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?