Lapses of lingy…

My love affair with the Sony Ericsson is FINITO…

I was naively seduced by the very endearing W810i commercials, and then picked one up in January.

In August, bang in the middle of a family crisis, the damn thing quit working! I am so furious with this bad boy of cell phones, which looks and sounds good, but doesn’t satisfy that basic purpose in times of need — being able to make a phone call during a crisis.

Once the service centre repairs it, and I pawn of this baby, I go back to Nokia, the strong, sturdy type, which is, well, for keeps.

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It’s hard to imagine the adorable Colin Firth as the annoying suitor of Shakespeare’s lady love (Gwenyth Paltrow) in Shakespeare in Love. He’s perfect as the stiff-upper lipped Mark Darcy in Bridget Jones’ Diaries and Darcy in Pride And Prejudice. Strange that he should play both these characters, the former inspired by the latter. Now, imagine Aishwarya Rai French kissing him in Bride and Prejudice. Grrrr!

On a different, a fellow blogger posed a critical question to all Xanga bloggers: Do you sometimes wonder what to blog about?

I think this is one of those times.

Not that there actually is nothing to write about. In fact it’s quite the opposite.

So much to write about, so little time..

Singing is cancelled this sunday. Fate does have some kind ways.

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It’s a gloomy day and everyone around me (including moi) looks and seems sluggish.

Pop’s 50 per cent better, but I guess until we reach that 100 per cent, it will still feel like a big fat cloud is shielding the rays of the sun.

The hospital is located just a stone’s throw away from the Big B’s bungalow. When I cite Prateeksha as a landmark, the expressions of the rickshaw/ cab driver, instantly light up.

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Two days back I was enjoying Ratatouille with a friend.

One day back, my dad was battling off the prospect of a surgery.

He’s due to have one sometime next year. And he already had a major one in December 2006. Imagine being cut up three times during a span of one or two year’s time! It’s too much for a 30-year old, let alone a 60-year old.

As that cute little rat (with the terrible American accent) in Ratatouille observes, life is so fragile. One’s happy status can alter drastically in the blink of a second. Today’s pigs are tomorrow’s bacon, and so on and so forth.

Luckily, my dad’s doc is undoubtedly one of the most dedicated medical professionals I know, a master craftsman at his job (healing those with ulcerative colitis and other conditions relating to their alimentary canal, through surgery).

He is also very ‘non-commercial’, one of those doctors who embodies many an aspiring doctor’s reason for becoming one – to help people by healing them.

He’s very confident, practiced and has a gift — first he makes people get better, first by his mere presence and second, by his actions.

Pop is feeling much better now, and does not have to undergo a surgery. Que sera sera!

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Yesterday, post much nagging from a friend I went to watch Transformers. Let me attempt to describe the film, deemed for its cutting-edge special effects.

To find a worthy superlative, one need’s to delve into one’s vocabulary of expletives.

The first one that comes to mind is: F**king sexy!

Non-expletive seconds would be ‘Mind-blowing’ and ‘Out of this world!’

The effects on 3-D would be even more mind-blowing…

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My singing partner (who’s also a rapper/music composer) dragged me for a rap contest yesterday, and I got to understand the subtle nuances of rapping. But more on the highlights of this fascinating experience tomorrow.

Update:

The contest was between a bunch of college-kids-cum-aspiring rappers. Many sported tattoos, baggy pants, funny hair, and swaggered about the place. But some of them did seem to get the essence of rapping. And some just rambled on, like broken records.

This one chap belted out the most poetic lyrics ever. However, he didn’t fare too well during the ‘battle rap sessions’, cause he couldn’t wax eloquent, on the spot. This is a must in any battle rap round. It’s like a debate between two people, except that the medium is rapping.

There were two girl rappers. One rapped wonderfully in Hindi, but her English reeked. I wanted to rap her. The other was a complete disaster. However, it does take some guts to get on stage and rap, however badly.

The judges comprised many Bollywood rappers, and one chap from Canada sounded fantastic.The lyrics could be a little refined, however, this concept might be something alien to rapping, per se.

Now, I feel inspired to watch 8mile, recommended by my pal Yaell, this ’quality cinema’-type film buff.

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Yesterday I saw Chak De once again, and during this second watch I realised that despite all the rave reviews, the film is pretty much an exercise in mediocrity, in terms of craft.

Firstly, it’s patronising, at the drop of hat. SRK makes a statement to the effect of “ this is the first time a Gorah’ has raised the Indian flag (Ahem…what about at the Olympics?)” and when a guy tries to hit a woman from behind, he stops him, berates him and says something to the effect, ”That’s why we don’t have chakkas on the Indian team.”

Shockingly politically incorrect! A far cry from that scene in the movie Bombay, where a eunuch has the good sense to shelter an abandoned child from the riots, whilst ‘normal’ men and women are murdering one another.

At the ‘Gorah raises Indian flag bit” the audience began hooting and cheering, whilst my friend sitting next to me muttered under her breath, “Go F**k yourselves!”.

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Life is exciting, these days. But during these ‘high-octane’ phases, I have this child-like tendency to get all ‘excitable’. Blame it on chronic naiveté. When the tide is high (in this context a good thing), I bob around out, forgetting that it’s soon going to ebb. This very grown-up thing that one constantly has to do (called ‘being grounded’), it’s bloody tedious. And this Phoebe-like tendency to say exactly what I please, doesn’t help matters. Being a content editor, I have discovered the hard way, that first, I must edit the contents, inside my brain, before spewing them out.

On a different note, I had a funny conversation with my mother yesterday. Like a good, dutiful daughter, I asked her what she would like me to get her from Mumbai (off to Goa for pop’s bday). And this was her reponse, “ Get me 5 packets of garbage bags, all of medium size, please!“

People ask for expensive gadgets and clothes and perfumes, when someone comes to visit them. But my mom — she asks for garbage bags!

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Today is Elvis Presley’s birthday. Coincidently I happened to listen to Can’t Help Falling In love today, and the strains of this piece, (though I’ve heard it 110 times), made me stop what I was doing and listen intently, as if I was hearing for the very first time.

Preceded by the booming cacophony of Paul Van Dyke and Alice Deejay, I stopped to gasp for breath. The strains of these vintage romantic ballads never fail to make one brim with emotion. They make you want to reach out and touch and hold the very texture of life, which seems to hang these days by a slim thread.

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I never condone violence, and detest all filmy fights. However, that one scene in Chak De when the Indian women’s hockey team bashes a bunch of lecherous eve-teasers to a pulp, sparked off a superb adrenaline rush!

I felt as if all the shady men who tried to rub themselves against womankind, were tossed into the fray and received it punch-for-punch by 16 fearless gals.

The film also serves up a few good lessons in team spirit, and whether it’s about work or play, the same rules apply. As the hockey team went through the motions on screen, I experienced a strong sense of deja vous.

At work, no one in the team gets along and everyone has egos the size of elephants. The boss can’t get through anyone’s thick skulls. It’s a big, fat, angry, agitated mess of bruised egos, jealousy, misunderstanding and more.

And then you forget about work and are thrown into some difficult situation unrelated to the job. Like a weekend trip. Or a team-building activity, like bungee jumping, mountineering or some other tedious adventure sport. 

You have to get along and spend eons of time with the same person who’s guts you hate, and who’s face you don’t fancy seeing post 7 pm. It’s awkward at first. But then you chat and joke and bond, over bonfires and bruised ankles.

And then when you get back to the office on Monday morning, you actually are a team.

Interestingly a friend of mine, a manager-type, took his team to see the film for a first-day, first-show because they completed a deadline on time. He was so inspired by the movie that he penned a poem about team spirit (though personally I think he’s a better manager than a poet).

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