The weather's changing up north. Winter's giving way, not so reluctantly actually.
Small B's got engaged to Ash (officially).
Shilpa's defeated Jane (unfortunately now we'll have some more trash to spew out in the media unless there are more people like these).
India may score over West Indies today (but even if they don't, advertisers on TV will have won over audiences).
SRK looks like he's going to do a successful imitation of Big B. Again. So Star TV will survive on the strength of KBC again (it may even consider rebranding itself as Phoenix).
And the Tatas have won Corus.
Looks like the hype is turning into reality... poise is in the air.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Monday, January 29, 2007
Growing Old
Last week, I met someone I'd last met in October and she observed: "You've really greyed in the last four months!"
While I don't think that's true, I was reminded of Will Smith in Hitch when he comments: "Age is a question of mind over matter... if you don't mind, it doesn't matter."
True, I guess.
Remote (out of) Control
We weren’t the first family in the building to own a TV set way back in the days when there was just one channel and no one more entertaining than Tabassum to watch on Phool Khile Hain Gulshan Gulshan (Mr Karan Johar, please note: no coffee, just dimple-cheeked Tabby talking non-stop while the person she was interviewing tried valiantly to get a word in edgeways). No MTV, just Chitrahaar. The brand we bought was Televista, not Weston or Beltek, because it had sliding doors that shielded the precious glass screen. So, we weren’t the first family with a TV set but we were the only ones who allowed the neighbours and everyone else in the vicinity to happily crowd our drawing room when the film was telecast on Saturday (Bengali) and Sunday (Hindi). No Act II popcorn, no Coke, just water or tea and some home-made Sindhi-style pakoras depending on Mummy’s energy levels keeping up with her generosity quotient.
And there was one number Pye radio set whose valves took time to light up as we waited in anticipation while Dad tuned the knobs to get the right frequency and expose us to Ameen Sayani from Radio Ceylon doing the Binaca Geetmala. Or the cricket commentary on Vividh Bharati.
Life was boringly simple. And we yearned for variety.
Yesterday, I wanted to rewind my life and get back to those days.
Because yesterday it finally struck me that my life – always run by remote control by some unseen hand(s) – had been taken over by four remote controls that sat beside me. Lifeless but capable of ruling one’s life completely.
A remote control for the three-year old TV (a Sony Wega that’s working perfectly fine but will probably get exchanged for a flat-screen plasma TV because, again, we’re not the first family in the building to show off a wall-mounted piece of plastic electronic art).
Another for the Pioneer DVD player that came in from a trip to Malaysia four years ago.
A third for the eight-year old Sony music system that’s been connected to the TV to create a home-theatre like sound system.
And the latest entrant to the RC clan is the one that comes with the Tata Sky set top box.
Now, try and watch a movie with everything on (including the Tata Sky box on just in case one of your children sleepily saunters in looking for that missing teddy and you don’t want her looking at a scene that’s a bit steamy and need to quickly change channels pretending you’re watching the news!). No immediate problem until the power goes off and everything shuts down till the generator kicks in somewhere and you need to restart everything. That’s when you realise that irrespective of whether you have two hands or four or none (in case you encountered a Gabbar-like character who took them away) remote controls work one at a time. No two will work simultaneously when pointed in the same direction.
You struggle to gain mastery over these six-inch long objects and wonder if it’s all worth it. They’re making you lazy and they’re not exactly the most co-operative or intuitive pieces of technology, are they?
And then, you ask yourself: if buttons are all I have to hit, why can’t I punch the right ones in my life?
Why can’t I get back control of a life that’s supposed to be mine?
Why, like the plethora of TV channels that get beamed at us, do we have to multi-task and live multiple lives within this one life?
Why can’t we control the remotes?
And there was one number Pye radio set whose valves took time to light up as we waited in anticipation while Dad tuned the knobs to get the right frequency and expose us to Ameen Sayani from Radio Ceylon doing the Binaca Geetmala. Or the cricket commentary on Vividh Bharati.
Life was boringly simple. And we yearned for variety.
Yesterday, I wanted to rewind my life and get back to those days.
Because yesterday it finally struck me that my life – always run by remote control by some unseen hand(s) – had been taken over by four remote controls that sat beside me. Lifeless but capable of ruling one’s life completely.
A remote control for the three-year old TV (a Sony Wega that’s working perfectly fine but will probably get exchanged for a flat-screen plasma TV because, again, we’re not the first family in the building to show off a wall-mounted piece of plastic electronic art).
Another for the Pioneer DVD player that came in from a trip to Malaysia four years ago.
A third for the eight-year old Sony music system that’s been connected to the TV to create a home-theatre like sound system.
And the latest entrant to the RC clan is the one that comes with the Tata Sky set top box.
Now, try and watch a movie with everything on (including the Tata Sky box on just in case one of your children sleepily saunters in looking for that missing teddy and you don’t want her looking at a scene that’s a bit steamy and need to quickly change channels pretending you’re watching the news!). No immediate problem until the power goes off and everything shuts down till the generator kicks in somewhere and you need to restart everything. That’s when you realise that irrespective of whether you have two hands or four or none (in case you encountered a Gabbar-like character who took them away) remote controls work one at a time. No two will work simultaneously when pointed in the same direction.
You struggle to gain mastery over these six-inch long objects and wonder if it’s all worth it. They’re making you lazy and they’re not exactly the most co-operative or intuitive pieces of technology, are they?
And then, you ask yourself: if buttons are all I have to hit, why can’t I punch the right ones in my life?
Why can’t I get back control of a life that’s supposed to be mine?
Why, like the plethora of TV channels that get beamed at us, do we have to multi-task and live multiple lives within this one life?
Why can’t we control the remotes?
Sunday, January 28, 2007
Look who’s changing!
“Calcutta’s really improved.”
The first time I heard this, I was pleasantly surprised. It isn’t often that the city which has been your home for almost 36 years and has been run down by almost everyone, including a Prime Minister, is praised.
“Calcutta’s changed.”
By now I was curious – and a bit irritated. I felt cheated because I hadn’t been back to the city in what seemed like ages, except for flying, infrequent visits to check on ailing parents or attend a wedding… moments where the preoccupation of the task at hand prevented me from really absorbing what seemed like a shifting streetscape.
“Calcutta’s looking good.”
Sure, I told myself, there are more shops than I recall, malls and multiplexes are multiplying like rabbits, but have the people changed? Has the चलता है attitude progressed to a दौड़ेगा mindset?
So, on a recent visit that took me back to Calcutta on work and compelled me to stay at a hotel because I couldn’t stay with the family for various reasons, I ended up soaking in the city at almost every level.
“Welcome to the Taj Bengal, sir. Is this your first visit to us?’ whispered Payel at the reception.
“We’ve upgraded you to a small suite sir, enjoy your stay, do let me know if there’s anything we can do for you”, she continued as she escorted me up to Room 303.
The first time I heard this, I was pleasantly surprised. It isn’t often that the city which has been your home for almost 36 years and has been run down by almost everyone, including a Prime Minister, is praised.
“Calcutta’s changed.”
By now I was curious – and a bit irritated. I felt cheated because I hadn’t been back to the city in what seemed like ages, except for flying, infrequent visits to check on ailing parents or attend a wedding… moments where the preoccupation of the task at hand prevented me from really absorbing what seemed like a shifting streetscape.
“Calcutta’s looking good.”
Sure, I told myself, there are more shops than I recall, malls and multiplexes are multiplying like rabbits, but have the people changed? Has the चलता है attitude progressed to a दौड़ेगा mindset?
So, on a recent visit that took me back to Calcutta on work and compelled me to stay at a hotel because I couldn’t stay with the family for various reasons, I ended up soaking in the city at almost every level.
“Welcome to the Taj Bengal, sir. Is this your first visit to us?’ whispered Payel at the reception.
“We’ve upgraded you to a small suite sir, enjoy your stay, do let me know if there’s anything we can do for you”, she continued as she escorted me up to Room 303.
303? The Enfield rifle from the Commando comics! Or Jeetendra advertising that virility capsule that almost vanished later thanks to Viagra? Little did I know then that I would soon be waging a war within the precincts of the Taj…
I dump my bags and head off to meet the people I have to meet. And that’s when the mood-change becomes palpable. Here’s an evangelist who’s struggled to get professional and family-run businesses to migrate to the Internet and when you speak to him, you hear not despondency but optimism. He could have been in Bombay or Bangalore – not Delhi mind you, he’s far too genteel to survive there. After protracted negotiations that are going nowhere, we decide to go for lunch – if all else fails in Calcutta, seek out food and much will be forgiven.
Waldorf on Park Street has changed: they don’t make the fried fish I used to get packed and scamper home with in the pre-microwave days so that we could have it really hot! It isn’t even called Waldorf any longer and is now branded as Marco Polo. The food is good, the prices reasonable (presumably) and the buffet has variety. What more could you ask for in a business lunch? A paan perhaps, and even that is just round the corner.
The car makes its way down Chowringhee and you notice someone protesting about the ban that’s been announced on Calcutta's rickshaw-pullers. This is Esplanade, the Hyde Park of Calcutta, once ruled by a sea of red flags protesting at everything that could be considered an agenda. Only this time, there is a small stage, a lone politician making a speech and a crowd of five (that’s right, just five) in attendance. Either there are other, more persuasive speeches being made in the vicinity where the crowds have flocked or the rickshaw-wallah has sensibly chosen to go and earn his daily wages instead of wasting time here.
In fact, the attitude is clearly that of moving on and not wasting time. At advertising agencies, publications, even a Government-run office with an officer swamped in a sea of dusty files jostling for space with two desktops in the same room, the clear signal being sent out is one of catching up with lost time.
Yes, things have changed.
At Oh Calcutta, the celebrated Bengali-cuisine restaurant that opened some time ago amidst scepticism, it is difficult to get a place for five on a Thursday afternoon. The place isn’t just packed; it’s packed with Bengalis stuffing Bengali food down their throats and paying for it through their mustard-oiled noses. Apparently, there’s also a Bhojohari Manna that serves similar fare which is lapped by residents only. We Delhi-ites get a few odd glances – but because we’re the only ones minus any warm clothing while the locals are all huddled up in their winter warmest. The mall where the restaurant is located has a serpentine queue of people booking tickets for Salaam-e-Ishq which will be released the next day. The elevators are crowded with a youngster pushing his way in and a didi-ma (grandma) jostling her way out (if there’s ever an exam before granting migratory rights to Calcuttans seeking a transfer to Delhi, these two will surely be elbowing each other to top the list)… yes, Calcutta’s changed.
But nothing is as certain a sign of change as Oly’s (or, to the uninitiated, Olympia) the bar on Park Street where the advertising crowd used to be found without fail. In fact, rumour has it that a particular agency almost shut down because its managers would be found at Oly’s from the moment it opened to the time it halfheartedly downed its shutters. At first, Oly’s looks the same: the laminated walls haven’t changed, Dansberg beer is still available (God bless Danny Denzongpa and his Yuksom Brewery), the चानाचूर tastes the same but something’s missing. After a while it hits you: where’s that empty, extra glass that would be plonked down on the table into which would go a copy of every bill recording every round of drinks you’d order just so that you didn’t lose track of your own creditworthiness?! It was a ritual that made Oly’s unique. Now even that’s gone.
You cross the road and notice a new-look Flury’s with the same old hot-cross buns and, worse, the cross waiters who are probably paid a bonus to be surly. Next to it stands MusicWorld and on its steps sit teenagers out of college and office-goers as well waiting for their dates to appear. Calcutta’s looking young.
Somebody wants चाय, someone else is hungry and it’s just 7.30 in the evening. Is Azad Hind Dhaba still around, I ask? The locals look at me as though I’m an idiot – I may as well have asked does KC Das still make rossogollas? So we head off to the dhaba that used to be our haunt after late-night pitches in search of tight-fisted clients in the early 90s. While I was away, MF Husain has been here, I notice, and amidst the red laminated tables, right next to the kitsch Pepsi tiles on the walls hangs an original Gajagamini painting by the eccentric bare-footed artist. This was his gift to Azad Hind Dhaba. Again, nothing seems to have changed except that no one speaks a word of Punjabi or Hindi – all you hear from the waiters is Bengali but, mercifully, the food remains incorruptible north Indian.
By the way, I’m told Nizam’s has been bought by a Marwari whose first initiative was to stop making beef rolls. I’m also told that he’s thinking of renaming it as Agarwal’s! Can someone confirm this please?
Back at the Taj, the Chinoiserie still exists – minus the fried ice-cream though. Instead it has a rat scuttling across the floor. “Can’t be,” I mutter to myself but there it goes again. The waiter apologises and I wonder whether I should continue eating or just retire hungry.
At breakfast the next morning, I find a tiny cockroach under the milk dispensers. I am horrified. So are the chefs. They apologise profusely, the Sous Chef gives me his business card (as though that atones for their sloppiness) and fails to convince me that there is a pest-control operation that happens three times a week. I decide to skip breakfast.
On my last day, at breakfast again, I discover another cockroach in the same milk dispenser – only this one’s bigger. More horror, more apologies but nothing else. Not even a complimentary bottle of wine or meal at some other pest-free eaterie in the chain. Nobody takes me seriously anymore.
Evidently the Taj has changed: they’ve become worse at house-keeping but better at apologising. I tell myself that it must be the proximity to the zoo that keeps bringing in these creatures despite the hotel’s best efforts and wonder if other guests have woken up to find a giraffe looking in through the window.
Has the Coffee House changed? The puchka-wallahs? The roll and chow-mein stalls? The mini-buses? JU?… I don’t know because I have to leave and can’t change my ticket.
But at least, I know that I have to come back. And that won’t change.
Cheers!
I dump my bags and head off to meet the people I have to meet. And that’s when the mood-change becomes palpable. Here’s an evangelist who’s struggled to get professional and family-run businesses to migrate to the Internet and when you speak to him, you hear not despondency but optimism. He could have been in Bombay or Bangalore – not Delhi mind you, he’s far too genteel to survive there. After protracted negotiations that are going nowhere, we decide to go for lunch – if all else fails in Calcutta, seek out food and much will be forgiven.
Waldorf on Park Street has changed: they don’t make the fried fish I used to get packed and scamper home with in the pre-microwave days so that we could have it really hot! It isn’t even called Waldorf any longer and is now branded as Marco Polo. The food is good, the prices reasonable (presumably) and the buffet has variety. What more could you ask for in a business lunch? A paan perhaps, and even that is just round the corner.
The car makes its way down Chowringhee and you notice someone protesting about the ban that’s been announced on Calcutta's rickshaw-pullers. This is Esplanade, the Hyde Park of Calcutta, once ruled by a sea of red flags protesting at everything that could be considered an agenda. Only this time, there is a small stage, a lone politician making a speech and a crowd of five (that’s right, just five) in attendance. Either there are other, more persuasive speeches being made in the vicinity where the crowds have flocked or the rickshaw-wallah has sensibly chosen to go and earn his daily wages instead of wasting time here.
In fact, the attitude is clearly that of moving on and not wasting time. At advertising agencies, publications, even a Government-run office with an officer swamped in a sea of dusty files jostling for space with two desktops in the same room, the clear signal being sent out is one of catching up with lost time.
Yes, things have changed.
At Oh Calcutta, the celebrated Bengali-cuisine restaurant that opened some time ago amidst scepticism, it is difficult to get a place for five on a Thursday afternoon. The place isn’t just packed; it’s packed with Bengalis stuffing Bengali food down their throats and paying for it through their mustard-oiled noses. Apparently, there’s also a Bhojohari Manna that serves similar fare which is lapped by residents only. We Delhi-ites get a few odd glances – but because we’re the only ones minus any warm clothing while the locals are all huddled up in their winter warmest. The mall where the restaurant is located has a serpentine queue of people booking tickets for Salaam-e-Ishq which will be released the next day. The elevators are crowded with a youngster pushing his way in and a didi-ma (grandma) jostling her way out (if there’s ever an exam before granting migratory rights to Calcuttans seeking a transfer to Delhi, these two will surely be elbowing each other to top the list)… yes, Calcutta’s changed.
But nothing is as certain a sign of change as Oly’s (or, to the uninitiated, Olympia) the bar on Park Street where the advertising crowd used to be found without fail. In fact, rumour has it that a particular agency almost shut down because its managers would be found at Oly’s from the moment it opened to the time it halfheartedly downed its shutters. At first, Oly’s looks the same: the laminated walls haven’t changed, Dansberg beer is still available (God bless Danny Denzongpa and his Yuksom Brewery), the चानाचूर tastes the same but something’s missing. After a while it hits you: where’s that empty, extra glass that would be plonked down on the table into which would go a copy of every bill recording every round of drinks you’d order just so that you didn’t lose track of your own creditworthiness?! It was a ritual that made Oly’s unique. Now even that’s gone.
You cross the road and notice a new-look Flury’s with the same old hot-cross buns and, worse, the cross waiters who are probably paid a bonus to be surly. Next to it stands MusicWorld and on its steps sit teenagers out of college and office-goers as well waiting for their dates to appear. Calcutta’s looking young.
Somebody wants चाय, someone else is hungry and it’s just 7.30 in the evening. Is Azad Hind Dhaba still around, I ask? The locals look at me as though I’m an idiot – I may as well have asked does KC Das still make rossogollas? So we head off to the dhaba that used to be our haunt after late-night pitches in search of tight-fisted clients in the early 90s. While I was away, MF Husain has been here, I notice, and amidst the red laminated tables, right next to the kitsch Pepsi tiles on the walls hangs an original Gajagamini painting by the eccentric bare-footed artist. This was his gift to Azad Hind Dhaba. Again, nothing seems to have changed except that no one speaks a word of Punjabi or Hindi – all you hear from the waiters is Bengali but, mercifully, the food remains incorruptible north Indian.
By the way, I’m told Nizam’s has been bought by a Marwari whose first initiative was to stop making beef rolls. I’m also told that he’s thinking of renaming it as Agarwal’s! Can someone confirm this please?
Back at the Taj, the Chinoiserie still exists – minus the fried ice-cream though. Instead it has a rat scuttling across the floor. “Can’t be,” I mutter to myself but there it goes again. The waiter apologises and I wonder whether I should continue eating or just retire hungry.
At breakfast the next morning, I find a tiny cockroach under the milk dispensers. I am horrified. So are the chefs. They apologise profusely, the Sous Chef gives me his business card (as though that atones for their sloppiness) and fails to convince me that there is a pest-control operation that happens three times a week. I decide to skip breakfast.
On my last day, at breakfast again, I discover another cockroach in the same milk dispenser – only this one’s bigger. More horror, more apologies but nothing else. Not even a complimentary bottle of wine or meal at some other pest-free eaterie in the chain. Nobody takes me seriously anymore.
Evidently the Taj has changed: they’ve become worse at house-keeping but better at apologising. I tell myself that it must be the proximity to the zoo that keeps bringing in these creatures despite the hotel’s best efforts and wonder if other guests have woken up to find a giraffe looking in through the window.
Has the Coffee House changed? The puchka-wallahs? The roll and chow-mein stalls? The mini-buses? JU?… I don’t know because I have to leave and can’t change my ticket.
But at least, I know that I have to come back. And that won’t change.
Cheers!
Friday, January 12, 2007
Gurgaon-isation
Okay, so you know of being Bangalored. And of Plutoed.
Now there's Gurgaon-isation...
To the uninitiated, Gurgaon is a dust bowl that's been built-up by two large builders (DLF and Unitech) and many smaller ones who have sold the dream of 'sadda ghar' to tens of thousands. The capital of Haryana and land of the Jats, it's pretty much like the Wild West where the whiteskins ousted the native Indians who hunted them down (in vain, albeit) with bows and arrows. The Jats still try and hunt down the new settlers by driving like maniacs and banging their old, rickety buses into shiny new sedans every now and then.
To the initiated, Gurgaon is a contrast in concrete. Here's why
- It has call centres who employ cabs who frequently drive on the wrong side of the road - evidently their drivers think they're already in the US of A.
- Its full of swank apartments with no roads leading up to them.
- There are centrally ac'd buildings but no electricity to power the traffic lights.
- Premium apartments are being sold facing a golf course - but that's likely to be moved to another location five years from now. Only no one really knows it.
- There's a complete takeover of some services (maids, sweepers, guards, rickshaw-pullers) by just one community (Bengali migrants from Bangladesh). It's what Derek once called the ABCD class in a quiz years ago (ABCD=Ayahs, Bearers, Cooks, Drivers).
- There are malls that run up high air-conditioning bills but low sales.
- And malls that have more window-shoppers than real customers.
- It also has cows that double up as temporary road dividers. And set out every morning along with the fitness-concious joggers who usually end up running their expensive Nikes into dung.
So, if you spot any of these happening in any part of the world... you'll know it's Gurgaon-isation. Time we gave ourselves some more credit, what!
Cheers!
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
What, me Majboor?!
Came across this in an anthology of poems by someone called 'Majboor':
मैं चलता रहा मोहब्बातों के रास्ते,
मैं जलता रहा मोहब्बातों के वास्ते.
And was reminded of something I'd scribbled somewhere some months ago:
मैं बुझाता रहा हर किसी की आग,
और ख़ुद बन गया राख.
Now, I'm not majboor, nor do I want to be. But there is something similar here...or am I imagining it?
PS: can't read the Hindi font? Try downloading one from any of these sites:
http://tdil.mit.gov.in/download/Raghu.htm
http://chandas.cakram.org/
http://www.kamban.com.au/
http://ccat.sas.upenn.edu/plc/hindi/
मैं चलता रहा मोहब्बातों के रास्ते,
मैं जलता रहा मोहब्बातों के वास्ते.
And was reminded of something I'd scribbled somewhere some months ago:
मैं बुझाता रहा हर किसी की आग,
और ख़ुद बन गया राख.
Now, I'm not majboor, nor do I want to be. But there is something similar here...or am I imagining it?
PS: can't read the Hindi font? Try downloading one from any of these sites:
http://tdil.mit.gov.in/download/Raghu.htm
http://chandas.cakram.org/
http://www.kamban.com.au/
http://ccat.sas.upenn.edu/plc/hindi/
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Where are you going?
"You don't really know where you're going until you know where you've been."
I'm not saying this. Will Smith, the date-doctor said so in Hitch last night on HBO.
But it is true, isn't it?
I'm not saying this. Will Smith, the date-doctor said so in Hitch last night on HBO.
But it is true, isn't it?
Don't Talk Like a Zune
AdAge has this Media Guy who has 'assembled this convenient glossary of must-know terminology. '
SICK MINUTES or SICK HOURS: Minutes or hours taken off of work when a person comes down with one or more viral videos, the watching of which entirely precludes productivity. Sample usage: "Jim's going to be late for the meeting -- he came down with a viral video and had to take some sick minutes, so he's scrambling to finish his PowerPoint."
VIRAL VIDIOT: Anybody who thinks she or he can be the next Lonelygirl15.
DEATHLY HOLLOW: What publishers other than Scholastic, and authors other than J.K. Rowling, will feel in the pits of their stomachs when "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" goes on sale later this year.
IDOL IDLE: What will happen to TV ratings on other networks -- and lots of other electronic media -- when Fox's "American Idol" starts airing again later this month. Sample usage: "Well, our website traffic's going to be Idol idling Wednesday night from 8 to 10, so maybe that'd be a good time to do the rebuild."
GOOGLE EARTH: An animated mapping service from Google. Also: what the planet Earth will be renamed circa 2009 when Google executives look at their cash balance sheet and decide to make an impulse real-estate buy.
GOOGLE WALLET: What every living human being will use to pay Google Rent to Google Landlord starting in 2009. Sample usage: "Did you hear that Bill Gates is thinking of moving out of his 40,000-square-foot mansion? Google Landlord raised his Google Rent again, and he's not sure he can afford to live there anymore."
HUFFINGTON PEST: Common household pest that's attracted to warm, bright places, such as computers and TV studios.
WIKI: Hawaiian for "Why buy the cow if you can get the milk for free?" See also: user-generated content.
FIREFOXY: What most bloggers aren't. Sample usage: "Is Xeni Jardin from Boing Boing, like, the only Firefoxy blogger in the world?"
ZUNE: Microsoft's new music player. Also [slang]: a poseur; a wannabe. Usage: "Dude, you look like such a Zune in that shirt."
VISTA: Microsoft's new operating system. Also: a scenic view populated with bugs and security holes.
MASH-UP: When one thing that's not good enough on its own joins up with another thing that's not good enough on its own -- and they, like, make out and have babies and stuff. Usage: "Zune should think about doing a mash-up with the new Adam Sandler movie."
MICROSOFT: What Bill Gates feels in his pants when he thinks about Sergey Brin, Larry Page and/or Steve Jobs.
MOORE'S LAW OF OLD MEDIA: If you have a job in old media, you don't actually have a job in old media anymore. Surprise! Especially right before the holidays. Origin: derives from Moore, Ann, the Time Inc. chief who has a habit of laying people off with astonishingly Scroogey timing. See the 27 consumer-marketing people axed the Tuesday before Christmas.
AJAX: Asynchronous Java Script and eXtensible Markup Language. Also: powdered cleanser with bleach that's useful for cleaning the blood stains off the floor at Time Inc.
And here's my humble contribution...
WIRED: It's what happens to folks in the Internet space in India when they read the latest issue of the magazine and get all strung up about how they're missing out on the gravy train :-)
Got something to add?
SICK MINUTES or SICK HOURS: Minutes or hours taken off of work when a person comes down with one or more viral videos, the watching of which entirely precludes productivity. Sample usage: "Jim's going to be late for the meeting -- he came down with a viral video and had to take some sick minutes, so he's scrambling to finish his PowerPoint."
VIRAL VIDIOT: Anybody who thinks she or he can be the next Lonelygirl15.
DEATHLY HOLLOW: What publishers other than Scholastic, and authors other than J.K. Rowling, will feel in the pits of their stomachs when "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" goes on sale later this year.
IDOL IDLE: What will happen to TV ratings on other networks -- and lots of other electronic media -- when Fox's "American Idol" starts airing again later this month. Sample usage: "Well, our website traffic's going to be Idol idling Wednesday night from 8 to 10, so maybe that'd be a good time to do the rebuild."
GOOGLE EARTH: An animated mapping service from Google. Also: what the planet Earth will be renamed circa 2009 when Google executives look at their cash balance sheet and decide to make an impulse real-estate buy.
GOOGLE WALLET: What every living human being will use to pay Google Rent to Google Landlord starting in 2009. Sample usage: "Did you hear that Bill Gates is thinking of moving out of his 40,000-square-foot mansion? Google Landlord raised his Google Rent again, and he's not sure he can afford to live there anymore."
HUFFINGTON PEST: Common household pest that's attracted to warm, bright places, such as computers and TV studios.
WIKI: Hawaiian for "Why buy the cow if you can get the milk for free?" See also: user-generated content.
FIREFOXY: What most bloggers aren't. Sample usage: "Is Xeni Jardin from Boing Boing, like, the only Firefoxy blogger in the world?"
ZUNE: Microsoft's new music player. Also [slang]: a poseur; a wannabe. Usage: "Dude, you look like such a Zune in that shirt."
VISTA: Microsoft's new operating system. Also: a scenic view populated with bugs and security holes.
MASH-UP: When one thing that's not good enough on its own joins up with another thing that's not good enough on its own -- and they, like, make out and have babies and stuff. Usage: "Zune should think about doing a mash-up with the new Adam Sandler movie."
MICROSOFT: What Bill Gates feels in his pants when he thinks about Sergey Brin, Larry Page and/or Steve Jobs.
MOORE'S LAW OF OLD MEDIA: If you have a job in old media, you don't actually have a job in old media anymore. Surprise! Especially right before the holidays. Origin: derives from Moore, Ann, the Time Inc. chief who has a habit of laying people off with astonishingly Scroogey timing. See the 27 consumer-marketing people axed the Tuesday before Christmas.
AJAX: Asynchronous Java Script and eXtensible Markup Language. Also: powdered cleanser with bleach that's useful for cleaning the blood stains off the floor at Time Inc.
And here's my humble contribution...
WIRED: It's what happens to folks in the Internet space in India when they read the latest issue of the magazine and get all strung up about how they're missing out on the gravy train :-)
Got something to add?
Tuesday, January 02, 2007
Mind meets Heart
Rose meets Gregory and emotions meet rationality... that's Barabara Streisand and Jeff Bridges in a wonderful comedy (that didn't do too well at the box office): The Mirror Has Two Faces.There's this one long - but wonderfully scripted - scene in which Rose, a professor of English Literature holds forth on why people fall in love. And Gregory, a maths prof. at the same university (Columbia) sneaks in to get a look at her because he's looking for a relationship that goes beyond sex (which is all he's had with some of his students).
Here's what she says to her class:
This is the scene at my sister's wedding.
She's getting drunk, regretting that she got married for the third time.
My mom's sprouting snakes from her hair in jealousy.
It was perfect ...We've got three feminine archetypes: The divine whore, Medusa -- and me.
What archetype am I?-
The Virgin Mary? -
Thanks a lot, Trevor.
No, the faithful handmaiden. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride.
It proves what Jung said all along. Myths and archetypes are alive and well and living in my apartment.
As l stood beside the altar beside my sister and her husband to be, -- it struck me that this ritual, a wedding ceremony, -- is the last scene of a fairy tale. They never say what happens after. That Cinderella drove the prince mad by obsessively cleaning the castle.They don't say what happens after because there is no after.
The be-all and end-all of romantic love was ... Mike?
Sex?
You have sex on the brain.
Marriage.
But it wasn't always like that. The thirteenth century had ''courtly love'', which had nothing to do with sex. The relationship between a knight and a married lady of the court ...And so they could never consummate their love. They rose above ''going to the toilet in front of each other'' love, -- and went after something more divine. They took sex out of the equation, leaving them with a union of souls.
Think of this. Sex was always the fatal love potion. Look at the literature of the time. All consummation could lead to was madness, despair or death.Experts, scholars and my Aunt Esther are united in one belief:True love has spiritual dimensions, while romantic love is a lie.A myth. A soulless manipulation. And speaking of manipulation ...It's like going to the movies and
seeing the lovers kiss ...The music swells, and we buy it, right?So when my date kisses me, and l don't hear strings, l dump him.
seeing the lovers kiss ...The music swells, and we buy it, right?So when my date kisses me, and l don't hear strings, l dump him.
The question is, why do we buy it? Because, myth or manipulation, we all want to fall in love. That experience makes us feel completely alive. Our everyday reality is shattered, and we are flung into the heavens. It may only last a moment, an hour, but that doesn't diminish its value.
We're left with memories we treasure for the rest of our lives. I read, ''When we fall in love, we hear Puccini in our heads.'' I love that. His music expresses our need for passion and romantic love. We listen to La Bóheme or Turandot, or read Wuthering Heights, -- or watch Casablanca, and a little of that love lives in us too. So the final question is: Why do people want to fall in love -- when it can have such a short run and be so painful?
Propagation of the species?
We need to connect with somebody.
Are we culturally preconditioned?
Good, but too intellectual for me. I think it's because, as some of you may already know...
While it does last, it feels fucking great.
Go unearth a copy of the film from your local library. While it does play, it's good.
India Fogged?
On Monday morning, The Times of India says India Poised…
I say, it’s India Fogged.
Delhi is covered by a thick blanket of fog that crept in on New Year’s eve. And Delhi-ites are covered under blankets with their foggy minds hung-over from innumerable glasses nursed all night long.
The India Poised campaign says there are two Indias; I say, there are three.
Apart from the ones straining at the leash and being the leash, there’s another India that doesn’t even know what is going on. So fogged out they are.
There's the Mukesh Ambani India, the Anil Ambani India and the poor Rest of India who will finally be swallowed by one of the Brothers A.
There are beached-whale like airplanes sitting on tarmacs, poised to take off but unable to because runways are fogged.
There are parents discovering lost children in skeletal instalments in a Noida house where they’ve been butchered.
There are openers in the Indian cricket team who can’t score any runs against the South Africans.
Malls in Gurgaon are poised to earn rentals from shopowners whose establishments were sealed in Delhi. And rumour has it that the local Congress government is poised to lose the elections because they’ve earned the wrath of these traders – as well as hefty commissions from mall-owners.
DTH operators are poised to replace cable-operators (an industry is being buried even as I blog this) and their snake-like cables crisscrossing lampposts.
The Metro is poised to cut through MG Road in Delhi – where will the trees go, I ask no one in particular?
And Shah Rukh Khan is poised too… to imitate Amitabh yet again as a quizmaster. Perhaps he’ll do a Hindustan Poised campaign for Hindustan Times now as well.
So we are poised all right. The question is, for how long can we remain poised and not quite take off?
The fog is finally lifting and the sun is making its way through the clouds. India too shall rise – if you don’t believe me, listen to AB again (and let’s see Shah Rukh imitating that baritone – ha!)
Cheers!
I say, it’s India Fogged.
Delhi is covered by a thick blanket of fog that crept in on New Year’s eve. And Delhi-ites are covered under blankets with their foggy minds hung-over from innumerable glasses nursed all night long.
The India Poised campaign says there are two Indias; I say, there are three.
Apart from the ones straining at the leash and being the leash, there’s another India that doesn’t even know what is going on. So fogged out they are.
There's the Mukesh Ambani India, the Anil Ambani India and the poor Rest of India who will finally be swallowed by one of the Brothers A.
There are beached-whale like airplanes sitting on tarmacs, poised to take off but unable to because runways are fogged.
There are parents discovering lost children in skeletal instalments in a Noida house where they’ve been butchered.
There are openers in the Indian cricket team who can’t score any runs against the South Africans.
Malls in Gurgaon are poised to earn rentals from shopowners whose establishments were sealed in Delhi. And rumour has it that the local Congress government is poised to lose the elections because they’ve earned the wrath of these traders – as well as hefty commissions from mall-owners.
DTH operators are poised to replace cable-operators (an industry is being buried even as I blog this) and their snake-like cables crisscrossing lampposts.
The Metro is poised to cut through MG Road in Delhi – where will the trees go, I ask no one in particular?
And Shah Rukh Khan is poised too… to imitate Amitabh yet again as a quizmaster. Perhaps he’ll do a Hindustan Poised campaign for Hindustan Times now as well.
So we are poised all right. The question is, for how long can we remain poised and not quite take off?
The fog is finally lifting and the sun is making its way through the clouds. India too shall rise – if you don’t believe me, listen to AB again (and let’s see Shah Rukh imitating that baritone – ha!)
Cheers!
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