Dear awesome readers and followers of the blog, this is to inform you that I will no longer be blogging here. The new blog is at http://stupidusmaximus.wordpress.com.
All the old posts have been imported there with typical WP efficiency. You can also try http://www.ashishshakya.com (this redirects to the WP blog, where I will be tinkering around for a while, trying to come up with a better web presence) Of course, the funny, infrequent updates will continue as usual, so come away with me, ignoring the fact that I just lifted a line from a Norah Jones song.
Tuesday, December 07, 2010
Sunday, December 05, 2010
Sir, will that be a table for one?
There are times when it's great to be an Indian, like when you look at Somali people, or if you happen to be Rahul Gandhi. We have really matured as a society. For example, we’ve exported Shilpa Shetty to London, and nobody even pretends to like Sanjay Leela Bhansali anymore.
But there’s an area in which we sorely lack, and this weakness sticks out like the Pope at an abortion clinic. I'm talking, of course, about the dating scene in India.
I agree that in places like Delhi, things are quite simple - the woman belongs to the guy with the biggest gun. But it gets a little complicated for those of us who prefer legal methods.
Maybe you think it's easy to go out and meet new women in Bombay. Maybe you're an idiot. Mind you, I'm not even talking about dating, or sex, or the hugely entertaining Daddy issues - all that comes in later. I'm talking about merely approaching a woman at a bar - a woman who’s single, someone who is not surrounded by an army of male 'platonic' friends who, given the chance, would love to pound you (or her for that matter), and most importantly, a woman whose face will not be the last you see before waking up in an ice-filled bathtub, your left kidney en route to Bangkok.
Let's consider other places that are routinely touted as 'a great place to meet women', like gyms. Maybe this works for some guys (read: producers in Lokhandwala), but I can't imagine a woman ever saying, "Oh I first met Raj at the gym. He fell in love with the pattern of my underarm sweat stains, while I got really turned on watching him get a hernia."
Then there's the online world, highly recommended by experts from the Indian Fraandship and Luvship Association. I'm quite active on Twitter (Motto: Follow me, or else God will shoot a kitten in the face) and it is indeed a great networking tool that allows you to directly congratulate Yaana Gupta for her recent vanishing-panty magic trick. But again, the facts are simple: Shashi Tharoor is the only guy who has managed to get screwed via Twitter.
To add to the confusion, men and women have very different ideas about meeting new people. This is what a single woman sounds like: "It's been a year since Champak Singh and I broke up, and 237 pairs of shoes later, I think I'm ready to move on, although this time I'm looking for something real, y'know, someone who'll comfort me, love me, hold me and automatically guess what I'm thinking before I've even thought it, somebody who doesn't mind if I talk during a suspense film, somebody who's mature, kind, respectful, funny, handsome, rich, honest, gentle, poetic and has a 12-inch-diamond penis."
And this is what a single man expressing his need for a soulmate sounds like: "Dude, I need to get laid."
Apparently it’s best to just stick to the basics: don’t lie, be chivalrous, and make eye-contact (Note: Eyes are not located on the chest) I'm also told that women really appreciate a good sense of humour, so this column is definitely not helping my case. I should just pack up and go to Delhi.
(Note: This is my HT column, dated 5th Dec 2010)
But there’s an area in which we sorely lack, and this weakness sticks out like the Pope at an abortion clinic. I'm talking, of course, about the dating scene in India.
I agree that in places like Delhi, things are quite simple - the woman belongs to the guy with the biggest gun. But it gets a little complicated for those of us who prefer legal methods.
Maybe you think it's easy to go out and meet new women in Bombay. Maybe you're an idiot. Mind you, I'm not even talking about dating, or sex, or the hugely entertaining Daddy issues - all that comes in later. I'm talking about merely approaching a woman at a bar - a woman who’s single, someone who is not surrounded by an army of male 'platonic' friends who, given the chance, would love to pound you (or her for that matter), and most importantly, a woman whose face will not be the last you see before waking up in an ice-filled bathtub, your left kidney en route to Bangkok.
Let's consider other places that are routinely touted as 'a great place to meet women', like gyms. Maybe this works for some guys (read: producers in Lokhandwala), but I can't imagine a woman ever saying, "Oh I first met Raj at the gym. He fell in love with the pattern of my underarm sweat stains, while I got really turned on watching him get a hernia."
Then there's the online world, highly recommended by experts from the Indian Fraandship and Luvship Association. I'm quite active on Twitter (Motto: Follow me, or else God will shoot a kitten in the face) and it is indeed a great networking tool that allows you to directly congratulate Yaana Gupta for her recent vanishing-panty magic trick. But again, the facts are simple: Shashi Tharoor is the only guy who has managed to get screwed via Twitter.
To add to the confusion, men and women have very different ideas about meeting new people. This is what a single woman sounds like: "It's been a year since Champak Singh and I broke up, and 237 pairs of shoes later, I think I'm ready to move on, although this time I'm looking for something real, y'know, someone who'll comfort me, love me, hold me and automatically guess what I'm thinking before I've even thought it, somebody who doesn't mind if I talk during a suspense film, somebody who's mature, kind, respectful, funny, handsome, rich, honest, gentle, poetic and has a 12-inch-diamond penis."
And this is what a single man expressing his need for a soulmate sounds like: "Dude, I need to get laid."
Apparently it’s best to just stick to the basics: don’t lie, be chivalrous, and make eye-contact (Note: Eyes are not located on the chest) I'm also told that women really appreciate a good sense of humour, so this column is definitely not helping my case. I should just pack up and go to Delhi.
(Note: This is my HT column, dated 5th Dec 2010)
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Idiots Killed the TV Star
Every generation grows up with a defining image; one that stays etched in its collective memory long after the generation itself has gone senile and joined the BJP. For example, people in the '70s grew up with ‘free love’, believing that the key to world peace lay in unshaven female armpits and - OHMYGOD I'M RIDING A GIANT UNICORN! WHEEEEE!!!
Of course, the psychedelics wore off at some point in the ‘80s, but it was too late - 80s fashion had already been created. While women walked around sporting huge plastic earrings that men were trained to jump through, my ‘90s generation was shedding its diapers and becoming aware of the phenomenon that would shape its world for a long, long time. I'm talking about paradigm shifts in the erstwhile neo-socialist Indian economy.
OK no, I'm talking about TV.
The '90s were a simple, yet glorious time for Indian TV, because Ekta Kapoor was still in school, giving English teachers a stroke with her kkkspelllinggg. As a result, people on TV did not look as if a jewellery store had thrown up on them, and cameras were not operated by epileptic monkeys.
But modern TV raises a lot of questions. For example, why has law been outsourced to Rakhi Sawant’s bosom? Who pissed in the gene pool that Raja Chaudhary crawled out of? And most importantly, what is a Dolly Bindra and why is it stomping across my TV screen?
Things were better in the '90s. With fiction programming that included Circus, Fauji and Byomkesh Bakshi, it was clear that the TV industry could produce quality content that, unlike today, was not about some underage bride getting married to a Thakur, who also had a half-brother married to two women, one fair and one dark, both of whom were having an affair with the midget woman next door, who also happened to be a manglik, thus causing their 'Baa' (Gujarati for 'old women who look like sheep') to die and be reincarnated as Pamela's implants.
Even Mandira Bedi - a woman who thinks 'leg slip' is some kind of lingerie - managed to appear normal back then with the critically-acclaimed Shanti (which I would've watched if they had incorporated ninja turtles into the story)
Then there was Sea Hawks, Surabhi, Malgudi Days – shows that, if you were to try and pitch to a channel head today, would result in him rolling up your script and using it to do blow off a sponsor's arsecrack.
Remember, all these shows aired on just two DD channels (which, today, are the TV equivalent of a Chilean mine.) And now, with 100+ channels, there’s no room for fresh ideas, thanks to "market research", which is a technical way of saying that a watchman sitting in Gorakhpur will not like them.
It’s scary that kids today will grow up and nostalgize about present TV shows. They'll talk about the good ol' days, when an ‘undercover agent’ seduced a guy, then had a sex-change and seduced his girlfriend, or about how Arnab Goswami created history by sitting silent for thirty seconds.
I, on the other hand, will be the incontinent geezer at the retirement home, harping on about DuckTales and Talespin, until somebody shuts me up, or better yet, gives me a BJP ticket.
(Note: This is my HT column, dated 21st November 2010.)
Of course, the psychedelics wore off at some point in the ‘80s, but it was too late - 80s fashion had already been created. While women walked around sporting huge plastic earrings that men were trained to jump through, my ‘90s generation was shedding its diapers and becoming aware of the phenomenon that would shape its world for a long, long time. I'm talking about paradigm shifts in the erstwhile neo-socialist Indian economy.
OK no, I'm talking about TV.
The '90s were a simple, yet glorious time for Indian TV, because Ekta Kapoor was still in school, giving English teachers a stroke with her kkkspelllinggg. As a result, people on TV did not look as if a jewellery store had thrown up on them, and cameras were not operated by epileptic monkeys.
But modern TV raises a lot of questions. For example, why has law been outsourced to Rakhi Sawant’s bosom? Who pissed in the gene pool that Raja Chaudhary crawled out of? And most importantly, what is a Dolly Bindra and why is it stomping across my TV screen?
Things were better in the '90s. With fiction programming that included Circus, Fauji and Byomkesh Bakshi, it was clear that the TV industry could produce quality content that, unlike today, was not about some underage bride getting married to a Thakur, who also had a half-brother married to two women, one fair and one dark, both of whom were having an affair with the midget woman next door, who also happened to be a manglik, thus causing their 'Baa' (Gujarati for 'old women who look like sheep') to die and be reincarnated as Pamela's implants.
Even Mandira Bedi - a woman who thinks 'leg slip' is some kind of lingerie - managed to appear normal back then with the critically-acclaimed Shanti (which I would've watched if they had incorporated ninja turtles into the story)
Then there was Sea Hawks, Surabhi, Malgudi Days – shows that, if you were to try and pitch to a channel head today, would result in him rolling up your script and using it to do blow off a sponsor's arsecrack.
Remember, all these shows aired on just two DD channels (which, today, are the TV equivalent of a Chilean mine.) And now, with 100+ channels, there’s no room for fresh ideas, thanks to "market research", which is a technical way of saying that a watchman sitting in Gorakhpur will not like them.
It’s scary that kids today will grow up and nostalgize about present TV shows. They'll talk about the good ol' days, when an ‘undercover agent’ seduced a guy, then had a sex-change and seduced his girlfriend, or about how Arnab Goswami created history by sitting silent for thirty seconds.
I, on the other hand, will be the incontinent geezer at the retirement home, harping on about DuckTales and Talespin, until somebody shuts me up, or better yet, gives me a BJP ticket.
(Note: This is my HT column, dated 21st November 2010.)
Sunday, October 24, 2010
Achtung Baby: The German Invasion of 2010
'What is this life if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare?' These words, penned by a pervert looking into the ladies compartment, remind us that we need to take a break from our hectic lives and soak in some culture before the Shiv Sena bans it.
Think about it. When was the last time you had a culturally stimulating experience? (And no, admiring the pattern of Manoj Tiwari's shoulder-hair does not count.) Last week, I'd had enough and decided it was time to do something classy - something that would engage the intellect.
So I went to a beer festival.
I'm referring to Oktoberfest Mumbai, which is the poor man's version of Oktoberfest Munich - the world's biggest display of public urination.
Here’s a brief history of the German festival: Once the German king got so drunk, he marched into Poland... oops, wrong story! Anyway, it was decided, as per the Treaty of Versailles, that Germany would hold a beer festival every year, where it would be compulsory for them to - and this is the tough part - actually laugh and show real emotion.
The Bombay event took place at the Royal Turf Club, also known as the ‘You Burbie Types Will Never Get Membership Here, Haha’ Club. It was a great set-up: a huge air-conditioned tent, with pretty women flitting about, while some withered old men sat a few feet away, gambling on horses with their insulin money. All in all, it was a nice and tranquil Sunday afternoon.
Then they served us the beer, thus smashing tranquillity to pulp with a giant mug.
(Note: I do not completely remember what happened that evening. The following has been pieced together from friends' accounts and photos that should never be made public. Think Ghajini, but with more hair.)
We'd been promised authentic German entertainment, which began with a performance by that famous German, Gary Lawyer. Anyone who has been to a concert in Bombay in the last century will have encountered this man singing Bon Jovi's 'It's my Life' with the enthusiasm of Nitin Gadkari at a buffet.
However, the music doesn't matter when you've downed a truckload of nuclear-powered German beer. What is important is that you maintain decorum at all times. For instance, with French and German people sitting nearby, you must never stand up on a table and do a Hitler impression. Furthermore, Adolf was NOT a red-nosed reindeer.
Also, going up to a German bartender and yelling out 'Aye Hans! Beer de!' is rude. (Not all German men are called Hans. Some of them are called Fritz.) All of this constitutes a major 'faux pas' (French for 'We're too lazy to say the whole word')
In my defence, idiocy seems justified when there are enough people doing it. And honestly, it was amazing to see thousands of Mumbaikars under one roof, singing, dancing and acting like they were in the climax of a Sajid Khan film.
Celebrations like these are rare here, what with public entertainment being restricted to events like the now-cancelled Kala Ghoda Fest, or - if you like getting molested - religious festivals.
That's why I hope Bombay gets to see more such events. Although, can we get the Shiv Sena to ban Gary Lawyer?
(Note: This is my HT column, dated 24th Oct 2010)
Think about it. When was the last time you had a culturally stimulating experience? (And no, admiring the pattern of Manoj Tiwari's shoulder-hair does not count.) Last week, I'd had enough and decided it was time to do something classy - something that would engage the intellect.
So I went to a beer festival.
I'm referring to Oktoberfest Mumbai, which is the poor man's version of Oktoberfest Munich - the world's biggest display of public urination.
Here’s a brief history of the German festival: Once the German king got so drunk, he marched into Poland... oops, wrong story! Anyway, it was decided, as per the Treaty of Versailles, that Germany would hold a beer festival every year, where it would be compulsory for them to - and this is the tough part - actually laugh and show real emotion.
The Bombay event took place at the Royal Turf Club, also known as the ‘You Burbie Types Will Never Get Membership Here, Haha’ Club. It was a great set-up: a huge air-conditioned tent, with pretty women flitting about, while some withered old men sat a few feet away, gambling on horses with their insulin money. All in all, it was a nice and tranquil Sunday afternoon.
Then they served us the beer, thus smashing tranquillity to pulp with a giant mug.
(Note: I do not completely remember what happened that evening. The following has been pieced together from friends' accounts and photos that should never be made public. Think Ghajini, but with more hair.)
We'd been promised authentic German entertainment, which began with a performance by that famous German, Gary Lawyer. Anyone who has been to a concert in Bombay in the last century will have encountered this man singing Bon Jovi's 'It's my Life' with the enthusiasm of Nitin Gadkari at a buffet.
However, the music doesn't matter when you've downed a truckload of nuclear-powered German beer. What is important is that you maintain decorum at all times. For instance, with French and German people sitting nearby, you must never stand up on a table and do a Hitler impression. Furthermore, Adolf was NOT a red-nosed reindeer.
Also, going up to a German bartender and yelling out 'Aye Hans! Beer de!' is rude. (Not all German men are called Hans. Some of them are called Fritz.) All of this constitutes a major 'faux pas' (French for 'We're too lazy to say the whole word')
In my defence, idiocy seems justified when there are enough people doing it. And honestly, it was amazing to see thousands of Mumbaikars under one roof, singing, dancing and acting like they were in the climax of a Sajid Khan film.
Celebrations like these are rare here, what with public entertainment being restricted to events like the now-cancelled Kala Ghoda Fest, or - if you like getting molested - religious festivals.
That's why I hope Bombay gets to see more such events. Although, can we get the Shiv Sena to ban Gary Lawyer?
(Note: This is my HT column, dated 24th Oct 2010)
Sunday, October 10, 2010
God Wants You to Read This
I've always been fascinated about various aspects of religion, such as its origin, evolution and the fact that your hands could get chopped off for writing about it. Having said that, it's still nice to see how religion unifies society by providing nutjobs with an open-air pissing contest.
(Relax. I'm talking about the nutjobs in someone else's religion, not yours.)
So clearly, I'm not a religious person. Sure, I was born into a Hindu family, which means that I believe in the all-encompassing power of whatever the BJP tells me to. I also know that my religion is polytheistic (from the Greek words, 'poly', meaning 'many' and 'theistic' meaning 'traffic jams')
That apart, I’ve grown up with a poor understanding of the various rituals attached to religion, such as fasting, or genocide. On a totally unrelated note, I must bring up the issue of India's Most Famous Land Dispute at this point. As children of the 90s, this conflict is not our fault, but we're embarrassed about it all the same (Sort of like Sanjay Kapoor's acting career.)
Now I like having my limbs attached to my body at all times, so let's refer to the Gods involved here as Superman and Batman. So, the issue in a nutshell: Fans of Batman built this kickass house for him, but then Superman fans - you know how those crazy red-chaddi lovers are - said that the land originally belonged to Superman, as established in Superman Issue No. 1. In between bouts of acne and not getting laid, the two sets of nerds battled it out and decades later, innocent people had to face the trauma of watching Barkha Dutt pretending to care.
It’s not just the big stuff - as a heretic doomed to hell (where people communicate only in SMS language) I don’t understand the smaller aspects of religion either. Take for example, festive season, which is defined as "the period of time when the Gods must be appeased by blasting 'Munni Badnaam Hui' at eardrum-rape levels."
It doesn't help that all major festivals have been hijacked by politicians, resulting in a glut of unknown faces occupying billboard space that rightly belongs to Asin's underarms. However, these posters do promote secularism by showing us that no matter what community they belong to, all politicians are uniformly ugly. (The only thing uglier than the man-beast on a political poster is the design of the poster itself. Professional graphic designers have learnt to not look directly at these posters, for fear of eyeball haemorrhage.)
My degenerate little brain is also baffled by why the term 'God-fearing man' is considered a positive attribute. (According to matrimonial ads, this is the third-most appreciated quality in a partner, the others being "Fair" and "NOT Rahul Mahajan") Now since I'm a writer, I'm completely in favour of arrogance, but not when the basis of someone’s condescension is the size of their imaginary sky-penis.
The thing is, whoever invented religion probably didn't intend for it to turn out this way. It was supposed to have been upgraded through the ages, but that didn't happen because efficiency collapsed after someone invented meetings. However, there's one principle that holds true after all these years: Don't attack writers. I’m sure both Superman and Batman would agree.
(Note: This is my HT column dated 10th Oct, 2010)
(Relax. I'm talking about the nutjobs in someone else's religion, not yours.)
So clearly, I'm not a religious person. Sure, I was born into a Hindu family, which means that I believe in the all-encompassing power of whatever the BJP tells me to. I also know that my religion is polytheistic (from the Greek words, 'poly', meaning 'many' and 'theistic' meaning 'traffic jams')
That apart, I’ve grown up with a poor understanding of the various rituals attached to religion, such as fasting, or genocide. On a totally unrelated note, I must bring up the issue of India's Most Famous Land Dispute at this point. As children of the 90s, this conflict is not our fault, but we're embarrassed about it all the same (Sort of like Sanjay Kapoor's acting career.)
Now I like having my limbs attached to my body at all times, so let's refer to the Gods involved here as Superman and Batman. So, the issue in a nutshell: Fans of Batman built this kickass house for him, but then Superman fans - you know how those crazy red-chaddi lovers are - said that the land originally belonged to Superman, as established in Superman Issue No. 1. In between bouts of acne and not getting laid, the two sets of nerds battled it out and decades later, innocent people had to face the trauma of watching Barkha Dutt pretending to care.
It’s not just the big stuff - as a heretic doomed to hell (where people communicate only in SMS language) I don’t understand the smaller aspects of religion either. Take for example, festive season, which is defined as "the period of time when the Gods must be appeased by blasting 'Munni Badnaam Hui' at eardrum-rape levels."
It doesn't help that all major festivals have been hijacked by politicians, resulting in a glut of unknown faces occupying billboard space that rightly belongs to Asin's underarms. However, these posters do promote secularism by showing us that no matter what community they belong to, all politicians are uniformly ugly. (The only thing uglier than the man-beast on a political poster is the design of the poster itself. Professional graphic designers have learnt to not look directly at these posters, for fear of eyeball haemorrhage.)
My degenerate little brain is also baffled by why the term 'God-fearing man' is considered a positive attribute. (According to matrimonial ads, this is the third-most appreciated quality in a partner, the others being "Fair" and "NOT Rahul Mahajan") Now since I'm a writer, I'm completely in favour of arrogance, but not when the basis of someone’s condescension is the size of their imaginary sky-penis.
The thing is, whoever invented religion probably didn't intend for it to turn out this way. It was supposed to have been upgraded through the ages, but that didn't happen because efficiency collapsed after someone invented meetings. However, there's one principle that holds true after all these years: Don't attack writers. I’m sure both Superman and Batman would agree.
(Note: This is my HT column dated 10th Oct, 2010)
Sunday, September 26, 2010
Once Upon a Time in Delhi...
You know that feeling when you wake up after a wild night - a night that involved Jagermeister, beer bongs and doing coke off Dimpy's Mahajans - and look around, wondering "Where am I? Who's that woman next to me? And WHY DOES SHE HAVE A GOATEE?"
It was that disorienting to wake up to the news this week. Little slices of madness were thrown our way each morning. It began with the collapse of a bridge outside the Jawaharlal Nehru stadium in Delhi, making us shake our heads in despair because Kalmadi hadn't been standing under it.
Now I know you're sick of CWG news. And yes, cracking jokes about it is very easy, like kicking a kid. Then again, some kids deserve a roundhouse kick to the face (If this statement made you think of Darsheel Safary, then congratulations - I'll see you in Hell)
So in the run-up to the Games, here's a quick step-by-step account of how it all happened:
1. 2003: Delhi bids for the 2010 Games, with the other contender being Ontario, Canada. Delhi wins the bid comfortably by flashing a country-made revolver at the meeting.
2. Cut to 2010. Suresh Kalmadi gets out of his gold-plated bed, puts on diamond-encrusted briefs and announces that the Games will be awesome. Inference: Kalmadi has just returned from a great Manali trip.
3. Corruption in the CWG is exposed. The sheer scale of the scam makes Mayawati feel insecure, so she gets another bunch of statues built, but with a bigger codpiece. Meanwhile, Arnab goes into hyperactive banshee mode, decrying Kalmadi, Dixit, M S Gill, the Sports Ministry, Pakistan and Lady Gaga in one breath. Suhel Seth is visibly aroused.
4. The famous toilet-paper news rolls in (sorry). 4000-rupee toilet paper becomes Delhi's new status symbol, with new-money "Jat Boyzzz" buying it for their friends, girlfriends and buffaloes (Sometimes, all three are the same)
5. More reports of corruption tumble out, with the total cost of the Games estimated at 65000 crores. Mayawati gives up and goes off to seek solace in the Temple of Mayawati.
6. A.R Rahman presents a CWG anthem that angers Delhiites due to its lack of bhangra beats. The situation is resolved when Rahman adds a 'bhhrrwwwaaah' to it, although he's still unclear on what a 'tutak' is.
7. The Games Village is thrown open, only to discover that certain deposits have already been made in the toilet area. Sources say Mani Shankar Aiyar was spotted scampering across the Village carrying a bag of laxatives.
8. Kalmadi assures us that the Games Village will be cleaned up if everybody chips in. He then suggests mopping up the mess with that thing growing on Jairam Ramesh's head.
9. The agitating Jats of Haryana threaten to disrupt the Games by marching thousands of bullocks and oxen into Delhi. For maximum impact, they convince Sanjeev Nanda to ride one of the bulls.
10. Kalmadi gets a new job. He will now feature on packs of Durex Long-Lasting condoms. Tagline: Nice guys finish last.
Seriously though, I hope the Games go off well, so that we can go back to more innocent times, when the most embarrassing thing about Delhi was the rape industry. Until then, I say we cheer for India. Bhhrrwwwaaah!
(Note: This is my HT column, dated 26th Sep 2010)
It was that disorienting to wake up to the news this week. Little slices of madness were thrown our way each morning. It began with the collapse of a bridge outside the Jawaharlal Nehru stadium in Delhi, making us shake our heads in despair because Kalmadi hadn't been standing under it.
Now I know you're sick of CWG news. And yes, cracking jokes about it is very easy, like kicking a kid. Then again, some kids deserve a roundhouse kick to the face (If this statement made you think of Darsheel Safary, then congratulations - I'll see you in Hell)
So in the run-up to the Games, here's a quick step-by-step account of how it all happened:
1. 2003: Delhi bids for the 2010 Games, with the other contender being Ontario, Canada. Delhi wins the bid comfortably by flashing a country-made revolver at the meeting.
2. Cut to 2010. Suresh Kalmadi gets out of his gold-plated bed, puts on diamond-encrusted briefs and announces that the Games will be awesome. Inference: Kalmadi has just returned from a great Manali trip.
3. Corruption in the CWG is exposed. The sheer scale of the scam makes Mayawati feel insecure, so she gets another bunch of statues built, but with a bigger codpiece. Meanwhile, Arnab goes into hyperactive banshee mode, decrying Kalmadi, Dixit, M S Gill, the Sports Ministry, Pakistan and Lady Gaga in one breath. Suhel Seth is visibly aroused.
4. The famous toilet-paper news rolls in (sorry). 4000-rupee toilet paper becomes Delhi's new status symbol, with new-money "Jat Boyzzz" buying it for their friends, girlfriends and buffaloes (Sometimes, all three are the same)
5. More reports of corruption tumble out, with the total cost of the Games estimated at 65000 crores. Mayawati gives up and goes off to seek solace in the Temple of Mayawati.
6. A.R Rahman presents a CWG anthem that angers Delhiites due to its lack of bhangra beats. The situation is resolved when Rahman adds a 'bhhrrwwwaaah' to it, although he's still unclear on what a 'tutak' is.
7. The Games Village is thrown open, only to discover that certain deposits have already been made in the toilet area. Sources say Mani Shankar Aiyar was spotted scampering across the Village carrying a bag of laxatives.
8. Kalmadi assures us that the Games Village will be cleaned up if everybody chips in. He then suggests mopping up the mess with that thing growing on Jairam Ramesh's head.
9. The agitating Jats of Haryana threaten to disrupt the Games by marching thousands of bullocks and oxen into Delhi. For maximum impact, they convince Sanjeev Nanda to ride one of the bulls.
10. Kalmadi gets a new job. He will now feature on packs of Durex Long-Lasting condoms. Tagline: Nice guys finish last.
Seriously though, I hope the Games go off well, so that we can go back to more innocent times, when the most embarrassing thing about Delhi was the rape industry. Until then, I say we cheer for India. Bhhrrwwwaaah!
(Note: This is my HT column, dated 26th Sep 2010)
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Modern Art 101: Try Keeping a Straight Face
I'd like to state, for the record, that I'm not an expert on art. Sure, I'm familiar with general trivia about the art world, like how Vincent Van Gogh (the 'Van' is silent) cut off his left ear after listening to Himesh. Also, I think the Mona Lisa is an exemplary piece of art, second only to Savita Bhabhi.
I understand symbolism as well. For example, when an arty film-maker, while focussing on what is usually an angst-ridden Bengali protagonist, fills the frame with darkness, I know he's using symbolism to indicate that Maoists have cut off the power supply.
All this knowledge, however, does not make me an expert.
I realised this recently when I found myself at not one, but two modern art exhibitions in Colaba. I was accompanied by friends from the art world - serious people who can actually tell the difference between modern art and a paan stain. They gave me a very professional-sounding tip on how to critique a work of art.
"If you don’t know what to say, just use the word 'interesting'."
(This makes sense. In the art world, 'interesting' can be used to mean anything from 'I don't get it', to 'This painting looks like goat vomit')
The first exhibition consisted mainly of a series of photographs of trees in a cemetery. I wandered about, frowning at picture after picture, before discovering an exhibit that spoke to my soul like nothing else could - free booze.
After a while, I wanted to rest my philistine butt on two mattresses lying nearby. Upon closer inspection, I realised that the mattresses were propped up by flower vases (hey, why not?) and were actually a part of the show. The artist said that they were "offerings against gravity and decay", which I totally failed to see (although the phrase "offerings against gravity and decay" would make a great tagline for Viagra)
We soon moved on to another gallery - a gigantic warehouse really, designed to accommodate the average artist's ego.
And that was where I saw it.
It was the highlight of the night, the money shot, the pièce de résistance (literally, "The French Resistance") - a 30-foot-high installation that consisted of a bunch of long, intersecting bamboo sticks jutting out in various directions. It looked like regular bamboo scaffolding that had collapsed in a heap, as if built by Kalmadi's men. This explosion of sticks was titled - I kid you not - Pubic.
The artist had also offered insights into her work, stating - and I quote - "My personal anxiety is pubic." (If I went around telling people that my anxiety was pubic, they'd put me in a padded cell, or worse, on Bigg Boss.)
Other works here included a blank canvas that had been ripped apart, three logs mounted on a wall and three other logs mounted a little distance away. Of course, there was an underlying theme to each, i.e. 'Guess What We Were Smoking When We Made This'.
Now I'm hardly one to comment on others’ jobs, seeing as how I spend the day sitting around in boxers writing Mayawati jokes. But that evening, the art world actually made me feel useful. You should try it sometime. It's really... interesting.
(Note: This is my HT column dated 29th August 2010)
I understand symbolism as well. For example, when an arty film-maker, while focussing on what is usually an angst-ridden Bengali protagonist, fills the frame with darkness, I know he's using symbolism to indicate that Maoists have cut off the power supply.
All this knowledge, however, does not make me an expert.
I realised this recently when I found myself at not one, but two modern art exhibitions in Colaba. I was accompanied by friends from the art world - serious people who can actually tell the difference between modern art and a paan stain. They gave me a very professional-sounding tip on how to critique a work of art.
"If you don’t know what to say, just use the word 'interesting'."
(This makes sense. In the art world, 'interesting' can be used to mean anything from 'I don't get it', to 'This painting looks like goat vomit')
The first exhibition consisted mainly of a series of photographs of trees in a cemetery. I wandered about, frowning at picture after picture, before discovering an exhibit that spoke to my soul like nothing else could - free booze.
After a while, I wanted to rest my philistine butt on two mattresses lying nearby. Upon closer inspection, I realised that the mattresses were propped up by flower vases (hey, why not?) and were actually a part of the show. The artist said that they were "offerings against gravity and decay", which I totally failed to see (although the phrase "offerings against gravity and decay" would make a great tagline for Viagra)
We soon moved on to another gallery - a gigantic warehouse really, designed to accommodate the average artist's ego.
And that was where I saw it.
It was the highlight of the night, the money shot, the pièce de résistance (literally, "The French Resistance") - a 30-foot-high installation that consisted of a bunch of long, intersecting bamboo sticks jutting out in various directions. It looked like regular bamboo scaffolding that had collapsed in a heap, as if built by Kalmadi's men. This explosion of sticks was titled - I kid you not - Pubic.
The artist had also offered insights into her work, stating - and I quote - "My personal anxiety is pubic." (If I went around telling people that my anxiety was pubic, they'd put me in a padded cell, or worse, on Bigg Boss.)
Other works here included a blank canvas that had been ripped apart, three logs mounted on a wall and three other logs mounted a little distance away. Of course, there was an underlying theme to each, i.e. 'Guess What We Were Smoking When We Made This'.
Now I'm hardly one to comment on others’ jobs, seeing as how I spend the day sitting around in boxers writing Mayawati jokes. But that evening, the art world actually made me feel useful. You should try it sometime. It's really... interesting.
(Note: This is my HT column dated 29th August 2010)
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