Where the streets have no name... but a lot else

Cobble stones, red brick houses, a canal running through it and 700-plus years of history.
Dublin had a lot going for it even before U2 wrote Where the streets have no name. Throw in some spectacular churches and a pub on every corner and you have a city i could be happy living in.
What strikes me most about Dublin is the sense of having existed for ages, that the city exudes. Of having witnessed the evolution of a nation. Of standing like a proud and true testament to the value of culture and heritage.
Pune could have been that.

99 reasons why I will not be blogging for the next 15 days... but who knows?!

U2, Metallica, Linkin Park, Limp Bizkit, Heaven and Hell, Nine Inch Nails, Coheed and Cambria, Anthrax, Taking Back Sunday, Alien Ant Farm, Bullet For My Valentine, Airbourne, The Used, Bjorn Again, Skindred, Soil, Lamb of God, Killing Joke, Buckcherry, Avenged, Sevenfold, Alice in Chains, Feeder, Mastodon, Saxon, Paradise Lost, Thunder, The Wildhearts, The Ataris, Hundred Reasons, Blakfish, Failsafe, Fact, Fighting With Fire, Architects, Attack! Attack!, Cancer Bats, Flood of Red, Fucked Up, Glamour of the Kill, Oceansize, Corey Taylor, Dead by April, Dirty Little Rabbits, Rolo Tomassi, Sylosis, Telegraphs, Twin Atlantic, Lauren Harris, Rise to Remain, Pepper, Zebrahead, Blackhole.

Point of no return

In every decision there is the point of no return. People say it is never too late to turn back. But, it is. Once you cross the point of no return.
At the very point, you actually do assess the implications. But, if the need, want, desire, necessity, inevitability of the decision outweighs the consequence – for whatever reason – you cross the point of no return.
To know where you are in life: from as far back as you can remember, on a time line, plot your points of no return. And remember, even the small ones matter.

Peak performace

Think about it. How far away are humans from peak performance?
Usain Bolt is running the 100 metres in 9.7-odd seconds. How much faster do you think man can go? I’d say at 9 seconds the human race would have peaked out.
Likewise with pole-vault, high jump and all the great track and field events. We are one generation away from not being able to go any faster or higher. You might get the odd super athlete, like Lance Armstrong or Michael Phelps, but that’s it. Humans are going to have come up with a completely new Olympics soon.

You matter, but only in the real world

Facebook offers a study in the height of presumption and the depths of human need. I am forever amazed that even people I allow to be my friends would presume that I would want to know when they get paid or laid, or what sort of rock star they are.
The impulse to share that information stems from the need to know that people care about when you are constipated. That you matter.
If online social networking is designed to keep you connected, it only guarantees loneliness in the end.
Much rather you than your profile, comment or picture.

In the parent 'hood

A manifestation of the Goddess Venus once told me, “Teach a child to love books and you give them a friend for life.”
Your kids are wired to only pick up the bad from you. If they do pick up any good, you will never see it. But, they will constantly remind you that they are your kids. And not because of their manners, discipline or genius. Once in a way though, they drop you a lifeline.
I think I did good by my eldest. For her ninth birthday I asked her what she wanted and she said, “Books.”

Marathi's Rape-unzel

Nilu Phule was the Marathi screen’s great rapist. He was a top draw drunk and an excellent lecherous villain. In his dying, another wisp of the monochrome age of Doordarshan in the 1980s gets blown away.
The great thing about Marathi actors, and Punekar ones in particular, is their strong theatre background. I was once exercising at the same gym as thespian Dr Shriram Lagoo and he said to me, “A city with a strong theatre culture will always be true to itself.” He then asked me not to disturb him. A toast to Nilu Phule then, aiee ghalya!

Mutant fruit king

So I was intrigued when a couple of Malays on the island of Penang told me they were going to introduce me to the king of fruits – the durian.
A round thorny outside, which when hammered and pried open, reveals a sliver of jackfruitish skin over a mash of custardy-creamy squish, which tastes weird, tangy and pungent all at the same time.
I realised why they call it the king. Twelve hours after eating durian, it still rules your senses. You sweat, smell, taste, fart and burp the crazy fruit. This is what a fruit mutant tastes like.

Ban the foghorns

I am warming to South Africa as the venue for the 2010 football World Cup. The recent Confederations Cup played there served up a surprisingly delicious aperitif of sublime skill and fierce competition.
And it was the microcosm of the real thing – one team got robbed by hookers (Egypt), tournament favourites got beaten (Spain), there was a darkhorse in the final (US), the host nation reached the semis, and Brazil won in the end.
All South Africa has to do now is - ban the foghorns. Seriously, the foghorns destroyed the tournament and the cacophony killed the TV experience.

R.I.P

I stayed away from the MJ memorial, precisely because I was unsure what the ceremony would be. By the time I got home, alas it was not over, and so, I had to endure the last 20 minutes of a vapid, pretence-ridden, farcical dribble. The Jackson family reminded me of loan-sharks at the funeral of a huge debtor – yellow ties, gloves and all.
Perhaps saddest was getting MJ’s daughter, Paris was it, to speak . It was unnecessary and disgustingly exhibitionist. Strangely she doesn’t even look like MJ – black or white. Truly, may he rest in peace.

What you should really learn from Federer

I have combed papers across the globe online today looking for an inspired Federer headline. I have not come across one. That is true greatness. When one makes headline writers struggle to capture the immensity of one’s achievement. That, and fitness.
Roger Federer did not beat Andy Roddick yesterday at Wimbledon because he played better. He beat him because he was fitter.
Fitness has nothing to do with talent, or genius, or opportunity, or privilege. It has 100 per cent to do with mind-numbing, body-destroying, resolve-busting hard, hard work. Federer showed that without super-fitness you cannot be a legend.

How to make a Jap flee

The new airport paranoia is swine flu. Masked lab technicians and thermal scanners have been added to racially-profiled security checks and not selling cocaine at dutyfree (except maybe at Tijuana International).
Step off a flight and you are scared to even clear your throat. God help you should an untimely cough come your way. Then there is the Japanese (there is always one no matter where you travel) in front of you with the mask on. In fact, all the fuss is guaranteed to make you sneeze. It’s worth it though, just to watch the Jap flee. Aah choo!

Big world, small me

My reluctance to travel has much to do with the need to remain king of my empire. To remain relevant in the universe. I temper that egoistic streak by reading National Geographic. I have yet to come across an issue that has not left me thinking… God, I’m small.
However, to really gain perspective on the minisculity of one’s life, surely it is traveling to another country that is tops.
In Malaysia I discovered an entire race (actually three) that have made Islam a religion of life and happiness, prosperity and peace. And they did it all without me.

The hook up

When you have spent the best part of your adult life in bars, you learn stuff.
You can, with one look, know if the bartender is under pouring. You can pick out, with one look, pimp, whore, addict, dealer and the DJs girlfriend. You can tell which girl the drummer is going to bang. And you learn to enjoy an entire movie with the sound off.
The one thing I haven’t learnt is being able to pick out the girl that is up for a hook up (not to be confused with the hooker). My friends say it's karma.

Michael Jackson

I waited to write about Michael Jackson because I needed to separate his suspected pedophilia from his genius.
I was to see him at the O2. One of life’s great regrets will be not having seen him when he toured India.
Jackson had a huge influence on my career as a music critic, my passion for dance and my love for the arts. Then he had sleepovers with kids.
For me, Michael Jackson died with Dangerous. After that it was a freak show dragging on till the inevitable.
The day he entered Neverland, is the day the music died.