Red Letter Day

Dear Men,

If the thought of bleeding uteruses (uteri?), especially in the women you know and love like say your mother, makes you feel a) nauseous b) faint c) excited, you might want to skip this post.

XOXO!

***

So, ladies! Explain to me this mystery: do you all really keep count of your monthly cycles?

I understand it’s like wearing nice panties in case you get run over by a bus – you want to have it on you just in case, so you can leave a good impression on the coroner (or nurse / doctor / mother – if anybody else asks you, by the way, tell them to fuck off. Unless it’s your best friend, who is required by law to accept you as is, with torn underwear and a late period, thus you can tell her whatever you like).

But while I have no problems finding clean underwear, keeping track of my period is entirely another matter.

I know how long it lasts and I can always tell when I’m about to begin. I don’t think I’ve left bloodstains on anything since my early teens even if it was the fashion in high school for girls in the middle of their period to ask their friends to discreetly check out their rear as they passed during “those days”. Ah, India! Where boys hold hands and aren’t ashamed to cry when their feelings are hurt and girls spend a significant portion of their time studying their friends’ behinds. That’s why it’s the Indian century, you know.

Anyway, as far as I’m concerned, as long as I have a general idea of what to expect, I’m all good. It’s bad enough that I have to deal with the water retention and the PMS and the food urges and the aches & pains and the cramps and the cold toes and the blood and the lank hair and the general feeling that I look like crap for a week out of every month – there’s no reason to mark it out in my calendar so I can stare at it in passing and know that the red scourge cometh. I can feel it in my bones already.

And I don’t want to program my phone so it can remind me – what if it gets stolen? Some creep won’t just have the numbers of everyone I know, he could also calculate when I’m about to ovulate. Okay, so that sounds a bit paranoid but stranger things have happened. Besides, anyone crazy enough to steal my base model, no-frills, no-extras, just-barely-good-enough-to-place-a-call phone has to be a pervert of some kind.

I suppose I could sign up to that internet reminder service that sends you an email when your period is due, but period spam is the last thing I need. “Dear Amrita, tomorrow you will be doubled over in pain and want to kill everything that comes near you. Congratulations on being a woman, the sacred vessel of life!” Hooray!

That said, I guess there are times when it comes in handy to know beforehand – if you have a special event to attend or you’re planning to go to the beach or to the doctor’s office or if you’re trying to have a baby, etc.

But that’s not what the doctor recommends, is it? They tell you to keep track all the time. Presumably that’s for a reason (to screw with your head?). Therefore, somebody must be following that advice – if that person is you, tell me all about it.

Oh, and if any of the male readers have made it this far – I don’t suppose you’d want to ask the lady in your life about it, would you?

“Mom / Honey / Aunty-ji, there is this girl on a website and she wants to know…”

Now that would make my life.

 

The Alternative Superman

“You should hear what the fucking Clerks dude said about the Superman script!”

I kind of feel cheated now. I can’t help but think that a Superman starring Sean Penn as a violent Superman who lives in a Fortress of Solitude patrolled by polar bears so he can survive to battle a giant spider in the final act … how can it be anything other than an improvement on that Brandon Routh snoozefest?

This is why I love Kevin Smith. And why big budget Hollywood movies suck. Like so:

[via Boing Boing]

 

We’ll Always Have the Music

It’s hard not to find a soft spot in your heart for someone who worked as doggedly as Feroz Khan to entertain his audience even if you weren’t totally sure what to do with his work. Sometimes, it felt as though he’d had one hell of an acid trip and wanted the rest of us to experience what he’d seen when he was blitzed out of his mind. At others, it was as if he had an idea and deemed it too mundane to be worthy of his fans – and was thus obliged to amp it up, no matter what, to make it worth our while.

Whatever it was that drove him, his movies (the ones he made anyway) were always full of stuff that he appeared to like a lot. There were horses, cars, beautiful women in itty bitty clothes and outsize boobs, amazing music, and a macho sense of frontier justice. It didn’t matter if the movie was set in Afghanistan or in Bombay, the way FK told it, the world was a dangerous place where an outlaw cowboy was waiting to aid the righteous with nothing but his gun for company.

It was Disco Curry Western – a genre, as howlers like Prem Aggan and Janasheen conclusively proved, that was wholly invented and embodied by Feroz Khan alone. There wasn’t a single other person in Bollywood, past or present, who could step under that five gallon hat. [Well, Rajnikanth could do it, I guess, but then he can do anything.]

But while he’s appeared in a bunch of my favorite Hindi movies over the years (including Nagin and Geeta Mera Naam, two of the all-time greatest Hindi B-movies ever, with Sunil Dutt providing the WTF quotient), it’s the music from the movies he directed that have really left an impact on the Hindi movie-going public.

Not everybody might have seen Dayavan, for example (check out its Tamil original, Nayakan, today!), but chances are they’ve heard this song and been equally confused as to the proper reaction to it:

And maybe you can never bring yourself to sit through Dharmatma at one sitting because it’s so many movies in one long, long, long one, you’ve at least sat through a couple of its songs:

… and wanted a lavender convertible

… or an Afghani gypsy

Then, of course, there’s Jaanbaz, a  movie about spoiled rich kids, drugs, boundaries, S&M, teen pregnancy, the law and, um, love? It’s all very 80s fabulous in a way the 80s never actually were except in Feroz Khan’s imagination and thus totally worth the price of admission:

… with Sridevi in chiffon

… with Dimple in Anil Kapoor’s body hair

… with Rekha in a bondage club

But the soundtrack that really left its mark is Qurbani:

… because there’s no one like Zeenat or Nazia

… because Vinod Khanna loves her like two hilariously porny fisherfolk

… because Amjad Khan is awesome and even FK knows not to mess with him

So here’s to Feroz Khan. I hope Heaven’s a top notch ranch that hosts amazing poolside parties.

PS – Has nobody written a review of Nagin? I’m disappointed in you, blogworld! Shame!

 

Lie To Me

You know the fabled warning bandied about by particularly gruesome horror movies that suggests you pass if you’ve got a heart condition? Lie To Me should come with a warning too – do not watch if you have a tendency to obsess.

Based on the work of a real life scientist much like Bones, its contemporary at Fox, Lie To Me is a series revolving around the life and work of Dr. Cal Lightman (the always excellent Tim Roth). Like Dr. Temperance Brennan, Lightman is a world famous scientist at the top of his game but unlike her, his problem with science isn’t that it has distanced him from emotion – rather, his long study of body language and, in particular, what he calls “microexpressions” and their significance has left him unnervingly attuned to the feelings of other people.

There’s no such thing as a poker face when he’s in the room and he can always tell when you’re lying – and teach you how to lie better, too, if it comes to that. As expected, this means he’s tremendously successful in his professional life and a big fat pain in his personal life.

Think of it as The Mentalist (fun trivia: Roth’s middle name is Simon) with science instead of fake psychic powers. Patrick Jane would count as a “natural” in the Lightman universe. Unfortunately, this means Lightman and his cohorts are thus at full liberty to explain exactly how they arrived at their conclusion.

You know how a magic trick is never magic once it’s been explained? Well, it turns out the magic trick here is liable to turn into a nervous tic if explained. If you’re easily sucked into a groove as I am, then you may well find yourself obsessively reading the body language of people all around you – look, that guy walking his dog shrugged one shoulder! What does it mean? That woman over there is rubbing the back of her neck! What does she have to hide?

It’s maddening. And also the show’s greatest strength. If it drives you crazy to automatically analyze the hidden motives of strangers after just watching a TV show, then you can imagine what a disaster Lightman’s personal life must be when he can’t simply take the word of his family and friends at face value.

If you’re able to work past that though (and the show seems to be progressively dialing it down as the episodes go on), then Lie To Me is pretty darn entertaining. Providing balance to Roth’s bulldozing Dr. Lightman, for example, is Dr. Jillain Foster (Kelli Williams) whose relationship with Lightman should pay rich dividends sometime in the future. Add Brendan Hines as the dishy young Lightman-in-training and Monica Raymund as a natural (people who have an innate ability to recognize the microexpressions on other people’s faces without the rigorous training folks like Lightman have to undergo) and it’s all set. A whole cast of characters who need to somehow make peace with the fact that they have an awful ability to detect hidden meaning in the faces of everybody they meet, taking part in a procedural that airs right before American Idol.

Plus, you get tons of pictures of famous people captured in the midst of an emotion they’d rather you didn’t see. Which: always fun! Take a shot when you see Bill Clinton lying his ass off.

[thanks to musicthis for the tip]

 

Do Parents Get Combat Pay?

My favorite memories of my parents are of Ma and Daddy lounging about, sipping drinks, reading newspapers, watching David Lean marathons, munching on snacks, laughing easily… generally having a good time and keeping an eye out for me, in case I was up to no good, which I frequently was.

Parenting seemed an okay sort of gig when I thought of them. I mean, I remember throwing up a fair bit for no reason at all and coming home with an infectious disease or two, which I suppose wasn’t too much fun for the two of them, but in the absence of pods from which human beings can spring fully grown, this rearing the fruit of your loins thing seemed pretty civilized. Didn’t appear to harm them any so I thought I might one day give it a shot myself.

No longer.

I look at parents of my generation and most of them don’t really appear to enjoy it all that much. They’re all too busy being shamed in public and drowning in guilt for doing whatever it is that they do to their kids.

• Are you giving your kids special classes? How dare you! Don’t you know you’re depriving them of their precious childhood?
• Are you not giving your kids special classes? How dare you! Don’t you know they’re essential if you want them to grow up into exceptional people?

• Are your kids on medication? How dare you! Don’t you know that’s just warped and harmful to their tiny bodies?
• Are your kids not on medication? How dare you! Don’t you know your kid’s life could be so much better if you just gave him a couple of pills?

• Are you a young mother? How dare you! Don’t you know older mothers breed smarter children? Are you happy now your kids are morons?
• Are you an older mother? How dare you! Kids aren’t fashion accessories you save up to buy so you can then show off! If you wanted kids then you should’ve had them when God and your ovaries wanted you to have them, not when you chose!

• Do you have a nanny or a housekeeper? How dare you! If all you wanted to do was palm your kids off on other people, then why did you have them?
• Don’t you have a nanny or a housekeeper? How dare you! Your superwoman complex is so off-putting! And your house is a mess!

• Do you spank your kids? How dare you! Do you want to scar them for life?
• Don’t you ever spank your kids? How dare you! Do you want them to grow up into undisciplined hooligans? You owe society something too, you know!

• Are you sending your kids to private school? How dare you! Do you want them to grow up into overprivileged snots?
• Are you sending your kids to public school? How dare you! Your kids shouldn’t be sacrificed on the altar of your social beliefs!

Hey, I have a question for you parents: how on earth do you get out of bed every morning?

[Also read: Martyr in the House via Wordjunkie]

 

Monopoly Panoply

I wouldn’t have pegged Monopoly as a product that needed to advertise, but what do I know? If lawyers and banks need to remind people they’re around and waiting to take their money, then perhaps a boardgame whose whole premise rests on their work ought to pipe up now and then.

And of course, they always tend to be pretty fantastic. There’s usually an in-joke in there somewhere. These two, for instance, are part of the German “own it all” campaign that pretty much nails the difference between life as it is lived on Baltic Avenue vs. Boardwalk.

The Spanish meanwhile have a rather enigmatic version of their own.

Although I personally prefer the darker, more cynical Chilean version of that “a real game” sentiment.

More at Ads of the World

 

When Love Goes Bad

Gross! So that's what the back of a facelift looks like!

When a movie is called Kambakkt Ishq (please to be noting the spellingz!) and the producers have shelled out mucho moolah on roping in Sylvester Stallone and Denise Richards (because, uh, the 80s are here again?) to provide support to Akshay Kumar and Kareena Kapoor, you know what’s coming -

Akshay gets a little excited when Kareena refuses to answer, "Boxers or briefs?"

That’s right. An all-access pass to Tripsville, coming your way this May 29.

Can you hear me now?

You think I run like this for Twinkle, baby?

And if Rocky, a former Bond girl, an International Khiladi and Babita’s Baby Bebo weren’t enough, you’ll also get the Lesser Arora:

I don't really want to wash this Nano but I'm sleepwalking right now and can't be held accountable for my actions.

[Pic source]

 

Save Me! (NSFW)

Dear Simon Cowell,

Stop making me want to watch Britain’s Got Talent! I gave you years on American Idol, I won’t make the same mistake twice no matter how many Youtube sensations come out of your show. I’m on to you!

XOXO.

***

Now that I’ve told him off, have you seen this video of Fabia Cerra? I’m always in awe of burlesque performers like Dita von Teese because I can only guess at the kind of self-confidence required to strip off and dance in front of crowds of people, but at least they look like what I imagine they should look like. The young Cerra in her home video, for example, fits the model to a T.

But to take that act on national TV with her present day body? Any woman you care to ask will tell you how she obsesses over various body parts – stretch marks on her inner arm that are invisible to everybody else but which appear the size of highway lanes when she looks at them; tiny moles on her neck that seem to grow out of her body like alien growths when she takes a look in the mirror first thing in the morning; hardly noticeable pimples that loom the size of mountains when she cautiously probes them with a gentle fingertip. We won’t expose our arms because they’re not shaped like Michelle Obama’s, our legs because they don’t match Marilyn Monroe’s, we’ll wear shapeless tops because our bustline doesn’t compare to Scarlett Johansson’s…

This may perhaps be the moment when I should froth at the mouth about the decay of modern society and public indecency or something, but frankly what Fabia Cerra did is one of the bravest things I’ve ever seen a woman do.

The only thing that really bothers me is that this is the second time in a row I’ve been in accord with the judges on a particular reality show. Apocalypse now, indeed.

[via DListed]

PS – I remembered the NSFW tag! Finally. Although frankly, anybody who peeps over your shoulder at work is going to need a few moments to adjust their eyes so they can understand what’s going on.

 

Springtime is for Teddy Bears

The first time someone you “like” gets you a cute and cuddly stuffed animal, it’s almost indescribably sweet. It’s that moment every Hallmark card has promised you. It wipes out the embarrassment of walking around the school with a half-ton of metal in your mouth and fiddling with rubber bands looped around your molars. You forget that your best friend has a prettier nose or your one eyebrow is slightly crooked or your Nazi mother won’t let you wax your legs until you’re eighteen.

It’s even better if you have to hide the itty bitty teddy bear from the stern gaze of your moralistic and disapproving parents. After the boy has ritualistically and oh-so-romantically slipped it to you during recess or the mandatory after-school tuition class, you delightedly show it off to all your closest and bestest friends before stuffing it deep inside your schoolbag to take it home. Once there, you act as normal as possible, trying not to scurry with the sheer excitement of it all – there’s a cute boy out there who thinks you’re so special, he just handed you the universal declaration of love: a stuffed animal! How can a body bear it?!

It could be a teddy bear, a bunny rabbit or even Tweety – it’s not the species that’s important although a teddy bear, preferably pink or brown, is always the best option unless she has expressly stated her intense desire for a misshapen little yellow bird or something. And you never want to buy her a pig or a frog, etc. unless you know for dead certain that that’s what she’d like. Anyway, whatever it is, it has to be something that you can safely smuggle into the house without arousing suspicion. And when it is eventually discovered (#1 Law of the Universe: Thy Parents Shall Discover All Things You Most Wish They Wouldn’t, ‘Tis Only a Matter of Time), secreted away in the far corner of your closet or nonchalantly hidden in plain sight with the rest of your dumb stuffed toys, the useless ones that your parents bought for you because, I don’t know, they think you’re a child or something, you can always say:

“Oh, that old thing? Yeah, So-and-so gave it to me for, er, Friendship Day. Of course I gave her something too! I gave her… a hug? What? She liked it. She said so.”

And that’s when you know you’re all grown up. Lying to your parents because some guy you thought was cute for two minutes in high school gave you a squeezable dustcatcher? Proof positive that you’re a woman now!

The second time you get a stuffed animal, unless you’re an avid collector of the things, the pleasure has dimmed a bit but it’s still a warm glow around your heart. Aww, you think. How cute.

This glow begins to dim noticeably on each future occasion, however. Slowly, at some point in your very early twenties (possibly sooner if you’re quick to see these things) you begin to notice that your room is now so full of dearly beloved keepsakes and mementos, you’re slowly being squeezed out of it. Your bookshelf has few books, but is bursting at the seams with the little knickknacks, often completely bizarre and with no co-relation to your life at all, given to you by all your friends and romantic interests. The secret corner of your closet where you used to hide your love letters and Valentine’s Day cards is now so full to overflowing with the foot-tall cards orgasming with roses and flowery poetry, there’s nothing “secret” about it whatsoever. All you need to do is open the door and voila! There’re your innermost secrets visible to all.

And the stuffed toys! There are so many of them in such a variety of sizes, that you’ve begun to give them away to the neighborhood children. You start crashing birthday parties of perfectly annoying little brats so you can get rid of a few of the critters cluttering up your room. You get fat on birthday cake and mothers start asking you when you plan on starting a family of your own since you love the kiddies so much.

Then one day your mother asks you what you want to do with your old bedroom since you no longer live there and might perhaps want to update it a bit for your visits back home. You don’t know what she’s talking about until you walk in there and suddenly realize that you’ve given away all the stuffed animals that populated your teens and your room is now a blank slate waiting for you to decide what you want to do with it. It’s been a while since anybody got you a bear or a bunny or Tweety or Mickey or anything or anybody stuffed at all.

And that’s when you realize springtime is over.

 

“What’s the Dream?”

I don’t watch a lot of British reality TV – okay, I don’t watch any British reality TV, I barely watch reality TV period – but I’d have to say this audition tape for Britain’s Got Talent made compelling television.

[Excuse me while I recover from typing that sentence.]

I guess one person’s crap really is another person’s golden opportunity.