fear of hairdressers, having been scarred since adolescence by an Incident.) In real-time I just laughed my new frothy laugh, getting frothier as each inch of my hair fell to the glittering floor.

Then she went for the next tactic. "A graduated bob" she purred. "Just get your hair straightened, and.."
"But didn't you just a minute ago say I have great curls?" Again, in my head. Again, the frothy laugh.

And, I emerged, with exactly the cut I wanted.
Of course, this morning I reeled in horror at my image in the mirror. "What HAVE I done?" However, the universe in its infinite wisdom has assured me that it is but hair. It shall grow back. And as the day progressed, my all-encompassing, life-gutting regret ebbed like the proverbial tide.

The Season of Plenty

2010-12-23T21:22:00.002-05:00

via onbluepoolroad.com
This picture makes me smile. Merry Christmas! In case I come across as a materialistic git, I like this picture because it symbolizes 'plenty of gifts' and I hope everyone gets plenty of whatever they want and lots of joy and happiness with it.

Watched: Eat, Pray, Love

2010-12-11T22:07:00.010-05:00

Image by claire_h via Flickr

I didn't know what to expect from the movie, since I haven't read the book. But I was prepared for a nice enough story about a woman's journey in celebration of self and life, and...oh who am I kidding? I knew a certain Javier Bardem stars in it. And that right there was reason enough for me.

So, to get on with the movie, it's all about Liz Gilbert and her 'journey' to presumably, self-love and self-liberation after a morose and muddled divorce. She travels to countries beginning with "I". Ergo, first stop Italy, where she mucks around in gorgeous Rome making friends and stuffing face with gorgeous sphagetti. Then, zooms to India where she resides at an Ashram, India predictably being the "SOURCE". Of spiritual enlightenment, one presumes, an assumption or belief that I have come to really, really question. Anyway, last stop, Indonesia. Bali, where she meets a spiritual healer and comes to the aid of a local woman by raising money for her.

Gah. All this may have been fine in the book. But in the movie it is tedious, curiously flat, and frankly, snoozy. I cared not a whit for the woman Liz or her blessed love life. Poor actor-guy she went out with after her divorce? She leaves him..."you didn't ask me to stay." EH? Didn't the chap ask her to marry him? Then, in Rome, talking about accepting one's fatness after piling on the sphagetti , but then LYING DOWN on the floor trying to squeeze into small jeans. Again, EH?

Which brings me to the Bardem in Bali. Sumptuous combination, that. But even that failed to please me. By the time Javier and his shoulders appeared, I was way past caring. It all struck me as a little spoiled and indulgent. This film doesn't do justice to the book that has inspired and encouraged millions all over the world. Eat. Pray. Love. Snooze.

A state of mind

2010-11-20T05:21:00.000-05:00

via http://maisonboheme.blogspot.com

The lure of travel. I want to be the lady with the umbrella, boldly walking off into a place which has not been talked about yet on a travel show...

There would be no language from guidebooks. Each image I captured would be thought about carefully, a precious keepsake because there would be so few.

My grandchildren would have stories to listen to. In color, even though they happened in sepia.

Lights

2010-11-19T17:07:00.000-05:00

via Brandy B on Pinterest

That is the quintessential Paris apartment, to my mind. Paris at dusk, with a single light in an old apartment building- it's a poem in brick.
This image appealed to me because I don't want to moan anymore about the lack of beauty in my city at large; oh of course I notice the brightly stacked African daises under the striped awning at my florist's, or the delicate eyelashes of the cow as she waits to steal glimmering jamuns from a passing cart:
but beauty, just because it is in the soul of a city itself....

Smoke not, show not

2010-11-18T19:45:00.001-05:00

Image: Spree by PiX - Berlin via Flickr

Poor Aishwarya Rai is the latest to go and get sued for the character she is playing in a film. The Guzaarish poster has her smoking. And what of it? Apparently, this is against the law- to show a person smoking on film.
Well, if it's illegal, it's illegal, granted. But why sue only Ash? She, like any actor, is the end product of a long and complicated production line. I say, sue the person who came up with the very idea of a smoking character! Why blame the film actor for complying with the characterization sketched out for her?
Besides, we should take a look at this law. Of all the generations that grew up watching people smoke, I am sure some people did think it was cool and took up the habit. And there are millions who didn't. My point is, I don't understand how smoking, egregious as it is, is a worse behavior on screen than gratuitous violence, terrible vulgarity or half-witted comedy. Why, some of the 'comedy' I've seen in our movies has made me want to go out and buy a scythe with which to cause bloodshed- but I am sure "comedies" will not be banned anytime soon. Snort.

Green

2010-11-17T15:47:00.000-05:00

via sfgirlbybay * on Pinterest

Oh, to have a little garden. Nothing like choosing fresh herbs from the backyard, what? Alas, no such luck. MUST BUY PLANTS STAT. I hope I can keep them alive. And then we will progress to herbs.

Pop goes the prince

2010-11-16T21:08:00.001-05:00

Image by Getty Images via @daylife

So, Prince William has done the deed- asked Kate Middleton to marry him. While this brings me much joy, proposal and engagement stories being of much interest to me, it also made me want to see what these two are like as a couple. I clicked on a video link on the net and found them to be quite confident and with-it, in a kind of non-glamorous way: they have posh accents and are superbly dressed, but they seem to lack the kind of fustiness and pooh-pooh that I find so off-putting in the older royals.

Also, as always, despite my liking of engagement stories, I am annoyed at all the pressure the guy faces to pop the question. As though the girl just sits there and waits around, and then all that fuss about the ring. (Kate has scored a gorgeous one, though, SAPPHIRE to boot).

Now to end this rather pointless post, I propose the perfect match for the younger prince- Emma Watson. What a stroke of brilliance! Emma is young, talented, loaded, British, famous, and already has a special connection with the name Harry and with redheads! Now if only those two kids would hurry up and read this.

Versus

2010-11-14T17:40:00.007-05:00

Image via fragrantica.com

One of my latest acquisitions, extorted via the friend, is the new fragrance Versus by Versace. I was out fooling around at the mall one day and spent some time sniffing a lot of perfumes, and this was the only one that stood out for me. It starts out as a fresh, bursty citrus- cool and sharp, but also a tiny bit soapy, and that was its appeal. But on me, it dries out a tad musky for my taste. Still, an interesting and uplifting scent.

I love reading about the composition of perfumes. This one has star apple, kumquat and lemon as top notes, heart notes of orange blossom, and base notes of musk and patchouli. It's all very intriguing, especially as my tastes in perfumes varies wildly.

I do

2010-11-13T14:16:00.001-05:00

From http://www.snippetandink.com/board-499-ragtime-romance.html

What fun to plan a wedding now that I am already much married. Seeing as I would probably be a bit of a confused bride; what with my clashing desires for a beach wedding, an elopement, and a New England autumn wedding, it's perhaps best that I don't have to deal with any of it at all. Hee!
However, there is a serious flood of pretty ideas to be found on the internets, and that there picture is probably what my wedding would look like. I have a fascination for the 1920's anyway. That gramophone! Those white roses in the pharmacy jar! And I could be one of those flapper-style brides. Tres cool.

Readings

2010-11-12T16:07:00.000-05:00

via A Whole Lotta Love on Pinterest

And that would be cool in our living room. Also, our living room would be completely different. Haw!

Nina Simone - My baby just cares for me

2010-11-11T17:56:00.000-05:00

One heckuva cute and quirky video, or what? I like.

The Main Question

2010-10-25T20:51:00.000-04:00

via heather feather on Pinterest

Why can't we all just get along?

If wishes were bottles

2010-10-19T18:34:00.002-04:00

From http://www.designalicious.typepad.com/

Aiee! What have we here? The objects of my desire, that's what! I'm simply going to start obsessing now, excuse me. When can I start my collection? Sob, sob!

Trust? Vote?

2010-10-11T18:41:00.008-04:00

Image via Wikipedia

The great state of Karnataka is in the midst of a steamy political crisis. This morning I read that a group of dissident politicians ‘pushed aside’ the marshals that guard the Assembly building and proceeded to forcefully enter. And right there I thought, WHAT? They overpowered the GUARDS? How? And why? If the whole purpose of deploying these guards, or marshals, or cops, or whatever they are, is to prevent forced entry, then how on earth did it happen anyway?

I wonder in which other country this is possible. Agreed, the dissenters do not need to be shot. But has no-one heard of reasonable force? I am stunned at how our police infrastructure can be so toothless. Later the regular uniformed cops were brought in, which decision resulted in much denouncing. The whole thing is confounding. Politicians talked about the sanctity of the house being violated by the presence of the cops. It seems to me that it is not the cops who are responsible for degrading the ‘sanctity’ of the House, such as it may be.

Salt

2010-10-10T21:03:00.001-04:00

I made the famous mistake of having high expectations from this movie, I’m not quite sure why. Maybe it was because the Jolie is the main star, and I’ve come to expect something higher from her. Anyway, here she plays Evelyn Salt, a CIA agent who gets caught in a game of Double-Agent-and-Intrigue. This time, the mighty U.S. is pitted against its old arch-rival, Russia.

Image from http://www.theangelinajolie.com/

There are a lot of chases, and hitting, punching, kicking, and shooting. The mother-of-six main star excels at this sort of thing, and is clearly having a jolly good time of it. I cannot say anything more about the plot of this movie, because in 12 minutes we had it figured out. The thing I cannot figure out is why the Jolie agreed to star in such a tedious and not particularly entertaining spy fest. Did she need the extra millions to buy new clothes for her kiddies? I doubt it. My only theory is that she just went for the action bit and cared two hoots for the actual plot. I must admit, it must be fun to kick and punch, wear disguises, jump off trailers and get paid for it all, then go around the world promoting the film looking fabulous in Versace dresses.

Thou shalt not steal

2010-10-09T16:47:00.005-04:00

I have learned that in view of our impending visit, the Father has issued veiled threats about how his collection of fancy glasses will be under lock and key. This change in policy has been implemented after he was singed by his hospitality to his offspring last year, when we coolly made off with four beautiful Czech crystal glasses.

Also, we were informed, a pre-emptive report would be lodged with the police. Seeing as the cops in that neck of the woods have so little to actually do, this might be more effective than his lock-policy. Hmm. What to do? How to ensure another batch of exquisite glassware? I rather had my eye on that cute set of shot glasses.
This calls for a serious plan- so far I have only scoffed and laughed evilly at this latest edict of the Father’s. There is also that ferocious sniffer dog to contend with. I may have to fall back on last year’s plan- just asking the Father for said glasses. Ha.

Yes and No

2010-10-07T17:55:00.002-04:00

Image via Wikipedia

The topic of integrity in the context of social situations is one that intrigues me. It’s not the power of a good white lie I am talking about- we all know social life would be unbearable without that good little lubricant. No, it is the art of follow-up that has me thinking today.

Of late, I have been in the position where I’ve needed to ask people a certain question. The answer to which might involve their asking another person the same question, at the most. What confounds me is, not one of these people has reverted to me with the answer. Mind you, if they don’t know the answer, all they have to do is ASK someone who WILL know.
But, all I get is, “I will get back to you.” If the answer is negative, I want to know. If it is positive, I want to know. To me, it is a simple give and take interaction which really shouldn’t be taking up so much of my brain space here. But apparently my expectations are too high.

Why the question of integrity in social situations came up is that if the answer to my question is negative, it in no way affects our social relationship. Not at all. There are no repercussions here, no heartbreak, nothing awkward. Then why the silence, why the brush-offs, why the deplorable lack of integrity? I think I am losing my faith in the grand social structure that everyone calls the “Network.” It ain’t working for me, clearly.

Tom Waits - Watch Her Disappear

2010-10-06T18:04:00.000-04:00

This I thought was an odd and creative accompaniment to Tom Waits’ lush poetry. Two years ago when I discovered Waits I thought that I would outgrow him pretty soon. But it hasn’t happened yet. Maybe it’s because I wisely desist from overdosing on him and partake only occasionally and very judiciously.

Solo

2010-10-05T18:58:00.003-04:00

I’ve always read about how marriage needs ‘work.’ How you need to ‘keep the spark alive’, or to ‘have fun together.’ Fortunately, I haven’t ever felt the need to put so much of what seems like frankly back-breaking labour, into my own marriage. But in the age of the terminally busy, I find that it is friendships that need so much ‘work.’

I miss that era of my life when close friends were close at hand. In every phase you do give up some friends and you make some more, but here it seems as though I am valiantly struggling to keep those I do have, and have run out of the ability and the circumstances to make new ones.

Some of my best and dearest friends are the ones that are geographically hundreds or thousands of miles away. Others are close but I see them twice a year. I am beginning to feel like the only person in the world.

Marry me off, I'm EIGHTEEN

2010-10-02T19:22:00.001-04:00

That mother and daughter that I see regularly in the gym had to go and prove me right. What happened was that I had casually remarked to J that since the daughter was young and a tad overweight, she’d been dragged to the gym in order to ‘reduce’ in time for her wedding- and to keep her motivated (and to keep an eye on her) her mother joined her.

They weren’t just fooling around, either. They desisted from the silly mannerisms that some women use when confronted with hard workouts with their trainers. No, these two were dead serious. I appreciated that, especially because you see so few older women ever in the gym.

I slowly began to cast off my cynical view about the young kid (she is eighteen) and her impending marriage, while her future groom continued to tuck into oily biryani and kebabs, caring not a whit for HIS figure. I stopped lamenting about our low expectations from girls in this country; about how nauseating I find the fixation of women to look their best on their wedding day and then giving up said desire for the rest of their lives, not to mention once they hit 30...and so on and so forth.

But, alas and alack, my initial diagnosis was spot-on. Now I am betting that once the wedding is over, we will never see these two again. Of course, probably the young bride will be sent to faraway shores. And the mother, her duty done, will go back to courting osteoporosis and giving away her gym clothes and shoes. Why? Why?

A Season of Regret

2010-10-01T21:03:00.015-04:00

Image by massdistraction via Flickr

It is a terrible thing to second-guess yourself. I don't do it very often. But since earlier this evening there has been a heavy wave of "...oh, I should have done that..." washing over me. It makes me very melancholy.

Life is truly too short and logic is not everything.

Here's to you, Melissa. I should have flown the 10,000 miles to be at your wedding.

The Constant Gardener

2010-09-30T09:16:00.007-04:00

When I was around six or seven, I was dad's garden helper. This meant trailing after him on those early mornings as he chose roses to snip, and put them in a bucket of water. I am not quite clear on my precise role, since I didn't actually snip the roses, or put them in the bucket, and I certainly didn't carry the bucket. However, since we had a large rose garden and a number of roses had to be chosen according to the color mom had requested for the day, it entailed a good deal of time. And to me, at age six, it was an honorable, serious, and dashed important task.
Happy birthday, Dad. I didn't inherit your green thumb, but roses always make me feel like a happy six-year-old again.

Ana Carolina e Seu Jorge

2010-09-28T17:38:00.002-04:00

First I found the jaw-dropping Ana Carolina singing solo, and now this! They are singing about the simple life. The song title, I learned, means something like “And that’s it.”

This Seu Jorge is the kind of musician that makes me grit my teeth even harder when I listen to the ‘pop’ that they play on the radio here. And I realize that made me sound Old. And you know what? I Am Glad. Because, if said old age has truly arrived, then it also brings the onset of truly Good Taste. Ha. E isso ai.

Wrightey goes to the Emerald Isle

2010-09-21T18:27:00.002-04:00

Image by ImageBang! via Flickr

Ian Wright has a new show - Out of Bounds. After his tour of America in ‘The Wright Way’ this show sees him venturing him into destinations that might be considered out of bounds for the conventional traveller, whether by reasons of politics, natural disaster, war, or other reasons.

So far, I have seen him going to Cuba- the country has always intrigued me so it was a pleasure to see Wrightey going around not only in crumbling, strangely exotic, music-filled Havana, but also to other lesser-known parts of the country. In one notable segment he visits the famed Camaguay ballet company, and, of course, does a twirl or two in leotards.

Last night he was in Sri Lanka. And he loved it! He did everything from toddy-tapping to cricket, from a spot of billiards in an elegant club to fooling around on a beachside Hindi movie set; a vacant-looking Nisha Kothari didn’t look too impressed with his assistance, though.

Overall the show is a fine showcase of Wrightey’s trademark willingness to just jump in there and do it all. I did find the show a tad strangely edited, though. And the lack of maps made me wish that they did have one- maybe we are just used to the Globetrekker format. My mind is leaping to his other possible destinations- I know he did Caracas, supposedly one of the most dangerous, crime-ridden cities, but what’s next? Lhasa? Now that would be something. Though I would also be happy with Thimphu or Astana.

Howlin' Wolf - Shake It For Me

2010-09-18T18:04:00.000-04:00

Real music, real music, real music. Enough said. Pop-fatigue is upon me.

Finally

2010-09-14T03:04:00.000-04:00

Image by mirsasha via Flickr

And Rafa did it! I just finished watching the US Open final, where Rafa had to beat down a spirited Novak Djokovic. To give him due credit, the sweet Serb did wage an inspiring battle against the fearsome Nadal, making him work pretty hard.

Strangely, I couldn't muster up enough interest in this tournament this year- in fact the high point was reading about Rafa's new shorter haircut. Hmm. Now of course I think I should have followed the matches more closely. Still, watching the final was good fun. Both played a strategic match rather than just the thunking, beastly bore-fests that I dread with the big servers. Now to look for the press conference. Rafa's eyebrow-raising and faltering English is almost as good as watching him play.

Readings: Sea of Poppies

2010-09-13T16:17:00.020-04:00

Amitav Ghosh is back in fine form with Sea of Poppies, the first of a trilogy. The novel tells the story of a majestic, beautiful ship named the Ibis, which has been commissioned by the British to carry slaves to the plantations of Mauritius from India. Despite a clunky first line, the book didn't disappoint mainly because of Ghosh's usual impeccable research and interesting stories. I say stories because each character's path that leads him or her to become a passenger on board the Ibis could have been a worthy stand-alone story; Ghosh's sure and deft hand pulls them together to make up an ensemble cast while keeping the ship at the center of the action.

The novel is neatly divided into three parts: Land, River, and Sea; a clever touch, I thought. The cast of characters is diverse, from the dramatically widowed Deeti, the untouchable Kalua, and the disgraced Raja Neel Rattan. The panoramic sketch of 19th-century British India is unfailing in its portrayal of the all-powerful distinctions of class, caste, gender and race; also stunning is the depth of research Ghosh has put in to powerfully bring alive the ship's own universe- its unique language, the colorful crew and the phsyical beauty and grace of the Ibis itself.

I must confess that the nautical lingo and terms were difficult to read. Also, I wonder, how will foreign readers make sense of the liberal use of Hindi terms? (Evidently, they did just fine, if the Booker Prize nomination is anything to go by.) The parts I found most interesting were the social lives of the privileged, be it the Raja or the gala parties at the Burnham residence. However, it is bound to leave you feeling (if you are Indian, that is) with a sound gratefulness that we made the Brits leave- I am much happier to enjoy Jeeves and Wooster after the sun set on their blessed empire.

Concha Buika - La falsa moneda

2010-09-06T15:45:00.000-04:00

Discovered Buika a couple of years ago and have been entranced ever since. Her voice! I want to BE her. Sade: You have competition. Snicker.

Corinne Bailey Rae - Paris Nights/New York Mornings

2010-09-03T14:45:00.000-04:00

There's something so quietly joyful about this video. I can count on Corrine Bailey Rae for soulful lyrics and classy, real music. I love this part of the song:

"I could see the lights from the restaurant
I couldn’t quite perfect that nonchalance
Paris and champagne with one brown sugar cube

And we danced while the band played “She’s not there”
Kissed me in the rain by the Rue Voltaire
It’s a perfectly good way to ruin those silk shoes..."

P.S :I do covet those shoes.

September

2010-09-01T06:22:00.000-04:00

How fitting. The sun shines today. Clean blue sky and a veil of sugary breeze.
Ah.
Let the good times roll.

For a few weeks, that is.

Bourdain about town

2010-08-23T08:23:00.006-04:00

Image from Wikipedia

Strangely enough, I watched Anthony Bourdain in Kerala last night. Strange for two reasons- one that I was ranting only recently that he had failed to make it even once to one of the great food destinations of the world, and two, that it just happens to be Onam.

So we have Tony going around in Cochin and the backwaters, snoozing predictably on a houseboat, sweating delightledly over mussels and fried fish. I did think that he didn't provide an adequate enough analysis of the many nuances of Mallu food, for instance, he didn't distinguish between say, Mopla cuisine and Syrian Christian cooking, and so on. To the causal viewer it would come across as routinely spicy and heavy on seafood, which of course it is, but. Still, he did mention how brightly-flavored and nuanced the vegetarian dishes were, so that's something. (There was no pork.)

He apparently spent a lot of time with superstar Mammooty. And he mangled the words "Malayalam" and "sadya." But he clearly had a jolly good time, and the episode was well-paced; in fact, it was a surprise when it ended.

So Happy Onam, Tony. Thank you for saying you found the toddy foul-tasting, and for looking good wearing a silk kurta in the Kerala heat.

See you later...er...alligator

2010-08-21T12:27:00.001-04:00

Horrors! The Lake of Serenity hides terrors of hideous proportions! In other words, J's dad informs us that an alligator was found in this limpid lake, at which we stared for many blissful hours each morning over cups of coffee. What's worse, a water mocassin created a ruckus in the swimming pool, at which pool too we spent many hours each day. And then (to use a hopelessly inappropriate phrase), as the icing on the cake- another snake in the actual house! What is it with this sudden infestation of reptiles? Can there be no peace on earth? All I can say is that I am glad all these alarming visitations didn't occur while I was in those parts. My heart is too faint for all this.

Watched: Peepli [Live]

2010-08-16T21:58:00.001-04:00

What struck me about Peepli (Live) was two of its female characters: one, the wife of one of the farmers at the heart of the story, and the other, a newscaster from one of the leading national TV networks.

To start with, the farmer’s wife: in all but one of the scenes that she is on screen, she is incandescent with rage. At one point, she even beats her husband and his brother with her shoes, carried away by her fury at their losing the ancestral land to the bank for non-payment of loans. And this is where the story starts: her husband, Nattha, and his brother Budhia, discuss the possibility of getting a compensation of Rs. 1 lakh from the government in the event of one of them committing suicide. (How the older brother gets the younger to be the one to ‘sacrifice’ his life is one of the masterful scenes in the film.) Somehow, the newspapers and then the TV networks get wind of this scheme, and an entire media contingent descends on Peepli village to cover the story of the ‘live’ suicide by a desperate farmer.

What follows is the usual political flim-flam by various parties and leaders at the state and national level. At some point, the focus shifts away from the very desperation that has driven the farmer to even think of suicide, and moves to the cut-throat race by the media to ‘cover’ the story from all possible angles, quite literally. The usual ‘aapko kaisa lag raha hai’ type questions and shrieking headlines abound. This brings me to the other woman I was talking about- the sharp-edged, clickety-clack newscaster, Nandita Malik, who rushes to Peepli as part of the madness.

I was quite pleased at the way there were no apologies for the way she and the farmer’s wife are portrayed. For once, a note of authenticity- the one quality I find lacking in the vast majority of Hindi films. In fact, the whole film has been handled with a genuine flair for the authentic. The sorry state of Indian farmers is no laughing matter, yet the director (Anusha Rizvi) does elicit laughs. This laughter is directed solely at ourselves, of course, but left me wondering what one could do about the very real plight of our farmers besides pay money to watch a film about it. I suppose raising general awareness would be a start.

Naseeruddin Shah and Raghubir Yadav are the only two actors I actually knew in the movie; a wealth of talent is exposed in the others who form the rest of the cast. The farmers’ bedridden mother who does nothing but hurl invective at her daughter-in-law, the rural reporter Rakesh who admires Nandita, the civil servants who are masters at the art of nothing-speak, the ministers, and of course, the two farmers themselves- all are well-written characters who strike a chord. Particularly hilarious are the Hindi news channel sharks. All in all, I am grateful for this type of cinema which makes a point whilst shunning preaching, pandering and piffle. (The only quibble would be the forced “Interval”: why does a two-hour film devoid of songs and dances need a two-minute break?)

Grey skies and green shoes

2010-08-15T17:57:00.006-04:00

Just back from the Dastakar crafts show at Palace Grounds. In keeping with my general motto today was, of course, the last day of the show. Still, the sister and I had grand fun strolling around all the 100+ stalls, buying this and that, and eating chilli bhajjis. Then we came home and had tea and more snacks, so yes, an ideal Sunday.

To come to the actual thought that I was having while there, it was good to see this profusion of Indian arts and crafts on Independence Day. There were luminous silks from Chattisgarh, intricately worked Kantha from Bengal, adorable pottery from Uttar Pradesh, and mood-lifting floral fabrics from all over. The sheer diversity of Indian crafts and the incredible workmanship is certainly something to be witnessed- a melange of heritage, labor and pride. The display of colorful pottery laid out in the middle of the grounds was attracting a good number of shutterbugs with fancy cameras- I felt sad that I hadn't carried even my little point-and-shoot.

I came home a rather happy Indian, with handmade soaps smelling of mint and coffee, two sunny, painted ceramic jars, and some of that mood-lifting floral fabric. The soap is individually wrapped in thick brown paper, lableled, and sold by a charming elderly lady with impeccable language and a sweet manner. I always delight in things that are well-made with a lot of thought put into them, are simple, and SMELL GOOD on top of everything else. Sundaram Soaps is the brand, and I have a feeling my Creamy Mint soap is going to be a superior product.

And -ta da, green shoes! I think this is a first for me. I hope when I wear these that the aura I give off is 'pride in Indian workmanship' and not 'failed elf.'

Hopeful Readings

2010-08-14T20:47:00.005-04:00

The Read n Fail scourge continues, unabated. The latest to fall by the wayside is John Fante's Road to Los Angeles. Although it had some thoroughly funny pieces of dialog, the rambling, or rather, the ramblings of an American teenaged boy simply didn't hold up my interest.

So to keep alive my faith in my own choice of book, I plunged into something drastically different- namely, Charlie Wilson's War. I figured it might as well be non-fiction if it's about something interesting like foreign affairs. Neither have I seen the movie, so I have high hopes here.

Then, Saul Bellow's Herzog. The opening line certainly drew me in, so again, high hopes. And finally, Somerset Maughm's The Razor's Edge. In this case, I have seen the (brilliant) movie version starring a young Bill Murray, therfore, more high hopes. Sigh. Don't let me down, Saul and Somerset.

Not so blue after all

2010-08-13T21:06:00.004-04:00

I originally wanted to collect blue glassware. I don't know when I decided that blue glass was too hard to find (especially since my devious hints to J's mother to give up some of her pieces to me did not work), but suddenly I find that one of the shelves in the kitchen has turned into a collection of-- well, bottles, they're just not blue.
Er.

I like finding the beauty in ordinary things.

Gran Torino - Jamie Cullum

2010-08-10T14:28:00.000-04:00

This song is great. Makes me want to see the movie again and invite Clint Eastwood to dinner one evening.
I am sure he will bring wine, despite being such a curmudgeon in the movie. Ha.

Watched: Gran Torino

2010-08-09T18:11:00.001-04:00

Cover of Gran Torino (Full-Screen Edition)

Clint Eastwood stars in this self-directed movie, as the owner of the car which all the fuss is about. He is Walt Kowalski, a grizzly old widower and war-veteran whose whole identity seems shaped by his war experiences. Living alone with his sweet Labrador, Daisy, he spends his time tinkering around the house with his impressive tool kits and snarling at his neighbors.

Slowly, though, he starts becoming involved with the lives of his young neighbors, Tao and Sue, who happen to be from the Hmong community. The boy, Tao, tries to steal Walt’s prized Gran Torino one night- Walt thwarts the attempt in characteristic tough-guy style. Then the boy is forced by his family to apologize to Walt and to offer free labor around the house as a way to make restitution. Walt grudgingly accepts, and then develops a prickly, yet sweet and supportive role in the diffident young Tao’s life. He becomes Tao’s protector from the Hmong gang who try to indoctrinate Tao into their fold. Side by side, Walt becomes friendly with Tao’s sprightly sister, Sue, who makes fun of Walt and does things like call him ‘Wally’ ('don’t call me Wally,’ he growls) and drag him to her family barbecue.

But then things turn ugly and violent with the repeated intimidation of Tao by the Hmong gang. Walt’s role as the protector and avenger is the meat of the story and the crux of the ending. The car itself, the majestic Gran Torino, which features richly in the ending, is mainly a symbol. Of what, I wasn’t terribly clear. Old-time values like honor and integrity, which Walt lives by? The spirit of Americana in an increasingly multi-cultured land? The value of workmanship (given that it is a US-made car and this story is set in Michigan) and pride in one’s own abilities? I suppose it was a combination of all this.

Eastwood’s directorial touch is evident in his spare handling of themes like identity and power- the movie is devoid of nonsensical melodrama but that is precisely the hook of the more emotional scenes. Street thuggery, adolescent posturing and esteem issues, cultural mores, and finally, criminal violence- they are all there in their unvarnished reality. There is also a sort of remarkable good-natured grumpiness in Walt’s character even as he hurls epithets like ‘zipper head’ and, in one memorable instance, ‘eggroll’ at his Hmong neighbors. His poor health and lonely heart are painfully evident, even as he goes through life with genuine toughness and toil.

And this is where I rather admire the dude- his screen self, Walt, but also Eastwood himself. He is what, eighty? I wonder if I will even bother getting out of my pajamas at that age. And here he is, grandly producing finely-rendered stories that go on to win accolades and stick in people’s heads. (Note to self- Must watch Million Dollar Baby). Finally, I must mention the beautiful song, Gran Torino, which is performed during the end-credits by one Jamie Cullum. Lacking any embellishment, but full of soul- just like the movie.

Caetano Veloso - Sozinho (Ao Vivo)

2010-08-07T16:03:00.000-04:00

The man's music is so effortless. Picks up his guitar and sings as though it's NO BIG DEAL. Well, Mr. Veloso, it IS a very big deal. Especially for those of us who can NEITHER sing a note NOR produce a single chord on a guitar. SNIFF.

The Happy Hound

2010-08-06T19:36:00.008-04:00

Our street, brilliant for its dogs, has produced one of the stars of J's and my life: a skinny, gingery, always-happy, waggy, smart, endearing creature with the most arresting pair of eyes we've ever seen- presenting--- drumroll----EYES!

Yes. The name might have been more clever, but look at him! He is sure to lift my mood (and my heart) when I walk home from work, bone-tired and blank. Suddenly, a snuffling sound, the patter of tiny paws, and I am greeted like the last friend in a cold and lonely world. Heart. Melt.

Here he is enjoying, with his customary gusto, a treat provided by J. This was down near our street; nowadays, he has taken to climbing all the way up and lying in wait for us right outside our door.

Watched: El Orfanato (The Orphanage)

2010-08-03T04:24:00.003-04:00

This is one of those movies that somehow you wish you hadn’t watched. Er…not to say that the movie is bad; rather, it’s so good, but the subject is so disturbing, that it tends to jangle you a little bit.

So- this is the story of Laura who adopts a marvelous, angelic little boy called Simon. She and her husband Carlos, and Simon live in a cavernous, hulking mansion that used to house an orphanage before. (Also, Laura had been adopted from this same orphanage years ago.) Soon after moving in with them, Simon begins to play with some imaginary friends, and this is where the proceedings turn distinctly creepy. Then Simon disappears, and Laura is convinced that one of the creepy imaginary friends has made off with him. The rest of the movie follows Laura on her obsessive hunt for her missing son- they seek help from a medium, who gives them clues, but the husband refuses to believe them. (The whole seance, as it were, is one of the more wrenching scenes I've ever seen in a movie.)

Saying anything more would be giving away the plot entirely. Suffice it to say that the ending broke my heart. The dark, gray, brooding mood, Laura’s agony, and the entirely irresistible child she loses, all contributed to my realization that…er…maybe I shouldn’t be watching at all. That said, the actress Belen Rueda as Laura is amazing. And the director is quite brilliant in his subtlety, a great blessing because this could have been just a poorly executed, cheap-looking ‘horror’ flick- but thanks to his marvelous touch, such as the role of the lighthouse at the end, the movie is so much more than meets the eye. As the medium says to Laura, “seeing is not believing; it is the other way around.”

Read n Fail

2010-08-02T22:49:00.006-04:00

In recent times there've been a few books that I began reading with great fanfare- usually provided by my good friend, J- both the books and the fanfare. But when I began reading, what happened? They just fell flat.

Sometimes the author disappointed after a great previous read- Peter Mathiessen, after his stupendous At Play in the Fields of the Lord, drove me to distraction by meandering along in Shadow Country.

Henry Miller and his Tropic of Cancer- well, who wants to read the diary of a cranky, lewd old man? Same with Bukowski and his Women.

Dave Eggers' Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius tried too hard. And now his You Shall Know Our Velocity- hmm, intriguing, but will I really be able to finish it? We'll see.

All this reading and stopping has led me to name this phenomenon Read and Fail. But in the memory of a jolly joint called Eat N' Joy that I used to frequent in my youth, I will call it the Read N Fail.

Girl and Shoe

2010-07-28T20:10:00.005-04:00

To soothe my irritated soul, I will focus on other things. Things like these here shoes, or more properly, wedges. Espadrilles.

(No, I am not imagining how pleasant it would be to clonk certain people on the head with these solid, heavy things.) I am just wondering how, in old age, I have become that girl who takes pictures of her own (admittedly sassy) shoes and shows them to the world. Sigh.

The case of the furious fig

2010-07-27T21:57:00.000-04:00

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Today was one of those days when I find myself asking whether I am equipped to deal with people at all. Despite giving self several pep talks, doing some deep breathing, and allowing self to rant, I finally just gave up with a sort of hunched-over hopelessness. The thing is, I am contemptuous of people who won’t do their jobs to the best of their ability. I am disdainful of people who won’t communicate effectively. I cannot stand high-handedness. And the fact of the matter also is, if I need help from people who embody precisely these traits, then I had better buck up and train myself not to harm them, because, all said and done, I don’t want to go to jail for the sweet pleasure of releasing my frustration. So there it is. (Never mind wide-ranging incompetence and foolish cover-ups, it is I who must exercise restraint and be as sweet as the hostess of a tea-party for little girls.)

So, falling back on primeval instinct, I swept into the kitchen and began cooking and cleaning at a furious pace. Chicken in the fridge? Slap it all over with spices, throw in pan! Onions in basket? Rip skin, hack into pieces, and throw in pan with chicken! Scrub chopping board, knife, immediately. Scrabble in storage cabinet- wait, custard-mix! Grab milk, make custard, stirring the custard to an inch of its life. And so on and so forth, if you get my drift. At the end of it, there was not only an amazing, tasty dinner; there was also a jaw-droppingly delicious dessert with flavors of fig, cinnamon, orange and apple. The big problem in my life NOW, as opposed to earlier, is what to name this heavenly creation of mine. I think, given the circumstances, I will call it the WHAT THE FIG.

I hate celebrity storys...some of them, anyway

2010-07-26T09:37:00.004-04:00

So! Penelope and Javier have done the deed- the two got hitched, secretly, a couple of weeks ago. It was so secret and received so little coverage, in fact, that I have forgotten when and where exactly. To this, I can only say, congratulations. It is so refreshing to know that at least someone in filmdom chooses to do it this way. I woulda done it myself (not marry Javier, but my own husband, haw) if I really could. I used to talk about a small beach wedding and once my Dad's face lit up on hearing me, at the fact that he would have a very small bill to pay because I didn't want any jewelry!

I tire quickly of reading celebrity 'news' in general, but I did read something the other day that got me all riled up. Apparently Sonam Kapoor made a nasty remark about Shobha De because the latter said unflattering things about the former's new movie I Hate Luv Storys. Now pardon me, for I have not seen this film, but how Sonam responded to De's critique was so juvenile and so patently the mark of an immature, spoiled and unimaginative brat, that I wanted to smack her right across the mouth. Apparently Sonam's dad gave her what we called a 'good dose': i.e, a good tongue-lashing. Now I roll my eyes when I see this dolled-up girl on the cover of every possible magazine. I'm so disappointed- I thought she had grace and substance that went beyond her beautiful face and dazzling smile.

Get out of my Face (book)

2010-07-22T04:25:00.003-04:00

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I have never understood why so many people are ‘addicted’ to Facebook. I read in the newspaper that people spend ‘hours’ on it, check it first thing in the morning (before brushing their teeth), update their status even while standing somewhere in a downpour, play endless games, answer mundane quizzes, and so on. Then there is the set of people who despise the very existence of Facebook, claiming it is a vapid, meaningless medium meant only for adolescents or for immature adults. As for myself, I am somewhere between these two groups. I like the tool for what it is- a quick, visual and personal way to stay in touch with those whom we may have otherwise lost to the vagaries of time and distance. I have plenty of friends whom I haven’t seen for years, yet, by being on each others’ lists, we still feel that we are aware in a very personal way of the other’s life. To me, that is very satisfying, and that’s why Facebook works for me.

However, there are also certain unique situations. Take, for instance, one friend who was also my roommate long ago. We were good friends, and in fact, I joined FB primarily because of her. Yet, as the years go on, I find myself shut out of this person’s life. E-mails, birthday wishes, phone numbers sent- everything goes unanswered. It has taken me so long to understand that we will probably never speak again- for reasons that are still unclear to me. The other day I went to her page, and was immediately struck by the strange and eerie feeling that I was stalking her. I wonder what I should do. Should I remove her from my list? I don’t want to. On the other hand, I also like the idea of removing those names from my page that no longer have any meaning in my life- a sort of de-cluttering, if you will. I still haven’t reached a conclusion on what to do.

Then there is the other friend who mysteriously disappeared from my list. (Like an ass, I asked to add the person again, which request is still in limbo). I was not invited to their wedding. My phone call went unanswered. My birthday, for the first time in the many years of our close friendship, was forgotten. (And yet, I don’t get the message! I must be daft!) I fully understand the changed circumstances of this person’s life and am not being in the least judgmental. Still, there is that thing called integrity- a value that I know this person holds very dear. Sometimes, integrity means saying the things that need to be said, however painful. Silence, in this case, is not golden, and tells me that you do not consider it worth the effort, nor have the courage, to put a dignified end to a relationship that you feel is no longer relevant.

I’m fully aware that in the natural ebb and flow of life and friendships, these are but two twigs that got carried away by the waves. But I also like to think that I know how to value the good relationships in my life - and it saddens me when all I can do is stand on the shore and watch them float far away, out of my sight.

THESE boots aren't made for walking....

2010-07-15T19:29:00.000-04:00

And what better than a pair of juicy red shoes?

Every girl should have one!

I will be celebrating my 80th birthday in these. Or, in something even redder and shinier.

Underdogs and others

2010-06-25T06:45:00.002-04:00

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After le Implosion of Les Bleus, the rather uninspiring show by the Italians has left many, including non-football freaks like mois, scratching heads. What happened? Granted, the underdog Slovaks played a good game. After they scored, in fact, even the Italians did; they played and attacked like devils. I wonder why they didn’t all along. Well, the expression on the face of their coach said it all. The Italian flair was sadly lacking and they are already on the plane back home. I’m sure they will walk into a good thrashing and days of blistering news headlines.
Now, for my team- Spain. They are still in a lukewarm position. I have the horror of enduring a wait to see if they have even made it into the last 16. Mon Dieu! What a strange state of affairs! Is it the Mediterranean curse? If so, Portugal have neatly side-stepped it. They still run into Brazil tonight though, muahaha.
As for that other little thing called Wimbledon- what, in the name of waka waka, is going on here? Match after gripping match! There was almost another blistering headline in the making right in Round 1: FALLA FLUMMOXES FEDERER. But Fed Ex squeaked by. Then, two giants named Isner and Mahut played 50 billion points for 3 days, to make it the longest tennis match in the history of the universe. Then, in another bit of fright, RAFAEL NADAL was down a set in his 2nd Round match against one Robin Haase. (Is it the name Robin? Even Soderling has beaten Rafa.) So I was nervous and wracked with strain watching Rafa being made to work for it. To make matters worse, the TV channel cut off this match to resume showing us the next match: Denmark vs. Cameroon. Egad! Fortunately, this morning’s newspapers tell me that Rafa won after all, and even named the match “The Upset that Wasn’t.” Backing the Spaniards is turning out to be rather nerve-wracking, I see.

Green-chilly

2010-04-13T16:27:00.001-04:00

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The newspaper has delivered the news that Sunday was the hottest day here in the past 25 years. And no wonder, we all went about panting like dogs and wilting. This, in the face of regular weather reports from the Father about the 43 deg. temperatures there.

So it was a pleasant surprise, that when friend and I decided to check out a new restaurant that evening, we found that it had a rather juicy little bar tucked away upstairs. This bar was done up in black and had these neat kitchen-island style tables in some kind of neon-lit marble. With barstools, which always gets many points from me. Anyway, friend and I were delirious with joy at how cold the place was, with its 17, 000 air-conditioners.

And then we had the drinks! While friend's was an expertly done Bloody Mary, mine went by the rather risque name of G-spot, and was a revelation. It consisted of peach juice, vodka, Sprite, and then the kicker: a vodka-infused green chilli. My ideal drink, for sure. It was pleasant, to say the least, to make all these discoveries in one go and be so cold at the same time. And then, to top it all, one of God's best creations: a friendly bartender!

Bar: B-52, 100 ft Road Koramangala.

2010-04-12T16:23:00.001-04:00

The sound of really loud thunder makes me happy.

All good things

2010-04-07T05:05:00.005-04:00

I feel the need for chocolate. Well, to be more precise, the need for a certain dessert my mother used to make when I was young.
There was one barbecue evening my parents hosted, one winter. After the kebabs and the hundred other things for dinner, we finally got to the part I'd been waiting for: dessert. This my Mom made by doing something to a tin of condensed milk; I know not exactly what, but I know that it takes a few hours to be ready.

And when it's ready? Imagine a thick, smooth, pearly cylinder of chocolate. That's what it was. It was still in the cylindrical tin that the condensed milk came in, and you had to skilfully cut it out and place it on your serving plate. And then pile it with cold sliced fruit, whipped cream, or whatever else...oh my God.

Also, I remember that evening one of the guests was this pesky little kid. He liked the dessert thing so much that for the remainder of the evening he followed my Mom around, tugging at her sari and whining, "Aunty, chaaaaaaac-let!"

So, although the memories of my Mom's unnamed chocolate-dessert-thing are pleasant, that whiny little shrimp also stars right alongside, every time. Sigh. One must take the bad with the good, I suppose. I can't deny that it's also exactly what I would have done today, had my mother been within sari-tugging reach. "Mummy, chaaaac-let!"

Pink

2010-04-06T05:19:00.005-04:00

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I love watermelons but dislike watermelon juice. Conversely, I dislike guavas but like guava juice. Friend has just written to say that he has a lovely scoop of guava ice-cream in his freezer. May Phil, the prince of insufficient light, darn him to heck!

This, just after I've discovered how refreshing (and pretty) a drink of guava juice is, especially in a crystal glass on a burning hot afternoon. And Friend is jabbering about guava ice-cream when I am in no way going to get anything remotely guava for the next seven years. That is to say, until I get home and to my own fridge. Gah!

Purple

2010-04-05T17:37:00.004-04:00

April, the cruellest month: the heat has rendered my brain addled and cliche-ridden. However, there is some solace to be had. Not only are the jacarandas in bloom, their friends, those light pink cherry-blossomy things that I think are cassias, are also out in full force.
It always cheers me up to see little lanes and by-lanes simply covered with flowers. Particularly, this one street that I pass each evening which specializes in stores selling aquariums (aquaria??). It's like a Hindi movie set. Should I start twirling around as shapely pink flowers plop on my head, waving my gym towel as a dupatta and using the street dogs as stand-ins for cute Swiss lambs?

Battling Sandras

2010-03-26T16:09:00.001-04:00

Bengaluru has a vast variety of juicy names for its thousands of localities. But for some reason, I take particular delight in the ones ending with "sandra." And there are quite a few! It has now become a little hobby of mine, a collection, if you will. So I have Singsandra, Hongasandra, Bommasandra, the twins Jakkasandra and Lakkasandra, and the winner of the contest- the vaguely fun-sounding Tippasandra. This morning I discovered another one, to my great joy- Veerasandra.

Incidentally, I do not like the name Bengaluru itself. In my infinite wisdom, I pointed out that it will cause confusion to foreigners- BENGALuru? Is this in West Bengal? Where is Uru? My suggestion was that they have it as Bangalore in English and Bengaluru in Kannada. If Paris can be Parree in French, and Munich can be Munchen in German, and so on, Bangalore can jolly well be Bangalore in English, can it not? But no one listens to me.

All is forgiven

2010-03-24T17:43:00.001-04:00

The title of the last post reminded me of something that brings me much joy these days- it's the new shampoo commercial by Aishwarya Rai.

She walks, nay, swaggers, into the frame in a dangerous red dress, brimming with purpose. "I'm here to save the world," she begins, adding somewhat anti-climactically, "from hair damage."

Then some computer-generated jiggery-pokery about hair fall and the FIVE signs of hair damage. Then Ash reappears, making vigorous signs for ONE and TWO with her hand. By this point I've derived enough mirth from this entire little skit, but wait, she isn't done yet. No, she finishes off her mission to save the world by narrowing her eyes and chirping, in an accent somewhere between here and Los Angeles, "grrrrrrrls, you're worrrrrth it!"

I must admit, though, that the shampoo is actually pretty darned good. Yes, I confess, I bought it. How could I not? How could I ignore the FIVE signs of hair damage that I so clearly suffer from? So, at the next outing to the store, I furtively grabbed both the shampoo and the conditioner- and found that the miracle potion actually does its job quite well.

All is forgiven, Ash! Even if the commercial makes me laugh until I collapse to the floor in a fit, I will concede that your mission to save the world is actually working!

Girls, you're worth it!

2010-03-24T16:21:00.004-04:00

It's that time again when I feel the urgent need for a vacation. Yesterday J merely said the word "Bahamas" and I jumped up and down many times and banged my fist on the table, shouting, "CAN WE GO NOW? CAN WE? CAN WE?" But, I digress. Since there is no Bahamas in sight, one must content oneself with travel magazines.

And so I did. However, 'content' was not quite the word that sprang to mind while reading this particular one. For one, their suggestions for hotels all began around the USD 700 mark. Per night. Then, their Travel Must Haves for the Savvy Woman included a 'versatile, chic' dress for Rs 15,000, a smart purse for Rs 48,000, and then a pair of cute ballet flats, which were priced at the shudder-inducing "On Request." So, I was thinking, if I were to travel wearing or carrying all of these little items, I would be equivalent to the down payment for a small house.

Sigh. What can one do? Nothing. Except, as a member of the public, express one's opinion. Mine will be in the form of a letter to this posh rag, consisting of just three words: Phooey to you!

Hv fn!

2010-03-17T06:15:00.000-04:00

The parents are late entrants to the world of the Short Messaging Service. In short, they don’t care much for the texted word. At least, they didn’t; and now, as I said, they have entered its wonderful portals. To fully cooperate with the shortage of time in everyone’s lives, my sweet mother sends messages that go something like this: “wht u dng? Me stg hm, lzg ard. Wt fn!” This sweeping elimination of the vowel has led the Father and us to greet each other verbally (in her absence, with much snickering) like this: Gd mrng! Cn I hv sm T?
The Father is not entirely blameless in his sms-ing, either. No, his messages, well-vowelled though they may be, are festooned with every smiley known to man. So, in keeping with his usual weather discussions, he will say: “Very hot here. Temp 40 deg. 84 pc humidity! :-) :-/ :-P :->”
I now feel compelled to send them a message of my own. Today being the day they complete several scores of decades of wedded bliss, I say: Hpy Anvrsry! Hp u hv a fn dy! :-) :P :->

Hey, I'm a gypsy too...I want my OWN video!

2010-03-16T18:14:00.000-04:00

So! This is what Rafael Nadal does in his spare time. Make out with …I mean, star in videos for Shakira! I see. Actually, I did watch it as soon as I found out that the video, for a song called La Gitana (The Gypsy) existed. Rafa with Shakira! It almost made me want to say OMG.
I also watched a short clip of Shakira talking about the reasons behind her decision to cast this particular boy in her newest video. She spoke earnestly about moving around so frequently that it makes her feel like a gypsy, and how Rafa also moves around so much, what with being one of the world’s top athletes and all, and how she felt he would represent this facet of her life…and so on.
If I were her, that conversation would have gone something like this:
Self to video-casting-person: That Rafael Nadal- he is cute! I want him in my new video. Bring him to me!

The weathervane

2010-03-15T03:38:00.004-04:00

To prove that one never knows which way the wind will blow, I can now eat with chopsticks. This, after expressing anguish at the fact that I can’t eat with chopsticks. I am in no position to explain it, but I am certainly in a position to enjoy it.
The last time we went to a Japanese restaurant, I simply picked up the chopsticks and began eating. Halfway through the meal, I realized the enormity of what was happening. I hadn’t even thought to ask for a fork! I simply carried on as though I were born and raised in a noble family of Tokyo. And last night, at the same restaurant, I positively shouted “No!” when the server asked if we wanted forks. It is now my turn to sneer- “forkkkkkkkk?” Ha. Take that, snobbish waitress at that other Japanese place!

All is well

2010-03-09T03:38:00.003-05:00

Let me begin by saying that I am much more pleased than I was at this time last year. Why? Let me hasten to elaborate.
Exhibit A: Sandra Bullock. This Marchesa gown looked even more fabulous on TV. It moved like liquid, and at one point the Bullock looked like she was standing in a limpid silver pool. This immediately raises the question: why, then, does she look so uncertain? Should not a girl, draped in such a fetching frock, be flashing a fetching grin? My conclusion was she was not feeling entirely confident about her stylist’s choice of a red lip. But to that, I say, pppht! Buck up, Bullock! You look smashing, your hair is delectably shiny, and your red lips are not too much!

Then there was Pen: Ah, Penelope! You please me immensely because this gorgeous red color flatters your already unbelievable beauty. Your diamonds, as usual, blind me. The only, and this is almost negligible, peeve would be that the top of your bodice looks a bit…well…unbalanced. However, because you are Penelope, and therefore capable of doing no wrong, all is forgiven. Plus, you have leapt ahead of your own self from a year ago by wisely choosing to forego black and white as possible choices for your big night out.

Maggie-what-have-we-here-Gyllenhaal: And now, to prove my theorem that M. Gyllenhaal is out to prove us all wrong about our opinions on her fashion prowess. Here, she stands out from the crowd in this Dries van Noten column. After her spectacular showing at the Golden Globes in that flamingo-pink Roland Mouret gown, she has established herself in my high esteem. She would be forgiven for thinking at the moment this picture was being taken: HA!

The Battle of the Armani Prives: The young thing on the left (Amanda Seyfreid? Who?) certainly got to live out her princess fantasy. Hey, if I were 18 and looked like that, I might probably pick the same dress, if I were to have my choice from Armani Prive. I would definitely not slick my hair back so hard that my otherwise beautiful head looked bald, but, certainly, the dress I would not complain about. And then, on the right, Madame Lopez. This misty lilac looks divine on her. Plus, the dress itself is grand enough for her persona. Although, the more I look at it, the flouncy side thing looks more and more like a fountain of cold black currant slush, but that is just my brain being affected by the heat. In conclusion, both look heavenly. Maybe next year they will delight us all by wearing competing gowns from Versace?

Why so sedate, Kate? Still, by styling her hair like an old-Hollywood goddess, she does breathe more life into her YSL looks-like-two-but-is-actually-one dress. But, Kate, as beauteous as you are, I am compelled to devote more space to the one standing next door to you- the unspeakably cool Helen Mirren. How, pray tell, does she look like this at age god-knows-what? Those sparkles! The sheer sleeves! The color! All elements that I may normally sneer at, but when put together like this, I am speechless. No wonder she looks well-pleased.

And Diaz is back. Was it just last year that she got stuck in that wrinkled pink thing at this very same awards show? Look at her now! She picked the perfect dress from Oscar de la Renta. Something about the sparkles and the red lips- two elements she had in common with the Bullock, but she takes first place. Maybe it is her smile to go with the sassy red lipstick, or the fact that she manages to look not the least bit princessy. Maybe she spent more time on her hair. Whatever. She has firmly swept into the lead, and there she shall remain for posterity.

With this delectable shimmery entry, I now conclude my report. May it be more of the same next year.

Watched- Vicky Cristina Barcelona

2009-12-13T04:06:00.005-05:00

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Despite its irritating title, the very fact that "Barcelona" featured in it made me want to watch this movie. And of course, Penelope Cruz and Javier Bardem- come on! This is basically a neat, good-natured Woody Allen film about relationships and a kind of unpretentious slice-of-life story. The two girls, Vicky and Cristina, are spending a summer in Barcleona. The somewhat starchy Vicky is getting her Ph.D in "Catalan identity" (!) and Cristina is, well, just drifting.
No sooner do they settle down in the palatial home of Vicky's aunt, that they run into Juan Antonio, an artist, who promptly propositions them both as soon as they meet. Without getting into the details, the rest of the film tells the story of the many relationships between each of the characters. Then there is Maria Elena, Juan Antonio's ex-wife: moody, tempestuous, gorgeous, and utterly unforgettable. Penelope Cruz is stupendous. The scene where she speaks contemptuously about the new woman in her ex-husband's life is the best in the movie- it's full of electricity and intimacy.
But there is the fact that there is a rather distracting, fifties-style narration voice over which I didn't know what to make of. It's so over the top that you end up forgiving it as Woody Allen's indulgence, but I'm still not sure. Poor Scarlett Johansson as Cristina gets overshadowed by the earthy brilliance that drips from both Cruz and Bardem. Rebecca Hall who plays Vicky is also sidelined. The two Spaniards are so gifted. It's a crime, almost.
All in all, I would rate the movie as interesting and watchable. Not brilliant, but easy. Of course, it has brought to light my rapidly developing girl-crush on Cruz, but what can one do. There is the impossible Javier, too, to deal with. Sigh. Besides all the achingly familiar landmarks of Barcelona and the haunting strains of Spanish guitar (they seem to have a real guitarist problem in that country).

The travel monologue

2009-11-22T05:16:00.003-05:00

The bus ride to and from work can be anything from a breeze to a soul-crushing odyssey, depending on traffic. Also, a lot of your mental health during the ride depends on the bus-driver's choice of radio station. Mostly, it's that station where the RJ insists on talking at a speed of 4000 words a minute, because, as she keeps saying, it's music for the 'fatafat' generation. Much worse is on some mornings when there is a particular lady who answers interview questions and then picks THE worst songs written in the history of Kannada films. These er....songs...are enough to make me want to hurl myself out of the thick glass windows, or failing that, at least bang my head against them several times until I fall, senseless, to the floor. Fortunately, owing to an attack of conscience, the newspaper boy now brings the paper really early and on most mornings I can hide in my copy of the Times.

Then there are the conductors. There is one lady, who with her sweetly bobbed hair and girlish smile, bowls you over. But, mind it, she's a terror. "Tickettsoo!!" she trumpets, galumphing like a matriach elephant charging down the Serengeti... she even hangs out of the door and yells at the traffic cop for doing a poor job of controlling the pedestrians! And then there is the one who charges me 25 instead of the usual 30 for my route. We have a secret understanding. Sometimes he won't make eye contact and says, deadpan, "30 rupees please." I, shattered at this fall from grace, hand him a 100. Then he hands me back 75 in change and gives me a quick, conspiratorial grin, seen by no-one else, and all is right in the world again.

But the worst scourge of all on this earth are the gropers. Fortunately, they don't exist on my regular bus. But once or twice when it gets really crowded, it does happen- or tries to, at least. There was this recent incident where I said, loudly, to the creep who was inching closer and closer, "Move BACK please. Don't TOUCH me." And, miraculously after that, he suddenly found room to stand in a manner where we weren't in intimate physical contact. It also helped that every other woman on board turned around and gave him a nasty look. Ha, Take that, fool. Next time, it'll be an elbow in your face!

The Silent Steak

2009-11-21T04:16:00.000-05:00

Finally, Tango has a new collar. And, quite a collar it is- the largest one I found in the store. It's a shiny blue and you can see it for miles. However, the father harrumphed about it being a 'girly' collar- excuse me, it's blue, not pink- the usual crotchety response; I'm sure he is secretly thrilled that his beloved dog finally got rid of his ratty old collar and now looks like a pet from a khaata- peeta- gharana.

But the real highlight of the gifts Tango got this time was the Steak. A cleverly crafted piece of rubber-plastic that looks exactly like a steak, it was the ideal toy for this usually toy-less dog, and what's more, it squeaked, rather loudly, every time he stepped on it. Well, who knows what happened the morning after he got it, because he got in a proper frenzy and started to gallop with it in his mouth, in circles around the dining table. The steak would squeak frantically every time Tango pushed it, and the more it squeaked, the more he pushed, all the while haring around the table like a thing possessed. We even heard a dull thud as he banged his head on the edge of the table, but he was undeterred. Finally, silence. Then a pathetic sighing- the squeaking mechanism had been broken.

After that, he is no longer as frenzied, but the steak still gets a good shaking every time he plays with it. Now it just sighs, resigned to its fate.

Gobble gobble

2009-11-08T09:54:00.002-05:00

With Thanksgiving around the corner, J got into the spirit of things and decided to roast a turkey. Of course, this meant actually finding a turkey to roast; and as with the simplest things in Bengaluru, this task has taken on the mystic charm of an old-fashioned treasure hunt.

There is that mad vet who used to take care of my ex-roomate's dog, I remembered. He had a turkey farm on the side. But getting his number would be a challenge. We also tried the mundane option of asking at the supermarket. Not convinced by the wishy-washy answers, J made inquiries with a co-worker of his, known to be a resourceful type. This young fellow and J met at work one day to discuss this- they talked in low whispers and vague terms, all with the intrigue and drama of two drug dealers. Then a few days later, young fellow announces that he has managed to get a friend of his, who incidentally goes by the name of Tango, to recommend us to another friend who can get us a turkey.

So tomorrow I will have the task of calling this other friend- who knows what his name is? Charlie? Delta? ...anyway, I suppose all this hunting around will be worth it. J is a good roaster of birds and I've never co-hosted Thanksgiving before.

Readings

2009-07-31T10:39:00.003-04:00

Vintage crime it is. From the moment J handed me Raymond Chandler's The Big Sleep I knew I had found the genre I've always loved without knowing- Vintage Crime. I went through the Big Sleep on the rather tedious journey to and from the workplace, (thank god for Vajra buses) and as a result sometimes became mildly befuddled about who was chasing or shooting whom. However, it gave me the very satisfactory feeling of having bitten into something really juicy.

And now it is the classic Maltese Falcon.-what's not to love? 1940s San Fransisco (a city I'll always love in a special way since having its night-time fog and ocean mists described to me by J), Sam Spade, and lots of classic intrigue.

Even if I have to read it during a bus journey that takes an hour and a half to cover 14 kilometers. I suppose it's the only thing that's kept me sane.

2009-07-16T02:06:00.001-04:00

We, as adults, understand neither the power nor the fragility of childhood. And putting pain in a child's eyes is our worst act.

It is in everyone

2009-07-15T02:25:00.000-04:00

Our greatest fear is not that we are inadequate but that we are powerful beyond measure.It is our light, not our darkness, that frightens us.We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, handsome, talented and fabulous?Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God.Your playing small does not serve the world.There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you.We were born to make manifest the glory of God within us.It is not just in some; it is in everyone.And, as we let our own light shine, we consciously give other people permission to do the same.As we are liberated from our fear, our presence automatically liberates others.- From 'A return to love' by Marianne Williamson

Children in a field

2009-07-14T14:30:00.002-04:00

Image via Wikipedia

They don't wade in so much as they are taken.
Deep in the day, in the deep of the field,

every current in the grasses whispers hurry
hurry, every yellow spreads its perfume
like a rumor, impelling them further on.
It is the way of girls, it is the sway
of their dresses in the summer trance-
light, their bare calves already far-gone
in green. What songs will they follow?
Whatever the wood warbles, whatever storm
or harm the border promises, whatever
calm. Let them go. Let them go traceless
through the high grass and into the willow-
blur, traceless across the lean blue glint
of the river, to the long dark bodies
of the conifers, and over the welcoming
threshold of nightfall.
~Angela Shaw

This poem has a soft, lyrical quality that drew me in immediately. I love "willow-blur" and "summer trance-light."

En Espana

2009-06-12T19:38:00.000-04:00

We walked into the bookstore opposite our hotel one day and felt like we'd come upon a cave of wonders. Only thing is, most books were in Spanish, so there was that little hurdle. Still, the smell of thousands of volumes, some dusty with age, was a delight in itself.
Also a delight was the textbook-perfect old gentleman, sitting there like he was born one day miraculously in the middle of these 10,000 books on a small street in Barcelona. We diffidently asked him the price of this marvelous old newspaper from 1942 and he barked the answer at us. Then we browsed for half an hour more and when we went back he was sitting there ready to wrap it up for us.

Two people have asked us why we have this framed at home. Why? Because it is INEXPLICABLY COOL, that's why. Also, it is our one and only souvenir from Spain. So it deserves a prominent place in our castle.

Price: 3 euros.

Barca and bocadillos

2009-06-04T07:33:00.000-04:00

May 16

When you open the big, heavy door to our hotel (each guest has a key) you enter this grand marble hallway with some grand marble stairs up ahead. Oddly enough, there's also an elevator that looks incongrous- but it's for the residents of the other floors of this building, they live here and there's a row of mailboxes in a corner. This adds to the illusion that we're actually locals here.

We walked all the way down to the water after breakfast. A slighly uninspiring waterfront, this section at least, a bit industrial looking. And we found a lovely plaza that we later came to know as the Placa Reial- a beautiful big plaza with a fountain in the middle and a graceful ochre yellow building to one side. It's lined with rather touristy cafes and restaurants, but with this heavenly sunset, the palm trees and a 400 year old fountain, who really cares if there are tourists? Speaking of the sunset, it got dark only after 9pm. Having got used to the tropics of namma Bangalore, this is a nice change especially because the light at this time of year is so very pleasing.

There are several Indian boys walking around selling fat red roses for a Euro each. There are also Indian boys walking up and down the Rambla, which is the main avenue, selling beers that they swing in their hands and whispering "I get you anything you like." Er. We see one Indian restaurant by the waterfront, the inevitable "Shalimar" or something like that.

For dinner, we ended up back on our street at the tiny cafe where two people couldn't go down the stairs side by side. I virtuously ask for orange juice, (large), but because I'm a low talker and my Catalan is laughable, the barkeeper serves me a beer (large.) When he brings the beer, I understand why he looks so approving- J has asked for a small beer. Ha, ha. J tucks heartily into one of those sandwich things they call bocadillo; kind of like a six inch sub, stuffed to bursting with cured ham and cheese. Real paisa-vasool, these thingies.

Very very early the next morning, I heard a football riot- people running, glass smashing, police sirens, and finally an awful series of loud pops that I finally figured were rubber bullets. In the morning we talked to our hotel guy and he confirmed that these riots are common in these parts. Football is serious stuff. To end the discussion, he helpfully added, "Barca lost, you see!" We nodded, as though we knew full well not only who Barca lost to, but also the win-loss average, the star striker, and future prospects of blessed Barca.

These boots are made for walking

2009-06-01T07:15:00.004-04:00

Image via Wikipedia

May 15

J and I are so dizzy with delight, I actually think one of us is going to fall down into the street from our hotel balcony. And it's not just some street- it's a little alley opposite an art gallery and an art bookstore, directly adjacent to Barcelona's famous La Rambla. We can spend all day and most of the night just hanging out in this balcony and watch people walk by. Until, that is, we realize that the entire city waits and we need to get going.

So we do. J is seriously impressed at how much I can walk. Huh! I snort, what you thought?
Give me little cobblestoned alleys, fountains, Placas, churches, gelaterias, blue skies and fantastic architecture, and I will outwalk the nearest camel. Suffice to say that Barcelona provides all the elements, in good quantities. Our first dinner in this city is at a busy little tapas place where we eat gorgeous grilled shrimp, salty sardines with basil pesto, and the famous chorizo sausage. And, let me add, they serve Sangria by the litre here. I knew there was a reason I feel so at home.

Er...

2009-06-01T07:12:00.000-04:00

To begin, let me say that I am going to be writing about my long-awaited trip to Spain because only words can create magic, one word is worth a thousand pictures, and taking pictures while you travel shows that you're a tourist and not a traveler, and it cheapens the whole experience of being in a foreign land.

Or, J and I lost the camera on our last night in Barcelona and I will just have to shut up and write.

Two copies, nine triplicates, matte not glossy, back to back!

2009-03-13T06:35:00.002-04:00

All my ineptitude at paperwork has re-surfaced, and how. Last week, it was during the application process for something called a PIO card for J. Now this PIO itself is a funny thing- it stands for Person of Indian Origin. But what is distinctly unfunny is the lack of clarity about the application process itself- coupled with the fact that we dragged our feet a bit and put things off. Now we don't know if we made it on time. We'll just have to wait and see.
And this week there's been more paperwork. Things have been so bad that I will break into hives if I hear the word 'Xerox' ever again. I tried to get some photocopies yesterday. What a fool I was! The Xerox boy kept mumbling something about back-to-back copies. People, as usual, tried to cut in front of me in line (what line?) and I snapped at them. Three or four discussions later, he finally deigned to place my papers on the Xerox machine. Immediately, there was a power cut.

AND I tried to get visa photos that were matte not glossy- the audacity! I was prepared for some level of frustration but not this. God! Ultimately J kindly took me out to dinner where I ranted on and on about how I would kiss the tarmac when we landed at that foreign airport. Sigh.

Crazy, sexy, uncool

2009-03-10T12:35:00.002-04:00

There is a song from the film 13-B that has as its refrain- "oh sexy mama....." and the minute I heard it, I went, "uh oh!" Proving that my crazy-radar is spot-on, the next day I read about how the censors had edited the song to make it go, "crazy mama..."

Someone raised a hilarious but perfectly valid point- "how are they ok with saying, 'meri maa paagal hai' as opposed to 'meri maa sexy hai?'"
Incidentally what is up with the lyrics of 'ringa ringa' from Slumdog? As far as I can tell, they are rather risque. Or maybe I'm just crazy.

The gratitude diary

2009-03-08T07:54:00.001-04:00

There is something to be said for the onset of warmer weather. (that line sounded incredibly pompous). But it is one of life's great joys when you sneak to the kitchen, take out a chilled watermelon, slice it open and then stick your face into it and take great, cold, crisp red mouthfuls.
This is further compounded by re-discovering how refreshing cola can actually be. And by taking cold showers in the evening. And the jacarandas blooming on the side of hot, dusty streets. Also by being presented with pink flowers...right, this last has nothing to do with summer; it simply gave me one more thing to appreciate.

Delhi 6

2009-03-03T14:52:00.002-05:00

This movie is one of those that has its heart in the right place- it's well-intentioned, well-acted and has a host of likeable characters. However, the central theme of the movie is--er-- I don't quite know. It ends up being a bit of a forced mish-mash of themes and painfully obvious cliches.

Abhishek Bachchan (widely panned for his 'fake' accent) is an NRI who brings back his ailing Dadi to her old haveli in Delhi's Chandni Chowk. And that is all the plot there is. From there on, it's a melange of characters, observations, and situations. This is all fine- there are a number of really sweet and memorable performances by many actors who are under-rated. Then, there is Sonam Kapoor. Since I refused to see her debut-Saawariya- this is the first time I've seen her in a movie. And she is really pretty great. She's radiant and doesn’t try too hard. But what is she to do with a character that’s just one of so many? One ends up feeling unsatisfied at this treatment.

With a grand theme like communal harmony, which is what it’s ultimately about, the director could have chosen a more subtle metaphor than the ‘monkey-man menace’ one that he used. (There is a half-man half-monkey beast that is supposedly terrorising the streets of Delhi and people and news channels are all agog with this sensational occurrence.) Ok, but, I mean, come on. When Abhishek first lands in India and sees a news item about the ‘kala bandar’, it seems amusing and conveys a sense of the bizarre that is quite routine in India. But then, it goes on and on. And on. The whole film is taken over by this rather inane and irritating character/situation/device. And the climax? I am still utterly flummoxed about why Abhishek does what he does.

Overall, Delhi 6 could have been a much better film. It falls short. And the worst moment is Abhishek saying earnestly, “India works! The people make it work!”

Yes, my friend, thank you for telling us that.

So long, and thanks for all the fish!

2009-02-27T00:31:00.003-05:00

There may be a simple reason for the bout of ill-temper I've experienced recently, as most clearly evidenced by the Oscars rant. They've taken Seinfeld off the air.
Somewhere in my mind I knew this was bound to happen; it was inevitable, as they say, like death and taxes. However, now that it has actually happened I find myself rather ill-equipped to face life. Television is now a vast tundra with no hope of respite.

Nothing pleases me

2009-02-24T01:27:00.008-05:00

What a strange and underwhelming experience it has been. Let me start with the truly bad. When I say bad, I mean egregious. Execrable. See exhibits A1 and A2 above, if you can bear it. On the left we have one Miley Cyrus with her trademark rabbity pout/grin, wearing what looks like a clump of vaguely poisonous upside-down mushrooms. And on her left we have one Jessica Biel, who, not to be outdone by a mere stripling such as Cyrus, steps into a piece from Prada's latest pillowcase-cum-handtowel collection.

Moving on from the horror: just about the only blasts of color were provided by the reliable Freida Pinto, and Natalie Portman. Although Freida's Galliano gown is:

reminiscent of Drew Barrymore's at the Golden Globes
missing a sleeve OR has a sleeve where no sleeve is needed, and
giving her an unflattering straight shape,

I am so grateful that it is an actual color as opposed to some shade of dishwater gray or white, I will forgive. Natalie too is quite pretty in her lilac Rodarte number-although that Alicia Keys had to go and steal her thunder by wearing a dress of the same shade. The reason Keys lost was because she wore a wig.

Marisa Tomei kind of stood out in a grand and dramatic pleated Versace creation that she wore with aplomb. And then, Cruz, who has vowed to displease me on every occasion by trying to make us forget that she is, in fact, freaking cute, by wearing something just plain dull. The skirt part of her dress reminds me of stage curtains. And let us not go into the ..er...color.

Finally, Anne Hathaway in Armani Prive. Note the relentless lack of color, but at least the gown has some sparkle. It's a flattering shape, Freida take note, and the hem falls about in a most fetching way. Here I will give an honorable mention to J. Aniston for not turning up in black, instead boldly opting for--gasp! off-white! Still, despite this radical departure, her Valentino frock was less pretty than Anne's, so she does lose out.

So, that about sums it up. I could include the ridiculous Heidi Klum in her orangeish and stiffly poky frock, Nicole Kidman in (what else) pale cream and feathers, Reese Witherspoon in a menacing-looking blue and black thing, Marillon Cotillard in a menacing-looking blue and black thing, and the Jolie in her joke jewelry and snoozy black billowy gown, but I will not. I'm too bored.

2009-02-19T01:36:00.004-05:00

I have always been notoriously unimaginative about naming things. Take, for instance, the first pet I can remember having- a dog named, what else, Doggy. Although no one in the family has directly accused me, I am positive it can have been no one else who named that unfortunate creature. And now, the latest semi-pet in my life is a dog named Eyes. This is because he has the most striking and singularly amazing pair of peepers I've ever seen. Eyes is master of his own destiny and comes and goes into our lives as he pleases. He will leap and nuzzle if he is in a good mood, or hungry. He openly grimaces if you give him food that he doesn't approve of, like plain dog food. If it involves meat, he approves.

Then there is the black and white mutt who has a way of cocking his head and keenly observing the German Shephard in the neighbor's house. I tell you, it's almost human. So I've named him IQ. The other day I caught IQ deliberately aggravating the German Shephard and then running away to hide around the corner. I'm surprised I didn't see him snickering behind his paws. Oh, the poor German Shephard is called Rocky, by the way. (Maybe I should come up with something more fitting, no? Smirk.)

And the last canine of note is one shaggy thing I've seen lolling in the park under the flowering trees. He has a beautiful, luxuriant caramel-colored coat. And he has a big head. So he is now known as Bighead Todd.

Readings

2009-02-19T01:22:00.003-05:00

PD James was someone I once read in my early youth, and the stark, dark tone of the novel left me a little scared. Or was that Ruth Rendell? It had an incident where a boy falls into a manhole and dies after long, slow days of misery. Shudder. Anyway, on a weekend, mid-morning, post-coffee wandering at Blossoms, when I saw a dark, fat volume with PD James across the front, my hand reached for it with inexorable force. The novel is called "Devices and Desires" and is proclaimed by the back page blurb as Ms. James at her finest.

Now the last book I read was Shantaram, and a more contrasting tome to that three-ring circus I could not have picked. After Shantaram's often wildly lyrical passages, PD James' austere style is something of a relief, almost. The only thing the two novels share is a strong sense of place. And can any place be more different from Bombay than Norfolk?

So in Devices and Desires, a serial killer nicknamed the Whistler is at large. But wait! Things cannot be quite so simple. In the prim little village of Lydsett, in the shadow of the nuclear power station, even more sinister events are afoot. Chief Inspector Adam Dalgliesh is not in charge of the case, interestingly.

I must commend PD James once again. A fine, restrained sense of observation, a very prim and English sense of humor, and a spare and precise style of narration. I am, once again, a fan of the murder mystery.

Mood- appalled

2009-01-30T01:49:00.002-05:00

It has happened again- that appalling thing called 'moral policing.' This time, a bunch of 30 goons entered a pub and dragged out the female customers, kicking and verbally abusing them. This was done because, according to the previously-unheard of group that is behind the attack, it goes against Indian culture for women to visit such establishments and to drink alcohol.

This is what it has come down to. So tomorrow, I might be dragged by the hair too, and thrown into a cell for all bad women like me simply because I am sitting in a pub, and horrors, am dressed in jeans and a 'skimpy' top. It nauseates me, this urgent need and desire to somehow control all women and lay down the law about women's choices.

All the blather about Indian culture excludes any mention of men. If 'women are our mothers' as the chief lout pointed out, then, logically, men are our fathers. I fail to understand why morality and cultural codes are to be applied exclusively to mothers and not fathers. And I would like very much to read the paragraph and page of this famed and much-quoted book of "Indian culture" that prescribes bashing up and abusing women to protect this culture.

I adore irony

2009-01-13T13:54:00.000-05:00

Listening to the radio today and the RJ is asking us to tell her the thing we hate most about our roommate. Now, let me hasten to add that it is not J that I am going to talk about here- he is quite the model roommate and, besides, keeps the kitchen frighteningly clean. No, I have one particular horror-story about a roommate and food.

She was much older than I was, I being but a callow mid-twenties type in those days. So she disliked me already, and she objected to my very existence and the fact that I didn't spend my every waking hour studying or worrying, like her. One day, she put something on the stove and went off to visit a friend upstairs. Now bear in mind that we lived in a dorm, and it was January. The windows were closed and the apartment was, in keeping with the wildly fluctuating thermostats, overheated.

Presently, there started emanating an odor from my roommate's cooking-pot. When I say odor, I mean nauseating, suicide-inducing stink. I held my nose as long as I could, but not being a human whale, couldn't manage it for long. I finally sneaked over and lifted the lid, just to see what could be possibly be in that blessed pot. And what was it? It looked like a white, gluey honeycomb. I think I screamed and dropped the lid back on.

Later, when she was back and the food was gone, I casually asked her what she'd been cooking. She said, 'oh that was some tripe.' Which means, the stomach of some animal. Right. The next day, for breakfast I fried some eggs. She got out of bed, came to the kitchen and said, "can you open the windows? I can't stand this smell."

Golden Globes 2009

2009-01-13T03:02:00.007-05:00

Blue was quite the color of the evening. This actress, whose name is apparently January Jones, stole the show in this pale, beautifully constructed gown- Versace, after all.

Then there were a lot of pale, skin toned gowns. Sandra Bullock also looked lovely in her delicately flounced number. Normally I am not a fan of flounces, but the Bullock proves they can be done classily. I particularly like her blue accessories.

Speaking of blue, this Mary-Louise Parker electric hued gown is quite a stunner. And despite the big hair, Drew's look also got my attention. Her dress looks like a misty morning or a pale cloud.

And lastly, what is up with Freida Pinto's choice? I cannot get on board with the bunching and the unattractive color. This is a pity because she's so pretty and self-assured; she would have won the red carpet battle with a better gown! Also disappointing was my girl Penelope Cruz in a boring, tube-like cream colored dress and poor Cameron Diaz in a hideous, wrinkled pink concoction.

all images from nytimes

9th and Hennepin

2009-01-08T14:22:00.001-05:00

Image via Wikipedia

Besides Sudoku and longneck steamer clams, the significant discovery of the last year was Tom Waits. Listening to his music and his gravelly, late-night voice answered some deep-seated need for music that goes beyond the standard pop-chart fare that you normally listen to on a daily basis. I feel compelled to post this song. It's a whole story, a film, a night for an insomniac, a dream, the last course of a great meal..and maybe in a year or two I will outgrow it as being too gimmicky, too dissatisfied or too something else. But for now, I am happy to listen to this stuff.

Well it's Ninth and Hennepin
All the doughnuts have names that sound like prostitutes
And the moon's teeth marks are on the sky
Like a tarp thrown all over this
And the broken umbrellas like dead birds
And the steam comes out of the grill
Like the whole goddamn town's ready to blow...
And the bricks are all scarred with jailhouse tattoos
And everyone is behaving like dogs
And the horses are coming down Violin Road
And Dutch is dead on his feet
And all the rooms they smell like diesel
And you take on the dreams of the ones who have slept here
And I'm lost in the window, and I hide in the stairway
And I hang in the curtain, and I sleep in your hat...
And no one brings anything small into a bar around here
They all started out with bad directions
And the girl behind the counter has a tattooed tear
"One for every year he's away", she said
Such a crumbling beauty, ah
There's nothing wrong with her that a hundred dollars won't fix
She has that razor sadness that only gets worse
With the clang and the thunder of the Southern Pacific going by
And the clock ticks out like a dripping faucet
'til you're full of rag water and bitters and blue ruin
And you spill out over the side to anyone who will listen...
And I've seen it all, I've seen it all
Through the yellow windows of the evening train...

word salad

Watched: Zindagi Milegi Na Dobara

Tree

Readings: The Everest Hotel by Allan Sealy

Just because

Readings: The Ingenious Edgar Jones

Elephant Bells

In the Company of Goats

and...

2011

Watched

Watched: Dhobi Ghat

Shadows

Readings: Wonderboys

Fists and words

Readings: The Final Solution

What's done is...

The Season of Plenty

Watched: Eat, Pray, Love

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