Serendipity, Epiphany, Take 5, Brubeck, Jazz Junkie

Like an over-arching bow in the hands of a linguistic warrior ‘Serendipity’ and ‘Epiphany’ drop in the same sentence.

That is exactly the twaddle I often blubber, on an overly-whiskied night, to justify my existence.

Then, Dave Brubeck died and the ‘Epiphany’ about the ‘Serendipity’ hit home.

I discovered jazz bunking school going to a buddy’s house.

At 13, I heard Take 5.

Serendipity: Bunking school to watch porn, but ending up listening to Brubeck and being converted to jazz forever

Epiphany: Brubeck dies, damn, Take 5. I have forgotten who I really am. I’m a jazz junkie.

At my wedding toast I said: This is the only time im going to probably have so many people listening to me, unless I win the grammys or an Oscar or at the very least a Booker.
That was when I was 26. Or 27. Or fuck… too long ago… I didn’t win any, but if I did, this is what it would sound like… http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Aft4RE6psV0&feature=related
For what its worth. I still love the woman I married, as Oscar Wilde said, each man kills the thing he loves,
Unless your’e a woman… then you kill the man you love.

Have you seen me?

If you’ve ever seen Mel Gibson smile, blue-eyed and free (Brave Heart)
Then you’ve seen me.
If you’ve ever seen Daniel Day Lewis run wild and jump for what he believed (Last of the Mohicans)
Then you’ve seen me.
If you’ve ever seen Russel Crowe draw his sword and die for his wife and child, then you’ve seen me (Gladiator)

If you have ever seen me…

Watch the Wrestler

And seen the emptiness
Like a vessel waiting to be filled,

Then you should know, you’ve seen me.

Big and broken and loving you till the end

Like a one trick pony…

You’ve seen me.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G-6DM6iWKKo

A ditty for kids

Sometimes it’s rough,
Sometimes it’s tough.
Often, it’s long and boring and not,
Like a walk in the park.
But, exams they say
Will help me one day
And my mum, she says that a lot.

So I’m trying hard to think
To remember and drink, in,
All that I’m studying right now.
My exams are here
Oh Golly, Oh Dear,
I would rather they were not,
But they are.

So, I drown in my books,
All sums, words and hooks
And believe I’m smart as they say.
But, (sigh), my exams are here
And I’m not of good cheer
So, God, at least help me
write a good essay.

Hollywood, you and the US Presidential election

This is what you’re favourite Hollywood stars can tell you about who you would have voted for if you lived in the US.

I prefer Jenna Jameson, Clint Eastwood and Russell Crowe to, let’s say, Will Smith, Julia Roberts and George Clooney.

Before you read further, read this post:
http://www.ninety9words.blogspot.com/2011/07/if-i-was-american_03.html

I heard Ann Romney’s speech today.

If it’s worth being a US citizen, election time is surely one of the great draws.
Where else would a candidate’s wife address a national convention and start a speech with: Love.

I love it.

If it’s Julia, you’re Obama.

Me? Go Mitt.

It really is not about the bike

I know someone, with some serious access to the US coaches/trainers fraternity who I asked:

‘What’s the word in the business?’

‘Did he use drugs?’

His answer: ‘Is that even a question…’

I read the book, edited the sports pages, wrote the headlines.

I played scrabble with a nana from Austin who became an email buddy based on where to get good chilli and how to Livestrong.

And that Austin would beat Pune for best city in the world.

There is only one thing a pedestal guarantees you. The chance to fall.

It really is not about the bike.

Open wound

Wrote a ditty for a little missy,
She wasn’t impressed and said:

Too much blood, too much pain,
Find hope, laugh again…

Had it all, I say,
In buckets and spades,
Then cashed it in for a spin.

Sex, drugs and rock’n’roll,
It all seemed so cool.
Took it to the limit,
Played the perfect fool.

Got off the ride, paid the ticket price,
Stupor wore off,
Time to take stock.

People destroyed – check.
Self contorted – check.
Health destroyed – check.
Reality distorted – check.

Suffer the rule: did the crime, do the time

My life is now an open wound.

Man United, Arsenal, Van Persie and evolution

I don’t like the Dutch football team, and generally, have never been a big fan of their players either.

Not Gullit, Van Basten or Rijkaard.

I have a natural dislike of Arsenal.

It’s genetic. Born a Red Devil, you just eat Gunners, like a lion naturally just eats deer (or anything else that gets in its way.)

The only Dutch player I took to was Ruud Van Niestelroy. He played for United.

Now, I have to deal with not only another Dutch player at United, but a Dutch and ex-Arsenal player.

Even the kings of the jungle must evolve.

Zak attack: Fareed has his Barkha moment

When you’re at the top in media the one thing you lose is your right to the phrase: “Let me explain this…”

If those four words are even on the horizon of your subconscious, resign.

Fareed Zakaria has had his Barkha Dutt moment.

Unlike Barkha and the navel-gazing Indian media, it is unlikely he will be allowed a second chance.

Unless the Indian media develop that kind of ruthless expectation of their news doyens, they will continue to be fed information they deserve, and not what they need.
That, and upskirt panty shots.

Zak actually probably had an explanation.

You're in the Army Now

I had a brief fling with discipline as sergeant with the Army division of the National Cadet Corp in school.

The commanding officer was a man whose full force I felt on the cheek of my face only once.

It was enough to wake me up and remind me that life is about more than the mores.

Butt, barrel, bayonet, brasso, beret… matter.

Most of all, family, nation and your platoon are worth dying for.

Maybe he should have slapped me a few more times.

For Harold Sir from St Vincent’s High School, usually, once was enough.

Thank-you, Sir.

Olympic musings

Is it just me, or are athletes winning medals at London 2012 breaking down in tears more than any Olympics I have seen before?

I have a feeling the global state of affairs right now – totally screwed – is responsible.

The Olympics have come at a time when the world was badly in need of a pep-up.

Economy, environment, morality, life - all in the toilet.

So, the Olympics do give much hope.

Not just to us watching, but to those competing as well.

Cue the tears.

For a telling post on Michael Phelps from Beijing 2008, click here: http://www.ninety9words.blogspot.com/2008/08/lezak-can-phelp-it.html

AB + BA = AA

Five late warning signs of alcoholism that will now only save you from AA:

1) Alcohol Binges (AB) have turned in to Binge Alcoholism (BA).

2) You’re acute sense of BA is so honed that you easily stay sober during the week.

3) The day you drink becomes hallowed time – its anticipation motivating and inspiring you through the week.

4) Any time after 11am is good to start a BA session. Chasing is order of the day.

5) The hangover: Old AB sessions made you go, ‘Wow, that was some session’.
Now you go, ‘Why am I still alive’?

On the Boyle, but is that UK?

Being dazzled by laser light spectacles at opening ceremonies, is a bit like getting turned on by the first pair of tits at a strip bar.

You haven’t been around a lot.

Once past the razzle and dazzle of Danny Boyle’s London gig what I was left with was this: Mary Poppins in a black dress.

That is the heart of Boyle’s artisanship - juxtaposition of hope with the macabre.

The opening represented Boyle’s vision of Britain.

But, was it Britain’s vision of itself?

Beijing was spectacular.

London was Boyle, not the UK… but Ok.

Funny, dark and Ok.

I found 'em...

Millions of people who follow this blog will know by now, how important having a soundtrack to your life is.

Sometimes you choose the tracks, sometimes the tracks choose you.

One genre that must accompany whatever else is on your playlist is reggae.

Bob Marley always. After the Wailers, it was UB40. Then cameos by Aswad, Big Mountain… and when I spoke with Shaggy a few years ago, he thought Sean Paul as well.

But really there is only Marley and UB40.

I believe I have found the next big reggae band.

The Gentleman’s Dub Club.

Check them out. http://bit.ly/yQjHCi

My world, Brand calls it

So you win some and you’re winsome.
Then, it’s all a bit ‘Shameless’ and you’re Frank the Plank.
Got a call from Russell Brand. This is how he called it:
“What I’ve learnt, to my cost, is that people will put up with all manner of bad behaviour so long as you’re giving them what they want.
“They will laugh and get into it and enjoy the anecdotes and the craziness and the mayhem, as long as you’re doing your job well.
“But, the minute you’re not, you’re fucked.
“They’ll wipe their hands of you without a second glance.”

From the Preacher to the Teacher

Karol Wojtyla was sheepdog when I first entered into a radical following of the Shepherd.

He was a preacher with a charisma that could transcend time and space.

Of all the parables in the Book, I decided to live out The Prodigal Son.

Now, as I make my way back from the pig-sty to the flock, the sheepdog is Josef Ratzinger.

He is a teacher (with as much charisma as a doorknob).

Most Catholics can quote Dan Brown far easier than the Bible.

But, for those who care, or dare, read his ‘Jesus of Nazareth’.

Insightful, challenging, honest, inspiring.

Middle what!?... Nah, once groovers now gravers

Middle age does not creep up on you.
It taps you on the shoulder at the gym and says, “Uncle, are you done with this machine.”
Luckily for me midlife crisis started early, probably around the 32-33 mark.
Sadly, it was more like an era, than a crisis.
When you’re 18 and behave like 18, it’s forgiven.
When you’re 28 and behave like 18, it’s kinda cool.
So, if it’s embarrassing seeing a 40-year old behave like 18, what will it be like at 60?
They call us gravers. Jack, Al, Bobby… me.
From the rave to the grave.

Hope less

Notice how babies have no hope. They don’t need to. They have it all right here and now. Hope is the air that believers breathe. Hope is the luxury the rich afford others. Hope is the name parents from Texas, Anglo Indians and some Goans give their children. Of all the human emotions that can be denied to man, surely it is the loss of hope that must rank as the embodiment of hell. So, for one to deny one’s self hope, well, you have be pretty messed up. Or, have to have messed up pretty badly. Hope less.

The joke is now always on us, Robin Gibb

I once knew a barman who would play me for free drinks at darts. When he had bled me dry, he would offer me the chance to get a free drink. What did I have to do? Dance to ‘Saturday Night Fever’. That is the best measure of the global influence of the Bee Gees. After all, this used to happen at a pub in Pune. Then there is the song ‘I Started a Joke’, made poignant by love – if I could only see, that the joke was on me. I dug the Bee Gees, man. RIP, Robin Gibb.

King Hendry, thank-you for the potting

I have a college degree in snooker with two minors - in billiards and pool. In my youth, Stephen Hendry was the greatest player alive. Not the most exciting, but certainly, the greatest. I quote a sportswriter, out of context, to capture Hendry, The Great: “With a pallor that suggested his skin had not seen sunlight for years, he potted the balls… again and again, for hours on end… no, days on end.” And I add, “Till he won”. Hendry retired last week. Hendry, in his prime, versus Ronnie O’Sullivan (in his prime). That would have been a master-class.

The beautiful game, for you Muamba

I exist at the heart of the parochial, divided, club-driven world of football.
I would rather watch Manchester United play Barcelona, than India play any cricket final.
That is the kind of passion football can exert.
However, even I have been moved by the uniting of the oft-divided world of football fans and players behind Fabrice Muamba – the Bolton player who suffered a heart attack on the pitch and is still in critical condition.
From Manchester to Madrid, the unity in show of support for Muamba, a small-time player, is the reason why football is called the beautiful game.

Fixed!

In the week Rahul Dravid retired, The Sunday Times reminded us all that we are fooling ourselves if we believe cricket to be free of match-fixing.
Worse still, India is at the heart of the fixing.
The most revealing story came from Victor Chandler, one of the biggest bookmakers in the world.
In an interview with The Guardian, he said his company does not take big bets on cricket matches. “We know they know more than us,” he said.
I stopped following cricket when the match-fixing scandal first broke to claim Azharuddin and taint Kapil Dev.
I stand vindicated.

Thank you for the music (even if I did not really dig it)

Soundtracks to your youth are not produced by the esoteric choices your sub-conscious reaches for in that epic quest to be ‘cool’.

Instead, it’s the blaring sound of shameless popular music that really is accompanying your misguided attempts at finding your place in the world.

So while I’d like to think it was Roy Orbison and Rare Earth that defined my youth, it was in fact, to some extent, Whitney Houston and Madonna.

I cringed at Madonna’s Superbowl performance (while the world, was, for some reason impressed).

And I almost cried for Whitney Houston. I did shed a tear.

Come back home, come back home to me

All of three, the little lady,

Wept like the baby she is.

Across a million miles, on the phone she cried,

Dada, when are you coming back home?

She wailed and howled, when I said girl, not now,

Not for some time, but soon, you’ll see…

Ok, she said, her sobs full of dread

Of a daughter left to hurt and feel…

A pain that no child, should ever have to cry

For a dad not there to be.

Come back soon, come back now
Come back when, come back how
Come back home, come back home to me