I’m sure you’ve all heard of this thing called “the mother-daughter test”, right? The way it works is that you take a given set of circumstances and try to imagine someone dear to you in that scenario to check whether you’d be inclined to let it stand. It’s been applied to everything from MF Hussain’s paintings to IPL cheerleaders - as in, would you be okay with Hussain using your mother as a model or your daughter working as a cheerleader for an IPL match?

The general idea behind this little trick is to help you understand where the other person is coming from when they object to something, which is a goal I generally support. The way I look at it, a little bit of empathy is always a good idea. It’s fun to look at the other person and say, “Wow, you suck” but that doesn’t actually solve anything. And sometimes, a solution is called for because we’re all stuck on this one planet together and space is limited in a way people’s belief in the power of violence is not.

However, the more I think about the mother-daughter test, the more I’m bothered by it.

To be honest, it was a slender chance to begin with that I would have been in favor of something called a “mother-daughter” test because it strikes me as horribly proprietorial and feudalistic (I’m trying really hard not to rant about patriarchy here but the connections are kind of in-your-face). But leaving aside my issues with terminology, I’m not convinced this is a test that works in any meaningful way.

Take my mother, for instance, and the MF Hussain paintings. If Ma came up to me tomorrow and said she was going to model for the most controversial Hussain painting ever, would I be cool with it? Well, yes.

For one thing, it would be her choice and she is not merely my mother, she is an adult in her own right who’s been alive a lot longer than I have and if she wants to do something, then I have no right to impose my decisions on her. Secondly, if she made up her mind to do a certain thing and I had a problem with it, I could very well register my complaint (in a civil manner or she’d kick my ass) but I couldn’t force her to comply with my wishes because I simply don’t have that kind of power. Well, I suppose I could try emotional blackmail but as it turns out I love my mother and want her to have the same freedom that she has always sought to grant me - often in direct opposition to her own deeply held beliefs.

And that’s the point, right there – what do any of these fevered imaginings signify when I know for damn sure that my mother is a deeply conservative South Indian lady who’d sooner take to jumping out of airplanes with faulty parachutes than let go of her Kancheepuram pallu?

To make the case clearer, say you ask me what my reaction would be if my mother suddenly stood up tomorrow and said she was off to marry her lesbian girlfriend. Would I be happy that my parents’ 35+ year marriage was thus coming to an end? No. But would I rather my mom was happy with someone she loved and my dad had a chance to find someone who didn’t think of him as an unwanted obligation? Yes.

And I can say this knowing full well that my parents can’t stand living apart no matter how much they may fight and roll their eyes at each other when they’re together. (Also, I don’t think my mother knows what a lesbian is. She keeps asking me why Ellen DeGeneres doesn’t dress prettier – draw your own conclusions. )

Do you see what I mean? I could build all the theoretical castles in the air I wanted and probably live a rich emotional life off it, but none of it would matter a rat’s ass unless there was a chance that I would actually be faced with that situation in real life. So all the mother-daughter test did was cement my previously held convictions. In my case they’re what you would call liberal but it could work the other way around too. Sure, I can see why other people wouldn’t want to see their moms au naturel in an art gallery but I could have appreciated that point without picturing my mother in that situation and forcing my mores and choices on to her.

Which leads me to my second issue with this test: you could apply this to pretty much anything and come up with a result of some kind that amounts to absolutely nothing in real world terms.

Take my father, for instance. And let’s take someone admirable – like John F. Kennedy. And let us suppose that I have it in my power to decide whether or not I would like to see my father as John F. Kennedy. The answer? A resounding no.

I don’t care how handsome he would have been or what lovely speeches he’d have made or how much of an icon he’d have been. And it’s not like I have anything against JFK – I even had a Camelot fascination for a couple of months in my teens. But this is my dad we’re talking about and I don’t want a dad who’d publicly, legendarily, cheat on my mom with multiple women before getting assassinated in my childhood.

Yes, my focus is that narrow – because I’m not thinking of what my father would like or whether the world would benefit, any more than any of the people who’re conducting the mother-daughter test are considering what their mothers or daughters would like themselves: I’m simply thinking of what I would like. And I would like a dad just like the one I grew up with, who might not have made it into the history books but was around to read me comics when I was a toddler, talk when I was a teen and be a good husband to my mom.

If you want to empathize, why can’t you do it on your own time and in your own skin - why drag other people into it?

Who’s sorry now for sneering at all those arty people? Takashi Murakami says throw the ‘tude when someone offers to give you $15.1 million for fake ejaculate, buddy!

And to think he earned it by “express[ing] hopelessness” while thinking “art is unnecessary”. Maybe he’ll spend a little of that money on his website? For man does not live by Google Ads alone, Takashi.

The big seller of the night however was Francis Bacon’s Triptych 1976, pictured below. It sold for $86.3 million.

All of which reminds me - damn, I’m poor.

Are you running low on some outrage? Lack things to cogitate upon over your Cobb salad? Coz if you are, do I have some some stuff to rev you up and make you all happy! Today’s selection includes:

Angelina Jolie: She dresses her kids in black. Oh noes! She must hate them! What kind of a bad parent does that? It’s summer, don’t let the babies wear black! Not even if they have their hearts set on it. Or else they’ll grow up into vampires or something. Not that Angelina cares as is evident from little Zahara’s unbraided hair. Everyone knows little black girls shouldn’t go natural.

Aamir Khan: has a dog named Shah Rukh. He blogs about said puppy licking his feet, begging for food and smelling a bit. it’s WAR in Bollywood people!

Miley Cyrus: Yet another Disney teen who acts like an actual teen and displays rather questionable judgment although nobody’s mentioned a sex tape yet. Like posing “topless” for Annie Leibovitz - but only because Leibovitz is basically Medusa with a camera who’d totally turn you into stone if you refused to obey her scandalous directions and expose your 15-year-old back for the doubtful edification of the readers of Vanity Fair a.k.a. Magazine Whose Readers Have No Idea Who The Fuck Miley Cyrus Is. Or so says Camp Cyrus and Disney.

Beverly Hills 90210: A spinoff has been announced! More like Battle of the 80s Has Beens. Sorry, but I’m way too young to be excited about this and any show that has the doubtful taste to hire Tori Spelling is automatically doomed from the start. I don’t know what to do with the information that Rob Thomas is involved in this, though. Really? You wiped Veronica Mars from your mind to make this? Hmm. I hear Moonlight got canceled. if you hire Jason Dohring I might actually care about this show. How’s that for incentive?

Sex and the City the Movie: Okay, I’m mildly curious about this. But not if I have to also care about Sarah Jessica Parker as a style icon. Sorry, no can do. For Pete’s sake, the woman walks about with an oversized leprechaun’s hat on her head! Or whatever that thing is on top of her head in the picture to the right. But what do I know? Apparently this is what high couture means. But I do know a thing or two about the movies and how they’re promoted and anybody willing to do that for a movie must know it sucks gnats’ knees.

American Idol: Yeah, I really care about a David Archuleta - David Cook - Syesha Mercado top three finale. Pfft. Just put crazy Paula “I don’t abuse any substance other than Simon Cowell and Coca Cola” Abdul on a loop, Fox - it’ll probably get you better ratings.

Amitabh Bachchan: Tiresome icon who won’t go away. Started a blog (yay!) and now spends all his time posting his interviews (boo!) and taking potshots at people (nice!). Oh well, man’s got to have a hobby. And his style is such that if I were a crazed Amitabh stalker type person, I could just imagine him writing me letters and posting in newspaper clippings. No wonder his fans love it. I just wish the media wouldn’t make such a big hoo ha about his posts - if I wanted to know what he was scribbling, I could just go to his blog, you know.

Sue Simmons - Inadvertently said “fuck” on air to annoying co-host. Well, let’s just tar and feather that awful person!

Ma (hushed voice): Auntie P just called. Her mother fell and broke her arm.

Me: Oh no! That’s awful. Poor little Grandma. Did she slip in the bathroom or something?

Ma: Well, Auntie says she and Grandma were standing by the balcony door and talking when a sudden gust of wind swept her out and dumped her on the floor.

Me (short pause): Ha ha ha ha hee hee hee hoo hoo!

Ma: Shut up. Idiot child.

I know. I’m headed for hell, right? Well, I was going there anyway. Might as well take the scenic route. Look, even I know that it’s not nice to laugh at tiny little old ladies who break their brittle bones. But if you knew my mom and Auntie P and could imagine them discussing this over the phone or even Auntie P’s reaction to seeing her mother get blown off her feet…!

I mean, when was the last time you actually heard of someone getting not just knocked down but swept out of the apartment by a random gust of wind? Come on! Who does that?

The problem with my family is that first they gave me a warped sense of humor and then they keep outdoing each other in trying to tickle it. And my straight face sucks. I’ve pretty much given up on visiting people at the hospital, for example, coz when someone from my family checks into the hospital, it’s a sure bet that they’re gonna do something hilarious like beg the doctor not to lance the enormous boil on their leg coz they were convinced they were going to die if it burst.

But, as I asked Ma, would it matter if I laughed at the unfortunate antics of people on the inside when God would know anyway? Coz it’s not like I went to the hospital and laughed and pointed at poor old Grandma on her bed. I like Grandma. She’s little and sweet and used to feed me all kinds of things that were very tasty and bad for me when I was a kid. You think I want to laugh at her?

Sigh. It’s not fair. Why can’t the wind sweep people I don’t like out the door? It would make life so much simpler.

Do you wish you could just lie in bed all day without your mom / alarm clock / spouse / kids yelling at you to get your fat ass out and about? If yes, answer me this: do you believe things like laziness, lack of skills, poor educational qualifications, etc are holding you back from applying for a position at NASA? You know, those space program people?

Well, guess what? NASA wants you! Their treat. They have a bed set up for you in Houston and everything. In fact, they’ll even pay you for it - $17, 000 if you’ll hang with them for 90 days.

And no, there’s nothing truly nasty involved. They won’t strap you into an unmanned space shuttle and put you into orbit or anything. Although, I think that would be more awesome than nasty - unless it blows up, in which case, oooh.

No, all you have to do is lie in bed. Like, all the time. You can watch all the TV you want and they’ll give you a computer with internet access and wheel you out to play cards with the other bed testers - but you can’t get out of bed. They’ll monitor you to make sure. I don’t know about bathroom breaks but they will feed you regular food.

To qualify, you have to be drug and disease free, not be a criminal, be a US citizen or permanent resident and have something to live for (which would take about three months to accomplish). Oh, and you have to have good bone density because… er, lying in bed kind of destroys your bones.

Heh heh. Oops. No pain, no gain, right? Oh, don’t be such a big baby - it’s only 6% or less. It’s not like your bones have a better offer.

Have you ever seen this person before? Well, get used to him because according to the Times Online, this is the Great Khali and he’s very famous in India. For what? You see, he’s the reason why Indians (who “take [their] sport very seriously” the article informs us) “have become hooked on the melodrama and gladiatorial antics of American pro-wrestling”.

Really? Well, i guess my childhood must have been one long clairvoyant nightmare then, with all the kids going crazy about giant, bulked up men bouncing off ropes in their underwear to land on other sweaty men. Ew. I’m all for hot men on men action, but the men have to be “hot” in something more than the literal sense, you know?

They even had trading cards full of useless trivia like the height and weight and bicep size of people like… er… um… was the The Rock a pro-wrestler or a footballer? Wrestler, right? He had that strange cooking phrase he liked to use and he’d also raise his eyebrow? I remember a friend of mine annoying me with that shit way past its funniness expiration date and into college.

Although, I think my problems with those cards are to do with my dislike of trading cards in general. I mean, they’re so incredibly lame. I remember trying to get into it as a child and reading out the stats to see if I could “beat” the other person with my cunning knowledge of the person whose card I held - and as young as I was, I knew this was a bullshit scam dreamed up by some genius who wanted more of my parents’ money. The only good thing about trading cards is that there are enough rich morons out there to make the rare ones incredibly valuable. You can buy me some of those if you like.

But that’s not the point. Even Khali and his bogus job isn’t what grabs my attention. No, what I really love is this article in the Times. Consider, for example:

Khali is a monster of a man: 7ft3in (2.2m) and 30st (190kg), he is the first Indian to be signed up by World Wrestling Entertainment. “This enormous monster has walked the jungles of India, unafraid of pythons, and wrestled white Bengal tigers,” says the WWE website, possibly giving in to hyperbole. Now, eight years after his debut, Khali has had a spell as world number one and has returned to India for a holiday, and to shoot a documentary about his remarkable life. Thousands have turned out to greet him, and the President has told him that he is the pride of the nation.

BWAHAHAA!!!

I love the fact that it’s totally acceptable for the WWE to describe this guy as a jungle monster and get a Rupert Murdoch publication to excuse it because that’s what fake fighting is all about. I also love the fact that the crowd that watches the WWE in the United States is now even more confused about India: a technology behemoth that’s stealing jobs via computers located in dense forests where tigers roam and snakes hiss? Whoa!

More, I find it hilarious that you can go on “leave” from the Punjab police for over ten years, take up residence in another country, sign on to another job and still draw a salary from the Punjab government. Also entertaining is the idea that by turning the K to a Kh, he’s suddenly made the very feminine Kali (as in the Goddess) into a male.

And I think it’s perfect that our President, who is a little old lady who trundles around with the saree wrapped around her like a de facto burqa, thinks a guy who fake-wrestles in his underwear is the “pride of the nation”.

I am, however, sad that the Undertaker (a name I recognize from my childhood) is still fighting and getting trounced by newbies like Khali. That’s no way to spend your golden years. We need to start a retirement fund.

I’m sure somebody out there will soon turn my tears into joy though, when they proudly name their newborn infant Giant Singh in honor of the Great Khali. You know you want to! Don’t lie. You wish your kid could grow up like that hunk of manmeat!

But seriously, no trashing the guy himself - I can’t imagine going from a Himachali kid with little education whose big career option was to move cattle around for his neighbors, to getting written up in the international press as a star. That speaks more of cojones than all the giant talk.

For some reason we were all at the apartment that night. We’d turned the lights off but the sky outside was stained that peculiar late night Manhattan lavender and it provided enough illumination for us not to go bumping into things. Not that anybody was going anywhere. The TV was on, basic cable, but none of us were really paying attention. The Daily Show had just ended and Conan wouldn’t be on for some time yet so L. began to lazily flip through channels as we talked because none of us were particularly fond of either Leno or Letterman.

“What’s this?” she asked as the conversation lulled.

On the screen was a very old Grandma-type lady earnestly talking about something. It was on mute and nobody cared enough to ask for the sound to be switched on. She looked like the kind of lady who comes on TV to talk about the sad state of the young people today and give testimonials about how Christ is her Savior.

“Dude, is that… a dildo?” asked M.

It was. A giant one. Say hello to Sue Johanson.

The beauty of Talk Sex with Sue Johanson was that it had a little something for everyone. It was entertaining, informative, upfront and completely weird. People who caught an episode for the first time (especially men) were often left shellshocked - it’s one thing to know that people Sue’s age have a sexual life, but altogether a different matter when they check out and rate sex toys and go for a whirl in one of those Chinese swing chair thingies.

What Chinese swing chair thingy? Well, I’m sure there’s an official name for it, but it’s sort like a harness that you suspend off the ceiling and it “allows your partner to position your body” to paraphrase Sue, who allowed herself to be strapped into it (with her clothes on, you perverts!) to better demonstrate its virtues. The best part of that episode was the face of the guy who was selling the thing. Although I’m sure some would say it was the contraption itself.

But that was the point: even if you weren’t planning on having anal sex (which she recommended liberally for everyone as something that would spice up the old sex life as long as you took certain precautions as demonstrated by her) or trying out one of the smaller vibrators in the market (to better stimulate your partner’s prostate which would increase his pleasure, she said) you could still have a great time watching her show.

That first night, it took us a long time to get our collective jaws off the ground. But we agreed that the Sex Grandma, as we called her, was a must-watch. It was definitely a show for adults but she was informed, smart, funny, non-judgmental and without an ounce of coyness. There wasn’t a subject that was taboo or a medical condition she couldn’t talk about. And she wasn’t afraid to tell her callers to visit their doctor or local clinic either.

Couples, teens, and people of every sexuality would call in and be briskly handed some no-nonsense advice of the kind you wish your parents would give you but would probably never ask for in a million years. If you wanted to know what people across the United States and Canada were doing in their bedrooms, all you needed to do was watch her show.

But no longer.

After 32 years of television, six of them spent on Oxygen, the Sex Grandma’s packing up her Pleasure Chest. This Sunday she’ll host her last episode… which will focus on the year’s top ten sex toys.

TV is never going to be the same again.

[Via Dlisted]

Every friendship has these moments when you do or say something that’s just unforgivable. We tend to remember the times that we’ve been sinned against rather than the times that we have sinned but we all have that ghastly moment in our past when we’ve let somebody down or simply pissed somebody off with our stupidity.

That time we didn’t stand up for our friend even if we knew that was the right thing to do; that bit of gossip we repeated even though we knew it would hurt or, worse still, that bit of gossip we didn’t repeat even though we knew it would hurt all the more when it all finally came out; that time we got drunk at a party and created a scene; the date we didn’t keep because we found something better to do that day; the phone call we meant to place but never did even though we knew our friend really needed somebody to talk to; or maybe just passed a personal comment that we thought was really funny or true but all it did was hurt the feelings of the person we love.

We’ve been there. Usually by mistake or sheer thoughtlessness.

But how many of us have said our cancer-stricken best friend was possessed of the devil? How many of us wrote a fucking essay about it and had it published? At the New Oxford Review? (Want to read it? Pay $1.50! Or just go here and skip halfway down the page.)

Well, so far, I know of exactly one person who’s done anything of the sort: pioneering Indian American governor of Louisiana and possible Veep candidate Piyush Bobby Jindal.

After reading Bobby’s close encounter of the otherworldly kind, I thought I’d draw up a short list of things to learn about the art of friendship and just life in general from the Experiences of Bobby:

Tumors: They make people behave strangely. Especially when it’s located in the brain.

Cancer: It makes people sad, which sometimes makes them cry. It’s the whole “looking your mortality in the face” thing.

Brown University: Needs to send you a refund for that honors degree in Biology.

Sexual tension: When a girl finds you attractive, especially when she’s known you for some time and you describe her as your “best friend”, it is possible that she just wants to make out with you without wanting to consume your soul. Take a deep breath and relax - let this new idea sink slowly into your consciousness.

Best friends: Spend time together especially when one has a life threatening disease. If you’ve succumbed to peer pressure and don’t hang out all that often for a year in spite of knowing she has cancer, it probably means you are not her best friend.

A cappella: A fun way to spend the evening unless you’re super depressed about something. Like your impending death.

Nicknames: If you chose your own nickname and further compounded matters by adopting it from The Brady Bunch, try not to admit it. Lie instead. God will understand.

Pagans: If you think your friend’s demonic possession was facilitated by her roommate’s mother paying obeisance to a pagan altar, then it’s only fair you blame yourself too because of your pagan Hindu family which is probably burning incense on your behalf as we speak.

McKinsey: Hey, you wanna play that game where we see how many people we know in common who worked there? it could be our desi bonding experience!

Fairy Tales: Appropriate for children. Adults somehow tend to pay more attention to things like snuggling on the bed.

Tardiness: is forgivable. Or I wouldn’t have any friends left. Also forgivable? Flaking on somebody as long they eventually come up with some explanation. Or I wouldn’t be a friend to half the people I’m friends with. These things are doubly true when a friend is sick because of a thing called:

Cutting some slack: It’s the Christian thing to do.

God: Works in mysterious ways. Will not answer prayers on demand. Shocking, I know.

911: Is more than a random series of numbers or a handy abbreviation for a tragedy (that was yet to occur at the time of this essay). Dialing that number will bring you things like an ambulance - a thing you want around you when your cancer-stricken best friend goes into convulsions on the floor and acts “strange”.

Hail Mary: I like it too! And I didn’t even attend convent school.

The internet: Has no secrets.

… and you should too.

Not all the commies, of course. That’s like saying you should love all the Hindu right wing nutjobs in the world rather than just a selected few like Balasaheb Thackeray who are completely geniustastic at coming up with nifty ideas like digging up the cricket pitch in a city where they have nothing to lose on the eve of an international match to give vent to their patriotism. You know, it’s been years but I still think about that stunt sometimes. Simple, cheap, effective and sannu ki!That’s some good shit right there.

But what’s there to love in, say, Praveen Togadia? Does he dig up cricket pitches? Can he draw bad cartoons? Own a throne? Does he appear on national TV in his pajamas, drink in hand? Pffft! Talk about boring.

Similarly, communists in places where they have actual power - what’s to love? They send you to gulags, take away your money, shatter your family, build nuclear weapons, and such. Have you seen Ninotchka? Anybody that happy to buy a pair of silk stockings did not just get off the boat from Utopia. The best they can hope for is a bit part in a James Bond movie. Where they’ll be totally upstaged by some hot girl in a bikini. Really, what’s the point?

But the Indian communist is a commie to love.

The dress - Okay, so all the men look George Fernandes (who I think is actually a socialist but runs around with a whole bunch of communists from what I remember and anyway dresses like them so according to my calculations he counts and since this is my blog and I’m doing the writing, I get to decide) although the younger set seem to be tapping Fab India (which I love, by the way, in case you ever want to buy me gifts).

But the women! I don’t know where they get those handloom sarees but they’re absolutely to die for. Not that I would ever wear them because all cotton sarees have an unfortunate tendency to exaggerate my bottom and if I can resist peer pressure and stay off the weed for fear of what the munchies were going to do to significant bits of my person, I think I can stay off the cotton saree.

Erm… TMI? Just sayin’ - commie style has its drawbacks too. Even if Brinda Karat makes me wish my forehead too resembled a football field so I could wear a giant bindi like that.

The talk - Have you heard them? They’re absolutely miraculous. It’s like half of them are stuck in the 1950s and are fully engaged in the Cold War while the rest never graduated from freshman year of college. Take any five communist politicians you know (or however many you know although this only really works if you know more than one) and imagine them in the most annoying Anthropology / History / Politics / Philosophy class you ever took. Don’t they fit right in?

I guess I should also mention that this only works if you went to a liberal arts college. Otherwise, just take my word for it.

The downside, however, is when they get over it. Not all of them do but some come out on the other side and there is nothing sadder than an ex-Communist. I’ve met a few and they pretty much broke my heart. They seem so defeated and cynical like life has just been one long disappointment and their kids grew up to be cannibals. I’m talking of the older ones, of course, not the super-annoying Communist-for-this-semester kids from college.

The power - They have none. That’s something to love right there. But what happens when they do have power? Well, some pretty fantastic stuff like this thing called “nokku kooli” in Kerala:

Worker’s unions have crossed all limits by making it a practice to demand money for work they are not doing. They call it ‘nokku kooli’, or wages for (just) looking on… The government eventually saw the ludicrous aspect of it—state industry minister Elamaram Kareem, himself a trade unionist, intervened and stopped it. There is no guarantee, though, that it won’t be revived.

You know what made that paragraph for me? The use of the word “eventually”. Love it!

Actually, I would like to start an International Nokku Kooli Movement. It would allow those of us with a lot of curiosity and not enough skill to observe the jobs that interest us and turn it into a full time career. Like auditing a class, except in real life and you’d get paid for it. Dream job, totally.

The sentiment - Religious people pretty much have the rest of the world beat when it comes to taking offense except in one specific scenario: when America says something. No, wait - didn’t the jihadis win that round? Well, okay but the commies come in a respectable second! Take for instance this latest “controversy” surrounding President Bush’s remarks about the global food crisis. Here’s what he said:

So, for example, just as an interesting thought for you, there are 350 million people in India who are classified as middle class. That’s bigger than America. Their middle class is larger than our entire population…And when you start getting wealth, you start demanding better nutrition and better food. And so demand is high, and that causes the price to go up.

When deconstructed from Bush-lingo, you realize that he’s actually talking about a rather complex problem centered around food politics within the United States. And if you dug deep enough you’d know he (or perhaps somebody in his administration) understands that this is connected to the power crisis and America’s attempt to turn to biofuel. Taken at face value, however, you’d think he was asking China and India to eat less and starve more. But why would you take Bush’s words at face value after seven years of hearing him speak?

Unless you’re an Indian politician and a communist in particular. In which case, Christmas came early. As long as somebody cares.

The by-products - They make interesting movies. If you’re not watching Bengali and Malayalee movies, especially of the vintage Communist era from the 50s to the 70s, you’re missing out.

… about hot men, let us discuss Daniel Craig (the current Mr. Bond) and Kevin McKidd (the promising but canceled Journeyman) today. With a little Patrick Dempsey thrown in for good measure.

Hey, it’s Friday! We can do things like this. I could even show you a picture of little Mr. Craig. But it’s not “art” (some might beg to differ) so wait till you get home before you click that link coz its most definitely NSFW. Or forward it to your boss if you s/he would appreciate it. Whatever works for you.

So am I the only person in the world who thinks Craig and McKidd (below) look like long lost brothers? Sure, Craig is an Englishman and McKidd is Scots but I think it’s time somebody asked whether an earthquake or a flood hit their village when they were little. Or if they went to a fair when they were young. Perhaps check for matching tattoos or bits of broken jewelry waiting to be made whole again - just to make sure. I mean, what if their mother is waiting for McKidd (the younger by about five years) to sing to her so she can regain her sight?

Even their careers are remarkably alike: Craig may have done more high profile and interesting gigs but give McKidd some time and as long as he doesn’t get typecast as the poor man’s Daniel Craig, I think he’ll do just fine. Between them they’ve acted in Trainspotting, Rome, The Kingdom of Heaven (I know! Completely and utterly historically inaccurate but fun! And I say that even though I had to watch Orlando Bloom in it), Lara Croft: Tomb Raider (oh, like I didn’t see you there, avidly munching your popcorn. Stop putting on airs), Sylvia, Layer Cake ( which you should see if you haven’t already), Munich, The Jacket, and, of course, the Bond franchise.

And in 2009, McKidd is scheduled to play Thor while Craig will appear as Lucifer in I, Lucifer.

Coincydink? Well, yes. It appears so. I’m sorry if you thought I had a point here other than to wallow in the total hotness of these two.

But hey, you can see McKidd this weekend at the movies - he’s costarring in a blatant rip off of My Best Friend’s Wedding called Made of Honor with Michelle Monaghan (who looks like a better fed Ellen Pompeo in a brunette wig) and Patrick Dempsey. It looks like its going to be really terrible so I bet it’s going to be really good. You know, one of those movies. Yes, I’m going to see it. Eventually, anyway. And yes, I can guess the ending and I strongly suspect it’s not the one that Julia Roberts got because something has to be different so the actors can lie and say, “Oh no, this is very hatke“. Vive le difference!