I don’t mind me a Tea Party

The American Tea Party amuses me. It is a tight slap on the face of all who forget that life on this planet is in the end cyclical. And to bring back a quote from an earlier post of mine – evolution without morality leads to self-destruction.
I may not agree with what specific Tea Party candidates say, but I love the overall movement, which is basically away from big money, big corporate, big party politics.
Voters are no more numbers in the Tea Party, they are people, and that’s what they feel and that’s why it is so popular.

No, please, no, not the karaoke

What is with karaoke?
Like the internet, is it really empowering people –people who would not dare whisper to sing (or in the case of the internet, turn billions of average Joes into faux-know-it-alls)?
Or, is it creating a generation of irritating music zombies (no disrespect to Rob) who suck the blood out of every living song (and some dead ones).
Every party now, after two drinks (and sometimes even before), the karaoke comes on and I have to suffer the murder of everyone, from Metallica to Mariah Carey.
Karaoke is like Christmas – should be done once a year.

The cost of not letting go

Now I know what my children felt when my wife and I did not divorce.
However, there's a price to pay when deals are struck: whether that be corporate, a cut-throat agents’ fee or the emotional roller-coaster of lovers.
Manchester United will pay Rooney (me, in the hubby-wife analogy) 250,000 pounds a week to stay.
Alex Ferguson (the analogus ‘wife’) ensures the family (players, fans, sponsors and his own sanity) stays United.
Does everyone win?
I’m not sure. Sometimes you need to let people go so that they realise – that they are wrong.
And that time dispenses with everyone.

The great divorce

Now I know what my children would have felt if I had divorced my wife.
Me being Wayne Rooney, and my wife being Alex Ferguson.
They would have mourned the star going, but stayed with the coach.
I will not go with Wayne Rooney, but, boy, will I mourn his leaving.
I often joke that Fergie is unofficial godfather to all my children (this is with no disrespect to my kids’ official godfathers), but that he just does not know it yet.
He exudes trust, confidence, security and righteousness.
It’s what success – whether football or life – is built on.

Me anna, wokay?

Through a quirk of circumstance I now find myself eating an idli-sambhar breakfast most days of the week and, after a month, I’m still not really fed up.
Which is what got me thinking, maybe I should let the anna out of the pseudo-western-urbane-Indian-Roman-Catholic in me. I am half South Indian.
My wife used to often refer to me as a Madrasi, with a certain amount of scorn. She is Goan.
Goans think they fell out of Vasco da Gama’s arse. And that it’s a good thing.
I trace my heritage back to a Pillay line from Tamil Nadu.

Do not fuck with the BCCI

I’ve always been a bit sad that India did not have a true mafia-style operation.
Sure we had Haji Mastan, the Shakeels, D-Company, C-Rajan and bandits of the Chambal. But, nothing that oozed that ruthless, organised, mafioso efficiency.
Well, now we do.
It’s called the BCCI.
The manner in which it has destroyed Lalit Modi will shrivel the balls of even the toughest cookie out there.
Rather than hire someone to castrate him, they have deconstructed his empire brick by golden brick, million by tarnished million.
Do not fuck with the BCCI.
Oh yeah, oh yeah, we hear you.

GaGa over Florence and the Machine

About six months ago an Ulsterman, no less, introduced me to Florence and the Machine.
So when her Dog Days performance at the VH1 Awards moved her into the larger public consciousness, I indulged in a bit of bourgeoisie, ‘me-the-classess you-the-music-massess’ strutting around.
As I often do on this site.
Nevertheless, Florence, with her Sinead O’Connor- meets-U2-via-the-Cranberries sound has begun to appeal me as the evolved man’s answer to Lady GaGa.
GaGa has plateaued, musically at least, and is channeling so much of Madonna right now she is in danger of losing that very unique, deviously simple, pop sound.

The dog days are not over

Not with the first flush of beauty, Nor the rush of dark pain;
Not with the hollow of emptiness, Nor the seasoning of shame.
Not till the healer is released, To work upon the maimed.
Will my life bear meaning, will the chaos be tamed.

Not with the taunts of truth’s burdens, Nor fallow reasoning of blame;
Not with the blighting of the spirit, Nor the mind’s trivial games;
Not the failing of the sprit, Nor the body’s end game;
Not till the keeper of my conscience gets her chance at the wheel
Will love, joy and peace finally prevail.

Bring it on! (Oh dear)

I never thought I’d live to see the day when Manchester City was higher up the table than Manchester United.
As a modern United fan, I hate City. I would rather see Arsenal, Chelsea and Liverpool above United than City.
However, I did predict at the beginning of the season that this one was going to be difficult. A true test of faith and loyalty in the face of relentless disappointment and pain.
Quite like my life actually.
Nevertheless, if United have a record against you, this is the year to break it. Fulham, Everton, Sunderland, who is next?

NDTV’s brain-dead cricket coverage

Is it just me (it always is), or is there something in the water at the NDTV studios. Dean Jones and Ajay Jadeja spoke about the Indian cricket team looking like world beaters – this after a disastrous performance.
India dropped more catches than a paid-for Pakistan fielding side and basically handed the game to Australia.
The appalling insights were only aided by some pathetic anchoring by that mummy’s-boy-looking apology for a TV host.
Sample this question: Is this really the best feeling for an Indian – to be on top of Australia?
Yes, I kid you not.
Brain fucking dead.