A Blast From the Past

It's not unusual that when writing a blog entry I might consult the Internet for research purposes, accuracy of dates, an online thesaurus for my fancy words, that sort of thing. For my last post I came across this video clip of Lancaster University students in the 1960s, discussing their time on campus. Look out for the foxy German girl ("we have been designed a special tutor for our academical problem"), and the American, glad to discover that "they have Coke here!"

Unfortunately, this video clip is only available to viewers on the campus network. So Mike, Nick et al., this one's for you.
Video Clip (Windows Media).

The Rain in Spain

I think I'll miss living on campus when I graduate in July. It might not be the best looking University, and I do wonder whether it even looked good on completion in 1963 when it was meant to resemble a Spanish village, but for last two out of three academic years it's certainly been mi pueblo - a rain drenched cluster of white, flat-roofed buildings.

Living on campus is one step towards independence, two from your parents and a mere bus ride from the real world, but very soon, I realise, I won't always have my meals taken care of, the kitchen cleaned for me or a comprehensive counselling service, should I require. And that's all courtesy of my neighbour and good friend, Beth - with whom living is one of the principle reasons to miss this place.

In a familiar configuration, we sit typing at our desks in our adjacent rooms, our doors propped open, and, turning to my right I channel my voice past our wardrobes and shout, "What should I write about on my blog?" Once we graduate, of course, we'll have to phone in such questions, but for the mean time she replies instantaneously, "whatever's on your mind."

So I scratch my head, hoping to conjur an interesting thought, a bottled genie perhaps, but instead find a pimple the size of my fist. Well, I thought, if can't write about what's on my mind, I'll at least write about what's on the side of my head. It's one of those spots you just knew was coming. I woke up this morning and realised that in a drunken stupor I'd fallen asleep on a potato chip. And now if I look up I can almost see it, it's that big. Damn Pringles. I'm going to resist the urge to pop.

The pimple incidentally, and the bad weather today, have rained off the scheduled dating show (see Country Feedback), and that's not a cop out. Perhaps the girls just need a little longer to get ready for this jelly. Then they'll see, and I've been waiting for the right time to say this since I read it on a t-shirt, that I am what Willis was talkin' about. Yeah.

Country Feedback

"Crazy, all the lovers have been tagged," sings Michael Stipe in the raw, despairing R.E.M. song that is a current favourite of mine and which shares a title with this entry, during which I'll impart some feedback from my part of the country, with as much angst but not half as much eloquence as those Athens, Georgia forefathers of alternative rock.

I'll admit, recently it feels as though somebody else is doing all the "tagging" - there has been a dry spell of sorts, and not just pleasant atmospheric conditions. But that is not to say that I am as despairing as the Michael Stipe vocal. At least not yet. With the onset of Spring the literal dry spell has been lovely - conducive to flip-flop wearing in fact - and as if by process of evaporation a bevy of beauties have risen from their dorm rooms to lie about campus, catch Frisbees and tans, and my unnerving glare.

Since my recent admittance to singledom, my first visit in over four years, making eye contact and smiling has been my most aggressive form of philandering. During those four years, I'll admit, I always listed flirting, alongside basket-weaving and shepherding, as one of my hobbies, but now that it is dalliance with amorous intent - and my very sex life depends on it - I am just no good.

About thirty girls in the North West of England are smiling back at least, but awaiting my second move. And whereas in California, where I spent last year, a simple "hello" in my English accent would elicit a phone number, I might have to step up my game this time. I fear if I don't soon I'll be elected Mayor of Singledom, a position of authority without the perks. And so tomorrow, as blog turns dating show for the day, I will pick one from the flirty thirty and make my second move. And then maybe I'll have some positive feedback. Stay tuned, Shiny Happy People. This is about to get interesting...

A Post for the Asking

Once upon a time, 10,000 words ago, I sat here to begin writing my dissertation. Tonight it sits beside me, printed and bound, and as finished as a piece of furniture, but perhaps not quite as polished. And in a student room that is really saying something. But the main thing is that it's done and at 11pm so am I. [Yawn.] I'm off to bed. Tomorrow is a new day, to point out the obvious, and (the tragic) a new paper is due. Here, I suppose, is as good a place as any to ask for an extention. So Dr Jonathan Munby, if you are reading, is Monday okay? Please direct your answer to the usual essay extention e-mail account, and I'll see you non-faculty blog readers tomorrow.

HIStory Continues

Hey, just a quick post to update you on the Michael Jackson story. I wrote the following a few days ago as a comment to the previous post regarding those allegations but thought I'd bring it here to the fore, as rarely do people read replies to entries:

"Of course, Michael Jackson should be presumed innocent, but the legal eagles and other such ‘beacons’ of justice involved in this case should not be presumed guilty of orchestrating a conspiracy against Jackson and his right to a fair trial. Sadly, in a week in which a new allegation of child abuse against Jackson has been reported by the media I suspect this is the case.

"The reported incident took place in L.A. twenty years ago and if, as CNN reported, the alleged victim is now eighteen years old, Jackson may be guilty of molesting an unborn child. These new complaints were brought to the police by the familiar team of lawyer Gloria Alred, professional critic of Jackson’s lifestyle, currently working the daytime TV circuit, and Carole Lieberman, the same Beverly Hills psychiatric who filed last year’s allegations and counselled the new alleged victim, helping him recover repressed memories of the assault. It’s a small world, but one in which surprisingly the numbers work in Jackson’s favour. According to a study conducted by the National Crimes Against Children Laboratory, only one in three accusations of child abuse leads to indictment. And incidentally, when this new claim involving Jackson was uncovered by the LAPD as a hoax it was reported with far less zeal.

"The claim’s dismissal could have gone unnoticed altogether, leaving a potential jury pool thinking that third strike means out for Jackson – guilty by association right? Where there’s smoke there’s fire? Not quite. The allegation and its timing suggest that Jackson is an open-season target for those with a get-rich-quick-scheme in mind. After all, he still represents deep pockets. Oh, and while all this was going on, did something happen in Iraq?"

And this just in: The sordid details of the actual charges were leaked to ABC News today, most probably by Jackson's prosecutor, Santa Barbara DA Tom Sneddon, whose case against the singer suffered a blow yesterday when it was reported that the boy's testimony was 'shaky' and 'inconsistent'.

The coincidental leakage of a child psychologist report in all its horrid, tabloid worthy detail and the graphic images it conjures (just imagine Michael Jackson naked sans make-up) will inevitably taint the jury pool if the case goes to court. We must remember of course, while the media might forget, that these details allegedly took place, and that word is very important. Too often the boy is referred to in the media as "the victim" rather than "the alleged victim." And very few media outlets are commenting on the statement in the report in which the psychologist told the alleged victim that he could get money if he won a lawsuit against Michael Jackson. And so the story continues...watch this space.

While you do that why not use your other eye to read this rather brilliant editorial from the anti-corporate, politically aware arts magazine, popCULTmedia, The Slow Murder of Michael Jackson: Fear and the Sexiness of the Undead?

Four Weddings and a Final

I went to a wedding yesterday, but it was not my own, and although I am going away it is not on a honeymoon to Barbados. It is in fact the last day of my spring break before I return, without a wife, to England’s Barbadian equivalent, Lancaster, where I will resume my studies, much of my social life, and pick up my final instalment (getting weepy) from the Student Loan Company, only to spend it willy-nilly on beer and the like.

My final semester at Lancaster will be interspersed with alternating exams and weddings, as it is the season for both. Yesterday was my cousin Sunny’s wedding, next weekend is my cousin Rajesh’s registrar service, the weekend after is the proper Indian ceremony and the weekend after that is another cousin, Vicram’s. So you might be wondering what the probability is that three of my cousins are getting married within three weeks of each other, but to recap my explanation from yesterday’s post, ‘cousin’ in our hybrid society is a blanket term encompassing second-relatives, friends of the family or just fellow British Indians in the locale.

Sunny is the latter, and his wedding was a traditional Indian affair, an all day programme at the Sapphire Banquet and Conference Suite in Digbeth, Birmingham, during which the groom arrived on a white horse wearing a veil, the two families exchanged gifts, formally a dowry, and three meals were served while the couple, tied to each other with a literal knot, walked around a fire and were thus wed.

My grandma kept a lookout for a “nice Indian bride” so that I could one day soon tread the fiery path to marriage, while I in fact had an eye, but not for marriage, on the young lady in the pink sari at table number 23. This would have pleased my granny had lady in pink not been Muslim, which in her words, is “worse than marrying a white girl.” So, there you have it. Our short lived, glances-across-the-room relationship ended with a relative statement; no plans for marriage, not even a phone number! I hope I do better in my finals.

...seeks "nice Indian bride"

I’ve that familiar ringing in my ears that follows a raucous shindig, except tonight’s jamboree was no keg carrying red cup affair. I’ve just returned from what in Punjabi is called a Sangeet, or what you might call a sing-song, and the second part of the three day affair that is an Indian wedding. My cousin, which is what we call fellow British Indians whether blood related or not, is getting married tomorrow when I’ll have more to report. Until then I’ll leave you with what you might call a funny anecdote, which in Punjabi means “embarrassing story”: I was sitting at the party tonight when an uncle (or older British Indian male) came over to say hi. As I started to stand to greet him I realised that the wallet chain that usually keeps me looking somewhat ‘street’ (even at a sing song) was caught in the narrow space between the seat and the chair leg. Any upward motion lifted the chair with my derriere, and until I could free myself I looked either rude or the victim of a practical joke.

It wasn’t the first time tonight that I felt victimised at a rouse of comedy: My mum’s suggestion that I look out for a “nice Indian bride”, was initially received in jest, but when I overheard my Grandma suggesting the same, on my behalf, to her senior associates, I saw the serious side. The funny thing is though, if I were to meet anyone at a traditional, family only Indian wedding we would either already be related or soon to be – and if they were British Indian, by association we’d be cousins, right?

More tomorrow night readers, at which point I might be fixed up. In which case, you’re all invited. (No wallet chains.)

Bad Karma

The karmic pendulum of life has swung my way readers and its punishment for the brief - and may I add accidental – visitation of untoward web sites has left a plague upon my homepage of a dozen viruses. The sudden hijacking of my computer by said viruses – an online act of terrorism – and the careful removal of such has unfortunately kept me from updating my blog earlier. And as we suspect that the evil network of viruses possess weapons of mass e-mail distribution I am sorry if you’ve caught anything off me. I would recommend that you update your Anti-Virus software as soon as possible and keep a fair distance from your computer screen – I have a nasty cough to boot, though I don’t quite know what I’ve done to deserve that.

I’ve been a good boy times of late: I’ve stuck loosely to the 9-5pm work day and at my dissertation, which I mention not because I know my supervisor reads this page (hi Nick) but because it’s going reasonably well; I’ve done my share of the chores around the house, enough to forestall my mum’s “this place is not a hotel” speech; and I’ve been practising the art of compromise/anger management with aforementioned, menstrually diverse sisters, even agreeing to an unwise shopping trip to the Cheshire Oaks Designer Outlet Village last Monday.

It was unreal. There’s no other word to describe it really; ‘village’ would not be my word of choice. Sure, the stores were housed in mock-Tudor outfits, some of which sported hay-effect thatched roofs, but how many villages do you know with five-thousand car parking spaces? Or a food court? Or a Dolce & Gabbana, for that matter? Despite being stony broke I nevertheless spent the Bank Holiday spending, but I won’t be laughing all the way to the bank – I’ll be putting my paycheque against my Mastercard bill. I’ll have to wait until the end of month to see that what goes around comes around. But that’s not bad karma. That’s just bad sense.

The Father Michael Jackson Paid Off

Since being home from University for Spring Break television has sadly been some of the best company I’ve had, and for the most part the stimulus for my blog musings. Tonight’s entry is no exception, as last night’s viewing compels me to write on an issue I have thus far refrained from discussing, and that is the child molestation case against Michael Jackson.

Child Sex Sells

It is an issue that last night the BBC raised with the usual sensationalism that surrounds child sex hysteria that, like regular sex before it, is selling like hot cakes and is sure to draw in the crowds. Throw in arguably the world’s most famous most living man and you’ve got yourself a ratings winner. But like most products boasting appeal but lacking substance (think luxury items – chocolates, perfumes, Schwarzenegger movies) the pointedly titled The Boy Michael Jackson Paid Off was exquisitely packaged with deftly edited archive footage, a remixed Jacko soundtrack and (thankfully tasteful) dramatic reconstructions, but ultimately lacking the hard facts to make the tagline, “Is Michael Jackson a lost child or a paedophilic man?” a real conundrum.

The documentary come crime saga come music video dealt with the first of two allegations concerning child sex abuse and Michael Jackson, its recurrence perhaps the only reasoning for serious trial for both prosecutors’ –the Santa Barbara District Attorney trying Jackson and the salacious media prematurely hanging him. Otherwise it told a story that not only seemingly exonerated Michael Jackson but proved him a twice victim of extortion – the scams of this and the last century. You might be forgiven for believing he was guilty of these charges, considering the erroneous media coverage, but you’d be wrong.

From the Dentist’s Chair

Michael Jackson may in fact be guilty of poor judgement, having made himself vulnerable to such charges by not addressing his penchant for the bedtime company of small children since the 1993 allegations, but he is no paedophile. Those allegations, and the subject of the BBC programme, sprung from a sum of child custody, Hollywood aspiration and dodgy dentistry and went public when a private settlement with Jackson was not reached. That original settlement of a movie deal was solicited by dentist and aspiring script writer, Evan Chandler, the estranged biological father privately accusing Michael Jackson of molesting his son, Jordan. When that deal was not met the accusations went public, and as Evan Chandler had promised in a secretly taped telephone conversation, “I will get everything I want, and they will be destroyed forever. June [the mother] will lose custody of the boy and Michael’s career will be over.” When Dave Shwartz, Jordan’s stepfather and the other half of that conversation asked how his plan might help the boy, Evan replied, “That’s irrelevant to me.”

Although ‘the boy’ admitted to sharing a bed with Jackson he had never himself accused the star of any sexual misconduct. That was until Evan performed dental work on his son, during which he decided to intravenously administer sodium Amytal, a psychiatric drug unusual in baby-tooth extraction but known to provide false memories. Evan then took Jordan to a child psychiatrist who was required to file a report with the authorities, a criminal investigation began and the media had something of a field day.

HIStory Repeating

The first case of child sex abuse involving Jordan Chandler, hence the title of the documentary, was settled out of court when it became clear to Jackson and his lawyers that justice might not prevail, not without an agonising ordeal. The LAPD had invested millions of dollars in their investigation, interviewing scores of children all over the world, not one of whom accused Jackson of any wrongdoing, despite the zealous and maverick techniques of detectives: they told interviewees that other children had admitted to it when they had not. A humiliating strip search was then issued on Michael Jackson and photographs were taken of his body but they did not match the description Jordan had given. And although a plethora of ‘witnesses’ had appeared before the court of public opinion, on television and in the press, none agreed to testify against Jackson and when Evan accepted the out of court settlement the LAPD reluctantly announced that no criminal charges would be brought against Michael Jackson citing a lack of evidence.

Despite being investigated by the Department of Children’s Services and dropped, the same district attorney from the 1993 case Tom Sneddon jumped at the chance to pursue claims that arose after the Martin Bashir documentary, Living with Michael Jackson was aired in February last year. In his final year of service before retirement Sneddon, having been ridiculed by Jackson in a 1995 song that accused him of “brothering with the KKK”, could not contain his excitement at an initial press conference where he jokingly encouraged the media attention that might improve California’s failing economy. The excitement wore off when Sneddon twice asked the presiding Superior Court judge Clifford Anderson for more time to gather evidence.

This time however Michael Jackson is going to court. But when you consider the history of the previous case, for which Evan Chandler actually hopes to sell the movie rights, and the history of the current accuser, who has twice previously claimed that her son has been abused to receive out-of-court settlements, we might wonder why the media is seriously asking if Michael Jackson is a paedophile. He might be an idiot most of the time but he is not as Bad or as Dangerous as his album titles would have us believe. And I certainly hope he is not HIStory.

Watch Out: Horror-By-Numbers

The only thing missing was a dead phone line. Otherwise Gothika, the new Halle Berry film, was horror-by-numbers, and although it made for an unsettling drive home just now I doubt that it will leave any long term damage, like say the more inventive, The Exorcist and The Shining, which just by mention has me looking over my shoulder.

It relied almost exclusively on formulaic technique: darkness and lightning; a soundtrack of amplified sound effects and stabbing strings; and a script that actually included the line, "But that's impossible. She died four years ago..." Watching Gothika was like being on one of those fairground ghost trains, with horrors leaping at the sides of the carriage, crawling slowly along the dark track and towards the man in the black cloak and Scream mask that fondles your hair. Like the fairground attraction that unfolds from a truck, Gothika had a sort of short-lived shock value to it and a shoddy construction that adds a second layer of fear.

Its construction is what is always most frightening about horror films, and that is how we, the audience, is cast. Our participation in Gothika was so apparent to deserve billing beside co-stars Penelope Cruz and Robert Downy, Jr. Because when the camera was stalking the heroine around the women’s prison, in her car, through her house, it was clear that we were not, like Berry, the victim, we were the perpetrator; we were not to sympathise, we were to kill. And it is always that perverse pursuit of the female body in horror films, so explicit in Gothika, that scares me.

But that is not to say that it is a bad film. The plot might make no sense, the script may be preposterous (“I’m not deluded, Pete – I'm possessed!”), and it won’t leave you pensive or a changed person, but like the ghost train Gothika is involving, scary and absorbing for precisely its running time. It is a by-the-numbers horror film. And a very good one, at that. But there is no accounting for taste.

Word of Mouth

My sister Suman, the teacher, has just moved into a new apartment in Derby in the East Midlands, and this weekend - being from the West myself - I put aside any rivalry of the 2 Pac/Biggie sort to help with the move. Once we'd pivoted the sofa up the stairs, walked the refrigerator into place and pulled our muscles out, we sat down on our work and enjoyed a few drinks with a few friends.

My wingwoman Beth, currently in California, had earlier provided remote encouragement with the suggestion that I might realise the teacher/student fantasy I’ve had since high school with one of Suman’s colleagues in Derby. So naturally I was somewhat disappointed that the party consisted of my sister and her friends Gareth, James, every bit the I.T. teacher – comic book t-shirt an’ all – and his girlfriend of two months Danielle, still in that horny as hell honeymoon period.

To be fair, even if the faculty member of my dreams was in attendance I’d only score poor marks. After the strenuous move I was emitting a smell not unlike onions and since the apartment was without hot water I was without shower; the mouth sores that seem to precede even the slightest chance of sex were back and the medication I was using, might taste like liquorice on application, but reeks of fish when dry.

Although I somewhat regret being so presumptuous to pack condoms I had a good weekend all the same. I was completely impressed with my sister’s new place and my own skills at drunken charades; I quite liked James and Danielle but seeing them together, although a little gross, made me realise just how much I miss being in a relationship. As much as I do, I’m taking the recurring mouth sores as a sign that I’m not ready for such – I’m so not over my last relationship – and I should probably sort out my own problems before I pass them on to others. That, and I might want to see a doctor. My mouth really hurts.

Unreal TV

Since, I'm told, Thursday is the new Friday, I didn't feel so bad about having spent the night in front of the telly. That was until I saw There's Something About Miriam, a reality TV show from the warped minds at Sky that left me feeling a little uneasy to say the least. I will however, for the sake of my good readers, try and say the least on the subject, which tonight in a dramatic final episode was revealed to the contestants competing for the affections of one Central American model, the offer of a yachting trip with aforementioned beauty and £10,000 smackers.

You see, the model was to reveal her secret before the lucky guy set sail for sea with his maiden. Or his master, as it turns out - a penis is that "something about Miriam", if you were wondering, and a season of flirting and making out left the contestants feeling, and quote, "disgusted." The winner turned down the prize, not wanted to be alone with "the shemale" for a week, the "losers" laughed into the end credits and Sky TV execs thought they were onto a ratings winner, having tapped into the reality TV market and given its knickers a twist.

My uneasy feeling was not at Miriam's surprise. She, bossom and all, was lovely, convincingly so, and utterly dignified. My disgust is at the TV executives who were the real stars of their "freak show", a relic from the Victorian era that should have gone with the plague and chimney sweeps. Poor bastards.