Watch and Learn

Snake Anthony is dropping the hammer, bringing the thunder, people. Right now.

The Hottest State

Spurred on by an old blogging buddy's recent message to me 'Is Snake Anthony on blog-aiatus?', I thought to myself - Is she? She's certainly active in my head, collecting absurdities and cleverly putting them into groups. It's what she does best and yet when We Are Rolling opens, the last post was more than a year ago. We need to do something about this, Snake Anthony, I said.

Hot is one of my most frequently used words. Anyone will tell you that. I even said something about it once. Yes, I am really that shallow. But I always promised I would be honest, right? The boy I referred to in that post turned out to be less than Hot, leaving me to scour the world for whatever little bits of Hot I could lay my hands on (it's a figure of speech; I wouldn't get too excited if I were you).

But Hot is dynamic. Hot is varied. And Hot, in fact, has very little to do with how snugly you fit into your jeans. See, this line of thought is clearly a topic close to my heart though this piece was written before I realised that what I thought was Sexy is really Hot. Even Snake Anthony can muddle her concepts sometimes. A quick word on the difference before we proceed: Sexy is physical. Hot is all in the mind. A chiseled body is Sexy but the discipline and rigour that goes into sculpting that body - that is Hot. You see?

Indulge me while I explain the Hot phenomenon simply - Hot is what gets your breath a little angular, what makes the corners of your lips curl ever so slightly the right way. Don't look confused; you know precisely how it works. You've just never put a name to it. And maybe that's because it was so fleeting. You'd expect Hot to be a whole breathing, writhing, living individual. Oh no, far from it. Hot consists of fragments that you, yes you, are expected to assemble. Seriously, no one is going to do your dirty work for you.

Allow me to illustrate. A recent addition to my List of Hot is The Orphan. I'm referring to the Jungian Archetype. Those is doubt, click here. True, The Orphan isn't the sort who'd top anyone's list and I'm not sure the boy in question would be flattered if he were to read this but I genuinely adore that he's so... unpretentious? I realise I'm probably too biased right now to be clinical in the way that I describe him but the point I am trying to make is that a quiet assurance has an endearing warmth that even the most charming man cannot outdo with words. And in my time, I've been at the receiving end of plenty of those. Stop it, boys. It no longer works.

So, Self Awareness trumps Confidence. Your knowing that you have two left feet makes you a much more attractive partner on the dance floor. Sincerity. Well, I cannot emphasise how powerful sincerity is. And I don't mean stretching yourself beyond what you can handle. I merely mean committing to the scene. Define your role, however large or small and stick with it. Exit the stage when the time comes and do it in style. Neat. Clean. Clear cut.

Be(have) human. I know that my careless smile in someone else's direction put a spear through your soul so don't play tough and make things complex. Tell me. Tell someone. Tell anyone. The world looks far more beautiful when your insecurities are collected in a pile for me to sift through rather than when you strew them around the place.

And Efficiency pretty much beats any quality there is. Knowing the smartest way to get something done - that endless spreadsheet at work, an itinerary for a trip around the world in 80 days or handling a tricky social situation - reflects a deft mind. And well, let's face it, a deft mind is pretty much the Hottest State to find you in.

So in the absence of all these features being available in one single product, I can explain how to derive joy in your life by experiencing them in fragments. Though, of course, I encourage you all to continue your quest for the one individual out of whose behind you think the sun shines, along side using this DIY kit I've put together for you.

The Hottest State DIY Kit:

1. Get ahold of music that pumps you up, that makes you feel invincible, that gives you hope.

2. Play it on your ipod or on your car stereo as often as possible so you start feeling it in your veins.

3. Clear your mind of expectations and look around you at your workplace, at your school, at the next table when you're having drinks on Friday night. Even at the supermarket.

4. Soon you will find yourself noticing a perfect smile on the most unlikely face or sniffing the scent of Issey Miyake as someone you meet everyone leans over to change a presentation slide or being struck by the stormy aggression of someone who didn't like being cut off on the road by another car. Whatever works for you. As long as you follow Steps 1 & 2 & 3 well, these will come to you organically.

5. Put all these pieces in one place in your mind. Think about them at your leisure.

Go on. Try it. You know you want to.

The Difference

I'll tell you the difference between Bangalore and Mumbai.

Get into a rundown auto in Bangalore. Oh wait, the auto guy won't let you get in his rundown auto. He won't tell you why either. He'll tell you he's going in a different direction and continue to proceed in the same direction you need to go. About seven autos later, some auto guy will agree to take you. But, in the bright daylight, he insists on a one-and-a-half rate. You are bewildered. It is noon. You flag down your nth auto. This guy agrees provided you gift him another ten rupees. You are late so you agree. It does not matter how fast you need to go, the auto guy will drive at his own pace.

You might reach your destination.

Mumbai. It is 0740 hours. You are in Mahim and late for your 0845 flight. The first cab you wave at comes to a prompt halt. You hop in. 'Boss, airport. Kitna time lagega?' you ask with a look of worry.

He turns around with a swagger characteristic of a seasoned Mumbai cabbie and asks nonchalantly, 'Kitna jaldi jaana hai?'

Snake Anthony and the Mechanic

Snake Anthony went to the mechanic the other day to get her headlight and bumper changed. The mechanic opened the car bonnet to examine the engine. It looked like a regular engine, convoluted and dusty. But it had tiny little paw marks all over in the dust. These are rat paw marks, the mechanic remarked.

Snake Anthony, shrieking: What?! How did a rat get in my engine?!

Mechanic, pensively: Well, do you have a garden?

Snake Anthony: Yes, I do.

Mechanic: Hmmm... that's where it is from.

Snake Anthony: Err.. that's great. But what do I do now? I can't put rat poison in my garden. I have a dog. And what if the rat starts chewing my wires?! Then I am screwed! What do I do?

Mechanic, leaning forward: Here's the thing... the rat has messed with you, right?

Snake Anthony, also leaning forward: Right.

Mechanic: So now you have to mess with the rat! Iska dimaag ghuma dena hai (you need to turn the rat's brain around). Wonder how?

Snake Anthony: How?

Mechanic: How do you park your car?

Snake Anthony: What do you mean, how do I park my car? I drive into my driveway and park it.

Mechanic: Aha! Now this evening you need to REVERSE park it! So when the rat wants to chill in your engine tonight, he'll find your boot instead! That's how you will mess with the rat's mind.

The Great Wave

This one is for TS who recently told me to ‘Write. Write. Write. My Lovely.’. My apologies that it isn’t a full fledged soul baring entry but you would agree that those are hard to come by on We Are Rolling. So we have one of Snake Anthony’s typical random numbers that inshallah, will lead to greater waves in the coming months.

My mum came to visit me this past week from Singapore. I was very eager to show her my humble abode and the working of my new single and independent life. I was particularly pleased that she was unusually impressed by everything from my meal of oats in the morning to the condition of my car.

However, the décor of my room did not quite catch her fancy:

‘SA, I really don’t like waking up in the morning and looking at the tsunami!’

‘Ma, that is not the tsunami. That’s The Great Wave of Kanagawa, Hokusai’s masterpiece.’

‘I can see that. It’s still the tsunami to me. Take it off.’

‘But, Ma…’

‘It’s freaking me out. Take it off, SA.’

‘Fine.’

Snake Anthony Turns On The Charm

I have had the somewhat peculiar priviledge of having lived long enough in all four corners of the country to be acquainted with, at least superficially, all manner of regional quirks. While I don't claim to be an authority on the subject, it is not unusual to find me vociferously defending the docile ways of a Kannadiga to an aggressive Bihari or explaining the working of trade unions in Kerala to a born and bred Mumbaikar. I've always prided myself on having the ability to appreciate both sides of the story, quietly listening and patiently responding to the sometimes bigotted viewpoints of the other party. But (yes, of course, there is a but), there had to come a day when zealously protecting the jovial ways of Delhi-ites would initially attract severely disapproving glances and finally result in complete dismissal by the friends of the boy I am dating.

We are two hours into a lovely garden party last Sunday evening in namma Bengaluroo. This is, as it were, my official introduction to the inner circle of R's friends. Naturally, I was prepared to be an object of curiosity and I met eager eyes looking my way with a radiant smile and a 'Hi, I'm Snake Anthony, nice to meet you'. (I had been told categorically that my socially inept ways would be frowned upon, especially given R's permanent role as the life of the party.) The evening is progressing well, punctuated by an even number of Mojitos and walks down memory lane (I stayed behind, not knowing the way). It would be a fair assessment to say that R's friends had found me suitably charming and worthy of him by this time.

The DJ, at this point, a restless North Indian youth, unhappy at gazing an empty dance floor, abandons Boney M numbers and turns on Himesh Reshammiya. Conversation stops abruptly and there is a collective look of horror around me. 'Oh god, I hate this Punjabi music', someone remarks.

'Really? I kind of like it' I say immediately, doing my characteristic seated jig. 'I don't know what it is about Punjabi music that really strikes a chord in me...'

R shoots me a look I can't decipher. Oblivious, I continue, 'You know, ever since I studied in Delhi, there is part of me that is Delhi-ite. I resisted it for so long and finally after two years it the culture had seeped into me insidiously. Now when I go back, I feel strangely at home.'

'How long were you there?'

'Not long. About three years.'

'I think North Indians can be so uncivilised... even their music can be...'

'Really? I see what you mean but as community I must say they're the only ones know how to be truly bindaas, you know...'

'Bindaas...?'

'Chilled out. Relaxed. Letting your hair down!' I do some clumsy gestures indicating unselfconsciousness unselfconsciously. 'The North Indians really know how to do it! That's why their music is like this. They really know how live life. Don't you think?'

Only now I begin to notice a distinct level of discomfort around me. Someone gets up to go tell the DJ 'to turn of this rubbish and play some English music' to which Nidhi says with a sideways glance at me, 'Yeah sure but we have a Delhi-ite among us.' I smile confusedly at this comment.

In the car I ask R, 'So, did I make an impression? Did they like me?'

'Yeah, I'm sure they found you nice.'

'Just nice? But I was lovely!'

'Of course you were, baby.' I sense tentativeness in his tone.

'What, is it something I said?'

He sighs. 'Maybe you can keep your North Indianness a little quiet, that's all. Afterall, you actually aren't North India, if you remember.'

'Huh? What, what's wrong with it? So what if I feel North Indian?!'

'Don't worry, baby, we'll work on that...' he says and pats me on the head.

Hot

I see the world in terms of Hot. I have eyes that wander, that glance at you sideways when you aren't looking. Why? Well, because you might just be hot for a split second and I don't want to miss it.

The Downside Of Free Guinness In The Office

I get many perks at work. I get to wear jeans and flats, listen to music and take leisurely lunch breaks. I also get alot of freebies - tickets, electronics, bags (essentially, everything our clients make and we have a whole range of them, and everything our vendors gift us in order to get our business). Quite fun, you say.

Today, Guinness sent us several crates of their draught. Rebecca came by to hand the cans to us. And each of my tank mates (yes, we call the office a tank and yes, we are often referred to as fish) smiled and helped themselves to a few cans, saying, 'I'll take this for my father.'.

Cest la vie. In Singapore.

Everyday Discoveries

• My boss is a Scribbler. Yes, a Scribbler. He called me in for a chat and while he spoke, he unintelligibly noted down everything for my benefit on half a ream of paper.
• DJ Shadow was here in Singapore on August 5th. No, I didn't go. I'm not the most informed person, evidently.
• I can do Excel sheets.

Mid Autumn Night's Dream

Eat moon. Watch cake.

St. Ives

Divine Intervention

What else I am to make of getting turkey curry for dinner tonight after I wrote this the other day? Cooked in coconut, that too.

And I Thought It Was Only A Bird

For a variety of reasons that I will spare you the trauma of reading, I have been finding nodding off to sleep a little hard these past few days. The super student in me refuses to admit exam stress. After all, that how ordinary people feel. Instead, she insists there is some sort of cosmic imbalance in the universe that is refusing to let my brain shut down. But last night, worried, she secretly made me look up tips on inducing sleep. I ignored the usual ideas - brandy, hot milk, waking up early (it was too late for that), etc. - but was rather perturbed by this:

Get up and eat some turkey: Turkey contains tryptophan, a major building block for making serotonin, a neurotransmitter, which sends messages between nerve cells and causes feelings of sleepiness. Note that L-tryptophan doesn't act on the brain unless you eat it on an empty stomach with no protein present, so keep some turkey in the refrigerator for 3 am.

Disturbed, I turned off my laptop. I fell asleep immediately.

'That Was Smooth, SA'

I wonder if by any stretch of the imagination, this could qualify as behaviour caused by 'exam stress'. I was visiting a friend at another student hall this evening. I got into the lift when I was leaving and I noticed a thirty five odd year old looking man with a trendy haircut and a faded leather jacket. He smiled and asked me, 'So, exams over?'

'Not yet.' I replied. 'They only begin Wednesday. You?'

'I'm the warden of this hall.'

'Oh.'

Awkward silence. I rolled my eyes uncomfortably as I do sometimes.

'Err.. well, I don't live here. And actually it's the first time I've been here too.' I justified.

'I often speak to students in the lift.' he said, giving me no indication of what that meant.

So I offered, 'Well, if it makes you feel any better, I don't know who the warden of my hall is. I mean, I know of him but I've never really met him.' I waited for a few seconds but did not think. Instead I continued, 'I've emailed him... once, I think. Yeah, but I don't know what he looks like.'

'Bradley. I know him. Young guy.'

'Like you.' I said immediately. 'I mean, I mistook you for a student, after all.'

Finally, after an eternity the lift doors opened on the ground floor. I fled.

Media Panic

new media paradox Silverstone digerati postnational network community Castells self regulation racism Rantanen broadband Press television Milanovich ethnicity gender value chain analysis technology geopolitical supranational Saussure determinism determinism determinism Mansell Voip open software convergence development society experience inequality IPR audience public sphere web Adorno globalisation Hall Said Foucault media postmodernism Kabeer cosmopolitanism representation Harvey migration Appadurai panic deterritorialisation Bourdieu space placelessness communications Baudrillard time Innis space McLuhan resistance Horkheimer power Tambini Habermas displacement virtual place digital divide information culture political economy production distribution consumer Marx money capital labour qualitative postdevelopmentalism state Stiglitz radio public service broadcasting people individuals choices film analogue switchover

The Relative Humour Value of Exam Questions

Here is a question from P's Roman Law paper:

Six months ago, Julian's slave Castratus was persuaded by Drusus to go with him to a men's club in Rome. Castratus, who had formerly lived a sheltered life, has developed a taste for the entertainment on offer. One night he goes there on his own. He begs Primus and Secundus, two senators, to thrash him. They do so. Castratus returns to Julian's villa, but the wounds from the thrashing are so bad that he is unable to work. Julian calls the doctor, Medicus, who puts a home-made ointment on the wounds. Castratus is allergic to the ointment and dies. Shortly afterwards Primus dies, having made a will in which he left a legacy of a hundred gold pieces to Castratus. Julian, seeing Secundus in the forum, shouts after him that he is a pervert and pelts him with rotten fruit. Some of the fruit misses Secundus and hits Tertius. Discuss.

And here is a question from my Theories and Concepts paper:

Media imperialism is dead. Discuss.

Green Green Sky

The shivers that ran down Axl's spine were far from ordinary. They would start around the back of his neck, trickle across his scrawny shoulder blades and down his poky spine, lingering at his tail bone. All this while playing the bass on stage for Markett, one of the new modern jazz outfit in Kobenhavn.

Today they were doing a nifty improvisation of their signature Green Green Sky and her eyes were, for a change, not glued to her kaleidoscope. Instead she had on her glasses but what Axl couldn't see were her ipod earphones hidden in her long hair. She was listening to Ben Harper's Bring The Funk. She nodded her head rythmically. It was cycle of 16 beats. 1-2-3-Bang. 1-2-3-Bang. 1-2-3-Boom. 1-2-3-Bang.

The Copenhagen Jazzhouse was filled this Saturday evening. Some had spent their day on their boats on the canal. Their linen jackets said as much. Others like her had vaccumed the house, done laundry and filled in a new job application today.

'Thank you all for a lovely evening. We'd like to end with a cover of Jeep on 35... ' said Valentin. The audience made noises of appreciation. Uh-one-two-three-four...

Axl was the Scandanivian father of peace, not Axl Rose, as he often explained to foreigners like her. 'Who would have imagined that!' she had replied nonchalantly last Friday. 'I need a drink.' The shivers had extended to his stringy arms as he handed her a scotch on the rocks. 'Can I tell you a secret? I really don't much care for jazz.' she said, scrunching up her nose. Axl didn't know how to respond. 'It's a little noisy, you see. Nevermind, how come you play bass? I would think it's quite cumbersome. You know, the whole big whale of a thing...' she asked. 'Well, I...' he started to reply but Valentin had swept her away with an I-want-you-to-meet-these-people gesture.

Jeep 35 trudged the terrain of Markett and arrived in style. Scofield would be proud, he hoped. Or at least their fans would be. It was hard being a musician, most certainly. It was hard trying to be something more than ordinary. It was hard handling the shivers when she wouldn't even listen.

Axl watched her from the corner of his eye. She was smiling at Valentin and gave him the thumbs up sign as he walked off stage. He beamed back.

Boys Are Dumb And Get Angered Easily

This afternoon, P and I got in a bit of an argument on the train from Kings Cross to Cambridge. The last few times he has visited me over the weekend, the passengers have had to get off midway, take a bus part of the way due to weekend work and then get back on a train. It has obviously been an annoyance both to him and to me, also because I have never faced this inconvenience on the weekends that I have been to Cambridge.

So we boarded the train. He fished out his lengthy notes on criminal law and I my extra sweater to prop my head against the window and away we went at 1638 hours. A few minutes into the journey I heard the following announcement:

'This train is for Cambridge, calling at Finsbury Park, Stevenage, Hitchin and Royston. Those passengers heading up North are requested to take the chartered bus at Finsbury Park.'

P nudged me awake, carefully put his criminal law notes back into his bag and got up as the train approached Finsbury Park.

'Why are you getting up?', I asked puzzled.

'We have to get off here. Bloody weekend work. This is the reason why I've been late getting into London so many times.'

'Huh? We don't have to get off. This train is for Cambridge.'

'No, the guy just said we have to get off here. You were sleeping.'

'Err... no. He said people going North should get off here, not us.'

By this time, the train came to a stop, two people got off and I kept sitting. The doors shut and the train proceeded.

'We'll have to get off soon, I'm telling you.' he insisted.

'Ok, whatever.' I said dismissively and nodded off.

An hour or so later the train pulled into Cambridge railway station. We got off and I said, 'See, I told you the train was for Cambridge. I don't know why you thought we had to get off.'

'Maybe this time we didn't have to but the last few times, I have had to get off and take a chartered bus!' said P with gritted teeth.

'Oh god, P! What's the big deal?' I asked.

He ignored me.

I muttered under my breath, 'Boys are so stupid and get annoyed so easily...'

As we walked to his college, I looked into the window of the Tshirt store on Bridge Street. There was a manequin wearing a Tshirt that read: Boys are dumb and get angered easily.

I walked in and bought it.

Make That One Year Please

We have been rolling for a year now.

Thanks everyone.

They Call It 'Being Tagged'

In the spirit of this delightful blogging tradition of tagging, That Armchair Philosopher has invited me to share five unknown things about myself:

1. If one is fairly judged by the company they keep, I fear that this little snippet paints me in a somewhat... unstable light:

A friend (let's call her Fatma and let's make her a Nehru scholar at Cambridge) recently said to me over drinks, 'Snake Anthony, I've been seriously troubled by this dream I had last night.'

'What happened?'

'Oh, it was so vivid...' she shuddered, 'I had six fingers. SIX, Snake Anthony, SIX! It was so frightening. I couldn't decide which was my middle finger that I could stick up at people!'

2. As a little girl, I fancied myself as an air hostess or a secretary because the two most remarkable and inspirational people I knew - my father's secretary and my mother's best friend - were in these professions. As I grew older, I came to understand that it wasn't so much the glamour of these jobs that I fancied but the dedication and passion that these two women brought to their work. I am not quite sure what I will be doing 9-5 once I graduate but I know for certain, I will always try to be as enthusiastic and committed as they are.

3. I amuse myself by conversing with media theorists in the margins of their pdf readings. 'How wonderfully vague' and 'Easy for you to say!' are some of my more frequent scribbles. But like I mentioned in one of my previous posts, McLuhan's prophetic writing silences me:

'When we lose nature as a direct experience we lose a balancing wheel, the touchstone of natural law. With or without drugs, the mind tends to float free into the dangerous zone of abstractions.'

from The Global Village: Tranformations in World Life & Media in the 21st Century (1989)

4. I confess that I have been setting back the feminist movement by a few decades. Yes, it is true, I cry at airports and the results are miraculous - inexpensive tickets suddenly appear and several kilos of my luggage over the weight limit are suddenly dismissed. If all my attempts at a mainstream career should fail, do watch out for The Snake Anthony School of Airport and Other Tricks.

5. And here, a spurious one for good luck, as one of my Philosophy professors would say: I ate for lunch a smoked ham and cheese panini and large glass of freshly squeezed orange juice.

There!

I tag Jerry, Basho, Young Thos, Scritch and Jon.