Ode to the Woman

The news of the divorce - Madonna and Mr Ritchie - was probably just another chapter in the grand dame's re-discovery process. One more time. She's changed so many times already, it's a wonder she even knows who the real Madonna 'really' is. Fans will be saddened no doubt, and her detractors will add fuel to an already sad and sordid tale made more so by the misery of pain and separation,... her own as well as the lives she has ruined.

But in the end, she will rise above it all. Because, for her fans - she represents something beyond the mundane and the ordinary, something timeless that a few tabloid columns and headlines on the daily news cannot tarnish. For them - as for me - she is a passport to an entire epoch of our unspoilt youth, as fundamental a part of growing up as love and longing itself. We dreamed of her, worshipped her, pined for her, sang her songs in private and danced to her rhythmic beats that kindled flames of freedom, dark desire, and the promise of days to come. We worshipped her at the pedestal of innocence - and she was the original goddess of 'come hither boys and become men.'

We're men now,... but Madge - you are timeless. As pure and pristine as the music that defined our growing years. Here's wishing you never change,... and that you always do. From now until eternity.

Genius and the guitar hero, or Only the most committed wins

They say genius is the ability to take pains. I came across the following article on the Metallica site about Kirk Hammett:

"A keen student of his instrument even today, Hammett followed his first 'Kill 'Em All' tour by taking lessons from Joe Satriani, and embarked upon a passage of guitar self-education that took in jazz, blues and classical styles. Indeed, education has always been Kirk's answer to potential burnout. After the marathon 'Black' album tour ended in 1993, he immediately went to the City College of San Francisco where he took classes, something he credits as the reason behind his reinvention as a guitarist on the 'Load' and 'Re-load' albums. Kirk continues to bring not only a dazzling array of lead guitar parts to Metallica's music but also some savage rifferey, having started sharing 6-string duties with James during the 'Load' era. .......Oh, and for the record, Kirk plays his guitar at least 361 days a year. "

Got me thinking. What is genius? Maybe it's not about solving Fermat's last theorem whilst waiting for a pizza, or writing 'The Gift of the Magi' whilst your publishers are waiting downstairs (yes I hear old Henry pulled that one off), or painting the Sistine chapel or even scoring perfect 800s on your SATs. Yes it IS all that.... but a little more. It's about losing yourself in 'your' art, making it a passion that rules you, and no compromises.

Is it very different in business? The most successful practitioners of the art of commerce have been men who have devoted - literally - their lives in some manner of speaking - to the advancement of their chosen field(s). They have lived in it, enriched it, and sometimes changed the rules of the game. They utterly and completely justify the adage: "The most committed win."

So I ask today - How committed am I? I think it's a question we're not so much afraid to answer, as we are afraid to ask. Because, that's one of the fringe handicaps of being human. Born with unlimited potential, the last thing that we want is to discover that we're really good at something, but that something comes at a price: total commitment.

Can you live with that? Consider well the following, before you answer: There is a point of inflexion in every thing that we do,.. be it learning a language or solving a problem or cooking a dish. Human expectation is that the more we practice, the better we get at it. Right? Right. So far so good. But there is a point of inflexion beyond which that improvement tapers off, plateaus and perhaps even declines. 99.9% of people give up at that point. The .1% that persist? - you guessed it.

The most committed win. As a sign-off, check out the latest from Vlad's library of images. Peace!

The Women: The return of the ditsy genius

Imagine waking up one day and walking out, only to find that all the men had disappeared. Now if you're a man, that might be deemed cause celebre unless you're George Michael; but think about the women! Downright scary you might think. Who'll take out the garbage? Bring home the microwave dinners? Lie belly up on the bed on Sunday morning in a tangle of hairy appendages, orange juice and the sports supplement of the times! The implications are legion, and horrifying. I can hear Germaine Greer groaning in displeasure, but hey - that's just me.

But director Jane English seems to have no problems with that; nor does she have any problems with foisting it on what was predominantly a male audience (at least last night when my wife and I went to see it). Apparently Ms. English has gone to great lengths to ensure an all-female cast, to the extent that even the dog was a girl. I wonder if all the NYC cabs we saw had female drivers!

Nonetheless, a brave movie even if it was a remake. The ensemble cast reads like a who's who of middle-aged Hollywood. The intro might be mistaken for a 'Sex and the city' sequel, and Annette Bening looks decidedly 'Cattrall'ish as she negotiates the pavements in the opening shots. What followed was an unending stream of 40-something starlets dolled up in Hamptons-couture and driving upscale Japanese brands, going on about charity dinners, manicures, Saks, cheating husbands and friendship till I felt like getting up and banging (no ... wait for it) my head against the walls (which were thankfully padded). Again, the spectre of Sex and the city loomed on the horizon. The dialogues were hammy, albeit delivered with as much chutzpah as one could possibly muster and hats off to the cast for that. The ending was the saving grace, and will probably count as one of the most memorable delivery room scenes since 9 months. There were laughter and tears, forgiveness and joy and all round heart-warming fuzziness as the audience spilt their guts onto the floor laughing.

But the real (re-)discovery was Meg Ryan. The ditsy genius of rom-com is back. One wonders what she has been doing since 'In the cut', but Meg is alive and well. There was the trademark eye-rolling, nose-twitching, flouncy dresses and poetic self-deprecation all dipped in syrupy melancholy, all the traits that we have come to love. No Tom Hanks, but Meg shines her own light. She was an Atlas carrying the weight of the film on her shoulders. And in the end, however the film does, I think people will just be happy to have their favourite fighting 'shop-girl' back on the screens, looking none the worse for wear.

Hurrah!

For England...

It was like a chapter out of Moby Dick; except that in the end Ahab got the whale. Andy Murray embodied the spirit of the man who donated his name to the stadium; this was no Connors-Ashe match, and Nadal is too honorable of a man to belittle his opponent in the manner of Connors,... but Murray showed that whilst confidence is classy, class is classier.

Never for a moment in the match did he put on that he was pressed to the hard. Shots flowed from his quiver as effortlessly as words from the pulpit, and in the process Murray re-wrote the record books, doubtless ensuring that his name will not be lost in the annals of this great game.

And whilst Roger Federer proved yesterday beyond any measure of doubt that he is alive and well and in no way out of the reckoning, yet he will look upon Murray with new-found respect when they cross rackets 22 hours from now in NY. But for now, Andy Murray is the king of the world.

For England. And for tennis.

Solace

These days, my wife and I are bucking the trend. We spent the long weekend holed up at home, barely kept alive by the antics of the crew from ndtv.com. Then the next weekend, we took off to Cornwall on a whim. 600 miles behind the wheel, and the weekend flew past in a flurry of castles, coastline, fur-seals and overdone cornish sausages. But there were small blessings. The image on the right is proof that there is still that 'measure of peace that so many of us search for ....' lines from 'The Last Samurai.' Knock yourself out with this photo we took at the foot of Pendennis castle.

So peace out - till the next time I decide to test the limits of human boredom. Or the next weekend. Whichever comes sooner.

A Knight's tale

As I came out of the movie theatre, treading fairy footsteps so as not to trip over the sagging carpet, I looked back at the screen as the ending credits of 'The Dark Knight' rolled down against a shadowy tapestry of a myriad movie-goers. And I could only think of one thing: DC - 1; Marvel - 0. This one goes to Bob Kane. The man who gave us the Batman, would have been proud of this one. To see his characters come alive on screen not through the chicanery of special effects, but in flesh and blood. As people with angst, hate, fear, self-loathing, and heroics.

And whilst Bale's Batman may have been spent more time brooding and dishing out pithy on-liners than one might have expected, the masthead of the plot had to be the triumvirate of the Batman, 2-face and the Joker. Master stroke that, from Chris Nolan. It could very well have doubled as a 101 on Freudian analysis. Batman and the Joker each living in the hope that society would embrace the best and the worst (respectively) of human tendencies, whilst Harvey embodies the fragile balance between the two, forever swinging between right and wrong, aided and abetted only by a coin and a fascination with chance. Somehow, amidst all the chaos it was Harvey, and not Bale's Batman that stood out (at least in the first half) as the sole voice of reason and hope. And he proved - at least for a while - that sometimes, you don't need a costume and a mask to take up a cause that is right.

In particular, his line about 'You either die a hero, or live long enough to become the villain', was a rebuke to modern morals, I think. Is he saying then, that one can't survive by treading the straight and narrow?

Something to think about,... especially for all the corporate wannabes out there. But one thing's for sure... this one goes to Batman. And maybe it's time Marvel had a deep think about what it comes back with next, to counter this Knight's move.

Till next time.

Life at 30(000 ft)

Picture we took in Paris: lends some perspective at the end of the first innings of my life. I guess there's a sense of isolation when you're that high up. So just how far does one have to go to fulfill one's dreams?

Dawn comes with rosy fingers...

In 2000 October, I turned 24. I'd been thinking about this event for quite some time: about 11 years to be precise. Since it coincided with the Millennium, it meant something to me. I associated it with a coming of age, almost. I’d spent long summers idling on a hammock staring at trees, birds and prehistoric buses from my crow’s nest on a Calcutta highrise. Passing jet planes enroute to distant locations reminded me of an England where I’d spent many summers growing up. I wondered and worried about where I would be when I was old and sane.

On my 24th birthday, I found myself in B-school with a 100 other wide-eyed wonderers. The next few years flew past in a crazy blur of jobs, flights, marriage, more flights, more jobs, cars and multi-ethnic food. Then 32 came. It was summer in Reading. A house, a home as my wife calls it, but also a yearning for better things. The promotion, the perks, the fancy job-title, the branded watch, the ultimate driving machine sitting in the underground car park ready to be let loose upon the world in ambitious fury, the compulsory trips to India and home cooking, doting parents, wary relatives and old friends who never got jealous. And yet. One asks oneself (aka Old Jack in the eponymous move): ‘What if this is as good as it gets?’

I put down my constant aggravation and moanings about the future to my b-school regimen. The steady drone of wisdom emanating from a bearded Socrates wielding chalk and a goodly volume. ‘If you’re getting comfortable, you’re getting slack. Time to move on. Look for the next best thing.’

But then – what if this is the next best thing? What if in this constant search for ‘better’ in today’s catalogued and glossy paperback version of life, I’m losing sight of Here and Now?

As I type, I grow increasingly aware that my dusty monologue is beginning to bear an uncanny resemblance to the suicial rant of a man with mid-life crisis. So I say: “Enough of this poison: let me seek the antidote!” I'm off to the hills and dales of Derby this weekend. The BBC weather service - frightfully accurate as always - has predicted snow on the hills. So I'm packing my gloves, picnic hamper and ample wife into the car and hitting the high-road. See you soon!

Happy New Year - the iceman cometh

They say that the first rule of writing - especially when you're in a block - is to wrote garbage. Which is what I'm doing. To hell with intention - it's the action that counts. So this year, it's gonna be all about the action. Doing as opposed to twiddling the appendage oft used (thumb silly!).

I love this thing about living in the hope of 'what next.' Isn't that a bit like - the greatest has-been that never-was? Because by the time you've gotten to the point where doing something will probably achieve the desired result: hey - that moment's gone. Past. Manyana. And you're on your bum again in front of the tv.

It's the first day of the New Year and I haven't a clue what I'm going to do. It's a holiday, so that's kinda nice. Watterson said that there is never enough time to do all the nothing that you want. I'm about to find out the hard way. I looked at a random horoscope and it said that in 2008, I'd be very popular. I'm elated. I've always wanted to be popular. Like Superman or Roger Federer. Actually, like JK Rolwling.

Peace out.