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.

The Empress's New Clothes

If no one else dares to say it, I will - Angelina Jolie can't act. She is a one-role wonder who won an Oscar for playing herself and nothing underscores this better than Lara Croft, The (godhelpus) Changeling and now The Tourist.
Why was Tourist even made? What was the story it had to tell that we have not been told a dozen times already? We knew from the opening scene who Johnny Depp was and we understand why Captain Sparrow could not turn the role down – who can refuse this woman whose fame is bigger than she is? Of course take Mr Pitt out of the picture and it would be halved but that's neither here nor there. The only thing The Tourist did was pay homage to Ms Jolie's admittedly mesmerising beauty. Her face is unsurpassable and her fashion exquisite. From the fur and gold accessories to the cinched-waist ensembles topped with the abundant hair extensions, we could have asked for nothing more – visually. But as when she moaned 'I want my son, I want my son' until we cringed with embarrassment in our seats during The Changeling, watch her move down Europe's hallowed streets as though a mannequin had come to life and you will simply shake your head in wonder. What was the director thinking? No spy would actually hip-sway down public roads with her nose in the air. And when she enters a ball, the world stops and stares as though Liz Taylor, Charlize Theron and Doutzen Kroes never existed.
But there is another reason to watch Tourist and that's Depp's continuing comic genius. Buongiorno, says the Italian receptionist and the foreign languages-impaired American says, Yes, yes, Bonjovi and hurriedly tries to say that men with 'pistoleros' were coming to get him, to which the receptionist replies, Sir, your Spanish is excellent. The Yankee doesn't know the difference, of course. The joke carries on when he tells an Italian cop, Gracias instead of Grazie and the cop says De Nada. I laughed till the tears rolled down my cheeks but alas, some were tears of pain that there are no men of courage out there who will simply say No to Ms Jolie's further skewering of the public sensibility through her so-called acting skills.
I'm sure she knows the truth, too, since she has now taken to directing.

Dear H, a love letter

In the secret life I live, by which I don't mean I indulge in S&M, unless that stands for Smarties and Mars bars, I fall in love every so often. An enduring relationship has been with Horatio Caine of CSI Miami, because the world I've created, in the hushed interiors of my room, revolves around television, and books.
I was into H from the first; that sideways stance, the low voice, that baby face with the old eyes, the dark suit and the necessity of addressing everyone as Mr and Ma'am and Son. Well, others have gravitated to the same alluring forces that gather in H because the show has surpassed the original CSI, even though they have given H the worst one-liners ever to leave a beloved character's lips. Despite that, he has become the man all eyes turn to, a hero of heroes, so full of virtue that a man will commit a crime in the city H lives in because he knows Lt Caine will uncover the truth in what he has done, and justice will be served.
In the end, that is the reason for CSI Miami's ridiculous popularity. At a time when media personalities have revealed the venality of their famous personas in the most embarrassing revelations, I turn to Horatio to stand as a beacon for what is right. Lose that sense and you lose it all. You can be an editor in India today because you know the right people, or you can be a politician because you paid the right people, or you can run a business because you destroyed the right people (by which I mean all the wrong people, of course), but erase your soul and you erase the only thing you can take with you.
So when I'm promised a Horatious November on Fox Crime all I can say is here, Jim Morrison, are the feasts we were promised.

The pity of it all

In Hitch-22, which I just finished reading, Christopher Hitchens uses the title here to refer to the German-Jewish relationship. To me, considering his physical suffering at the moment, it refers to a personal journey no one should have to undertake. I can't really think of philosophy and existentialism and geo-politics when every page of this memoir is tainted with the author's mortality in such an ironic way, a way he no doubt appreciates better than his reader: Memoir as swan song. Nobody wants one so near the other.
I can't watch CH's interview with Anderson Cooper (who has had his own share of tragedy yet manages to enquire about CH's health in an awful monotone) because it is not pity I am moved to, it is rage. And I want to know why CH hasn't shaved his head, and looks instead as though he has seen death approaching and it has a capital D unlike the god in his indictment on religion. god is Not Great is more readable, by the way, than this almost dried-out dissertation on a life well-lived; it reads like a political treatise rather than a riveting understanding of a man widely reviled and admired; what an opportunity squandered when it is after all in his own words.
But of course, it reads. You get a first-hand understanding of Salman Rushdie, Martin Amis and Edward Said among others, (but the tone is awed, much like Oprah who remains star-struck even though she is a star herself), and you do get a fairly accurate, If Sahara-like, insight into the mind of their mutual, sorry, common friend, but it is laced with the pauses that hint of moist if not downright juicy bits being in the stuff left out. It is not the houses we wanted to know about, Hitch, it is "the spaces between the houses".
But still, nothing CH writes is without merit so it will be part of my library. If there only had been a god, I could have kept space for more of his work.