Going Back To School

Earlier this year, I was invited to host something called Cynosure, a part-roadies part-Miss India style contest at my undergrad alma mater. I’d done this before so I had no idea how I was going to do it again. 

A little something about Cynosure, first. This competition, held every year at the hallowed VNIT Auditorium, aims at unearthing a little talent by putting too many spotlights on stage and eliciting a lot of laughter from the half-bored and usually dim-witted crowd moaning chants from the background. This year, I thought would be no different, you know, people will come and people will have ‘attitude’ and people will cheer and people will jeer. There was to be song, dance, mimicry, judges, ‘refreshments’ and a projector with lewd comments on it – a formula that we’d come up with a few years ago and a formula that usually fails to bring to the fore any real talent, although Gitesh Iyer (also seen on Indian Idol 5) stands as testimony to being an exception to this rule. 

When I arrived at the auditorium, I was pretty sure no wave of unbelievable nostalgia was going to sweep over me. What I did feel was a tinge of disappointment because the last time I was at ‘Central India’s Largest Cultural Festival’, we had an outdoor concert. I met old professors who were judges and old judges who were in the audience, a plenary for the old and probably weary, here to kill some time before normal life resumed. 

So it was breezy and I held a piece of paper in my hand while I compered – a bit of a lovable asshole, but upright and all. I wore a shirt too. It was very alumnic, and that’s not a word. 

Something happened during this though, something that made me feel sad that I did graduate through these halls. Along the course of the evening came a little girl who was trying to throw around a mid-teenage version of an early mid-life post-collegiate crisis, and pulling it off well too. Something snapped with the crowd and they broke off in jeers of ‘fuck you’, something that just didn’t sit well with me, and I’m guessing the judges too, because the looks on their faces said it all. And I talked back to the crowd, as is customary for asshole comperes with no regard for common wisdom and silence, and that is where my troubles truly began. 

What is it about chivalry that confuses people? 

Slice Your Superhero

This morning I woke up to Bombay in bliss. It was emotional and underwhelmed by the stupor of the rain and as I sleepwalked through morning and technology, I awoke to a new dream.

So I set about reclaiming the bastion and slice down the heroes that we made out of paper.
Bringing to you now, Superheroes and Their Power Animals.

So here’s a list. http://my.spill.com/profiles/blogs/top-20-greatest-comic-book

It talks about the 20 Greatest Comic Book heroes, debatable yet true because it boils down to the last dilemma you’re ever going to face. Yes, this one goes beyond The Joker, The Thief & The Knight. This talks about two men standing for justice, in their own ways. Both of them vigilantes, both with enemies and both still hurting from the past. Like I said, emotional stuff.

So as the link figures out if they like Black or Blue & Red, you’re going to read about what these characters represent from the animal kingdom, you know, because, boring stuff.

We start with his watery coolness, Aquaman. Strange because it’s strange, but I’m going to give this guy a land animal. Something smelly and boring, because Aquaman strikes you as Gold Dust from the WWF, back when it was the WWF. And if you prefer this imagery instead, I now christen you foolofatook. So Aquaman becomes the cat – afraid of the water, invisible in the dark with his eyes closed.

Dick Grayson, the bat, simple enough.

Fantastic Mr. Reed. I could give him the spider and be done with but somewhere I want to save that for the Sandman-Viper combo. But the donkey works well for this guy too. Old, senile and boring, while his wife dreams of sleeping with The Thing. Strange character too, mesmerized with the cosmos, but hey, what can you say about a guy who can reach around his own asshole and punch himself in the face?

The Green Lantern is a piranha.

The Flash, well here’s a difficult one. A leopard can’t change his spots but The Flash can. We call him the chameleon.

The Invisible Woman is the spirit of the the Earth, her power animal is the cloud. See also, Jean Grey.

No one cares about the Green Arrow or Daredevil really. Except, Green Arrow has you know, a quiver and arrows. So he gets to be the spitting image of the blind bat. Daredevil gets Kevin Smith with a trench-coat, cool sunglasses  and a white stick.

If you told a United fan that there’s a superhero called Captain Marvel, we’d surely say move on.

Wolverine. Now here’s a simple question. Who covets his neighbour’s wife? A dog. Wolverine, a dog. Not a wolf. That’s Mowgli. You know, Wolf-Man-Child, what with the boomarang, the big snake and Baloo.

The Iron Man is your cellphone. He lives and breathes technology and pepper, so yeah. A sneeze is better than nothing, and Iron Man is pretty far away from nothing.

By now you’re wondering if there’s a point here. Well there is. With the hypothesis that a Superhero is a collection of projections, earlier theorized, the Universes that they exist in, collectively or individually, synthesis becomes essential. Reconstructing simplicity out of half-baked ideas, a new idea generates credence.

I stopped at Wonder Woman to wonder if she needs a power animal at all, being ‘Wonder Woman’, and I said we’ll give her the peacock. For the rain and her bright fanny. The Hulk and The Thing could both be rats, breeding irritation and sadness, and while the Green Guy makes an attempt at sanity with his Jekyll-Hyde-Not-When-I’m-Angry routine, the stone moose is well, just that. The Hulk gets Edward Norton. The Thing gets an Achilles’ Heel.

Captain America, another jester with a broken heart. See also, Dr. Manhattan.

Returning to the Superman v Batman argument that the link fails to draw closure around, it’s increasingly simple. Batman can die, so can Superman. But the Bat has no known weakness, and his identity is an open secret, Mr. Kent on the other hand is thinly disguised in usual populace with unassuming charm, almost impossible to replicate in person. The acknowledgement of the Batman’s fear and his well documented battle with identity (Two Face, Joker, Penguin, Riddler, Catwoman) make TDK the higher rated superstar in an intergalactic comic strip battle. Even Lois would agree.

So I give Superman the whale and Bruce Wayne gets the owl. After all, Batman has a cave, all Superman gets is the couch.

We’re still left with the Fellowship though, but I’ll stop now and play my harmonica to the rain and think about more power animals.

What’s yours?

XKCD Signoff. http://xkcd.com/936/

—

Vineet

 

Killing Comedoo-do

They play Nickelback at the post office.

Folded and Neat, In My Pocket.

Listen
Inert & personal
Slave to the messiah
To the ambience of the dark and the moonlight.

Mutter
Under your baited breath
Speaking tones of platinum and death.
Totally united in the divided swarms of the mother. 

Holding
A single moment
In infinite space and infinite measure
Longer than your last glances wide, and blue.

Kinder, soft.
Inspired to beauty by the rain
Not weather no sunset no deeper read bonfires
Ghosts.  

Called out to the ocean again, and thunder.
Red orange glows of a firefly.
Noble men of the ashen cloth, near.
Win.  

Nursery Rhymes for Grown Up Children

Marching pigs on the laughter track
Canines bred to fall
When the birds don’t sing & the bees don’t sting,
You hear the big cats call.

The silent sounds of the crows at night,
I reckon they want to sing.
The fires of dawn they want to bring,
Darkness & a fright.

The Evening I Discovered I Disliked My Liver

I went out last night,

Around the edge of town, looking for a fright,

Or a fight in the dead of the night, hoping for a fight.

 

I sat on the ledge and looked to my left,

Found nothing missing, found a soul bereft

Of all things sugar and all the spice,

In the hotel of the longest night.

 

I looked right, and back to the left again,

The germs of your lovingness, talking to my grain,

Speaking in tongues that were never meant to see,

The night light switched on and off in glee.

 

The everyday mourning of sights yet to see,

And talking about people with nowhere left to be.

Every sound, heard and seen crystal clear,

I decided I would give my liver to be anywhere but here.

The Alternate History Project

It’s a simple plan to help people know their stories right. 

The Alternate History Project has been like a thorn that went through my sides.

Imagine a place where history majors (or decoys of them) actually begin to mean something to the real world and everything. A virtual office that runs on smartphones and apps, and a world of knowledge actively passed around. Those in the yellow will agree when I say, it would be like the “Aboveground” mirror to the only real underground movement that I’ve ever heard or seen of. (Your move, MTV?)

So that’s my idea. A tourism as travel as showoff as anythingbutdissertation idea. Get an intern roster, of volunteers. Hand out a bunch of branded cellphones. Give them decent wages and let people meet other people and talk about interesting things. Like art meets sciences meet your motherfucking history, and pop-culture, and food.

Well, yeah why not? 

Consider this branded. For free. Thanks. 

—

Vineet Kanabar
6/17/2012

“On a sunday, I got really bored and went to watch a movie.” – Not Just Eurotrip.

This Just Isn’t the Right Forum for Such Talk

Twitter informs us regularly about all the things that go wrong with our universe.

Recently, the ‘Indian’ ‘economy’ (yes, those words are like an oxymoron, no you can’t take the quotes out) got downgraded by Standard & Poor’s, to a BBB-, lower than Italy’s. Now some of you might care, but it must be noted here that Italy is in C-grade recessionary times. So what does India do about this? Well, call a bluff is our national sport, so we invent a bluff to call another.

The trouble isn’t with the rating. Really, there’s enough to go around for everyone and all you need to do is control yourself. The economy isn’t running, we know, but it isn’t running away. So how about a week-long break from work for all of us plebs while the ‘government’ figures out which way to throw their shit.

Chances are, this might not happen.
Chances are there will be too many things of too many peoples’ over-populated plates and we will never go anywhere except backward. But hey, stagnation is not an option here.

Let’s look at through more appropriate lenses. The Ozone Hole is a source of oxygen, so why don’t we deplete it entirely so as to increase the levels of oxygen in our atmosphere. That way, when push comes to shove, we’ll all spontaneously light up the sky and play ‘Joy to the World’ in the background as it crumbles.

The Parting Joke:

Mr Dhoble, thank you for taking our hands. Can we sit down to talk now? You know you want to. – Female journalists.

Bauled Over

 

A Case for The Twosome.

When Sir Alex Ferguson finally retires after almost 30 years at the helm at Manchester United, the question of succession will finally have come to a head. There have been many pretenders over the years for the helm, but none so strong as some of those who have failed spectacularly in recreating the Top Man’s legacy. As we run down to the beginning of a season that has the words ‘defending champions’ against two of our arch-rivals and -nemeses in recent years, there has never been a better time to take stock of United’s managerial prospects as now.

Beginning with the Meanest of Them All, Roy Keane was in charge at Ipswich and Sunderland, after his unceremonious exit from the grand stage of the Theatre of Dreams. While many thought that Keano was the right man for the job, the King in Cantona might have felt otherwise about the subject.

There have been many changes in the side that Keano was part of. Cristiano came and went, Paul Scholes went over the hill and came back from the dead, Michael Carrick became a household name despite stiff competition from Darron Gibson and Anderson, and Manchester United bought their second Far-Eastern player to balance out the Da Silva twins.

A man on top through out Europe through all this time was a certain Mr. Guardiola, fighting his own demons in Jose and the money spinner TV league in Spain, struggling throughout to maintain the sort of footballing circus team that monkeys would pay in peanuts to come watch. But somehow, you forever end up feeling that being a Red Devil is just not Guardiola’s style. And with Mourinho committing to Real for another 4/10ths of a decade, the time is right to sit down and independently conjure up a solution that serves all the interests that the club is invested in.

To the nakedly ambitious eye, there is only one solution – a two man team under the tutelage of Sir Alex, born and bred to do the ruthless well enough for the continent to notice the isles. A Ryan Giggs-Paul Scholes combine would be the ultimate solution to the subject of succession and in my view, there is scarcely a better option. With Scholes extending his contract for another year, he’s made it clear that he still has the drive and energy to go on without changing his style much from the late-career holding midfield ginja assassin and still scoring vital goals. And Giggs, personal life aside, has been the steady left leg at United throughout his career, and for what it’s worth, there is still not a better prime-time left winger at any club other than Barca, Madrid, City or Chelsea.

So the ball is literally in Manchester United’s court. A grown at home solution for their biggest problem in 25 years and a couple of years to break the new horses in. That’s about all it will take to create Sir Alex’s true footballing legacy for years to stay. And in my humble opinion, there is where the fans’ security lies, red, gold and green.

—

Vineet Kanabar
12/6/2012

It’s A Taxation Thing.

Q: How would you feel if you went to a restaurant and ordered piping hot tea with biscuits but the waiter brought you coffee and the owner billed you for beer and the waiter turns around to ask for a hefty tip?

A: Not very nice.

Well, I went to Daman this weekend, instead of the cooler sands of Diu or Goa for a day & night out of the hellhole ratrace that is Bombay. And although I’ve come to love the city more now that the rains are a slightly regular feature, there is no way that I’m looking to settle here. (That thing about earning for 320 years just to be able to buy a house here, well no, chances are, going by my current rate of smoke consumption, I might not live that long.)

Our Black Dog Ford Fiesta, ably command-ered by a ManPig-in-Chief, with a blind navigator and an distant dreamer meandered by the police points and, we were back on the highway as taxation hit me, with a free-flow of toll booths with a smattering of pro-blow-job eunuchs, who we diligently warded away with fresh 10 rupee notes.

So on our way back from Daman, I was hoping we’d buy some Old Monk rum for the pirates back home in Sewri, but I didn’t, thinking there might be a checkpoint on the way back, but as it turned out I took following the rules a tad too far.

…and just when I began asking questions about why exactly you can’t ‘smuggle’ liquor from a Union Territory, the mother of all copyright laws south-pawed me in the face – taxation.

So here is how I got robbed this weekend. I took a trip on a rolling ship without anything illegal in sight. My friends even came to pick me from my house, because I felt too weak on the inside et al. We paid about a 1000 bucks in toll from point A to point A, with point B being the beach and prawns and omlettes.

And taxation kept on punching me in the face till I realized the solution – a tax-free protest.

Here’s how it dawned on me. If I’m already paying, say, a 1000 bucks to travel to a place that doesn’t tax the sale of liquor, why exactly is it that I can’t carry some, you know, for personal consumption. It’s not like Daman is a thriving foreign tourist destination that couldn’t use the extra income. And since none of the above are interested in cutting me some slack while I pay my toll bills, why exactly is it that we can’t carry a pre-determined and suitably licensed quantum of liquor, well sealed in bottles and safely ensconced in the boot, back home for a party for a few?

EDIT: I know about the one day pass with the alcohol permit room feel. Don’t even begin to talk about keeping tabs with drunkards, now.

FB Plug: https://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.10150852860481314.399415.652751313

Let me know, and I’ll call you. Over and under. 🙂

Here’s some music so you can pretend to be clueless.

Playing for The Monk

—

Original title: I’m in The Man – Daman. Vineet Kanabar
11/6/2012