I am honestly tired of sports journalism always comparing upcoming players to retired superstars or even current players - "The Next ________". God only knows how many Argentinian prodigies have been dubbed the next Maradona and pretty much all of them - Aimar, Saviola etc - have succumbed to the pressure. The only one currently who seems to be justifying the tag is Lionel Messi, and so what do the media do, they dub even younger Argentinian kids The Next Messi. Hell, Messi just turned 22, he still has whole career in front of him, you can't push him over the hill like that. It's like giving a Lifetime Achievement Award to Dev Patel because of his 'superlative' performance in Slumdog Millionaire. You're implying that Messi cannot or does not need to achieve anything anymore, which is so obviously untrue.
This trick is mostly used to sensationalise the headlines, they are hardly ever a reflection of the player's abilities anyway. The new Brazilian starlet Douglas Costa who Manchester United are pursuing was , till a year ago, The Next Ronaldinho, now he is The Next C. Ronaldo. Because Ronaldinho's stock isn't as high as it used to be. How do you justify that on the basis of merit? Both of them are players with different styles, so unless one is saying the kid has changed his game to become a mirror image of someone else now, it really doesn't hold water.
Don't be lazy , journalists. Say it as it is, describe what the kid is good at, don't just mention he is like so-and-so and leave us to draw our own inferences. Footballers are people, and no two people are exactly the same or have the same set of talents. Everyone is unique.
...
A heads up to Vh1's coverage of Michael Jackson's demise, they have paid tribute to him in the best way possible, which is screening marathons of his music videos. Not a discussion of his life, a scrutiny of his well documented fallacies, false platitudes of his talents; just a celebration of his music.
All those platitudes can still be seen in the ticker in the bottom where the condolence messages sent by people can be seen. Some of them seem sincere, most of them are people who had little idea who he was and just want their three seconds of fame, and a few of them are dowhright retarded. Like this - "MJ, we miss you sooo much, your music has died with you :("
The music never dies, you freak! The art is what makes the artist immortal. How many people actually remember or care about the person. Even if he was a douchebag (which I don't believe he was) his music is what will count ultimately.
He was never a favourite of mine, but I really like certain songs and I overall enjoy his music. There is a definite sincerity and energy in his songs and he was one of the best lyricists of his era. He single handedly made Pop music cool and dragged it to its zenith before, well, the 90s happened. So all said and done, he will be missed. But his music won't be, because it hasn't gone anywhere.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Saturday, June 20, 2009
The Bus Conductor
"Rashbehari! Kalighat! Minto Park! Sealdah!!" "The bus is empty, get on quickly", he bellowed.
A swarm of people hurriedly got into the bus and, mightily relieved to find empty seats, rushed to them before they filled up. The bus resumed its journey. It was office hours, it would be full to the rafters soon.
Then conductor continued shouting out the bus route as it moved towards its next stop. He got paid through a commission out of the revenue he collected through tickets everyday, so it was in his interests to get as many people on board as possible. He hated it. There was never a peaceful moment in the morning rush, people would jump in or out every two minutes and the bus stops were too closely spaced for him to be able to switch off for even a moment. Strangely, only when the bus was stuck in a traffic snarl would there be a respite.
The bus was overflowing now, and tempers within were rising. The passengers were all jampacked together and the heat wasn't helping matters. They constantly shouted at him exasperatedly asking him why was the bus stopped for so long. He turned his sweaty face away and ignored them; if they expected him to magically lift the bus high and glide it over the traffic across the road, they were sadly mistaken.
It was a typical day.
...
It was early evening and the sky finally crackled enough to force the heavens to open and let loose. Like all Kolkatans, he loved the rain, even though it meant a dip in business. The rain brought back memory of younger days when life was simple and more carefree. This one was fast becoming a storm, and a welcome relief.
The rain was pouring now and the wet wind rushing past his face was as refreshing as an oasis in the desert. Still, work was work, and he grudgingly ducked into the bus to sell the tickets. The worst place to be in the rain in this city is inside a bus. As soon as the rain comes down, the window shutters go up and the bus becomes a sweaty, claustrophobic little box. He braced himself for the inevitable barrage of complaints about the leaking roof. He shrugged and told them this bus is just six months old, it was the company's fault they bought a faulty one, he cannot do anything about it. It always amazed him how everyone always thinks the conductor is the tyrant overlord of the bus and the reason for all its problems. But then again, he thought, who else can they blame.
He finished his round and went back to his post by the door. For a job whose description includes traveling across the city, a conductor's life can be become lonely. He's shackled to a moving prison cell trudging back and forth the same route route over and over and none of the other inmates ever stay long enough to strike a friendship with.
...
He usually enjoyed the last shift of the day. It would be late in the night when even this crazy city would slow down. The weather would be more bearable and the passengers would be more tolerable, as the few who travel that late are too tired to indulge in their favourite pastime of conductor bashing.
He was doing a routine round of ticketing when he suddenly heard a voice in front of him utter a gasp of surprise followed by his name. He looked up, and the hand he was handing the ticket over to belonged to someone he had not seen for years, but had never forgotten. She was clearly pleased at the sudden meeting and eagerly asked him how he was, and why had he become a bus conductor. What answer could he give her? That a string of misfortunes had cost his family his entire wealth and ultimately his father his life, and as a result none of his dreams and plans which he used to narrate to her could ever be realised? No, that would be making excuses and he never made them. So he just smiled weakly at her and changed the subject by inquiring about herself. She probably got the hint and talked about her life, it was a happy one and she had much to tell him.
They were soon chatting about their school days and reminiscing those events which had seemed so important and those which had seemed irrelevant but were ultimately so much more influential in shaping their lives . Suddenly, the bus screeched to a halt and they realised with a start that her destination had come. She hurriedly wrote down her phone number on her ticket and pushed into into his hand, extracting a promise to call her. Then she gave him a quick hug and jumped off.
The bus started moving again as he looked back at her retreating form. There was a time when he had liked, more than liked her. He probably still did. Still, those days were long gone and he was happy than she was doing well. She would have never been this happy with him. He looked at the ticket in his hand for a few moments, then crumpled it and let it fall out of the bus.
He looked ahead as the bus sped past the closed shops under the dim streetlights. Then he looked up and saw that the stars were out. It was a beautiful night.
A swarm of people hurriedly got into the bus and, mightily relieved to find empty seats, rushed to them before they filled up. The bus resumed its journey. It was office hours, it would be full to the rafters soon.
Then conductor continued shouting out the bus route as it moved towards its next stop. He got paid through a commission out of the revenue he collected through tickets everyday, so it was in his interests to get as many people on board as possible. He hated it. There was never a peaceful moment in the morning rush, people would jump in or out every two minutes and the bus stops were too closely spaced for him to be able to switch off for even a moment. Strangely, only when the bus was stuck in a traffic snarl would there be a respite.
The bus was overflowing now, and tempers within were rising. The passengers were all jampacked together and the heat wasn't helping matters. They constantly shouted at him exasperatedly asking him why was the bus stopped for so long. He turned his sweaty face away and ignored them; if they expected him to magically lift the bus high and glide it over the traffic across the road, they were sadly mistaken.
It was a typical day.
...
It was early evening and the sky finally crackled enough to force the heavens to open and let loose. Like all Kolkatans, he loved the rain, even though it meant a dip in business. The rain brought back memory of younger days when life was simple and more carefree. This one was fast becoming a storm, and a welcome relief.
The rain was pouring now and the wet wind rushing past his face was as refreshing as an oasis in the desert. Still, work was work, and he grudgingly ducked into the bus to sell the tickets. The worst place to be in the rain in this city is inside a bus. As soon as the rain comes down, the window shutters go up and the bus becomes a sweaty, claustrophobic little box. He braced himself for the inevitable barrage of complaints about the leaking roof. He shrugged and told them this bus is just six months old, it was the company's fault they bought a faulty one, he cannot do anything about it. It always amazed him how everyone always thinks the conductor is the tyrant overlord of the bus and the reason for all its problems. But then again, he thought, who else can they blame.
He finished his round and went back to his post by the door. For a job whose description includes traveling across the city, a conductor's life can be become lonely. He's shackled to a moving prison cell trudging back and forth the same route route over and over and none of the other inmates ever stay long enough to strike a friendship with.
...
He usually enjoyed the last shift of the day. It would be late in the night when even this crazy city would slow down. The weather would be more bearable and the passengers would be more tolerable, as the few who travel that late are too tired to indulge in their favourite pastime of conductor bashing.
He was doing a routine round of ticketing when he suddenly heard a voice in front of him utter a gasp of surprise followed by his name. He looked up, and the hand he was handing the ticket over to belonged to someone he had not seen for years, but had never forgotten. She was clearly pleased at the sudden meeting and eagerly asked him how he was, and why had he become a bus conductor. What answer could he give her? That a string of misfortunes had cost his family his entire wealth and ultimately his father his life, and as a result none of his dreams and plans which he used to narrate to her could ever be realised? No, that would be making excuses and he never made them. So he just smiled weakly at her and changed the subject by inquiring about herself. She probably got the hint and talked about her life, it was a happy one and she had much to tell him.
They were soon chatting about their school days and reminiscing those events which had seemed so important and those which had seemed irrelevant but were ultimately so much more influential in shaping their lives . Suddenly, the bus screeched to a halt and they realised with a start that her destination had come. She hurriedly wrote down her phone number on her ticket and pushed into into his hand, extracting a promise to call her. Then she gave him a quick hug and jumped off.
The bus started moving again as he looked back at her retreating form. There was a time when he had liked, more than liked her. He probably still did. Still, those days were long gone and he was happy than she was doing well. She would have never been this happy with him. He looked at the ticket in his hand for a few moments, then crumpled it and let it fall out of the bus.
He looked ahead as the bus sped past the closed shops under the dim streetlights. Then he looked up and saw that the stars were out. It was a beautiful night.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Top Ten Worst Tech Predictions Of All Time
cogged from Reader's Digest
9. "Spam will be solved."
8. "The Americans have need of the telephone, but we do not. We have plenty of messenger boys."
7. "Nobody would ever need more than 640 kb of memory on their personal computer."
6. "We stand on the threshhold of rocket mail." (Brings me images of Wile E. Coyote delivering mail for some reason)
5. "There will never be a bigger plane built."
4. TV won't last because people will "soon get tired of staring at a plywood box every night."
3. "Nuclear powered vaccum cleaners will probably be a reality in ten years."
2. "No need for a computer at home."
and the winner is
1. "Next Christmas the iPod will be dead. finished, gone, kaput."
10. "X-rays will prove to be a hoax."
-Lord Kelvin, president of the UK's Royal Soiciety, 18839. "Spam will be solved."
-Bill Gates, 2004
8. "The Americans have need of the telephone, but we do not. We have plenty of messenger boys."
- Sir William Preece, chief engineer of the British Post Office, 1878
7. "Nobody would ever need more than 640 kb of memory on their personal computer."
-Bill Gates, 1981, allegedly
6. "We stand on the threshhold of rocket mail." (Brings me images of Wile E. Coyote delivering mail for some reason)
-US postmaster general Arthur Summerfield, 1969
5. "There will never be a bigger plane built."
-Boeing engineer, 1933, after the maiden flight of a ten-seater Boeing 247
4. TV won't last because people will "soon get tired of staring at a plywood box every night."
-Darryl Zanuck, 1946
3. "Nuclear powered vaccum cleaners will probably be a reality in ten years."
-Alex Lewyt, president of the Lewyt Corp vacuum company, 1955
2. "No need for a computer at home."
-Ken Olsen, founder of Digital equipment, 1977
and the winner is
1. "Next Christmas the iPod will be dead. finished, gone, kaput."
-Sir Alan Sugar, 2005
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Football Gameplans
I remember seeing these before the 2002 World Cup and falling out of my bed in laughter. They're still valid.
To put it in context, Netherlands didn't qualify for the tournament.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
