'The Namesake' lives up to its name

Written by the prolific Jumpha Lahiri, directed by the incomparable Mira Nair, starring arguably the best Indian actress of the era, it would be hard to imagine The Namesake to be anything less than spectacular. And spectacular it is, in part because it paints a realistic picture of Indians living in America, who are constantly torn between conforming to lofty Indian ideals in the earnest hope that their roots are not forgotten and trying to blur those very lines that delineate them from others.

With ample help from the clear-thinking Jumpha Lahiri the movie explores the trials of an Indian kid growing up in the US, while also articulating the hardships of first generation Indian parents who, while not entirely on board with their children’s dating habits or lifestyles, manage to endure it to merely the extent needed to keep their own peace of mind and their children just short of insane.

Tabu does an excellent job in the role of a conservative yet progressive, well-learned Indian woman who hurts from her son’s seemingly scant regard for family affairs, but is also extremely touched when he delivers at the right time. Kal Penn, for his part, is spot on in his portrayal of a youngster drawn by the glamor of the American lifestyle. The movie sees him grow from a self-indulgent college kid lounging in his girlfriend’s affluent family home in Oyster Bay to a responsible young man when he suddenly finds himself thrown into a situation that demands it.

The Namesake does away with the rosy-eyed unrealism of Mississippi Masala and the heart-wrenching bleakness of Monsoon Wedding, in exploring the trials and tribulations of every Indian wanting to live the American dream, and living it well.

After being assaulted with disasters like ABCD and American Desi, we finally have something that comes close to the American version of Bend it Like Bekham.

Tandoori flavored papadums?

My best pals in Philadelphia are unequivocally American, except that they know the subtle differences in flavor between chicken tikka and chicken 65, often manage to surprise me with almost flawless enunciations of “mughlai” and unforeseen disclosures of very indigenous terms like kabuli channa – they are, of course, an exclusively northeastern breed – more global than most, well-traveled, cosmopolitan and as a result, very aware of the world across the Atlantic.

While it’s rewarding to hang out with people that can accompany you to a Brazilian meat-orgy (without premonitions of offending the Almighty) and the seedy Indian deli that serves delicious mutton biryani and enjoy them both the same, my biggest complaint is their unbelievable lack of introduction to southern Indian cuisine. And worse still, their belief that it cannot be that much different from fare that hails from the Northern part of the subcontinent.

“There’s a world of difference,” I often yell. “You wouldn’t know unless you have had it.”

“Well, I like dosa,” my Canadian friend offers; I must admit that he is privy to the kind of clandestine information about the Indian palate you only get from extended stays in tandoori-rich London. In this instance, however, I have to point out the oversight.

After I explain to him that Udipi's crispy, larger-than-life sheet of rice and lentils is hardly a south Indian staple, he is subject to elaborate instruction on the topic of Southern Indian spices and seasonings. A consensus on tamarind and lentils is reached, following which, everyone agrees they must find the staples just as delectable.

Since I am hardly the authority on South Indian cooking, treating them to culinary delights from my hometown is not an option. Same reason why, I often make an SOS trip to Whole Foods to avail of surprisingly good “sambhar from a can.”

But even the thought of tamarind-laced lentils soaking up aromatic basmati rice is not enough to quell the sheer horror that engulfs me when this item peers smugly from one of the store’s lofty aisles:

Tandoori flavored papadums

Tandoori is a curry flavor used exclusively in northern India and a papadum is batter from fermented lentils fried to a delicious crispness to complement south Indian rice dishes. The two flavors can never ever be put together in a single dish, without disastrous consequences to the unsuspecting palate. Think fish and cheese.

It’s the Indian Way!

A couple days ago, I got a call from an old pal in India I went to college with. It was great to hear from her, catching up, reminiscing et al, but what made me see red was her request (analyzing the wording closely, some may call it a demand, but then again, she earned that right when we went through five years of college together, some good, some not so good): her sister was visiting the States for a month as part of a work thing and I was expected to visit and engage her over every weekend during her stay.

Let alone the fact that I live about 3 hours by train from the part of Jersey that she intends to visit, I am so content with my little town-city that I haven’t made a trip seeking entertainment or culture in the past three months. It would be too much trouble to make a trip to entertain someone I know by association to someone I probably don’t relate to anymore.

After I hung up the phone, I tried to look at things from her perspective. It's true that I work full time at a far-from-leisurely Cardiology Department and go to school in the evenings for a Masters program. Other than a stress-relieving (and totally mandatory) binge-drinking trip on Friday nights and the occasional movie or dinner on Saturday, I pretty much have very little time to relax. As does almost anyone worth his or her salt in the United States (yet people somehow always manage to say hello or open a door for a stranger, which amazes me). But folks in India wouldn’t necessarily get that.

In a land where one half of the average day is spent hosting unannounced guests and attending to phones that ring constantly and the other half in elaborate meal preparations, 6 hours on a train for four weekends in a row for small-talk is routine.

I love my home country and its ways but those ways don’t work here; in a world where people are too busy chasing dreams, chasing trains seems frivolous, unless you’re getting somewhere on them.

This reminds me of some very amusing situations
I found myself in, with my US-bred, 5-year old niece, when she was observing the ways of Indian life for the first time.

“Why does the phone always ring in India?”
“Why do people keep coming home?”
“Why do we have to keep going from one house to another?”
“Why do we go to so many temples?”
“Why does he bring milk to the house?”
“Why is the plumber sitting and drinking tea?”
“We could just stop at a Burger King, couldn’t we?”

Very profound questions these, and ones that cannot be answered without indulging in some very luxurious Indian living....

McCain – Too good to be president?

From this and years past, it’s hard to imagine the Senator from Arizona playing the machiavellian, wily slugfest that is winning the presidency.

Touting your arch rival for the Republican nomination more than a year before the election is not exactly what politicians today would call game plan for D-day (wouldn’t the world be a wonderful place if they did?)

Can McCain with his good will and urbane disposition take on what would most likely become an ugly brawl with America’s mayor? Going by their respective addresses at the ’04 RNC, it seems like Giuliani can kill an opponent with words alone (remember, he doesn’t need the guns!) but McCain is far too gracious even with his democratic colleagues. What’s more, he’s not known to repudiate when he’s villianized (think 2000).

And if his opponent for the primaries is tough, crime-fighting, relentless go-getter Giuliani, it seems like old John will have to give up his graces somewhere down the road to the nomination. But then again, isn’t that what people love about him – that polished language and bipartisan outlook – sticking up for buddy Kerry during the swift boat episode, standing by Bush even after W dragged him through the mud in ’00, hardly ever saying a dirty word about his opponents and yet sticking to his guns about the things he believes in?

Seems like it will be a tough pickle. And boy, will he need the juices.

Going by the polls

From time-blog, my latest internet must-stop, this is a scary prospect for the dems, cos if Obama should manage to clinch the nomination, he's a looooong shot to win the presidency (‘not black enough’ for African Americans, too black for the white conservatives and most importantly, VERY inexperienced).

The good news is that Giuliani is leading McCain on the GOP side. Wow, would that be a cool race…or a cool ticket, as the case may be…

A technology-challenged technology hub

A few days ago, I had to rummage through a stack of old documents to find a phone number for a university I used to attend – consolidating talk time, direction and re-direction to a million right and wrong people and sheer inefficiency, information that could have been retrieved in the dotcom world in less than thirty seconds (or to use computer lingo @ a million bps) took about an hour.

About 40% of Indians are in the Information Technology field and India enjoys more than 60% of the market share of outsourced technical services. You don’t usually have to walk more than a few blocks to find your resident geek squad in computer-oriented cities like Bangalore and Chennai. In such a technology oriented region, it’s ironical that one does not yet find information such as phone numbers and names through the google toolbar on one’s browser. Things that are best answered by the click of a button still take postal, telephonic, personal and sometimes even telepathic communication.

Most organizations and institutions do not have a functional website, if they do, they’re not frequently updated, if they are, they don’t get adequately used, when they do, they are painstakingly slow. Having been tuned to click on Riteaid.com’s store locator to find the phone number for the nearest drugstore and search my school’s directory for a professor’s contact, the click of a mouse is usually my first source of information, as it should be; it seems ridiculous to have to make a dozen calls or drive ten blocks in search of such counsel.

It’s not without change, however. There are some areas where the advancement surprises you: train tickets are booked online in no time (tickets are still shipped to you, though), minute cell phones unfold into ass-kicking modems during transit, 24/7 technical support whips up life saving answers in seconds…

I’d still like to be able to prop myself up in front of my computer in the middle of the night because I need to find an answer to a pressing question, or simply, because I can….

The season factor

While slumping forward and shutting my eyes in defiant disregard of the teacher in the 90 degree heat of an afternoon class, I’ve often envied the serene temperate climate from the very geography lesson I was listlessly disengaging from.

If the ruthless temperatures of the tropics affect your productivity mentally, there’s little doubt as to what they do to the physical: perpetually dodging unrelenting rays from that huge ball of fire, constant dehydration that keeps you reaching for iced water with no satiation in sight, endless beads of sweat that put huge boxes of Kleenex to shame. And if the heat itself won’t kill you, the bugs that thrive in it just might.

Needless to say, when I was transposed to the land of sub-zero winters (aka Mountain Zone, North America), I spent a long time acclimatizing, and even longer recanting my aversion to timeless Indian summers. But as the cycle went on, I made my peace with it. Extreme temperature of any form is bad, but it’s easier to get through the bone-chilling winter knowing that Spring is just round the corner and the sweltering summer knowing that Fall is going to come a-knocking. And if I’ve basked in the 80 degree heat of my native land the past two weeks, it’s only because I spent the last two months below zero.

The tropics have no such reprieve. The third world countries as they are called make up a huge section at or near the roasting equator: giving history due credit, I wonder if high temperatures without the respite of seasonal changes indeed have something to do with productivity (or lack thereof).

Innovations, Inc.

Yesterday was the much dreaded but extremely crucial day that every resident alien encounters on her traverses back home: the visa day. After going through my papers for roughly the hundredth time I headed to the consulate. If the sheer magnitude of the task at hand has not succeeded in scaring you out of your wits end then the stringent entry restriction at the embassy certainly will. I was told that my zippered black messenger bag was too ominous a piece of paraphenelia to carry into the consulate grounds. And that was not all: I was stripped of cell phone, pager and basically every piece of communication except my larynx before I finally stumbled in carrying about ten armfuls worth of documents in two weary ones.

If the entry restrictions are stringent anything that goes on the forms is even more so. Within minutes, I was sent right back outside because the picture was not of the right size, shape and color (thankfully the shapes and colors of the visages themselves are exempt from this scrutiny, because what usually ends up on the form in such circumstances is a countenance with one too many tense facial muscles and profuse sweating).

I walked out in a daze with less than a half hour to get the job done before my 1 pm interview. Now to first find a public telephone to make a desperate plea for help and then a studio would take about a half hour in the crowded area of the city that harbors the embassy; I wasn’t even thinking about picture taking and development. But much to my glee (or whatever qualifies as glee under such circumstances) no sooner had I exited, than a bunch of autorickshaw operators came at me yelling “photo, photo?”.

In heart-racing-thriller fashion, I was whisked away to an obscure photo studio where the picture taking, development, drying and gluing took less than 20 minutes. I was brought back just shy of 1 pm, enough to make my interview.

It took one innovative auto~driver to connect the dots, literally, from the young and aspiring US-hopeful (of whom there are millions) to the very poorly elucidated instructions on the consulate website (that change at the rate of a thousand bytes a second) to the photo studio that is willing to devote its time to rapid-fire picture taking that no other in the vicinity is likely to do. In any other time and place this might have been an excellent business strategy and millions of dollars might have been involved. I got away with a measly 600 Indian rupees, a couple of pictures that I clutched close to my heart as I returned and a visa that’s hopefully on its way soon…..

In a place like India people can often dream up brilliant ideas without that quintessential B-school class and often times before being able to afford that self-improvement guide on the New York Times bestseller list. To use a paraphrased but much overused and clichéd phrase, “Necessity is the mother of in(ova)tion.”

India's predicament

Ask any fairly informed person what India’s biggest problem is and they would tell you that it is the population. That’s more than obvious after engaging in so much as a well-illustrated piece in National Geographic, an extended documentary on PBS or a quick trip to the country. But what I am talking about here is a lesser known, less ominous yet extremely potent by-product of this – one that borders on the sociological that most people in India would deem too frivolous to worry about in the face of real problems, and that really is my point. While the sight of hungry children begging for food on the streets or of poorly clothed men languishing without basic amenities is heart-wrenching, what is almost just as disturbing is the spectacle of grown men yelling at each other over road blockades, workers at airport security making life hell for travel-weary passengers, people displaying less than what would qualify as civil behavior in public places and the constant need to prod, urge and downright beg to get even the smallest of matters accomplished.

Ever wondered how life itself would improve significantly if people were simply “nice”? There are times when those at “Information” really cannot help or the people at Tech support gave you the wrong installation software by accident, but it would make things better if they would just acknowledge in some way that they would really like to right the wrongs and make life a little easier, not just because it is their job but also because you are a fellow human being. The reasons for this recurring problem in India are twofold, both stemming from the big populace: one, there are too many of us: it’s hard to respect another individual when you are predominantly looking at him as a hindrance in that dangerous race called survival of the fittest. Two: we have bigger problems to deal with than being polite. What people don’t get is that they are not mutually exclusive: you could smile and still run to catch that bus you are running late for.

I must, however, say that decorum has improved significantly. Due to my less than desirable experiences here three years ago, I came with a preemptive strategy – one that involves screaming and yelling and a lot of white-knuckled fisting before the problem is even fully realized – but I contend that I haven’t had to use it much. That’s not because things are happening any faster or better – it still takes at least five stops at five different banks to get your money changed and the cable guy hasn’t come around to fix our internet in two weeks, but at least people are beginning to be polite and apologetic about it.

It’s probably the tech revolution (so people aren’t gritting their teeth in front of their computers as much), it’s probably the American influences (the guys at Marry Jones eatery likely observed a Burger King on TV), it’s probably the call waiting centers (I bet dealing with angry American customers requires extensive training in frivolous niceties), but I am not complaining...it's made life here a little easier.

A Distant Familarity

It's a different world out here, one I have not kept up with, one I have lost track of, one I have broken away from, but yet one I am strangely familiar with...

After spending close to twenty four hours on air (on flights that were required to be no more than 18 hours in toto) I'm on land now -- and a very different land than one I've gotten used to the past few years -- a land where cows roam freely alongside cars on the streets, where each reckless driver is at his unrestrained best, where autorickshaws often sputter but get you to your intended destination, where you can pull down the window and yell at a fellow human being but no bridges are burned....There's a lot I have to look at, a lot I have to see, and there is no doubt that I will whine and complain, teeth will grind, fist bones may emaciate and hair will soon be dishevelled but something tells me I will love it all the same...

It's still strange that I have to 'get used to' a world I was once accustomed to. I now have to stop short of that "thankyou" I overuse lest the store person thought I was a little too suspiciously affable, I search for words and stop in mid sentence as my mind kick starts a rapid translation and sometimes just plonk whole sentences in English between well crafted sentences in my native language, my hand stands in midair as I reach for that paper towel, I often retrace steps from the wrong side of the car (and more importantly swing across to the "right" side of the street just in time).......

The Rat Race is on...

Like Newt Gingrich said on Fox News Sunday, “...these candidates are running for an entire year — to get into a campaign to run for an entire year to get sworn in in January of 2009.”

Really! There’re so many candidates, it’s hard to keep track. It reminds me of the California recall election to replace the infamous Gray Davis (that prompted the Simpsons to do a powerful parody where practically everybody – including Homer - runs for Mayor of the town. Sitcoms and comedy shows can actually do away with the “creativity” department because the politicians seem to be doing the funny bit all on their own...Think Dean’s scream and Allen’s makaka moment).

As for ’08, there are the stars, of course, led by Hillary and Barack Obama (who’s unseated Edwards from the throne of “purty face”, which, ironically enough, has given the latter more credibility. Also, recall that he wins in the experience and age departments), followed closely by Rudy (go Giulliani!) and McCain. Of the front running Gippers, one’s too libertarian and the other’s too pro-war.

Then there are the candidates lurking in the shadows, just waiting to pounce at a political gaffe; Biden has already had a shot at that with his patronizing comment on fellow contender Barack (a la Kerry, he has a wide open mouth with too many words), Mitt Romney proclaims he’s going to give the republicans what they want (and he might be the only one considering he’s the sole social conservative running). Bill Richardson probably has good prospects considering his foreign policy experience and he can ride on that wave that no senator has won the White House since JFK – more govs, anyone?

The meat coma

When the cold has reached the deep recesses of your bones, what could be better than an endless supply of red meat for insulation. Well, fleece works, wool’s pretty unflappable and down’s downright impervious, but they don’t seem to go very well with the scintillating house red!

Since the wind chill yesterday hit below zero, we needed no further coaxing. Planned a trip to the local Brazilian rodizio where servers come to the table armed with different cuts of meat on a skewer. And just when you think it couldn’t get any better, they slice out a mouth-watering piece of just the right cut, done to just the right degree.

Filet mignon, pork ribs, lamb chops, tender sirloin, chicken wrapped in crispy bacon, the works. And if you tired of the meat (god forbid!), there’s always the salad bar to rummage in, not to mention a generous helping of sides. Though I must say it was hard to tell the plantains from the peppers after gorging on all the heavy fare – meat coma, I think they call it.

But that’s the good kind, if ever there was one....

Fogo de Chao -- hands down, best churrascaria in Philly

Breaking yet another hiatus...

I take on a new avocation, like it, love it, get obsessed with it, go overboard with it and then tire of it.

It happened with instant messaging, it happened with discussion forums, it happened with online chat rooms, why, it has even happened with email! And now it’s happened with blogging as well.

Technology seems to especially instigate this form of crest and trough mentality – my guess is that it changes so rapidly, it piques human interest in a way few things do. And our attention span is somewhat shorter than the fast pace of technology. So there! That’s my excuse.

This revitalization is actually part of a class assignment – which means I’m going to keep to it. Also the reason why the blog will be changing its tone a bit for the next few months: rather than rambling on and on about whatever has the misfortune of catching my fancy at a particular moment, I am going to try and convey my thoughts on a broader range of issues, which will hopefully include politics, science, technology, food, drink, Philly and sports.

Talking of current, the big thing in Philly right now is ice-skating (although we’re just calling it moving around!). Will be quite an adventure to get to work and later to an evening class today!

Keeping the eye on the ball – Part 5 of ∞

And you thought I’d have finally hit my Federer writer’s block. Nope! The guy just finds something new to do on a tennis court every single time, and I try to come up with new adjectives to describe it every single time. Call it my own way of getting over it.

The CBS coverage of the championship match showcased a clip of a Federer crosscourt forehand followed immediately by a wide backhand crosscourt (like the magic he performs in real time weren’t enough) and Mary Carrillo summed it up – “there’s his range of winners”. You could take that literally, cos I bet I’ve seen him hit the ball at every angle in between, and I’m talking degrees. There! That’s the best way to describe it – or at least it will have to be till I find a better way.

That said, I concede - I need to stop making predictions. Though I did get the 4 sets right – that’s a 1 in 3 shot! And the match was certainly tight between 5-0 Federer and the start of well, 5-0 Federer. It could have gone either way in the third set but for the fact that Roger’s been here 8 times before and gotten it right 7 times. And the fact that Andy’s been here 3 times before and gotten it right once. And that Fed’s been here 11 times before and gotten it right 10 times. And that A-Rod’s been here 11 times before and gotten it right once. Ok, you get it – pro level tennis is all about keeping your composure on the toughest stages in the tightest corners.

In the first set it certainly did look like Federer was going to run away with it. But then the tennis stars began to shine (pun intended) and Roddick decided to get back into it. The second set was fascinating -- Andy was better than I have ever seen him and Roger fell just short of his usual clinical perfection – which brought them to just about evenly matched. Fortunately for tennis fans, the magic lasted through most of the third set. The two back to back games in that very tight set, where each saved 4 breakpoints on his serve were inarguably the best part of the match – light caresses, gentle coaxing, hard-hitting strokes, explosive smashes - the ball saw it all, and at its expense, we were witness to the most beautiful tennis Ashe stadium had seen through the entire tournament -- 25 shot ralleys ending in elegantly placed finishes, incredible net exchanges culminating in perfectly timed winners, followed by the flourishes - Roddick screaming all the way to the stands and Federer doing the contained, calculated fist pump – I think it’s measured, just like every shot he creates!

In the end, the better man came out on top. Federer makes it look so easy we tend to think the competition isn’t the greatest. But the truth is that he has the amazing ability of making even good players look mediocre. Consider this: Andy Roddick is arguably playing the best tennis of his career; he won the US Open series, had been broken only five times in the entire championship before running into Roger, dismissed a former world number one of such versatility as Hewitt in straight sets and countered the elegant artisanship of the talented Russian, Youzhny with some phenomenal shot-making of his own. Federer broke Roddick three times in the first set, six times over-all and blocked Andy’s biggest weapon so decisively that Roddick, the distinguished ace-leader at this tournament with an impressive total of 102, was stifled to a meager 7, and what is more, Federer led him by 10. He doesn’t just snuff out his opponents’ strengths, he also manages to beat them at it, merely to make a point (literally)!

Of note is the observation that Andy has become less gracious and less generous with the compliments; there was more about him getting better and knowing where he was going than about Federer being the greatest ever in his acceptance speech and press conference after, which might be a good thing. It’s the Connors-esque “bad guy” intensity that could make the nicest guy in current men’s tennis give the world number one a run for his money. Countering composure with excesses of emotion has, after all, been the name of the game in the history of tennis rivalry.

Rog vs. A-Rod – The Grand Slam

[These two don't look like they can battle! A truly heart-warming relationship, both on and off court]

As Roger Federer continues to hold the crown at most tournaments and gets as far as the championship match for the ones that elude him, his challengers alter playing styles, seek different counsel, chew over the maestro’s game, scrutinize his strategy, up their strengths, probe for non-existent weaknesses and get ready to give it their best shot, year after year, major after major, game after game.

‘Who is it going to be this time?’ is usually the 64 thousand dollar question. This US Open, the hopefuls and the hopes were many and varied. Most tennis fans had penned down another Roger-Rafa final, and for good reason – the left arm wielding relentless youngster seems to be the only one with even a remote chance of putting Roger on the wrong foot. A host of other names hovered on people’s lips -- would Richard (baby Fed) Gasquet make this his breakthrough tournament and challenge the indomitable player many claim he emulates? If the Frenchman had garnered half the arsenal he boasted in the series preceding the slam, we could have hoped for some notes to complement Roger’s symphony. Would the delightfully charming Marcos, magical shot-maker and relentless go-getter, give us another stunning run at a major and test the world number one? If an unrelenting contraction and a rogue nation hadn’t gotten in his way, he might have had a shot. American fans were rooting for their number one player, whose incredible return game did seem to baffle a slightly faltering Federer in the quarters, but Blake clearly didn’t have enough to come out on top. Some wishful thinkers even had the temerity to hope that their ailing icon might repeat last year’s incredible run before retiring, but they had to see him go early.

Until a couple weeks ago, few would have bet on a stumbling Andy Roddick, albeit a resurgent one, to make it to championship Sunday and meet his nemesis for the third time in a grand slam final. Typically, such a meeting would not warrant a pre-match analysis, but Roddick has never looked better on a tennis court – rushing to the net whenever and wherever possible, throwing in more attitude on that already beautiful first serve, perfecting his ground strokes, baffling opponents with a Connors-esque down-the-line backhand, a forehand that seems more potent than ever and a slice backhand that as far as I can remember never belonged to him. Not to mention the fact that the usually irrational, ace-blasting Andy is actually thinking (we should have known that incredible wit could be put to good use on a tennis court!) Factor in all of that with the premise that the crowds will be on his side (despite New York’s adoration of the unflappable Swissman that makes it his business to walk away with the trophy every year) and like Johnny Mac says, Roddick has his swagger back. And boy, will he need it when he faces off against a man to whom he has lost 10 out of 11 times in his career!

My prediction: Federer wins in 4 tight sets. Okay, I am going to go on a limb here and suggest a score:

Roger Federer 6 7 6 6
Andy Roddick 4 6 7 3

In other US Open notes, a disappointing loss for Justine Henin-Hardenne today. But I guess if you are five foot five and playing a power player that’s six foot three, you have to be on top of your game, and at worst, get most of your first serves in. With due credit to the 19-year old, Sharapova appears to be using that thing called judgment on court (at least she didn’t keep tossing the ball right back to Justine as she did in her four previous losses!) Hope she continues on this line of thought, because as often happens in women’s tennis, those that are blessed with the brawn often seem to forget they have a brain.

Congratulations to the Belgian for the pretty impressive feat of reaching all major finals this year; she is clearly the Roger Federer of the women’s draw. And what could better say that than the fact that for only the first time in tennis history have a man and woman made it to all four major finals in a single calendar year?

Pete’s last laugh

If I were Pete Sampras today I’d break into that endearing half smile I so often did at the end of a phenomenal forehand winner, sometimes unbelievable even to me. If I were Pete Sampras today I’d switch off the CBS telecast, put my arms behind my head, shut my eyes and sigh. If I were Pete Sampras today I’d try to get the full impact of the magnitude of what I have accomplished in my more than illustrious career.

Not that there was ever any question, not that there was ever any contest, not that there was ever any doubt, but today, he has shut up his worst critics for the last time. Today, after all these years people are left with no excuses: the doubts that wouldn’t go away after he won seven Wimbledon titles in eight straight years, the questions that were still prevalent, when he captured his record 14th grand slam after a two-year hiatus, the skepticism that was not erased because he didn’t smile often enough.

He took an injection before almost every match he played during the big W in 2000 and went on to win it. Most people didn’t know because he doesn’t prick and tell. He played his entire career with an inherited blood disorder, but he doesn’t talk about it because it has nothing to do with his tennis. He leaves it to mortal beings to resort to such excuses as health and age and needles.

Not to take anything away from Agassi, he’s had a great career, inspired many and given something to the sport of tennis. But not everyone can be an immortal, not everyone can rise to the occasion and dictate destiny in the way only true genius can. Not everyone can decide on a storybook ending and actually manage to write it.

Just to lay it out for the Agassi-worshipping section of the world, let’s review their final major tournaments. I’m not really trying to rub salt on the wound here, but sometimes you have to break it down for Agassi fans because that sort of unconditional devotion - no questions asked, no answers expected – is often irrational. I have little choice but to assume that when you see endless re-runs and re-plays and highlights of Agassi’s meager wins, when you see people stand in silent ovation for a barely convincing forehand winner (or an opponent’s unforced error) you begin to believe he has done more than he has.

[I sure hope there are no more rain delays through the remainder of the Open cos I couldn’t stand another Agassi-All-day marathon. If anyone’s noticing anything other than his eyes, his playing style is far from entertaining the first time around!]

Anyway, here goes:

Pete Sampras at US Open ’02
1st round: beats Albert Portas 6-1, 6-4, 6-4
2nd round: beats No. 85 Kristian Pless 6-3, 7-5, 6-4
3rd round: beats No. 33 Greg Rusedski 7-6 4-6 7-6 3-6 6-4
4th round: beats No. 3 Tommy Haas 7-5 6-4 6-7 7-5
Quarter Final: beats No. 11 Andy Roddick 6-3, 6-2, 6-4
Semi final: beats No. 24 Sjeng Schalken 7-6, 7-6, 6-2
Final: beats No. 6 Andre Agassi 6-3, 6-4, 5-7, 6-4
Wins championship

Andre Agassi at US Open '06
1st round: beats No. 75 Andrei Pavel 6-7, 7-6, 7-6, 6-2
2nd round: beats No. 8 Marcos Baghdatis 6-4, 6-4, 3-6, 5-7, 7-5
3rd round: loses to Qualifier Benjamin Becker 5-7, 7-6, 4-6, 5-7

Pete is too noble, too much of a gentleman, too much of a sportsman to do it himself, so let a mortal being do it on his behalf:

Hahahahahahahahahahahhaaaaaaaah

People to watch at The Open

Rog Vs. Rafa - The Street Slam

I know, I know, I don't offer news on this blog. I have stuck quite religiously to my goal of rendering random ramblings that don't benefit humankind in any possible way. But this is just too big!

Roger Federer and Rafael Nadal are going to battle it out on the streets of the greatest city in the world! The exhibition match is scheduled for 11 am on August 24th in front of Golfsmith Golf & Tennis at 54th and Lexington in New York City.



That said, I have two quibbles (do I ever!): one, I don't like this marriage of s(p)orts -- golf is a good walk spoilt and tennis is a sport that requires mental, physical and emotional acumen; you don't just team them up cos they don't have teams! Two, Roger Federer owns tennis, not just grass. Please note that he has split his grass and hard court majors right down the middle. Rafael Nadal can own all the clay he wants.

I am wondering if this street duel is worth a trip. I missed out on USO Finals tickets and it would be quite unusual for me to not be at Flushing for the Open. The crowds are a definite turn-off (like NYC is not crowded enough already), but the thought of possibly catching sight of Federer from just a few hundred yards away (even if those yards are filled with a zillion mortal beings I don't care for) is tempting. Also, watching Nadal's less than stellar performance on hard courts, it doesn't look like the two are going to repeat a championship meeting at Arthur Ashe Stadium. So, might as well catch them in Midtown Manhattan...

The other half we’ve been missing

Ever since Roger Federer stepped on a tennis court, the other half has suffered from low self-esteem -- the other half of the draw, the other half of the tour, but most importantly, the other half of the court, the one Federer doesn’t grace with his ever-so-smooth craftsmanship and unflappable on-court demeanor.

Sure, a lot of players have threatened Federer, quite a few of them have come close to beating him and some have even got the better of him, but unfortunately for them, Roger is not just unbeatable on the scoreboard, but also in how he gets there. No player (inclusive of bygone wonders like Sampras) could possibly match his beautiful playing style – that feeling of effortlessness Federer renders to shots we never dreamed possible.

But yesterday, 20-year-old Richard Gasquet proved that the French are not just a beautiful people, but play a beautiful sport as well (he had some help from Mauresmo before him).

Taking a set off Roger Federer in a Masters series championship is tough enough, but matching him shot for shot, combating him point for point, in an uncannily complementary style, with an eerily similar quality and an equally placid demeanor is a whole different ballgame.

And that’s what it was yesterday – a ballgame different from any we have seen in the past couple years of Federer domination. The Swissman did win the Roger’s Cup, quite fittingly, but the 20-year old who’s often called “baby Fed” for good reason came closer than anyone ever has to reflecting Federer’s artistry on the usually unfortunate half of the court.

If Fed’s shot-making choices often seem as effortless as picking a flavor of candy (let me try the drop shot today; now, how about the swing volley?), the 20-year-old decided that two could play this game. It was all there – backhand drop volleys, passing shots around the net-post, perfectly timed overhead lobs, you name it. Just like Roger seems to read the ball seconds before it even touches the opponent’s racket, the Frenchman showed his finesse at anticipating shots upstairs before they played out on court. And if the Swiss phenomenon rarely has a hair out of place while performing his on-court magic, the youngster maintained an admirable icy calm demeanor – obviously a lesson well learnt from his racket-throwing racket a couple years ago. But we all do remember that even Federer was more than a tad temperamental as a teenage sensation, don’t we? If he’s following in Rog’s footsteps, he’s sure as hell not taking any detours. His on-court style might be all-out aggression, off-court, he’s not taking any chances. And who could be a safer bet than the man everyone’s calling possibly the greatest ever?

Yesterday, the world number one surpassed the young gun by concocting winners most people would deem impossible. But then Federer has had a five-year head start. Gasquet seems to have brought all the right goods to the other side of the court and that’s as good a start as any...

Peering out of my tennis bubble...

I decided to peer out of the tennis bubble I seem to be living in these days just long enough to scribble my thoughts on a few goings-on in the world. For god knows the world needs a sound critic like me.



Oh for the love of God, snippet edition

Someone in the Hardball audience asked sometime back – Do you think the middle-east crisis can ever be solved? Such naiveté! People seem to think that if Israel and Lebanon sit down to a perfectly good breakfast and talk, the chaos will magically disappear. Now, there’s a few problems with that theory – one, there is no way to have perfectly good breakfast without pork, two, religion knows no reason or logic and three, religion is practically deaf – by that I mean, the only sounds religious people hear are the voices in their head; earthly tones don’t match that wavelength (pun unintended, contempt very intended).

Tom Friedman hit the nail on the head (as he so often does) on Meet the Press a couple weeks ago -- ‘Why don’t Indian Muslims [you know] get their buzz this way? Could it be because the richest man in India is a Muslim software entrepreneur? Could it be because the president of India is a Muslim? Could it be because there’s an Indian Muslim woman on the Indian Supreme Court? Could it be because the leading female movie star in India is a Muslim woman? You know, when people get their dignity from building things rather than confronting other people, it’s amazing what politics flows from that’. (Oh, I love Tom Friedman. I fault my home country for a lot of things; being religiously fanatical isn’t one of them).

Following Friedman’s line of thought, if people got their ‘sense of fulfillment’ from a constructive day job, would they spend so much time fighting over who’s god is better? An idle mind is a god’s workshop.

Just how stupid is Ann Coulter?

When the conservative diva of the country was throwing abuses at 9-11 widows a month ago, I was too busy watching a ball not in Coulter’s court, but a few weeks ago I happened to catch her venom on Hardball [another reason to hate large gaps in the tennis season – you’re not quite tuned to take on the big, bad world]. Her most recent label for liberals is ‘godless’, which, surprise, surprise, is also the name of her latest book. She makes the case that liberals want to suck brains out of embryos, which in her opinion, qualify as human beings. While I have no doubt that Coulter knows something about sucking brains, I don’t think she quite has the authority to decide what constitutes a human being. What makes this even more ridiculous is that while she doesn’t want to hurt a tiny cell that is barely an entity, she is all for whole human beings wasting away from debilitating disease. Just how godful is she?

Kudos to a sharp questioner in the audience whom Coulter squashed with a conceited “smarty pants”. Calling names seems to be her only area of expertise. No wonder she’s made a living out of the L-word.

Some things never change

The new LG commercial (and fridge) showcases a slick looking LCD screen on the door. The smart people at ‘Life’s good’ technology decided to make it better by combining man’s two greatest obsessions – they put a TV on a fridge. Now, it was alright when writers replaced overflowing pages of illegible hand with the sleek and shiny laptop, when office-goers traded the ageing leather of an overstuffed organizer for the fancy blackberry or even when graphite encroached upon wood in tennis. Let me tell you why this is a bad idea -- imagine a celluloid screen in your favorite kitchen corner that projects family pictures with power-point acumen, flashes thunderstorm warnings at whim and taunts you with to-do and shopping lists. The reason I have a fridge is cos I can store food in it and the reason I have stuff flailing all over it is cos I can; I don’t need it to tell me what emotion I am feeling today and you think someone actually reads the dog-eared clip from a bygone era? Besides, I have a perfectly good celluloid screen in the living room that I sit glued to about 4 hours a day, thank you very much.

The ad ends with a kid’s coloring page that continues to dominate the door. Some things never change. Kudos, LG you got that right. Now you might as well pry out your smug little screen and put in a more fridge-friendly piece of equipment – a cork board perhaps? I sure could do without antimagnetic magnets...

Is your world faceless?

As happens every once a while, the New York Times corroborates my views about a year after I air them (they should just give me a job and save themselves further embarrassment).

A couple years ago at a Matrix theme party (aka dressed in black) my friends were appalled at my inability to distinguish between two supposedly distinct characters that appear in the series. On the face of it, it doesn’t seem ridiculous, but couple it with the fact that I call myself a die-hard Matrix enthusiast, have watched the original movie (like any bonafide Matrix-phile, I abhor the sequels vehemently) a few dozen times and could quite rightly name the many Renaissance philosophers that set the stage for the Nebuchadnezzar. So, in the battle of names vs. faces, for me, the name inevitably wins. Apparently, I am not alone -- there is a whole group of people in the world that can be characterized as “facially blind” (not surprisingly, the same people that cannot identify a face also tend to get lost on the street – it’s all about contours, people!)

Stopping just short of excruciating biological detail, this function comes from a region of the brain called the fusiform gyrus which sparks in normal human beings but remains surprisingly inactive in the visage-blind. Simply put, the latter make up for this deficit by kicking another portion of the brain into overdrive – one that records characteristics consciously -- ‘mild goatee, large nose, striped shirt blah blah’ – as opposed to those that intuitively remember.

So, if I spend my TV watching hours sticking to sitcoms with an upper limit of six recurring characters or talk-shows where names come stapled to the bottom of every face, there’s a freaking good reason for that. Law and Order with its multitude of faces, places and scenarios throws my fusiform gyrus completely out of whack.... I also have to note that I’m not just literally face-blind. Appearances rarely, if ever, matter to me (and that’s saying a lot, cos just about everything matters to me!) Maybe I don’t see because I don’t care or I don’t care because I don’t see?
I speak for my kind, of course.