I discovered Fleetwood Mac in the summer of 2008, over a chance hearing of the track "Dreams" on slacker radio. And I knew, even in that first hearing, that this was a band that I was going to love. I think it was several weeks later that I finally "obtained" their discography and went through their albums.
After a brief exploration that included dwelling into their 4 CD The Chain series and listening to isolated tracks from "Tusk" and their self titled debut album, I finally hit upon "Rumours" - my personal favorite Fleetwood Mac album. Rumours, I found out later, is ranked on #25 by Rolling Stones on its list of 500 Greatest albums of all time.
Now Rumours isn't as phenomenal as say, Sgt. Peppers for The Beatles, or The Dark Side of the Moon for Pink Floyd. There is no sonic exploration as in the case of Floyd, or mind teasing lyrical journeys as was the case with Sgt. Peppers. It was instead, as music critic Patrick Donovan said, one of the great lost blues band - either the quintessence of California Soft Rock and L.A. excess or one of the greatest pop groups of all times.
To understand why, it is necessary to get into the psyche and pain of its band members - the drummer Mick Fleetwood (and the Band's namesake) aching under the separation from his wife, or the love gone bad tale between the lady singer-songwriter Stevie Nicks and the lead guitarist Lindsey Buckingham. Concurrently, there was also the divorce between the Bass guitarist John McVie and singer Christine Perfect.
With so much aching between the five band members - and a world of awkwardness between them, they sat down to write and compose this momentous album and feelings came pouring out. Before long, they realized that each was writing about the other - although the lyrics never seemed to be too specific or clear. Hence, they did what they could and called the album "Rumours". But before long, they realized that they had created such a beautiful album which drew them out of their misery.
The album begins with Lyndsey Buckingham's peppy track Second Hand News - a track that sounds more high spirited than its lyrics seem to be, where he seems to be directing a message to Stevie when he says,
"When times go bad
When times go rough
Wont you lay me down in tall grass
And let me do my stuff"
Stevie replies in her second track Dreams - possibly Fleetwood Mac's best composition till date, when she sings in melancholy and tells Lindsey-
"Now here you go again,
You say you want your freedom..."
And in a haunting tune that flows through the song like a wave, she tells him about women that will come and go, and how in the end he must -
"Listen carefully to the sound of your loneliness,
Like a heart beat - drives you mad,
In the stillness of remembering what you had,
And what you lost..."
And then, there is the haunting guitarwork of "Never Going back again" by Lindsey where he revisits the grievances of his previous number. This song with its acoustic guitar ring is very reminiscent of Going to California by Led Zeppelin, another song that talks about the woes of a woman unkind.
The next track on the album composed by Christine called "Don't Stop" , which appears to be an attempt to look ahead and think about tomorrow since Yesterday's being gone, moves on with a classic riff that spreads through half the song. There is advice that is seemed to be dealt to a scorned lover here - asking him to continue to seek happiness elsewhere, and done nonchalantly and a little too happily as if, in an attempt to mask your own pain.
The sixth track in the album is "Go your own way", which talks about Lindsey's acknowledgment of -
"Loving you, isn't the right thing to do,
But how can I change the way I feel?"
Again, with a fantastic riff, and an effort to get lost in excessive rock and roll to forget the aching of the heart brings us this fantastic number by the band.
Go you own way follows up by a track called "Songbird" a soft number in which Christine sings the ache of her heart and reinstates that she will love like never before.
My second most favorite track from the Rumours album (Dreams being the first), is The Chain. This song has everything a good song ought to have. Beautiful guitar work, a good chorus and voice, good beats - and of course, the slightly accusatory lyrics where Stevie Nicks and Lindsey sing together-
"And if you don't love me now,
You will never love me again."
So let's just break the chain shall we? And see where life takes us. Let us instead dwell on other things and be happy, like that accelerating riff that comes in past three minutes into the song and gives us the enthusiasm to run headlong into life.
"Oh Daddy", is most probably a tribute to Mick Fleetwood, the caretaker of the band, and the strength that held them together while they faced their biggest crisis of their relationship as a group. The album ends with Gold Dust woman, in which Stevie speaks about Lindsey's downward spiral into Cocaine abuse when she tells him to
"Take a silver spoon,
And dig your grave."
Rumours went on to be come the 10th best selling album of all time, and Fleetwood Mac became a commercial success with this album, although none of the band members ever got back together with each other. They went on lead different lives, and meet different people.
And yet, the strange thing was they stuck on together as a band. And they continue to play till this day at live concerts. They all have different lives now - but each time, any of these songs are sung, Stevie says, it is like visiting old memories - and we love each other in ways that wouldn't have been possible if we had been together.
And the intensity behind their relationships gives me all the more reasons to love this album.
Some movies deliver to the older folks. And others work strictly for the younger multiplex going generation. This movie promises to address both but sort of immerses itself in the younger story - the multiplex story. And in that context, it works splendidly.
Saif Ali Khan's production debut begins with Love Aaj Kal - a movie by Imtiaz Ali - The same guy who directed the sloppy "Jab We met". Jab We Met was a hit - for reasons beyond my understanding. For all I knew, it was a DDLJ rehash with a poor man's Sharukh who was incapable of any menacing expressions whatsoever (Okay, I have heard about Kaminey, but I guess its something we ought to wait and see - not hype up. Even good directors make bad movies, as Ram Gopal Varma could tell you).
Now why Jab We met was a hit? I must probably give credit to all the punjabi women who went gaga about it. That, and the fact that we had a recently broken up Bebo and Shahid who created enough publicity with the last movie they would do together, and the few kisses they shared on and off screen that somebody has been kind enough to upload to youtube.
Enough said about that. Jab We Met was a mediocre movie.
Love Aaj Kal, on the other hand, is good. Now, it isn't excellent. It isn't without its little failings, its badly placed songs, occassional spurts of unemotive acting by a model turned actress with a behind to kill for, and a star actor with the worst dancing skills since Sunny Deol. Don't believe me? Just watch him prance around for Twist, looking goofily straight at the camera and trying too hard not to mess it up.
But what makes Love Aaj Kal work for me, is its plausible storyline -about love in today's world and the practicality of letting someone go - even if you feel somewhere deep inside that this might be the right one. There is an ounce of truth in what happens in the movie - and it is bitter. Yet, we are shown the sweetness that once existed - in the story of yesterday, which unfortunately, plays like a romantic comedy track. This story is told through Rishi Kapoor's narrative although in a flight of cinematic license unknown previously to Bollywood, the character is played yet again by Saif.
And thus we see two stories unfold as we witness a Saif of the older days ( who is actually Rishi Kapoor when he grows old)- spotting a turban and beard and making declarations of love as he follows his loved one miles and miles just to see her. And on the other side, there is the Urban Saif - the talking, blundering and philandering Saif, who lets love take a backseat and immerses instead into work and playstations and growth, only to find himself terribly lonely, when all is lost.
Love Aaj Kal works because its script does not travel the familiar path. It moves into unchartered territory and talks about relationships and confusion. It addresses the fear of commitment all men feel and what Indian movies conveniently ignore. Happily ever after is tougher than ever today, and this is what Love Aaj Kal portrays.
Having said that the acting is not too great, there are times - when the acting does deliver - the sorrow that runs deep behind Deepika's eyes, or the drunkenness with which the pair stumble into an apartment complex and Saif mumbles a hello. Deepika, who got away playing a prop in Om Shanti Om, gets ample space to act in Love Aaj Kal - Sometimes, she does deliver, showing that she cannot be written off immediately. At other times, it is clear that she is still raw. There is much to be learned.
The movie therefore, rests mostly on Saif's broad shoulders - and he pulls through, despite his rather large nose and balding forehead. The forehead is conveniently covered in the Sardar's avatar - but the broad shoulders gell well into the Sardar's shirt - although they make the new generation Saif look pudgy and fat. I personally liked his look as the older Saif better. Being an actor of caliber, he manages to bring out the unchecked agression and insecurity of a Punjabi munda.
Lastly, a word on Harleen Kaur - that beautiful beautiful Italian lady they have cast as Saif's love interest. She fits into the role of a beautiful Punjabi maiden perfectly and is tailor made gorgeous.
For me, a good movie is something with a script that doesn't bore, dialogues that I find easy to comprehend and a story that keeps my attention till the end. Love Aaj Kal managed to do all three of these - and it is therefore a movie that is not your average Bollywood movie - despite being packed and disguised that way.
And thus it becomes the sort of movie you must see. If you were ever in love. Or in a relationship. Or confused.
Yesterday. Or today.
Four Stars on Five.
Six months ago, I came across a Dutch movie unwittingly as I stood outside a remote movie hall in New York City. Released sometime in 2007, this movie was titled "
Kærlighed på film".
The English Translation: Just Another Love Story.
One glance at the poster told me it was anything but that. A man, stands with a gun drawn over a dead man in a pool of blood. Time wasn't wasted. Tickets were bought. Seats occupied.
The movie begins like promised with a series of numbered love scenes. Except that it was hardly love. It begins with the protagonist Jonas's narrative of how it all ends and then we are thrown into his life as he struggles through a slightly sickening job and a boring wife and kid, when he suddenly meets the femme fatale Julia through an accident. The accident leaves Julia injured and comatic. Jonas makes his way to the hospital to be misunderstood by her family as her boyfriend.
When his feeble attempts to clear the misunderstanding fail, Jonas finds himself being handed a wet sponge to wipe the naked and comatic Julia's body with clear instructions to clean between her armpits and legs. And thus begins a strange, erotic, cruel, ambivalent and sometimes funny journey as he claims to be who he is not, and leaves the life that was originally his, suddenly and unwittingly drawn into a passionate love, an exotic fantasy and a forbidden life.
And as we follow him through a sensory overload of events, we are both repulsed and strangely attracted to his actions. The guilty pleasure of enjoying something really despicable. There is always a woman, the protagonist says, and there is one here. One, we are as much mesmerized with, as is the protagonist. Cleverly written, the characters often dwell in the intricacies of metafiction. A woman and a mystery are the ideal ingredients of a movie, one of the characters says sarcastically. A good shot, says the protagonist in another scene which is a classic film noir shot if any ever is.
The background score is brilliant, alternating between a slow haunting acoustic guitar, to a symphony of sorts as we move through the protagonist's life. The script is fresh and pulsating with energy as we laugh one second and are repulsed the very next. If a movie can make you grimace, laugh and bite you nails with apprehension and wonder at the intelligent sharp exchange of dialog, it is one that has managed to make its mark. This particular movie has surpassed the mark.
Acting by the lead characters is ace. The confrontation scene between the protagonist and his opposite number is fletched out stunningly. Fragments of each life are shown to you, and as you put everything together and move towards what is a stunning climax, you realize somewhat surprised, that this movie is exactly what it promised to be.
Just another love story.
First, there is the article on 27th of June 2009, that says Mahatma Gandhi was re-incarnated as Van Jones, a celebrated civil rights activist, which Deccan Chronicle News paper reports "
here".
The theory is propogated by researcher
Walter Semkiv, who states (among other things) that Van Jones shared with Gandhi, similar bone and face structures. Walter Semkiv also says Van Jones had the same affinity towards Civil Rights movements than Gandhi had.
And just as I give the article an "I-don't believe-you" eye and decide to let it slide by, I come across this second article on Michael Jackson possibly being reborn female in future. This article, on the 28th June 2009, which Deccan Chronicle(again) prints, can be read "
here".
This article, written by... *rubs eyes*...the same
Walter Semkiv guy, talks about Michael Jackson being earlier born as a French entertainer and then as a young soldier who lost his life at a battle. Walter Semkiv also goes on to say (among other things), that with Soldier Jackson's young death in battle, he had lost a chance at boyhood.
This, my friends, explained Pop-king Jackson's craving of boyhood. Find no errors in that sentence. And speak no evil of the dead, mind you.
But this
Walter Semkiv guy
is alive. (And so is Deccan Chronicle). So it isn't nearly as bad to wonder what it is that these guys are cooking up. And why is it that"our correspondent" is writing so many things about him?
But before Walter Semkiv can wonder why his article causes me to furrow my eyebrows in deep concentration, he must look at my coat, long hat and pipe. He must wonder who it is I could have been in a fictitious previous life.
Isn't it elementary, dear Walter?
If this story is indeed plausible, and not something out of science fiction movie, it might do well for you to click "
here" and learn about these genetically modified mosquitoes, that a research team in Chennai is working upon.
In the words of visiting Oxfordian research fellow S.S. Vasan, the technology "deploys these genetically sterile Aedes aegypti male mosquitoes to fight disease causing ones." The disease they are targeting seems to be dengue, in this scenario.
That sounds like bloody science fiction to me! But on second thoughts, if such a thing really were possible, I can't help but wonder if it wouldn't be easier to genetically modify those bloodsuckers to love animal blood and leave us humans alone? I mean think about it. It sounds a lot easier than manufacturing clones to fight the bad guys. (Yet another Terminator movie?).
Oh well. Random useless thought apart, I must concede that science does have its limitations. And from what I read of the article, so does the benevolence of our Indian government.
Some books can be loved unconditionally.
They pull the strings of our hearts immediately and urge us to read along and love the characters. Kite Runner is an example of this case - where an alien country is made familiar to us, by the thread of human emotion that runs through it. It is the sort of book one learns to love in its first page and treasure it through its final pages.
Not "The God of Small Things". In TGOST, the laws of love have been set, deciding who would love this book. And how. And how much.
Exactly how I love this book ( if I love it at all) and how much I love it, is a question I find very difficult to answer even a week after I finish it. I picked up the book with a jaundiced eye, knowing very well that Indian Authors religiously go that extra mile to prove their mastery over the English language. And consciously aware of this effort, they then try to return to their roots, lavishly sprinkling their writing with Italicized Indian words, (the jhola that Ramu Postman carries, or the alluring dupatta that Savita bhabhi uses to adorns her cleavage revealing choli).
As a result, Indian writing is often sporadic. A case in point is Siddharth Dhavant's "Last Song of Dusk". The book starts off with a verbally packed first three pages, and then settles comfortably into regular speech for the next hundred pages. Again book 2 ( which is a few years later), begins with some powerfully packed pages, before it too settles into more comfortable language. This demonstrates quite clearly to the searching eye of a break after part 1, when Siddharth would have rubbed his hands gleefully and decided he is ready to start part 2. And the enthusiasm shows for a few pages.
"The God of Small Things", begins similarly. It opens to a panaromic view of Ayemenem in Kerala, sprinkled with sights, sounds and smells - about black crows gorging on bright mangoes, ripening of red bananas, bursting of jackfruits and "dissolute blue bottles humming vacuously in the fruity air". Very clearly, Arundhati Roy draws attention to her style and makes a point that she might be Indian, but her english, just like Kerala is hot, humid poetry. And into this poetry walks one half of our duel protagonists "Rahel". She returns to Ayemenem searching her long lost twin brother Estha who had been "returned" when they were only seven years old. Why he was returned is a story we learn through the rest of the book, where Small Things (duly capitalized in the eyes of our duel twin seven year olds) eventually lead to Big (and sad) Things.
And like Arundhati Roy, the characters in TGOST, are caught up with their identities of establishing their intellect, be it Oxford educated Chacko uncle, who talks in his Read aloud voice, when he explains to the twins that an Anglophile is a person "well disposed to the English Language", or Grand Aunt Baby Kochama, who takes joy in Spandex wearing wrestlers (Mr. Perfect and Hulk Hogan) crack each other's skulls on television. Or the Elvis Puff shirt Estha is made to wear as the twins are dragged along to pick up Uncle Chacko's English wife (Ex-wife Chacko, she admonishes him), and his Half English-Half Indian daughter Sophie Mol.
But where Arundhati Roy excels (as compared to most Indian authors), is that she is consistently and spectacularly enthusiastic, moving deftly between her thoughts and those of her character's, sometimes even interspersing the thoughts of seven year old twins with her own authorial third person narration - which is to say, by irony. An excellent example of that is the Australian Miss Mitten who gives the twins a baby book, "Adventures of Susie Squirrel", which they read out to her backwards, just because they find the forward version too boring. A disappointed Miss Mitten complains to their grand Aunt, getting them impositions of "I will not write Backwards" to be written forwards. Arundhati Roys makes a an almost comical observation about Miss Mitten being killed soon after by a Van reversing "Backwards."
Also, unlike other Indian authors, Arundhati Roy does not dwell into Indianization of words and ideas just to bring the Indian touch. Instead she fiercly defends the Indianness that exists in a country that has been touched, corrupted and changed irreversably by the Western world, and yet still largely poor. An example is the lemon soda with thick blue marble stoppers to keep the fizz in, (an indian innovation, if any ever is) which sits close to a red icebox which says rather sadly (in her own words), "Things go better with Coca-cola."
There is poetry in what Arundhati Roy writes, even though she often writes about unpoetic things, about Communism, about the caste system, about Pickle factories, men's needs and naked beggars sitting on milestones their dangling penises pointing out that it is Cochin and it is 23 Kms away. And the reason why there is poetry is because the images are often seen in the eyes of the seven year old twins, who often played small games without adult supervision.
Who's mother sometimes asked them to Stoppit. And they Stoppited.
At the crux of the story is a tragedy. We are made aware of this in the very beginning of the tale, and we see its sense through through the eyes of characters who have witnessed, lived, died (not young, not old, but at viable-diable ages), been returned and themselves re-returned. As we move through the book, we catch the characters in the midst of their miseries, in different points of their lives. Often, the characters know more about their tragedy than we do, and sometimes we know more about what awaits them than they do. In the end, we know the Small Things which lead to the Big Things, and in this omniscient secret we share with the author (and which the characters do not know) lies the Godliness of the Book.
The God of Small Things is not a book for everybody. I do not love it entirely, because it is a book of language - not of plot. As a consequence, some of the plot twists appear a little contrived. The love story between Ammu and the untouchable Vellutha, for instance, happens too abruptly. There is no gradual progression of events that could lead a loving mother into the arms of the man who could spell disaster for everyone. This lack of motivation for a crucial act in the story, causes one to wonder if the author is not merely being manipulative to bring on the tragedy we have all been promised.
Also, the act of incest between the twins, seems too trivial, if not perverted. We have come to believe the bond the twins share (they think of both as "I "and each individually as "us") something wonderful and unique, to the extent that one wakes up giggling at the other's funny dream. Such kinship finally culminating into a sexual act seems like an attempt by Arundhati Roy to go for cheap sensationalism. There is something wrong here - the beauty of Roy's characters have been sacrificed by her conjuring up of a sexual act that does not bequest them. Perhaps, this sensationalism is Roy's way of dealing for all practical purposes, with a hopelessly practical world. But for the idealistic reader, this sensationalism (manipulation?) does the exact opposite of tugging at his heart - it makes his dispassionate, and diminishes some of the divinity that otherwise made this book beautiful.
It is a compromise she should not have made.
Nevertheless, it is still a book that cannot be ignored. There were parts of the book that I was compelled to read. And read again. There were parts of the book, that overflowed with symbolism (the Tale of Mahabharatha told by Kathakali dancers who perform stoned because tourism has shortened and commercialized their danceform). There were parts of the book that appealed to the depth in me and spoke a truth which I could relate to.
And as I reached the last few pages of the book, I realized that the end of the story was not the end of the events. Nor was it the beginning.
The book ended at a point in which the laws of love were laid down. Of who to love. And how. And how much. The story ends with a promise, that one character makes to another. And yet, we feel a sense of loss because we share an omniscient secret with the author. We know the promise will never be kept. We have read the Small Things. We have read the Big Things. We know how the story ends.
And in this anguish, lies the beauty of the book.
This list is based on those songs that I have played the most and find myself listening to again and again without skipping. Edit: What began as 20 songs, turned out to be 30, when I realized there were so many songs I just couldn't skip.
1) Bohemian Rhapsody - Queen ( A night at the Opera)
2) Wish you were here - Pink Floyd (Wish You were here)
3) Light My fire - The Doors ( The Doors)
4) Dreams - Fleetwood Mac (Rumours)
5) Oh Darling - The Beatles ( Abbey Road)
6) Don't Cry - Guns 'n Roses (Use your Illusion-I)
7) Like a Rolling Stone - Bob Dylan (Highway 61 Revisited)
8) Fixing a hole - The Beatles (Sgt. Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band)
9) Time - Pink Floyd (Dark Side of the Moon)
10) Where the streets have no names - U2 (Joshua Tree)
11) Sultan of Swing - Dire Straits (Alchemy)
12) Going to California - Led Zeppelin ( Zeppelin-IV)
13) Norwegian Wood - The Beatles (Rubber Soul)
14) Estranged - Guns n Roses (Use your Illusion - II)
15) Jeremy - Pearl Jam (Ten)
16) Don't look back in Anger - Oasis (What's the Story, Morning Glory?)
17) Daughter - Pearl Jam (VS)
18) Come Undone - Duran Duran (self titled album)
19) Hallowed be Thy Name - Iron Maiden (Best of the Beast)
20) Tom Sawyer - Rush (Moving Pictures)
21) The Day I tried to live - Soundgarden (A-sides)
22) Beautiful Day - U2 (All that you can't leave behind)
23) Baba O' Riley - The Who (Who's Next)
24) Money for Nothing - Dire Straits (Alchemy)
25) Roxanne - The Police (Outlandos d'amour)
26) Locomotive Breath - Jethro Tull (Aqualung)
27) All along the Watch tower - Jimi Hendrix (South Saturn Delta)
28) I walk the Line - Johnny Cash ( I walk the Line)
29) No Quarter - Led Zeppelin (Houses of the Holy)
30) Mama I'm Coming home - Ozzy Osbourne (No More Tears)
I am sure we all agree how retarded the rulers of Afghanistan have been.
But what caught my notice the other day raises the levels of retardedness to an new high.
This is a real life story that happened in the Kabul zoo in 1993. Despite the funny sad way that it played out, it is a story that has all the nuances of a successful motion picture.
Without doubt, Afghanistan has had a turbulent history, starting off as one of the pioneers of art and exquisiteness and ending up as mere rubble in the hands of the Taliban. One of those places of noteworthy interest gone into ruins in their hands has been the Kabul Zoo.
What began in 1979, as a slow decimation by the occassional rockets during the civil war, become an unmindful killing spree of all animals when the Mujahideens took over. However, it was soon pointed out to them that Prophet Muhammed(pbuh) was an adorer of animals and would have scorned on any cruelty towards them.
And so, for the time being the Afghan soldiers let the animals be.
But in 1993, an Afghan soldier (who for lack of appropriate words, can only be described as a prick), wanted to prove his courage to the fellow soldiers. He climbed into the cage of Kabul Zoo's most famous inhabitant -
Marjan the lion.
The prick made his way to Marjan's lioness, Chucha and in an attempt at foolish bravado, tickled her belly. He then turned to wave at his friends.
It turned out to be the last thing he ever did.
Lions, unlike the soldiers, have integrity. They will not sit around when their loved ones are attacked. Marjan pounced upon the stupid prick and tore him to bits. He was dead in minutes. I can only assume that the rest of the prick's friends panicked, went around in circles and finally scattered like a bunch of flies.
This is where the story should have ended. Unfortunately in real life, even true bravery has repercussions.
The prick had a brother who returned the next day to take revenge. He threw a grenade into Marjan's cage. The lion, assuming it was food and not really understanding the vengeful malice that lies at the heart of men jumped upon the grenade.
In the explosion that followed, Marjan the lion, lost an eye, had its face badly mutilated and jagged ends of shrapnel pierced in its jaws and mouth.
In the battle of man against beast, man had won. He was after all, a beast armed with weapons.
And yet all wasn't lost.
At the time of the explosion, there was a photojournalist called Swen Conrad in the same zoo who witnessed the entire incident. He did something remarkable - Something that instills faith in humanity and insists to our goodness that all is not lost.
He ran into the cage and assisted in restraining Marjan the lion and provided first aid. Curiously, the lion seemed to understand that this stranger was helping it. It did not resist much.
After first aid and further treatment, the lion, though partially blinded managed to live for another 11 years till 2002. It is said that the man who threw the grenade is still serving time.
Hey man, check out this cool thing I found. (I don't say that too often, you know). I got drawn to this website
http://www.condron.us/ when my statcounter picked up a visitor using it. And what I saw really gave me the kicks. This website randomly picks up updated blog pages from the internet.
So what it really offers you is a television sort of convenience to sit, and watch pages skip automatically.
And before you begin to feel that you don't have any control over the surfing, they do have a stop button if an interesting page catches your eye.
I was wondering what it really takes for a blogger to accrue an interested and
persevering audience.
For one, I guess the quality of work matters. When your ideas and views are beautifully illustrated, people definitely begin to notice. But what really keeps them coming back must be a dedicated effort by the blogger.
I have read the same about music
(Click here). Even a popular band needs to keep itself relevant.
Linkin Park, is the example in this case, which keeps coming up with remixed/live albums (I believe the expression is "tide-overs"), to cover up the gap between two consequent releases. The buzz word, henceforth is consistent reminders.
Enough said about that. But on a similar thought, when I googled the term "famous blogger", I came up with this image.
Beautifully illustrated, eh?
It took me twenty five years of living and one and half years of dillydallying in the United States to finally develop an interest in politics.
Immersed in the wonders of New York City night life, the discussions of movies and their intricacies, listening to a lot of music (I mean a hell lot), college work (when it was forced upon me) and writing just for the heck of putting words on paper (or blogosphere, to be precise), I was suddenly introduced to a wave of awareness that hit all around me. For the first time, college going kids were interested in what was happening in America.
The interests seemed to mainly stem from the fact that the Presidential elections were here. For the first time, the college educated kids found a man, who fit the bill of a real savior. There was something about his articulate, no nonsense sort of attitude, that seemed to inspire confidence. A black man, who became the Dark horse of the Democrat party, and whom slowly, every began to trust and love.
After eight years of a Bush administration, people had finally had enough of the bullshit. And McCain, the republican candidate, despite a few uninspired ideas of his own, seemed to promise a rehash of the Bush administration. He was a war veteran, yes. But he was old and caught up in his ways. And after the debacle at Iraq, a republican administration was the last thing Americans wanted.
And so, all eyes fell on the Democrats. There was Hillary, a former first lady, getting the most number of brownie points for a commendable health plan, was one of the forerunners. The first lady who was running for the white house. She had a firm following with the women of the country. It was almost sexist for a man to vote against her. And then, we heard about Obama. The first Black democrat nominee. Between the two of them, they had both sexism and racism covered.
These and other issues were covered not just by CNN, but more importantly by Comedy Central. Politics is always ugly, and many things were said about each other, even within the boundaries of the democrat party, and Comedy central made it their mission to highlight these.
Politics is also a dreary subject. And not everyone has the enthusiasm to dig into election manifestos and dwelve into the intricacies of good or bad of a politician. This was where Comedy Central came into play. Two men, who are by far, the funniest smart men, took it as a mission to bring American politics to the layman. And they were, for the most part, straightforward.
The first of these men was
Jon Stewart.
Jon Stewart is an American comedian who took over the role of a political satirist, when he began hosting
The Daily Show in 1999. Jon Stewart, in his own inimitable style, brings the week's news interlaced with humor and sarcasm. Although Jon Stewart is quoted as saying that he has no political agenda, and his show is mainly aimed at "shnicks and giggles", he has often addressed several serious issues in the show. Jon Stewart often feigns lack of intelligence in his show, and pretends to be slow. The ploy works brilliantly, specially when politicians come up on the show, and forced to explain their actions.
One of the major beefs that Stewart seems to have, is with biased News Networks. Like Fox news. There is very often a reference to how Fox news gives us both sides of the story - both the President's side, and the vice president's side. In a much publicized exchange with a former CNN host, Tucker Carlson, on the show "Crossfire", Jon Stewart criticizes some of the theatretics of television journalism, and pleads with them to stop "hurting America".
As an after effect of that appearance, CNN was forced to scratch the show from television.
Even before Stewart started hosting The Daily Show, there was another man who began as a small segment correspondent on the show. He filled in as the "new guy" in 1997. The name stayed on, as a joke well over two years. This was Stephen Colbert. Colbert, unlike Jon Stewart, worked on perfecting a character far fetched from himself. He changed the pronounciation of his name for this character, going from Colbert ( as in "burt") to Col-bear (like the animal) .
In 2005, Colbert started hosting a new show called
The Colbert Report, a direct parody of a Fox News show called The O'Riley Factor. Colbert plays a narcisstic, ignorant and opinionated News Broadcaster. Off the show, he is said to have described the character as "a fool who has spent a lot of his life playing not the fool".
With a style that includes a big dose of irony and playing deadpan, he coined the term, "Truthiness", - the feeling of knowing something intuitively with no regard to logic or facts.
The two men together are performing a reality check on American Politics. As 2008 drew to a close, every night on their shows, they featured mockeries of both Obama and McCain. Their rules were simple. If you bullshit, they expose your bullshit and laugh at you.
Politics, like I said before is ugly. And in the heat of the 2008 presidential elections, mud was slung in all directions. Obama was said to have an Islamic background. He was linked with a man with terrorist affliations. But on weekday nights, Colbert and Stewart exposed these allegations for what they were. Just allegations. What the republicans did not realize however, was that their choice for Vice President candidate was going to blow up in their face.
Sarah Palin became McCain's biggest mistake.
Comedy Central had a field day with Sarah Palin, as anyone even remotely connected with the world would know. Tina Fey (From Saturday Night Live) became America's sweetheart with her portrayal of Sarah Palin
All she had to do was dress up like Palin and talk without making any sense. Obama spoke sensibly for the most part, and it worked to his favor.
2008 was famous not only for having the first Black president. It was also the year in which a group of comedy shows swung the popular vote.
When Obama was elected, Stewart was asked if he would now be left without a job.
"Only if it's less preposterous", Stewart replied.
In the aftermath of the elections, the financial meltdown happened rapidly. Obama struggled with coming to terms with the mistakes of the previous government. With the system crumbling, Obama who had once appeared to be a charismatic orator, now looked like a man making lofty promises.
The future is uncertain, and the new president is yet to prove his mettle. But Colbert and Stewart, America's true heroes, ridiculed whenever there was lack of action. As America faces its biggest disaster yet, these men are on television four nights week, doing their respective shows and providing America with both humor and perspective.
And as I watch them night after night, there are a few thoughts that strike me.
I see how a dedicated team of writers and comedians are working to provide a better insight against biased television networks like Fox news. And I cannot help wondering if the same is not possible in India.
Why can't there be a show that brings awareness with a tinge of humor?
I realize for instance, that there is no country without corruption. The only difference is that in a capitalistic country like America, corruption lies in the higher levels of the society. Similarly, there is no country without crazy people. For every Pramod Muthalik in India, there is a Glenn Beck in the United States.
How then are people like Jon Stewart able to actively ridicule their stupidity?
I guess one reason is they are inspired. We have a host of talented people in our country. Amateur writers who do their share on blogs. I guess what our country really needs is more people to take an initiative. We don't need a Mumbai terror attack or the beating up of girls in a Manglore pub to come to put a check on insanity. On a longer run, what we require is active participation in the television media. Being a country of many languages, it becomes essential to expose bullshit on many platforms, to even poor people in villages.
And what better way of getting their attention, than with humor?
In my urge to discover new music, I have been listening unashamedly. Some of the artists I have chanced upon recently include Fleet Foxes, Yeasayer, Neutral Milk Hotel, Black Lips and Death Cab for a Cutie.
While they are undoubtedly very listen-able, there is an extent to which I am able to connect with this music.
After spending days trying to make palaver with these bands, I have come up with an analogy that good music is a lot like coca-cola in green bottles.
They don't make it anymore.
I was stating this opinion to a friend when he retorted that I am too close minded when it comes to music. I compare everything to Zeppelin and Floyd.
"Yes, I do", I replied. Because Zeppelin and Floyd are my music gods. They made the sort of music that gets me high. I don't expect everything to be that great. Or even in the same league. But when it comes to music, I have a definition of "Class". For me, the highest standard is Zeppelin and Floyd, and anything that comes remotely close, is good.
I guess music is the sort of thing you must be passionate about. Good music can set you free. That's probably the reason why people carry the attitude of their music - be it the aggression of heavy metal, the gothness of Death Metal or the slackness of Classic Rock. When it is something you really love, you form strong opinions of what is real music. I, indeed, am one of those people who has a strong opinion on music. I usually make up mind about what is a true creative attempt. And what is pretentious.
As a consequence, it is sometimes difficult for me to understand people who can listen to any kind of music. And even if I do make that effort, I cannot help wondering if it isn't at the least necessary to have an idea of what you are passionate about? Having that teensy little thing you love more than everything else?
It is good to be passionate about things. Be it music. Or movies. Or even a philosophy. I guess what I am trying to say is, one has to really love a form of art.
It is a beautiful way to live.
"Paraskavedekatriaphobia". That should, without doubt be the longest and weirdest word in English. Okay, before you start your protest and come up with some technicalmumbojumbosortofweirdcoined word that proves the exact opposite of my statement, lemme instead said that the word
at the least, refers to the day with the unluckiest of all associations.
Friday the Thirteenth. The day the world decides to unanimously make bad things happen for everybody.
Superstition, by default, seems to be a touchy subject.
One can dismiss it offhandedly, humbugging it (just like Mr. Scrooge humbugged Marley's ghost, and what good did it do for him anyway?), but they tend to linger at some surface of your mind, at least momentarily.
For though you might be a practical person for all purposes, an ardent deleter of chain mails that claim you will die in fourteen hours, if you don't forward it, and reveling in triumph when live beyond the same time frame, there might be other superstitions more difficult to ignore.
Let's say, for instance, that a black cat crosses your path. What do you do? Sometimes, you might walk on anyway, determined to prove, that a cat is, after all, just a cat.
But what if you had a life deciding exam? Or a career making meeting. If you, for instance, could take a different path and avoid the possibility of inviting bad luck. Doesn't it seem a worthwhile effort?
I don't know the answer to that. What I do know though, is about a stray black cat in my neighborhood back home, which nobody feeds, though it's white sister(cat) gets all the benefits of food wastes. Racism is predominant towards animals too, apparently.
Fear of Friday the thirteenth comes from fear of the number thirteen.
The fear seems to be a complex and intrinsically inbred one, considering that elevators in multi storey technologically advanced buildings in the United States never seem to have a 13th floor. Instead, that particular floor is called "Club". And yet, doesn't it strike you as odd, that a bar called "13th floor", located on the same said number, in Bangalore is doing splendidly, and providing a good view of the city to all its faithful visitors.
Getting back to Friday the 13th, I guess it's one of those days that has had a bad luck story attached to it. We will have to live with that. And despite the fact that fewer accidents, or fire, happen on this day compared to the rest of the year (considering how people are preventatively more careful), it is a day, that is going to remain in history as a feared day.
Well I don't care. Not really. I guess.
However, I am going to spend the day doing insignificant things like writing this post.
No point risking bad luck by doing something important, eh?
