Bedside reading, December

Best bit from Decline and Fall so far: "I don't believe that people would ever fall in love or want to be married if they hadn't been told about it. It's like abroad: no one would want to go there if they hadn't been told it existed."

....goodnight, sweet prince

There has only been one other public figure who moved me with their passing and that was Princess Diana. Hitch would have laughed me out of the room, putting them together. How could I have hoped to explain myself - he would have had the last, sword-swinging word. The iconic piece he wrote below, his last, (what an amazing self-obit), leaves the rest of us with nothing more to say. No man that I have heard about in my time died so courageously, so, as was his wont, intellectually. What is happening that the lights of this world are being so ruthlessly snuffed? How do we go on in the darkening way?

http://www.vanityfair.com/culture/2012/01/hitchens-201201

Chris Hitchens still has his voice

http://www.vanityfair.com/culture/features/2011/06/christopher-hitchens-unspoken-truths-201106?mbid=ob_ppc_22

Only a writer can make his emperor of maladies mere grist for the literary mill. Hitchens has proven he has no need for a trumped-up God, and his courage in the face of life's ultimate betrayal, his eloquent courage, is enough to see me through my day.

Words are so mighty, just read the poetry he quotes here:

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
—T. S. Eliot, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock.”

They told me, Heraclitus; they told me you were dead.
They brought me bitter news to hear, and bitter tears to shed.
I wept when I remembered how often you and I

Had tired the sun with talking, and sent him down the sky.

Or even his own:

"One can become quite used to the specter of the eternal Footman, like some lethal old bore lurking in the hallway at the end of the evening, hoping for the chance to have a word."

This is why everything from Stacia Kane to JP Donleavy keeps me snug in bed in the still of night, happy as only good writing can make me. Knowing that the world matters less than the world of the mind is something else I thank Hitch for reinforcing.

Forgive the maudlin tone but sweet prince, I hope we never have to bid you good night.

Bath&Body really works

I mean, come on, raspberry and vanilla? I could eat that!

Best of Britney

....the bottle and fragrance for Curious. Light and fresh and mood-building.

Where's the X Factor, USA?

So Stacy Francis learned that screaming is not enough even if you have a big voice, but I think her so-called mentor had much to do with her slip-up. To me, the biggest embarrassment has been Melanie Amaro. What was with that other person who possessed her recently to the extent that she was speaking in tongues? Yes, yes, it's all about her origins blahdeblah but was I the only one who thought she had slipped round the bend? And if there's one thing calculated to lose my vote, it's people who thank God ad nauseam for their wonderful lives. Forget the ones leading miserable lives; I wonder who They are supposed to thank. Amaro can sing but she's a damn bore. She ain't got no X Factor.

Meanwhile, my man Josh K has taken a leading role, I'm happy to report. Drew is his biggest competitor. And I like Astro, his ego at least is on par with his talent.

However, I must draw the line at Simon Cowell saying Lakoda Rayne, the least talented but best-looking group in the whole competition, was fabulous. Does he need a hearing aid? Sometimes he speaks like a politician, giving lip-service to public sentiment. Even when the public is an ass.

PS. Isn't Steve Jones hawt?!

Real Steel

That's what 11-yr-old Dakota Goyo has got. In a fun, action movie that sucks in the viewer to the extent that we are screaming along with the crowd at fights, Goyo is the catalyst to much of our response, although he has help. Hugh Jackman has never slipped in front of the camera, whether he's playing Wolverine, Nicole Kidman's brawny lover in Australia or hell, even hosting the Oscars. So Goyo was learning from the best, if he needed to. But here's my forecast: The kid's going to be a major player in Hollywood. He's got the emotion and vulnerability that will make every viewer his biggest fan.

PS. Robots this slick almost overwhelm the human actors. Much like the simian in Rise of the Planet of the Apes.

Zara opens with a bang (but here's a whisper)

When Zara opened in Bangalore, there was not a single crimp in any fashionista's hair (so yesterday). I had been feeling a tad low myself since I lead a solitary life and talking in your own head does begin to pall after a bit. I usually submerge my angst with shopping, as people do, but it's hard to sublimate when you live in a small town. You know what that means: You end by dressing in what you can get, not what defines you. So there hang the drab tunics and unflattering shirts, the maxis that do nothing for your height, the jeans that make you look like you're competing with a tree trunk...you get the picture.

As I walked through Zara at Phoenix Mall which is slap-bang in the middle of nowhere, I did wonder why the law of location, location etc had not impinged on the developers. Nonetheless, I felt like a line from Jerry Maguire, of the 'You complete me' variety, on sighting a veritable fashion wonderland. Roomy totes, striped Tees, cigarette pants with outer zipper details, suede pumps, snakeskin-print shirts, hats which remind you of Faye Dunaway....had I died and gone to live in Kate Moss' wardrobe or what. But hang on, why didn't they have sizes in the half-dozen outfits I wanted? And where was the red and black booties and block-colour Tees I saw on the Zara India site? Oh no, the horrible truth dawned. It was Zara India, not Zara Bangalore they were advertising. Talk about a shock to the system. Obviously, the stocks are in Delhi and Bombay and if you spent one hour to reach Phoenix Mall as I did, do follow the Girl Guide motto: Be Prepared. The heartbreak will be so much less.

Well, never let it be said that I let the details stand in my way. I bought the snakeskin-print shirt and a pair of delectable pink ballerinas with diamante bows. I had to. As a kindred soul sitting thousands of miles away said in her scrumptious blog Fashion Foie Gras, next to a photo of an admittedly divine zebra-print skirt:

“If I don't own this skirt next season I won't be able to continue on with life!”

JR Ward losing the plot?

On things JR Ward: There is no other paranormal writer who compares to her, this is a given. Smexy books have given her a category of her own on their site, which says it all. But is it me or does her self-promotion grate? If you follow her FB page, you'll see what I mean.

Moderators regularly cut comments and we are given the impression that's because some of the comments don't uniformly praise Ward – what is this, Soviet Russia in the 60s? If you read her ghastly Fallen Angels books, you'll see why praise cannot be uniform. But the BDB books – whoa. So she's completed the manuscript of the latest one, Lover Reborn, and she tells us how her editor missed FOUR subway stops because she was so caught up in the story. Jessica, Jessica, ever heard of preaching to the choir? Hon, we would buy the BDB novels even if you were, like John Matthew in Lover Mine, quite mute.

I Belong to Terrible

This is really the time of the non-hero in the non-conventional sense. We're sick and tired of charming, suave, handsome men who are captains of industry – that whole scenario has been relegated to the shame cupboard that is known as the Cliche. Now, the man who twists our hearts until not a drop of air remains is....Terrible. Yes, the only dross about him is the name, but everything else is pure, solid gold.

Terrible is the believable hero of Stacia Kane's Downside books, the holy triumvirate aka Unholy Ghosts, Unholy Magic and City of Ghosts. There is another holy T, made up of our heroine Chess Putnam, junkie and witch, a pusher's top henchman Terrible, and Terrible's rival in love and war, Lex. Or as the incomparable JR Ward would have Chess say about Lex, the Chinese gang member who hops in and out of Chess' bed: “He's my lover...not the love of my life.”

Kane's world is shockingly attractive, God knows why. Chess is a product of abuse, as is Terrible, their lives are violent, they are part of an unpredictable underworld where the prospect of Tomorrow may be a dream, and yet you can't get enough. Kane's people are people you learn to like; for me, Terrible, I'm sorry to say, is my ideal man. He is smart, loyal, powerful, has a sense of humour, and has your back. When he falls in love, he falls all the way. The cherry on top of the chocolate fudge? He can hold a conversation – of course a man like this would have to be fictional.

But I admire Kane's imagination and the fact that she can make a love scene indelible. What more can you ask for as a reader, really?

The show with an X Factor

You may laugh, but Adam Lambert is single-handedly responsible for the slow freefall that is American Idol today. The day he lost – although winning Idol is meaningless in terms of success for contestants, Daughtry is a star and Kris Allen sank back into the primordial swamp from which he emerged – the mere fact that such a phenomenal performer could lose was enough for many to see the writing on the wall.

I believe Simon Cowell was one of them. He quit, Paula quit and now they have resurfaced in The X Factor, USA. Anyone watching the show on AXN every Wednesday will be taken aback at a number of things. First, Simon is totally different here. He's relaxed, funny and actually gives a shit about the people on the show; he's not even cruel for cruelty's sake but keeps his signature sarcasm knowing we would be lost without it. (Like asking a mother-daughter duo from Mars which one was the mother. Well, we were all wondering!)

Even Paula is cool, self-deprecating and less likely to take the slow train when delivering judgement. LA Reid is, in my book, shockingly attractive and clued-in, but I draw the line at Nicole S. She looks dazed and confused and seems to be somewhat jittery to be the cynosure of all eyes – and this from a Pussycat Doll. She's the Kara DioGuardi of X Factor, ie. she may have talent herself but there's something about her that we just don't like. OK, not something. Kara was pushy while Nicole seems witless – and maybe she could stop weeping whenever she has to deliver bad news to a wannabe? It's not about you, hon.

The show, meanwhile, has so much more energy and humanity than Idol. It is bursting with real talent. And yummy host Steve Jones is percolating with feeling as he hugs and laughs and listens to the performers. I am a staunch Seacrest fan, but I must admit Ryan lacks some warmth. His dismissal of Daughtry is still seared in my brain; we know he didn't mean to be callous and just wanted to get on with the show but you cannot make a slip on reality TV simply because the public tends to recall it at inopportune moments – like when a rival host appears on the horizon.

The ones to watch on X Factor:

Josh K. He came onstage looking like he once modelled for Perry Ellis' infamous grunge look (for which Marc Jacobs got infamously fired). No one was impressed. Then he sang two words of the song At Last and the audience roared to their feet. He's 2011's Joe Cocker, down to the way he leans back and looks like he's having a spasm when he gets the rawest of his notes out there. Dude's got the X Factor.

Brennin Hunt. Hilarious. The model came swaggering into the room talking about how he was the 'whole package' and XF editors had the song “I'm sexy and I know it” playing the whole time. But when he opened his mouth, boy could sing. Simon immediately got a glint in his eye; he knew he would have to do no marketing for Beautiful Brennen, guy practically sells himself. I keep him on the list although he hasn't made it to the finals because I don't believe we've heard the last of Mr Sexy.

Stacy Francis. An unforgettable voice and likely to win.

Chris Rene. Real talent, easy on the eye, humble, whose Young Homie is being sung in homes as we speak.

But remember how David Cook came out of nowhere on Idol? To win 5 million big ones, the fight might just be about to get down and dirty.

Point to Note:

Biggest judges' blunders: Keeping Dexter something-or-other who seems like a clown with a Jagger complex and chucking Caitlin Koch. What th' ?

I thought Google was God?

Not so. It's Gaultier. Anyone who saw his Couture Fall/ Winter 2011-2012 collection would have sighed and put the back of her hand to her forehead in a I-feel-faint kind of way. The clean, militaristic lines worn by the divine Karlie Kloss and the blood-red-collared leather coat paired with sheer red tights and bandage platforms were sights to thrill any fashionista. Then of course came a furred, tiered coat-dress teamed with a delicate crinoline skirt that screamed If-you-dare, - the kind of challenge I don't see anyone meeting, though. Bold fashionistas are as rare as good editors. But still, what delectable designs.

Kloss, by the way, has taken over from Gisele Bundchen as having the most amazing runway swagger. Close runner-ups? Daria Werbowy and another KK, Karolina Kurkova.

http://en.flip-zone.com/fashion/couture-1/fashion-houses/jean-paul-gaultier-2288

Missing Holden

How an older woman can write from the viewpoint of a 16-year-old boy is an exercise in enchantment sometimes. The story here is about discovering you have a terminal ailment and having parents who don't believe in allopathic medicine and falling in love at perhaps the best and worst time of your life. There are moments when the boy seems preternaturally wise but then that may have something to do with the fact that he's dying. In any case, using the parallel of Salinger's Holden Caulfield as a Holy Grail works well and I finished the book in one sitting. I love the fact that Salinger wrote and wrote for the rest of his life and refused to publish saying he was writing for himself (who else do we write for), and somehow that was at the back of my mind when going through Catcher, Caught (great title). Perhaps because the loneliness inherent in it was echoed in Daniel Landon, boy wonder for not very long. Also, some of us never really age in our heads, do we. That's a good thing when reading work like this when you need to understand youth, passion and waste.

MY KIND OF THREESOME

A visual representation of perfect joy this September....

Next Big Thing: Jason Momoa

You may have noticed him in that horrendous show Baywatch Hawaii but it's only with HBO's TV series Game of Thrones that you think Whoa Momoa. When the camera shows him in his first scene, looking at his future wife with contempt, arrogance and a flicker of desire, you know instantly that the Actor has arrived. Now if only Hollywood won't typecast and worry because he's not like Tom Cruise (omg, like anyone wants another megalomaniac and religious nut like Cruise?! The fact that he's a good actor is secondary, I no longer want to see his movies and that's the point, isn't it?), I can tell you where he will make a bigger mark than he does in Conan the Barbarian: the movie version of JR Ward's Black Dagger Brotherhood.

Been reading GoT and I gotta say it's interesting, wonderfully imaginative and well-written but George does tend to go on a bit, doesn't he. I need some kind of closure after I finish a tome, and if you're just going to keep carrying on like a lush at a cocktail party.....

Of course, Jason's allure is only enhanced when you know he's married to the stunning, other-worldly Lisa Bonet and that he has two babies. How sweet is that.

PS. That's Sean Bean on the book cover there and I was rather thrilled to hear he was recently in a bar brawl where he was defending a woman's honour. (Not so thrilled to read that the same woman had once filed charges against HIM for assault. What the what?!) But what I really like about Sean is that he once said he wasn't into the pap and party circus because he couldn't imagine that that was it, that was as high as you could reach. There has to be more, really there does.

Reminds me of Anderson Cooper's chilling account of his brother's suicide, when the boy asked his mother "Will I ever feel again?" before flinging himself off a balcony in front of her eyes. That's a question we must never ask ourselves - or the pavement would be littered, wouldn't it.

In love with a Zsadist

So ok, I'm in love, a couple of times over. Recently, I received a treasure trove from Flipkart and gloated over it for a week before I started reading. While I began with the delicious Kresley Cole, I became immersed in JR Ward's books before I knew what had hit me, and it's been like a drug ever since. The last time I felt so excited and light as air was when I read Ignatius' story in A Confederacy of Dunces, and since the author offed himself right after he wrote that, I was denied any further fixes.

But Ward never stops; she is, of course, one of the lucky ones who found her calling and as any writer of worth (haha, inside joke) knows, the story tells itself. But the author's sensibilities is the crucible it must go through and lor' luv 'er, Jessica knows what matters in this world and sinks herself deep into love, loyalty, the pain that forges character, loss and courage. The thing, though, is this: Each is doled out with such a level of intensity that the reader is thrilled to the toes. You know, that's what matters in daily life, not what you do but how deeply you feel. Cutting roses for a bouquet? You better feel the petals and inhale the fragrance and poke at the soil and admire your stretch of garden and imagine the way the arrangement will play out on the wooden table in the kitchen. You thought you could just cut and run? Sure you can, if you're brain-dead.

It's the same with friendships. You just want to hang with people you don't really give a damn about and listen to them warble about their kids and their job and the game Saturday night but at least, hey, you aren't alone? They are a waste of space and you are wasting your time. Instead, get into a band of brothers who fight the good fight and fall in love with all the lightheartedness of a boulder. You will have a favourite and his name will be Zsadist, with his inner core of sweet and an outer layer of pure intimidation. It's his suffering that calls out to you, though, and the way he deals with it, like a man. Your next favourite will be V, short for Vishous. Goatee, light eyes, smart and sexy as hell. Then there's Rehv whose screaming masculinity and absolute power comes close to, I don't know, mainlining H? He's also got purple eyes.

And then it's, surprise, surprise, the gay boys Qhuinn and Blay. Now I have no particular interest in the gay scene but after reading the conversations between Q and B, I want a whole book dedicated to them. They are so cool, so strong, so in love, so honourable. Ward, I'm sorry to report, has said she might do a novella because she has to keep her (straight) fan base in mind.

I also draw the line at the very wimpy female characters who hum and haw their way through these warriors' lives, but I especially dislike Jane, V's chosen. I hear Ward was not satisfied with V's story either and I can tell her why: Jane is just not the right mix for him, even though Ward has made her almost masculine keeping V's tastes in mind (subtle touch, LOVE his relationship with Butch). I like Rhage, Wrath, Beth, Butch, John and Bella, and I can tell Ward does, too. She, and the reader, don't much care for Phury, though. He's just too damn needy is what it is.

One point of embarrassment: awful proofing in the BDB books and Ward doesn't seem to know the difference between wretched and retched and on http://www.lovevampires.com/jrward.html, she seems to think roll means role (unless that's the interviewer's problem).....what the what?!

But honestly, if these books aren't made into movies it would be a crying shame.

Big Bang BS

The Big Bang Theory is one of my favourite shows, but the racist 'jokes' are getting a little tired. Poor Koothrappali has to utter fatuous lines like 'My parents are very wealthy, we have lots of servants....we don't believe our poor should have dreams' etc. No one even laughs at these bits, admittedly they are not funny, but if I have to start cringing BEFORE the Indian jokes finish, the writers are doing something off. As I recall, Raj has mentioned Untouchables, India's millions, poverty and Bollywood, too, ad nauseam. We must be really easy targets.

Having said that, the Jewish mother is just as big a stereotype - but at least she IS funny.

Free your mind, and John Galliano

There isn't a single individual I've spoken to who hasn't slammed Galliano for his recent rant, but if you stop and think (a lonely road, of course, but necessary), how many of us have lost our tempers and said the most vicious things without meaning a damn word? That would be all of us, I'm guessing, so let's take the lonely road for a minute.

Madonna once admitted courageously that when the world turned its back on MJ, she did, too, and regretted it. Obviously, no one has learned anything. I waited with bated breath for one voice to defend the man (not some sotto voce comments from the suddenly timid fashion crowd) whose genius has been lapped up for years, but just ended up going blue in the face. What a world. Governments can kill political/ideological opponents and get away with murder, literally, but you can't get drunk and freak out for a few minutes. No, because then they will call you anti-Jewish (in the first world, you can be anti-Muslim but not anti-Jewish) and the French (the French!) will slap a court case on you for being racist.

What is John supposed to plead now? That some of his best friends are Jews? Or, like that idiot Tracy Morgan, take classes and meet gay (substitute any word you want here) people to 'understand' them better? Morgan of course did this after an attempt to be funny by saying he would hate his son to talk in a 'gay voice'? (See? Not funny. But I dare one parent to come out and say they would like their child to be homosexual, knowing that child will then suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous youknowhat for the rest of his/her life.)

It's rumoured that Kate Moss will wear Galliano for her wedding today, and although she may do it remembering her own fall from grace a few years ago and how all the rats deserted her sinking ship then, my faith in humankind will be somewhat restored.

Still, what we suspected for years is now clear to all: In countries where freedom of speech is tom-tommed as if the Holy Grail has just been discovered, it is other people who will decide whether you have that freedom or not.

As for all those suits who made private jets and yachts and trophy blondes out of Galliano's work, meanwhile, and dropped him like he had the bubonic plague? They would do well to remember the old saying: Karma is a bitch.

Amitav Ghosh and the wrong Nobel

The writer was in Bangalore recently for the launch of his new book Smoke on the Water, or was it Waves in the Wind, ok, ok, it's River of Smoke, the second in his trilogy of books set in the 19^th century (surely he should move with the times?) where he talks about great human migrations against a backdrop of the opium trade. Shobha De was also in town and had said in a talk the same day that she thought Ghosh would one day win the Nobel. It certainly won't be for Pronunciation. It is not, I repeat not, non-ka-lunce, Mr Ghosh, but, now say it after me, non-sha-lonce.

Oh, dear, it was all nearly as depressing as hearing chef Bobby Chinn lauding some great 'restauranteur' on his TLC show World Cafe Asia.

Loved the questions from the Bangalore audience, though. One young boy asked how Ghosh kept the sense of his characters since his books came so many years apart, another that the real question on everyone's mind was: What was Ghosh's own opium experience?

The author's responses were clever. Writing a trilogy kept his memory strong and was a great strategy against Alzheimer's, he said, and we all have had opiate experiences - from taking cough medicine to coming out of anaesthesia and feeling euphoric.

The clincher though was when a woman said one review of River of Smoke mentioned the use of a lot of terms that she couldn't understand herself, that were incomprehensible and funny, (possibly this: http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/8559117/River-of-Smoke-by-Amitav-Ghosh-review.html )Ghosh replied that if she found it funny then it must not have been too incomprehensible. I fear the lady meant funny as in odd, but you can't deny the author's handling was masterly.

Ghosh saying he kept reviews at bay was a tad disingenuous, however. So he's writing for himself? He doesn't need to know what other people think of the books they're paying good money to buy and read? Sorry, we'll only take that from JD Salinger.

Dig this Daisy chain

Marc Jacobs makes some of the ugliest clothes on the planet, (what's with that peacock-shade lame with an oriental twist he's got going recently?) but he knows his fragrances. Daisy is best-selling for a reason, creating a worldwide daisy chain of success, because it evokes sunny days lying on the grass and in the distance seeing the love of your life walking towards you. Daisy is sharp, sweet and memorable, both innocent and worldly. Almost as dreamy as Ed Hardy's Love & Luck with its coconut and lemon zest.

How important is fragrance, really? Let me just say this: While women love their lotions and potions because it makes them feel special, nothing is a bigger turn-on than their men smelling sensational, too. It's like drawing a map that leads a woman straight into bed, all without saying a word. Sex without conversation as a precursor? That's like having all your Christmases coming early.

Footnote: Speaking of Ed Hardy, how cool is this bag that I got for free with the Ed Hardy fragrance.

Ballooning in Cappadocia's alien landscape, Turkey

James Franco v Leo DiCaprio

I used to like James Franco when he was fresh, and not so jaded that he could be self-indulgent to the point of gazing vacantly into the distance as he hosted the Oscars. At least Anne Hathaway appeared passionate and grateful in her ditziness, and she has a much greater body of work than Franco does. But since he's taken up writing, could this explain his sudden arrogance? Is he going the way of Ethan Hawke? Who can say. But it is always unnerving when people you admire falter before the finish line.
Movies, in any case, are back in the limelight after a few desultory years. With True Grit, The Fighter and King's Speech, I am one happy camper.
My mind is on Leo DiCaprio, though - my hero. There is nothing about him I don't like. The fact that he dates supermodels (a bit tongue-in-cheek I've always thought) and doesn't marry; that he shuns award ceremonies but when he does arrive he handles himself with grace; that he, reportedly, fools about on set until the word Action! is spoken and then it's like a curtain has fallen and he is instantly the character he's playing...there is no movie he's ever been in that was not utterly watchable. People admire and respect him and yet he retains his mystique, and year after year there is one amazing movie after another. How does he do it? Maybe we should ask Franco to research the boy wonder and tell us – and learn a thing or two while he's at it.
Of course the reason he doesn't go to award shows is because they often have no integrity. Imagine not giving DiCaprio the Oscar for Aviator? Or not acknowledging him in Catch Me if You Can or Basketball Diaries or Shutter Island or Inception. (And ignoring directors like Scorsese and women directors like Streisand for Decades.)
The Academy for Motion Pictures gang is made up of people whom you have to pucker up to, and if you don't, well, there will be no golden boy for golden boys.

Why Charlie needs to get out more

That's what he blames his current descent into mental disequilibrium on. And I thought to myself, much as I like him (and this is the reason they used to call him Teflon Charlie), I have the solution to his woes. I think his father should hire a private jet to pick him up from his palatial home and take him to Somalia where he should be left in a refugee camp for, oh, 24 hours should just about do it. Pick him up and when he arrives shell-shocked and catatonic back in America, leave him for another 24 hours and he should be ready to take up his extraordinary life once again.
Because that, really, is the secret to life, the answer to Why are we here? What is the purpose of our existence? Does any of it matter? You know, those daft questions white people ask themselves and their gurus in ashrams. The answer is that life is extraordinary. Just look out the window, or consider your day spent lounging in a Parisian cafe, reading a book in the window-seat of your home, working as a graphic novelist, or eating pigeon pie in Marrakesh. Oh, Charlie, you need to get out more. Somalia awaits.