Saturday, September 30, 2006

Not Getting Sexyback


The first time I heard this track, I had no clue who was singing. There’s something familiar, I thought, but damned if I know what that is. Halfway through the second time I heard it, something clicked. That… that’s not Justin Timberlake, is it? Since when has he sounded like a girl?

I like the song. It gets under your skin, drags you out of your chair and has you shimmying and dancing on the spot. Here’s the question, though: why is it that Paris Hilton’s first album is universally condemned as being over-produced, when her braying gets modulated down to singing – while here, Timberlake’s admittedly higher register gets bumped into a whole different sex, and no one says anything?


Ben Rayner on Paris Hilton in the Toronto Star, Aug 27th 2006: "Of course Paris sounds decent. The girl has more money than all of our gods combined and about equal "pull," at least in those rarefied celebrity circles where "pull" is considered next to godliness.

If the first 15 runs at the thing had turned out something that gave listeners brain aneurysms and wiped out migratory bird flocks, the cash would have kept flowing until the evil was sufficiently contained for mass distribution at Wal-Mart. The music industry needs customers; it's not gonna kill them outright."


Timberlake, on the other hand, made the cover of Rolling Stone in September.

Huh? I'm so confused.

PS - The fact that I’m - in a sense - defending Paris Hilton actually makes me dislike the song more than I would've under normal circumstances.


Tuesday, September 26, 2006

From halfway down that slippery slope


I think I might be developing an addiction to classical music.


Stop laughing! It’s not funny, damnit! Okay, fine – maybe just a little.


Let me be more specific – I think I’m growing just a bit too fond of live classical music. See, the TSO has this program called TSoundCheck through which those classical fans between the ages of 18 and 29 can get cheap tickets to certain TSO programs. I don’t think it’s too often that a venerable institution like the TSO shares a selling strategy with your average drug dealer – but it’s the same principle, pretty much: first given them a taste for cheap ($12 a pop!), then – once they’re hooked – jack up the prices (anywhere from $35-$140!) and they’ll pay through the nose to get their nose ear candy.


And what can I say? I’ve always wanted to pretend to be an aesthete.


Thursday, they did Beethoven’s 2nd and 6th symphony, along with Mahler’s Rückert Lieder; and oh, how I loved it. It’s especially odd, as I have something of a tin ear for classical music: especially on CD, it all starts to meld into an aural blob of crazed violin bowing to me. Live, though, it comes alive, with people playing in unison, in opposition to synthesize sounds that you can almost feel on your skin. I had no idea music could actually be tactile before; the first time, I couldn’t stop smiling goofily because I had no idea music could feel like that.


I console myself with the thought that there are worse things to be addicted to.


It helps too that the performances aren’t note-perfect. On Thursday, Marie-Nicole Lemieux’s vocals on the Lieder were overshadowed by a too-exuberant orchestra, and perhaps the less sophisticated among us would be better able to appreciate Ruckert’s poetry if the text and a translation were provided with the programme, as was done for the Mozart@250 festival. Nevertheless, if you’re in the GTA area, and you’re between 18 and 29, TSoundCheck is very well worth a try.


Great. Now I’m a pusher.

Sunday, September 24, 2006

Vent(i) for me, thanks


Edmund Blackadder: This is turning into a really rotten evening.


Amy Hardwood: Yes, well you better make the most of it, because it's your
last.And it's a pity, because it's usually against my principles to shoot dumb
animals.


Blackadder: Except squirrels?


Amy: Yes! Bastards! I hate them with their long tails and their stupid
twitchy noses.

From Blackadder the Third, episode 5, “Amy and Amiability”


(Personally, I find squirrels adorable, but there's no accounting for tastes. )


We all – yes, even you in the back with the fedora and handlebar moustache – have things we can't stand. Things that annoy us, enrage us, – and why? Childhood accidents? Deeply-seated neuroses? Does it matter? I have a whole list.


I can't stand mushrooms. Oh, no, mushrooms in food are lovely – and the sight of mushrooms in grocery stores does not raise my blood pressure. However, when I see mushrooms growing in situ in my backyard, that I cannot bear. Consider if you will, a green lawn, with roses on the side; and then consider the lawn with little mushroom pop-pop-popping all over it. It's like acne, and what has my poor backyard done to deserve acne? It doesn't subsist on a diet of junk food, it gets enough water, and then it gets attacked by these... fungi? The first time it happened, I seethed, I simmered, I fumed – and then I went out and kicked the mushrooms all over the place. Of course, that made it worse, but I did feel a whole lot better (for a while.)


I'm picky about spelling. Not in general – I've corrected essays filled with typos, and felt nothing more than a mild sense of pity for the poor benighted soul who thought Austen was spelt Osten – but there are a few words I cannot bear to see misspelt. For example, when people misspell the English proper name Michael as Micheal, I see red. I mean, c'mon, “Micheal?” It LOOKS wrong, for crying out loud! As an aside – I'm a visual speller. My spelling depends on the word looking right to me. I usually have to write out words like caribbean out a few times before I get it right – carribbean? carribean? caribean? - which means I'd probably suck at things like spelling bees, which depend on having to sound out words. Anyway, “Micheal” just looks wrong, to me. I'd be really interested to know if anyone else gets this, or even spells visually. Let me also just point out that the Irish and Scottish variants of Michael are Mícheál and Mìcheal respectively, according to wwww.behindthename.com, which don't bug me, because, hello, different languages. But when someone mispells an obviously english name, as in, “I used to be a Micheal Jackson fan” - that bugs me. Also annoying is the spelling “Conner” for Connor - though I think this might be simply because C-O-N-N-O-R has a beatiful symmetry that's lost in C-O-N-N-E-R.


The name whose misspelling most annoys me, however, is my own. If we'd kept all the Christmas cards we've received over the years, here are some of the variants you'd see: Sharin, Sharen, Sherin, Sheren, Sheron, Sherrin – I'd go on, but this red haze is beginning to make typing problematic. Spelling errors are understandable when it's a card from an acquaintance of your father's who's maybe heard your name from a mutual friend, and as such is guessing at the spelling. But still, Sharon's a fairly popular name, and you'd figure people would know how it's spelt, right? Wrong. I once had a classmate say, “ You don't pronounce it Sharown, right? More like Sharen? So why not spell it that way?” Because that's the wrong spelling, idiot! If you can learn to pronounce “knight” as 'night' and not 'k-niggit', you can do me the courtesy of pronouncing my name correctly too!


People like Varsha Bhosle, who think that Indianness is the same as Hinduness have my undying contempt. Of course, Hinduism is a huge part of Indian culture – that's undeniable. But why deny the Indianness of religious minorities? Imagine being introduced to someone only to have them say, “Sharon? That's not an Indian name is it?” Well, if you mean to conflate Indianness with Hinduness, then no, it's not Indian. But given that there have been Christians, including my own lot, in India for nearly 2000 years, I don't think the whole “You're not Indian” argument holds much water.


*deep breath* Ah, much better. No more repressing for me – venting is good for the soul.

Saturday, September 23, 2006

Geekness Confirmed! Woo!




Pure Geek

43 % Nerd, 52% Geek, 47% Dork
For The Record:

A Nerd is someone who is passionate about learning/being smart/academia.

A Geek is someone who is passionate about some particular area or subject, often an obscure or difficult one.

A Dork is someone who has difficulty with common social expectations/interactions.


You scored better than half in Geek, earning you the title of: Pure Geek.

It's not that you're a school junkie, like the nerd, and you don't really stand out in a crowd, like the dork, you just have some interests that aren't quite mainstream. Perhaps it's anime, perhaps it's computers, perhaps it's bottlecaps, perhaps it's all of those and more. Your interests take you to events and gatherings that are filled with people you find unusual and beyond-the-pale, but you don't quite consider yourself "of that crowd." Instead, you consider yourself to be fairly normal.

Which, you are.






My test tracked 3 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender:
free online datingfree online dating
You scored higher than 99% on nerdiness
free online datingfree online dating
You scored higher than 99% on geekosity
free online datingfree online dating
You scored higher than 99% on dork points



Link: The Nerd? Geek? or Dork? Test written by donathos on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the The Dating Persona Test

Insane, y'know, in that camera-friendly way


I don't know what this means, or even if it's meant to mean anything, but damn if it didn't crack me up -



Monday, September 18, 2006

PSA: Followup

Now Playing: Chantal Kreviazuk – All I can do (is love you to pieces)


As an addendum to my previous post, I'd like to note that the concept of the Nice Indian Boy/Girl (hitherto to be referred to as NIB/G) is one that could only really take root in a diaspora setting. If you live in India, you're surrounded by 1 billion other Indians, so what's the point of describing the apple of your eye as a NIB/G? A Nice Indian Boy or Girl as opposed to what? The other 1 billion Indians in the country? In India, I'd think the NIB/G would be much more regionalized – a Nice Malayalee Boy/Girl, for example – because people there are more part of their own regional communities than the national one. Whereas with Indian people living abroad, the numbers of these regional communities are small enough that now they identify more with the national identity than the regional one. At this level, the Nice Malayalee Boy/Girl has no meaning, so the term's replaced by the NIB/G that we've all heard way too much about. Of course, with increased immigration, certain communities grow big enough that the national affiliation is dispensed with, to be replaced with regional ones again.


In commenting to that post, both Cale and Salil made points that I think merit discussion, so here we are.


From Cale:


“Nice Indian Boy though - hmm well, truly, properly, there're none of course, but the intensely fucked-up ones aren't so much in the country as tens of thousands of miles out of it. They're either born there and face "identity issues" or are immigrants that're disillusioned by the evils and loose morals of the filthy putrid icky West.


But here, they're either all dangerous-like a la Delhi Jats ... ”


Here I'd have to disagree. I'd I don't believe there's any difference in the level of fucked-up-ness between Indians at home or abroad. To me, a Manu Sharma is just as frightening as a Kimveer Gill, because the level of entitlement that makes you feel you can shoot a waitress for not giving you a drink and then get away with it borders on the psychotic. Different things mess you up – overindulgent parents, chemical imbalances – but the end result is equally scary.


Now Salil:


But it's not just Indians - plenty of others people immediately exempt their own kind from so many common issues. Indians, Aussies, Poms, etc - we're all human; ergo, fucked up in some way or another.

[As for Kimveer Gill, that incident asks the same question about another false stereotype. Remember how Moore's Bowling for Columbine started giving people the impression that Canada was some sort of lovely, gun-free utopia while madmen roamed the USA with .45s? Seems like quite a few people bought into that. *So* many people were shocked by the Montreal shootings. "In Canada? But isn't it so quiet and gun-free there?"]


I'm not sure I agree with the idea that all groups exempt themselves from common issues, because it seems to me that the development of the Nice Italian Boy (cf Mambo Italiano) or the Nice Greek Girl (cf My Big Fat Greek Wedding) or any other Nice Young Thing is the product of being part of a minority group in a larger community - and that it's only the Nice Young Minority Person who is somehow considered, by members of his/her own community, to be above the vices or peccadilloes or issues of the society outside. (Holy Run On Sentences, Batman!)

And yes, Canada is not some crime-free Utopia - last summer was actually dubbed the Summer of the Gun by the Canadian press because of the sudden increase in gun-related crime. Mind you, apart from a few neighbourhoods I'd consider Toronto completely safe - but I think we Torontonians have had to give up our illusions of living in a pristine gun-less environment. I guess it needed something as violent and jarring as the Dawson College Shooting for the stereotype to finally shatter south of the border as well.

More feedback is totally welcome.

Friday, September 15, 2006

PSA: Brown people are messed up too

Now Playing: Omkara - Naina


So, it turns out that the guy who walked into Montreal’s Dawson College and opened fire, killing one person and wounding 19 others, was Indian. You can bet that across the country, Indian aunties are saying, “Can you imagine? A nice Indian boy doing something like that!”


It’s not as though Indians are exempt from social phenomena present in the populace – how could we be, really – but a lot of us still prefer to think that we are somehow different. It’s as though certain things – infidelity, divorce, homosexuality, addiction, mental illness, murder – are somehow inherently non-Indian things that really have nothing to do with us.


We’ve all seen that bit in Bend it like Beckham where Parminder Nagra’s friend tells her that he really likes Beckham – and she goggles, sputtering, “But you’re Indian!” She’s entirely supportive of him afterwards, but there’s still that first moment of doubt when she’s all, dude, you can’t be gay, you’re Indian. And we – the Indian members of the audience – are laughing as much at her as we are at ourselves, because we too were staring and thinking, “How can he be gay? He’s a nice Indian boy!”


It’s not just Indians that do this, but South Asians in general. For example, my current family doctor, a Sri Lankan Tamil, whose practice consists mostly of Tamils, asked my mum which hospital she worked at, so she could look into referring people there. Mum obligingly tells her, adding the doctors there mostly do family medicine and addiction medicine. The doctor immediately loses interest, saying, well, our people don’t really do that stuff, do they?


Huh?


Newsflash, people. Us Indians are the same as the rest of the Canadian populace – we’re just as frelled-up, fracked-up, fucked-up – Kimveer Gill being a case in point – and we fall in love regardless of gender and we have things we can’t bring ourselves to stop doing and we see things that aren’t real and we cheat on our spouses and we leave them and you know what?


We’re not special. That nice Indian boy (or girl) doesn’t exist. Quit the illusion, take the red pill and look at reality.

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

Melancholy in a bottle

Now Playing: Simple Minds - Don't You (Forget About Me)

Tagged by Hem -

I am thinking about...
escape.


I said...
more than I ought to have.


I want to...
write better.


I wish...
I’d grown up the way I thought I would when I was 15.


I miss...
the way I used to be.


I hear...
the rain on windowpanes.


I wonder...
what matters now.


I regret...
quite a lot, unfortunately.


I am...
giving in to my more melodramatic instincts.


I dance...
like I’m trying to get it out of my system.


I sing...
only at Church and karaoke. God gave me this voice, so he can’t complain, and my friends should have known better to take me to a place where microphones and Celine Dion songs are available.


I cry...
quietly.


I am not always...
happy to be laughed at.


I write...
contrivedly.


I confuse...
what people say and what they mean.


I need...
to get out more.


I should try...
exercising my muscles/exorcising my demons.


I finish...
books I’m reading very quickly, but put everything else off. (just like Hem!)



I infect, I mean, I tag eM, Cale, Rishi, Beth & Salanth.

Saturday, September 09, 2006

Do you know a bot?

Now Playing: Basshunter - Boten Anna



Now you too can share in the trippiness that is Boten Anna. Props to Jools for telling me about this song.

In other news, close-up photography bugs the crap out of me.