Topping it with icecream

Despite the third installment of Spidey being a damp squib, it hasn’t deterred companies from trying their best to cash in on Marvel Comics’ most recognized character.

The latest to join the bandwagon is the Californian ice-cream giant, Baskin Robbins.

Impervious to the washout that the red-and-blue-attired-superhero received at the hands of implacable critics, Baskin Robbins has launched the Superhero triple ice-cream range.

The names are conveniently “inspired” –
Web Slinger
Green Gobbler
Sandstorm

The only saving grace – free comics of the webbed wonder with every ice-cream you purchase.

No wonder the kiddies are lining up eagerly.

Leaving us adults thanking for small mercies that those “innovative” people out there didn’t come up with even more ludicrous names.

Sample this:

Symbiote Strawberry or Mary-Jane Mango soufflés anyone?

(Shudder)

When it rained

Some time back, it rained.

Delhi’s scorcher of a sun had been beating unpityingly upon all and sundry.

By afternoon, people had woebegone faces; many looked fit enough o cry buckets.

The steady droning of air conditioners was a welcome relief; however, the same didn’t hold true for many others open to the elements.

So when a sandstorm started in the evening, people cast expectant eyes at the azure skies, where fluffy clouds were beginning to form, unmistakably.

The clouds burst, and a drizzle soon made way to a steady shower.

From my office cafeteria, I espied brick-kiln workers smiling cheerily at each other, hailing the welcome rain with thankful eyes, and tired, open arms.

Everyone seemed happy.

Except me, who wished I could be with him. Smiling when the rain streamed down my cheeks.

Instead of the tears that were pouring.

My best buddy

The first time I spoke with her, I didn’t really take a shine to her.
In fact, it would be more correct to say that I hated her on sight.
And decided that she would never be in my clique.
Whenever I would pass her in the corridors of our college hostel, I would glower at her, while she would smile me her sunniest beam, much to my vexation.
Too bad – out I would come with my most disgusted scowl, roll my eyes, and go clip-clopping on my patented stilettos.
And then, as luck would have it – by some inexplicable hand of fate, we were thrown as room-mates.
Gosh! Why-did-she-have-to-be-my-roomie! Was my first reaction when the news was delivered to me by my as-cool-as-a-cucumber warden. But all my cringing was in vain, as did all my pleas to get a new roomie fall on my warden’s deaf ears.
Resigned to my fate, I made my way to the room assigned to me. And to her.
Within five minutes, I had sized her up. She loved dance. Her younger sis. Clothes. Talking. Was in love. In the truest sense.
I also knew that I was going to hate her. A lot!
There were lots of heated quarrels, taunts, tears, baseless accusations, misunderstandings, misquotes, bruised egos, and more swollen eyes.
But then, somewhere along the way, a friendship blossomed between us.
Reluctantly from my side, I admit.
But which grew from strength to strength.
So much so that now, a life without her, my best pal, Chinky, is inconceivable for me.
She’s been with me through thick and thin, literally and metaphorically.
We laugh at the most inane of jokes. We don’t just laugh – we positively roll on the ground in mirth.
She can look through my most carefully-disguised of emotions. Try as I might, she knows what’s cooking.
We’ve raided each others wardrobes.
Talked endlessly over the phone.
Watched endless re-runs of F*R*I*E*N*D*S.
She’s eaten the drenched-in-ghee parathas I once made, on one of my once-in-the-rarest-of-blue-moon days, without wincing.
As I did the half-cooked potatoes she decided to cook for me the next day. (Before she rips me apart, let me hastily assure you that now she is a superlative cook, and all her culinary experiments are nothing short of a gastronome’s delight). Hear! Hear!
Last year, post a ‘spirited’ evening, I puked all over all her prized brand-new phone.
We’ve been through more than our share of zany stuff.
She’s been my closest confidante; I’ve rested my head on her petite shoulders for as long as I remember.
She’s been brutally honest and given me more than an ample piece of her mind (and acerbic tongue) when I have acted mulishly (and I’ve done that more times than I would like to remember).
Professional and personal advice has come from her in ample measure, and she has this uncanny ability to be bang-on.
Quite a talisman for me, I insist on dragging her for any interview I may have.
She’s never let me down.
We've hunted for that perfect Cinderella pair of shoes.
Helped smear the paint on each other for a party.
Almost as well as smearing gooey-chocolate cake on each other at birthdays.
Tried our hands at smoking perfect-eights.
Gobbled dimsums and pani-puri, with equally abandoned glee.
And then counted calories, with equally dejected expressions.
I’ve marveled at her ability to make a meal out of ice cream. I remember her hauling me to fetch ice-cream, on a particularly scorching Sunday afternoon, much to my visible annoyance.
Almost like the countless number of times to my fave coffee lounge, much to her exasperation. No surprise then that I was saddest, and she the diametrical opposite, when the MCD decided to close the place for good.
She’s nagged me no end about my spilling-over collection of footwear.
We’ve pored over the same magazines simultaneously – without me, the grumpy one, getting crabby.
I’ve understood that when we are on the dance floor, all eyes are on her. So I’ve learnt to step aside gracefully, and watch her, in her twinkle-toed-mouth-open avatar, without a single chip on my shoulder.
She’s freaked me out many a time with her uncanny predictions, and ability to remember the exact place where things are, much to my bewilderment, and gradually, grudging admiration.
Too bad she still freaks me out by going, “ooooooh aaaaah” over those furry, soft-toys. (Monsters!)
Almost as much as when she decides to do the possessed / spooky act with me, leaving me screaming for cover.
Next year we celebrate a decade of friendship.
That reminds me, I should probably tell her keep the flute glasses handy and dust-free.
But I guess, with her OCD for cleanliness, that should be the last of my concerns.
Cheers to you babe.
You rock! Big time.

Just Rambling

Yesterday is history.

Tomorrow is a mystery.

And today?

An imperfect truth

Ironical, how we as women, pooh pooh the very idea of attractiveness thrust upon our reluctant faces (blame the wicked idiot box and all those commercials on air / the glossies / diva-esque Hollywood / Bollywood celebs), and yet, we try our best to conform to what is our ideal of perfection / winsomeness / attractiveness.

We agree that not every girl is cover girl material, a femme fatale, a vision, a knockout, or a looker.

We agree that God didn’t create equals. (Even Archer concurs.

And yet, we crib.

We gripe.

We grumble audibly.

About ourselves.

We are plump.

We are anorexic.

Our hair is too limp / dry / frizzy / curly / voluminous / sparse.

Our skin is too oily / dry / patchy.

We have wrinkles, crow’s feet, stretch marks, ungainly cellulite, blemishes.

Our legs are too long, too short, too thin, too flabby.

We slather lotions and potions from the Dead Sea to closer home, from the Shahnaz’s to the Blossom’s.

We burn holes in our pretty pockets.

Though not masochists, we give pain to ourselves – what else would you call those fortnightly visits to that uber-steep salon?

We powder. We preen. We paint.

And fight our imperfections almost on a daily basis.

A friend moans each time I meet her, always about the same thing – her zits refuse to go, despite her having tried every acne-diminishing cream available in the market.

Another will groan each time she comes even half a mile close to the weighing-scales, but reaches out for that tiramisu in a trice.

I’d groan too.

Each time I’d see my two scars.

Testimony to a naughty-childhood.

Except that, till some time back, I would whimper and call myself “Scarface,” much to my mom’s annoyance, and visible displeasure.

Now I understand their importance.

They may not be beautiful in my eyes still; but they aren’t ugly too.

And assert a past that I do not want to forget.

Three words – Acceptance. Overcoming. Survival.

The scriptures say, “Love thy neighbor.”

I’d say, “Start with yourself.”

Sleepyhead is not a word I can use to describe myself

Yesterday night: 11.55 p.m. – happie happie "high-spirited" me. Hic.

Just a little after midnight – Wishing I were groggy. No luck though! Am still as fresh as a daisy. Espied the newspaper – reached out for it lackadaisically - but, the crackling of the pages woke me even more. Oh bother!

1 am – Time to talk to Mommie; we talk about the uneventful day.

1.30 am – am out of all excuses – need to sleep, but it seems to be evading me, almost like a convict dodging another run in the penitentiary.

2 am – Hurray! A yawn. Yet another. Gosh – I don’t believe this – another one. I switch off the lights. And I’m wide awake again. Oh horror! Despite the room being comfortably cool, and the AC humming reassuringly, slumberland still seems a long, long away.

2.30 am – try counting sheep. But guess the allegory stands true only in yellowed-dog-eared-pages of ancient tomes.

3.15 am – Drifting into sleep. Touch wood.

At last, sleep descended over me. And enveloped me in its welcoming lap. Wish the boy from Metallica's Enter Sandman fares better than me. See the Youtube video here.

Strange how the most effortless things become the most convoluted.

Take life, for instance.

Or for that matter, another four letter word which shares the same first initial.

Movie Review: Spiderman 3

Friday late night, bleary-eyed me set out, despite a hectic day at work, to catch Spidey in action once again.

Pretty ambitious, I must say.

Turned out to be quite a bad choice though.

Umpteen cups of coffee / buttery popcorn at its best / nachos with cheese or salsa dips / corn-on-the cobs – all will fail to keep you in your seats to watch the third installment of your favorite Marvel comics’ superhero, Spiderman 3.

Despite the big, fat budget (according to official budgets, Spiderman 3 cost producers a whopping $300 million. Jeeeeez), Sam Raimi goofs-up, leaving us more than a tad disappointed, especially since he did more than a commendable job directing the first two parts (as also giving us the creeps in Evil Dead 1 & 2).

Ahhh, expectations, expectations.

We had lots of them from this one.

Which unfortunately fell flat, after the super-stretched around 2.5 hours Spidey 3.

From the initial shot of Mary Jane Watson (MJ), played by a pokerfaced Kirsten Dunst, walking down the glittery stage in her aspiring Broadway actress avatar, right to the very end of the flick, I had the same deadpan look on my face. Don’t blame me – you’d probably have had the same expression too. Don't believe me? Go ahead, book yourself a ticket.

Taking the story forward, Spidey 3 opens with the world being Peter Parker / Spiderman’s (Tobey Maguire) oyster. After all, he’s the toast of the town, is comfortably placed as a photographer in the Daily Bugle, and is all energized to pop the question to MJ over champagne and music. The only nagging thought is his souring friendship with his once best pal, Harry Osborne (the utterly-delectable James Franco), who holds him responsible for his father’s death, and who, post an amnesiac spell and all, turns into the alternative iniquitous Green Goblin.

Things start getting terribly awry with the arrival of a black symbiote on the scene (Where? How? When? – you’ll ask. I asked the same too, to my date. He was as clueless as I was). Well, the black, gooey, symbiote very conveniently latches on to Spidey a’la Mary’s Little Lamb. And decides to attach itself to Spiderman’s red and blue costume, causing it to turn a wicked black. Pardon the pun.

As soon as our very own Spidey dons his now black costume, he finds his webbed powers enhanced, but also finds himself enmeshed in hitherto new emotions of pride, hatred, and vendetta.

So we see him planting a kiss on the luscious lips of Gwen Stacy (played by a very pregnant Bryce Dallas Howard, last seen in two forgettable flicks by M.Night Shyamalan), the blonde whose life he saves. We also see the usually reticent Spiderman gushing about his high rating on the NYC popularity meter. We see him trying his feet at dance, again with Gwen, and not the insecure-depressing MJ. Not all of them scenes we would have liked to see.

We also see him grappling with his inner turmoil. We gasp! see him sobbing, when his petite lady-love walks out on him.

Pretty reminiscent of the vulnerable James Bond we saw last year. And whom we liked pretty much.. which is more than what we can say about Maguire this time.
The story gets more entangled, what with an escaped-convict, Flint Marco (Thomas Haden Church), a.k.a. Sand Man, and Eddie Brock (Topher Grace), a Justin Timberlake-ish looking photographer, who, while praying for Spiderman’s death in a church, has the symbiote take over him, and finds himself as the newest villain on the block, Venom.
The only saving grace was the superbly executed duel between Parker and Harry, a whizzing combat set amidst the dizzying New York skyscrapers.

But then, you’d hardly go to watch that one splendidly done shot in the theaters, right? You need more, like everybody else, don't you?

But if you do decide to go for it, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

And yeah, don’t wait for the intermission to order that giant-popcorn-combo.

Do the honors right at the beginning of the movie.

You’ll be needing it to munch your way through the movie.

Or keep stifling yawns, the way I did!

Soft Toys in that Skoda - Eeeeks

Now I like cars. A lot.

I mean, who doesn’t?

But what really peeves me are the weird soft toys that have of late started making their presence felt in the space behind the back seats of almost every third car that zips along.

You know what’s worse? They are not limited to your average teddy bears / cuddly dogs / golliwogs / pixies.

I bet you might not have read as many fairy tales in your childhood, as see the plethora of fairy tale / Disney / Brothers Grimm characters that cast glassy looks at you (if you happen to be the unfortunate person behind a car that “boasts” of such unique decoration devices).

Glass-slippered Cinderella , Virtuous Snow White (complete with her ever-obliging seven dwarfs), the in-quest-of-a-lip-lock frog prince, nimble-fingered Geppetto and his mendacious marionette, Pinocchio, bow-legged, doe-eyed deer- Bambi, glass-slippered Cinderella, the quintessentially-young-refusing-to-grow-up Peter Pan , crooked pirate Captain Cook, slumbering Sleeping Beauty, Goldilocks, and the other raven-haired Rapunzel, Mousey Mickey Mouse, Daffy duck, jumpy Jiminy Cricket, the-bear-with-a-penchant-for-speaking-in-verse Yogi bear, Charlie Brown, Tom Thumb – you name it, the stuffed toy will be there somewhere in one of your regular Archies galleries. Blech.

Though some people do go in rapturous “Oooooooooooooooohs” and "Oooh cho-chweets"(the kinds that are doubtlessly going to leave me with Type II diabetes)upon seeing these “cuddlies” (shudder!), I fall in the latter category that feels instantly repelled after catching even one glimpse of their stuffed faces, and often feel like
a) ripping them with my trusty pair of scissors
b) guffawing openly on the faces of their owners
c) cringing
d) all of the above.

Goodness gracious – is that really Snow White, complete with her ever-obliging seven dwarfs in the back of that Civic? The beady eyes are on you for a second, before thankfully, the silver auto speeds along. Gosh – what was the owner thinking?

I don’t think I’d ever understand. Would you?