If you were born between 1977 and 1981, I count you as a member of my notional generation. You fit into a scheme of my own device, unsupported by any scientific theory or sociological research, that suggests that you belong to a little wormhole in space and time that defies the 'Generation X' tag, or whatever else it is that the pundits would have it called. I'm talking about my generation.
Aside from the not particularly unique hope that we die before we get old, what defines us? Let us agree to shun the noxious labels that have been earned by our brothers in pink shirts and waxed chests. Much has been made of the alleged fixation on clothes, accessories, and video games. Yet I would argue that text messaging and social networking are only the most superficial manifestations of this mini-generation's identity.
One hears a lament for the death of the man's man, the guy's guy, the beer-drinking, sweat-dripping Hercules that changes flat tyres with one hand and pinches bottoms with the other. Indeed, there is an entire series of videos on YouTube dedicated to essential skills sorely lacking in the Man of Today -- ranging from basic mechanical skills to everyday tasks like ironing shirts. And that, I think, strikes closer to the heart of the matter. Speaking for the men, I don't think it's testosterone that's in short supply. It's simply usefulness.
Consider.
We can't fashion mailboxes out of wood like our fathers used to. We can't attack the doorbell with a screwdriver and put the circuits right. We can't fix the car engine in pouring rain and we sure as hell can't do our accounts without some assistance from the Silver-Haired Ones.
We are soft.
That's right. Don't reel from the shock of reading in print the secret that you have nursed in your bosom these many years and that is now out in the open, gushing obscenely like a stormy gutter.
We are soft.
Oh, to be sure, the flagbearers still compete athletically and still lust after a nice set of wheels the same way they lust after a nice set of something else and boys will be boys and blah de blah de blah, but no, really.
Those annoying thirty-somethings that you despise for their so-yesterday tastes and their fondness for Nirula's food? They're tougher than you. Not as tough as the generation before them, to be sure, but a far sight tougher than you. And me.
Sure, I can handle my mobile phone's dictionary feature with the dexterity of a concert pianist, but can I tighten that leaky faucet with a wrench so that it drips no more? Well, maybe, but I think I'll just call the plumber.
The Internet has made everyone an expert on everything, so now we don't need to cram our brains full of a lot of useless information. Wikipedia is a click away, and if you want to know about the renovation of the Carpenter Gothic Bardsdale Methodist Episcopal Church in California in 1982 [from Wikipedia's newest articles], just Google it, n00b. (Or click on the links in the previous sentence.)
Everyone's a Jack-of-all-trades and so telling someone they don't know Jack probably doesn't carry the same level of venom it would have before the Information Revolution.
All this, mind you, is independent of how ripped you are and how many friends you have on MySpace or Facebook or Orkut.
So you have 23" biceps and 248,973 blonde buddies and buddettes on your friend list.
Big Fat Hairy Deal.
The WC in the guest room keeps flushing. Could ya fix it for me?
I guess what I'm trying to say is: I'm sorry. I'm sorry that this generation grew up soft-boiled. We didn't want to, I promise. We'd like to slave over the radiator and then come back and wipe our grease-soiled hands with a grease-soiled rag and then wipe the sweat off our grease-soiled brows before settling down to a working man's lunch too. It's just that we'd like to be sure that there's soap and running water handy before we get to the actual radiator.
And a soft towel too, please?
Saturday, September 20, 2008
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
The Leather Jacket and the Ingenue, Part II
In the seven months that have passed since my last post, I've done a lot of thinking. I've taken to wondering whether the leather jacket and the ingenue and the ingenue draped in the leather jacket are new to cricket, or whether they've been on the scene since leather first met willow.
Would Dr. Grace have been susceptible to the charms of a fair maiden in a corset, or would he have retreated home faithfully to Agnes in the aftermath of his six-dozenth century? This much at least is known: William Lambert of Surrey, MCC and Sussex was banned for life after allegations of match-fixing surfaced against him. The year? 1817.
Nearly 200 years later, the matter of Lambert's guilt or innocence is still debated. Was he a fall guy that fell victim to a witch-hunt, or did vice get the better of him? Did a few gold sovereigns change hand or was it the price of a bespoke suit? Were there a few missing frames in the video footage made available to the Third Umpires of Lord's, or was the man simply out of nick?
Then, as now, silver-haired gentlemen mourned for a vanished past where the sun shone on the idyllic greens of Hambledon and the players competed for no grander prize than a mug of ale after the battle of bat and ball. The blacksmith opened the bowling, and the innkeeper took guard at the Marsh End, while the village ducks would keep score noisily in the pond just behind. And the sun, of course, never set over merry old England and Empire.
But since our old days (which are always the best days) are the days we are eking out now, we must attempt to romanticize the present. We must be unanimous on some basic points, chiefly that there will never again be a batsman as silky as VVS Laxman, never a bowler as wily as Mendis, and never a fielder as athletic as Gibbs.
And nor will the game ever be played with the same fairness of spirit and gentlemanliness of conduct as in the present day.
In our time, the players played only for...no, wait, we won't be able to say that.
To be sure, the money's there for the taking, and long may today's cricketers enjoy it. Yesterday's cricketers fool no one when they weep blood over the rot that money has brought in and the corresponding greed displayed by today's me-first youngsters. Cricket mirrors the economic growth visible in India and the cricket commonwealth as a whole. In the 1980s, you had to save up for your Maruti 800 and cricketers wore close-fitting jerseys that always looked one size too small for them. In the new millennium, EMI spells shiny new car, not a music company that made the LPs your Dad bought in college. The cricketers actually wear jerseys that fit too.
The world over, there seems to be a wave of resentment when any sportsman runs towards the sign of the dollar. Hoarse shouts of 'traitor' and 'money-grabber' are to be heard, and yet, how is the sportsman any different from any young professional changing jobs to make some extra bucks a month? (One speaks here purely of endorsements and team-switching, not match-fixing, which is on parallel with industrial espionage.)
It is time for the fan to make his peace with the concept of a professional sportsman and to stop humming the national anthem or club song to an accompaniment of falling tears whenever Joe Batswell takes the crease or Tom Wattabowler sends the middle stump flying. See the man for what he is, a professional at work, and then ask yourself if you jump and down and cheer loudly every time your colleagues in Client Servicing manage to successfully staple two sheets of paper together.
I know I do.
Would Dr. Grace have been susceptible to the charms of a fair maiden in a corset, or would he have retreated home faithfully to Agnes in the aftermath of his six-dozenth century? This much at least is known: William Lambert of Surrey, MCC and Sussex was banned for life after allegations of match-fixing surfaced against him. The year? 1817.
Nearly 200 years later, the matter of Lambert's guilt or innocence is still debated. Was he a fall guy that fell victim to a witch-hunt, or did vice get the better of him? Did a few gold sovereigns change hand or was it the price of a bespoke suit? Were there a few missing frames in the video footage made available to the Third Umpires of Lord's, or was the man simply out of nick?
Then, as now, silver-haired gentlemen mourned for a vanished past where the sun shone on the idyllic greens of Hambledon and the players competed for no grander prize than a mug of ale after the battle of bat and ball. The blacksmith opened the bowling, and the innkeeper took guard at the Marsh End, while the village ducks would keep score noisily in the pond just behind. And the sun, of course, never set over merry old England and Empire.
But since our old days (which are always the best days) are the days we are eking out now, we must attempt to romanticize the present. We must be unanimous on some basic points, chiefly that there will never again be a batsman as silky as VVS Laxman, never a bowler as wily as Mendis, and never a fielder as athletic as Gibbs.
And nor will the game ever be played with the same fairness of spirit and gentlemanliness of conduct as in the present day.
In our time, the players played only for...no, wait, we won't be able to say that.
To be sure, the money's there for the taking, and long may today's cricketers enjoy it. Yesterday's cricketers fool no one when they weep blood over the rot that money has brought in and the corresponding greed displayed by today's me-first youngsters. Cricket mirrors the economic growth visible in India and the cricket commonwealth as a whole. In the 1980s, you had to save up for your Maruti 800 and cricketers wore close-fitting jerseys that always looked one size too small for them. In the new millennium, EMI spells shiny new car, not a music company that made the LPs your Dad bought in college. The cricketers actually wear jerseys that fit too.
The world over, there seems to be a wave of resentment when any sportsman runs towards the sign of the dollar. Hoarse shouts of 'traitor' and 'money-grabber' are to be heard, and yet, how is the sportsman any different from any young professional changing jobs to make some extra bucks a month? (One speaks here purely of endorsements and team-switching, not match-fixing, which is on parallel with industrial espionage.)
It is time for the fan to make his peace with the concept of a professional sportsman and to stop humming the national anthem or club song to an accompaniment of falling tears whenever Joe Batswell takes the crease or Tom Wattabowler sends the middle stump flying. See the man for what he is, a professional at work, and then ask yourself if you jump and down and cheer loudly every time your colleagues in Client Servicing manage to successfully staple two sheets of paper together.
I know I do.
Monday, February 11, 2008
The Leather Jacket and the Ingenue, Part I
Cricket in India has never been distinct from showbiz. While their Western counterparts have largely been content to bed members of the general public, Indian cricketers have usually displayed a marked preference for starlets. And really, it's not that hard to see why. Both professions impose an itinerant lifestyle, both involve adulation and a distinct lack of privacy, and both see the transaction of huge sums of cash that are out of the reach of the common man.
Before cricket and Bollywood became big business, they were easy pickings for the dons of Dubai. The general explosion in interest, revenue, advertising and all-pervasive media coverage had yet to reach the fever-pitch of the 2000s. Money and fame were present and accounted for, but the cricketer and the actress had yet to see themselves put up for consumption on a news channel's BREAKING NEWS ticker. The OB (outside broadcast) vans were yet to break land speed records in order to reach a tinsel town wedding. The television anchors were yet to scream themselves into apoplexy.
And so, fixing and blackmail emanated from the Emirates, the fear of one fatal bullet manifesting itself in either BOLLYWOOD STAR NITES or the promise of easy cash to cricketers who had still not broken the bank at Abu Dhabi. Come 2000, and the lid on the obscenity of match-fixing was wrenched open with a scream that resonated across the world.
The ICC created an Anti-Corruption Unit. The BCCI and PCB banned players for life. Former captains cried on national television and men in leather jackets looked about them nervously. Effigies began to burn. TRPs began to rise. And India obeyed Bond villain Elliot Carver's prescient command of only three years before: "Let the mayhem begin."
The era of media saturation had begun, and soon Mayawati and the Narmada Dam were to find themselves edged out by Aishwarya's wedding and Dhoni's broken heart. As the lines between entertainment and reporting blurred, virtual sets began to dominate, headlines were replaced by couplets, and hardened journalists gave way to performing clowns in business attire.
The ticker became the harbinger of hope and doom as "India have won the toss and are batting" became the nation's rallying call. Underwear ads jostled for airtime with spots for chewing tobacco while any cricketer or actor imprudent enough to leave his or her house found the shadows of a thousand video cameras blotting out the sun.
Money began to flow, ushering in a new era summed up, appropriately enough, by a Bollywood number:
Cash To Da Left Of Me
Cash To Da Right Of Me
Cash To Da The Front Of Me
Cash To The Back Of Me
Cash Is The Day For Me
Cash Is The Nite For Me
Cash On My Mind Making Money All Da Time
The fun had begun.
But there was more to come.
Wow, that even rhymed. These news channels must be getting to me.
Before cricket and Bollywood became big business, they were easy pickings for the dons of Dubai. The general explosion in interest, revenue, advertising and all-pervasive media coverage had yet to reach the fever-pitch of the 2000s. Money and fame were present and accounted for, but the cricketer and the actress had yet to see themselves put up for consumption on a news channel's BREAKING NEWS ticker. The OB (outside broadcast) vans were yet to break land speed records in order to reach a tinsel town wedding. The television anchors were yet to scream themselves into apoplexy.
And so, fixing and blackmail emanated from the Emirates, the fear of one fatal bullet manifesting itself in either BOLLYWOOD STAR NITES or the promise of easy cash to cricketers who had still not broken the bank at Abu Dhabi. Come 2000, and the lid on the obscenity of match-fixing was wrenched open with a scream that resonated across the world.
The ICC created an Anti-Corruption Unit. The BCCI and PCB banned players for life. Former captains cried on national television and men in leather jackets looked about them nervously. Effigies began to burn. TRPs began to rise. And India obeyed Bond villain Elliot Carver's prescient command of only three years before: "Let the mayhem begin."
The era of media saturation had begun, and soon Mayawati and the Narmada Dam were to find themselves edged out by Aishwarya's wedding and Dhoni's broken heart. As the lines between entertainment and reporting blurred, virtual sets began to dominate, headlines were replaced by couplets, and hardened journalists gave way to performing clowns in business attire.
The ticker became the harbinger of hope and doom as "India have won the toss and are batting" became the nation's rallying call. Underwear ads jostled for airtime with spots for chewing tobacco while any cricketer or actor imprudent enough to leave his or her house found the shadows of a thousand video cameras blotting out the sun.
Money began to flow, ushering in a new era summed up, appropriately enough, by a Bollywood number:
Cash To Da Left Of Me
Cash To Da Right Of Me
Cash To Da The Front Of Me
Cash To The Back Of Me
Cash Is The Day For Me
Cash Is The Nite For Me
Cash On My Mind Making Money All Da Time
The fun had begun.
But there was more to come.
Wow, that even rhymed. These news channels must be getting to me.
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