Satirical Much?

Lee Konstantinou = shiznit. Pop Apocalype = amazing satire + painful truth.

To quote the back cover:

“The United States and its Freedom Coalition allies are conducting serial invasions across the globe, including an attack on the anti-capitalist rebels of Northern California. The Middle East—now a single consumerist Caliphate led by Lebanese pop singer Caliph Fred—is in an uproar after an attack on the al-Aqsa Mosque gets televised on the Holy Land Channel.

The world is on the brink of a total radioactive, no-survivors war, and human kind’s last hope is Eliot R. Vanderthorpe, Jr., celebrity heir, debauched party animal, and Elvis impersonation scholar. But Eliot’s got his own problems. His evangelical dad is breeding red heifers in anticipation of the Rapture. Eliot’s dissertation is in the toilet. And he has a doppelgänger. An evil doppelgänger.”

Konstantinou has taken our glamour-obsessed and media-imprisoned culture, mixed in geopolitics and a dash of dystopia, added a pinch of wasted playboy moments and topped it off with a healthy sprinkle of humour. The plot interwines life, economics, religion and technology into a tangled up mess of the wires of our future. Although the biting satire often wanders over to the absurd with red cows, doppelgangers and Lebanese pop singers, you need it all to see The Big Picture.

The combination of absurd profoundity (profound absurdity?) along with a scarily possible futurist vision turns this book into 1984 on steroids. Grab it if you can.

Are you watching closely?

I’m a sucker for movies that twist, contort and eventually unwind, only to tangle up again before finally unravelling seconds before the credits; movies that push my mind to the brink of its capabilities and confuse me to no end; movies that I have to watch a second time to completely grasp.

Christopher Nolan is the one director who has perfected the art of making such movies; an art that is appreciated by so many yet practiced by so few. Nolan can tell a story like no other: he can run the reel forward and backward for alternate segments of five minutes each (Memento), flawlessly blend the past with the present in such a way that it seems utterly chaotic, yet makes perfect sense when one reads between the lines (The Prestige), and even immortalize a villain (The Dark Knight).

Nolan apart, how many directors do you really know who can make such movies? Night Shyamalan made the odd one (The Sixth Sense) and Neil Burger (The Illusionist) might just fit the bill if you were a tad desperate. But if you really do think about it, Nolan does stand apart in an intellectual class of his own in the (often mindless) Californian scenery.

Making popular films is an easy task – any plain Joe with an eye for glitz and a penchant for greenbacks can don a directorial cap, sit back on an easy chair, get together a superstar ensemble, and market a movie like crazy. Making intelligent films, however, is a task best left to the wizards of the industry, wizards who operate on frugality in comparison with the Joes.

Mindlessness entertains, mindlessness pays, mindlessness markets. But at the end of the day, it’s brilliance that embeds itself permanently within the eyes of the viewer. Are you watching closely?

“I don’t want [people] to remember me as a clown.”

As much as he tries to erase the goofy portrait of himself that he’s painted, Novak Djokovic will always remain a clown (and, I must admit, a ridiculously cute one) in my – and most others’ – eyes. Anyway, since I don’t really feel like writing a full-fledged entry extolling the various virtues of the Djoker, here is a compilation of my favourite, funniest, darnedest tennis quotes (the title quote is just a random thing which I found online approximately 54 seconds ago – no, it doesn’t come under my faovurites; yes, I can get pretty random at times). Hope you enjoy these!

“I’m not fighting with myself. Oh, my God. That’s how I am. You know, the story of the hippo? The hippo comes to the monkey and said, listen, I’m not a hippo. So, he paint himself like a zebra. He said but he’s still a hippo. He said but look at you, you’re painted like a zebra but you are a hippo. So then he goes, you know, like I want be a little parrot. So, he put the colours on him and he comes to the monkey and said but, sorry, you are a hippo. So, in the end, you know, he comes and said I’m happy to be a hippo. This is who I am. So, I have to be who I am and he’s happy being a hippo.”- Marat Safin, the wannabe hippo

“The strawberries are too expensive, it’s true. They don’t have enough for dessert. It’s true.” – Marat (again!) on why he dislikes Wimbledon

“I would so like to be Lenny Kravitz.” – Federer (points for randomness, anyone?)

“I often surprise myself. You can’t plan some shots that go in, not unless you’re on marijuana, and the only grass I’m partial to is Wimbledon’s.” – Rod Laver (so the greatest player ever was a druggie? Riiiiight)

“A traditional fixture at Wimbledon is the way the BBC TV commentary box fills up with British players eliminated in the early rounds.” – some journalist whose name I don’t know. OK, Google tells me that it’s Clive James of ‘The Observer’

“Mixed doubles are always starting divorces. If you play with your wife, you fight with her; if you play with somebody else, she fights with you.” – Sidney Wood (won Wimbledon ages ago, in case you were wondering)

“Tennis was a game invented by a woman named Samantha Tennis in 1839, in the village of Lobsworth, County of Kent, as a diversion for the wealthy and titled Englishmen of the region, who had nothing better to do at the time but drink, belch and wear funny clothes.” – some dude called Dan Jenkins

That’s all I’ve got for now. If I come across any more noteworthy ones, I’ll definitely add them. Till the next post then, ciao!

Invasion of the Facebookers

Picture a bored Mark Zuckerberg idling away at his desk in his cushy  Harvard dorm room (DISCLAIMER: I might very well be wrong about that; Harvard may have roach-infested dorms) in a state of abject depression that half his university’s student body didn’t know each other. Why?, bemoaned Mark. Then, suddenly, a lightbulb flashed above his head. Bells sounded in his ears. His eyes lit up. The whole world is on the internet. Why not create a usernet portal which Harvard students can use to network and socialize with each other? And thus, on February 15, 2004, (pardon the cliched sentence structure, lifted straight from a corny history textbook) Facebook came to be.

But honestly, did you expect a Harvard student to keep his flash of brilliance within the four walls of his campus? Of course not. Travel a few weeks ahead and voila!, Facebook has appeared on 45 other American college campuses. Travel many months ahead, and a Facebook account has come within the reach of all high-schoolers (who were secretly jealous of their elder collegiate siblings…sshh, don’t tell anyone!).

But enough with the history lesson (albeit one which is slightly more interesting than what’s in the corny textbook). What IS Facebook? To cut a long story short, Facebook is still what it was originally intended to be, an online networking portal – with a few extra (and fun!!!) frills. What can you do with Facebook? (is it just me, or do you think this is beginning to sound like Facebook’s non-existant FAQ section) The more appropriate question would be – what CAN’T you do with Facebook?

You can unleash the inner graffiti-spraying vandal in you by writing anything and everything on your friends’ ‘walls’. You can discover the stalker in you which you were totally unaware of by following your friends’ conversations (wall-to-walls, in FB speak) to a point where you know more about their lives than their parents. You can rediscover the kid in you by adding, and subsequently playing, the game applications (if you have a FB account and haven’t yet discovered the awesomeness that is the Crazy Taxi Game, you deserve to die). You could also take all those pointless, brainless, time-consuming but extremely interesting quizzes which you find on the ‘Quizzes’ application (Which European Country Are You?, anyone?).

Sounds boring? I’m not surprised. Unless you’ve been bitten by the FB bug yourself, it always sounds boring when you listen to someone else gush on and on and on (and on and on and on…) about the merits of FB. Oh my god, what the hell do they see in this? is a common first reaction. Then, curiosity gets the better of you. You type out www.facebook.com in a rather unwilling yet morbidly curious manner into your Firefox address bar (does anyone even use IE any more?). You create an account. You add friends. You add applications. You talk to your friends. You use your applications. It’s so pointless, rather drab and repetitive, and extremely…unoriginal. But at the same time, it’s so. damn. addicting. Everytime you get on your computer, you find yourself unconciously typing out f-a-c-e into your browser and before you realize the heinous crime you’ve committed, you’re on FB (and will probably remain there for the next hour, at the very least).

Anyway, got to go now. I’ve just been Superpoked.

If it ain’t Indie, it ain’t hot

Two words have revolutionized the music industry over the past few years: indie rock. The major labels are now nervously looking over their shoulders, the big-name pop stars aren’t the only sources of good music any more, and change is slowly but surely creeping in.

Wait. What IS this genre that has revamped the way people look at music? Indie rock – or independent rock, for the grammar Nazi – was originally the type of music produced by artists (usually bands) who were either unsigned or had signed with an independent record label (take that, Universal!). However, today, indie rock is used more as a phrase that describes a certain style of music. Abrasive, meaningfully worded songs with a magical guitar riff (and some screechy moments) thrown into the middle – that’s my definition of indie rock.

So the music’s great, we’ve got that bit covered. But indie rock has always been about a lot more than just the music; it has always signified a rebellious, stick-it-to-the-man attitude. Indie rock artists are risk takers who dare to be different. No indie rock band (in its right mind) can consider success a guarantee – they start off with Saturday night gigs at the dingy little club down the road; if they’re lucky, a scout for some tiny record label spots them, and you know how it goes…

Indie rock isn’t for everyone – let me get that straight. Overly conservative people (somtimes the songs have extremely opinionated lyrics), haters of guitars, drums and big vocals, and stuck-up snobs (what, you expect me to listen to something that isn’t big? Ewww!), among others, won’t like indie rock. But it never hurts to try, does it? Some indie rock bands which have wowed many include Death Cab for Cutie, The Plain White T’s, Oasis, Soundgarden, The Shins, The Arcade Fire, The Arctic Monkeys, Franz Ferdinand, Interpol, The Strokes, LCD Soundsystem, and Modest Mouse (among others). So if you haven’t given indie rock a shot yet, don’t hesitate to sample it! It’s sort of like wine – you either love it or hate it, there’s no middle ground. Chances are that you’ll love it.

“What the hell. Let’s go for it.”

That quote just about summarizes Mardy Fish’s game this past Saturday – pound in the serve, rip the ball to corners, and don’t give the guy any time. In other words – go for broke. Fish has always been one of the perennial underachievers of tennis – the guy has a game to die for, but his mental sloppiness always undermines that. In unkind terms, Fish is notorious for being a ‘choker’ – throwing the match away right when he has it in his pocket.

 But not this week, no. This week, he looked like a man on a mission.  Davydenko (poor guy, he’s seemed out of sorts ever since the infamous betting scandal) was his first victim. This was followed by victories over Hewitt and Nalbandian – both coming in third set tiebreakers (in all honesty, I wouldn’t have put my money on Fish for either match, what with his nasty habit of choking). And then came the big one.

Fish ripped apart Roger Federer on Saturday (and mind you, ‘ripped apart’ is a relatively mild metaphor in this context). The score? 6-3, 6-2. Roger seemed to have resigned to Fish’s dominance – the top player in the world (well, I don’t think that’s going to stay put for very long) was being cornered and baited, just as a lion pounces upon a hind and devours it (forgive the gruesome metaphors).

 In conclusion, I think this exchange betwen Federer and Bud Collins, a tennis journalist, sums things up:

“Are you well, Roger?”

“I’m well. How are you?”

“I don’t have to run.”

“Well, I didn’t run much, either.”

First things first…

So…lets get this straight. This blog is about anything and everything.

 Wow, that sure narrows things down doesn’t it?

The thing is, I don’t have any one ‘topic’ to blog about. I’m not a computer geek (hint, hint), a full-blown athlete, or a slacker. Truth is, I don’t exactly fall under one particular category. In such a case, wouldn’t it be an anamoly for my blog to be rigidly categorized? Exactly my sentiments.

 Now that that’s done with, I’m moving on to my first post.