Knowing meme, knowing you

Quick question, pop quiz fans: What do I have in common with Rick Astley, Snakes on a Plane and a golf club-wielding fat kid? No, it's not that we'd be terrible company on a long-haul flight (I may look like a terrorist in all my hirsuteness, but I couldn't hijack a second bag of peanuts).

The answer is, we're all subjects of Internet memes - a sort of web 2.0 inside joke, a catchphrase or concept that's spread quickly from person to person via the Internet.

The movie, Snakes on a Plane, inspired a raft of parodies, songs and fan fiction; YouTube made a reluctant star of the 'Star Wars kid' (now, sadly, under psychiatric care "for an indefinite amount of time"); and the recent surprise (though not undeserving) recipient of this year's Best Act Ever MTV award, Rick Astley, was the subject of a phenomenon called Rickrolling, whereby web surfers were tricked into watching the 1987 music video, "Never Gonna Give You Up".

Similarly, users of the social networking website, Facebook, might be mildly irritated to click the status updates of their friends, which are beginning to lead to my website. Mine changed last week to "San Sharma is sansharma.com"; it was followed by similar URL-toting updates from my girlfriend and now two of her colleagues. In the nicest way possible (and in a way that won't alarm my girlfriend), I'm viral! And my web statistics are beginning to show. Facebook is the top referrer, followed by Google, where one visitor found me with the query "massage parlours shropshire" (I'm on page 8 of the results, which says more about said visitor's appetite than it does my website).

Let's hope I don't befall the same fate as other Internet memettes (though I'd rather a Best Act Ever award than a lifetime of psychiatric care). On that note, I'll leave you with my favourite of the memes, viewed an estimated 1 billion times - ladies and gentlemen, the Star Wars Kid.

"It's a small world..."

Welcome, if it works, to version 2.0 of my website. To quote Barack Obama (quoting Sam Cooke), it's been a long time coming, but tonight, change has come to sansharma.com.

And it very nearly didn't.

I've switched domain registrants and web hosts so many times over the last few years that I found myself in an infinite loop, unable to remember usernames, passwords or even the companies with whom I'd parted cash. Once I did, I began working behind-the-scenes, tinkering with code and little bits of script, which had all the appeal and terror of stepping off a Disneyland ride and seeing how all the Animatronics work. Now that it's done, I hope you'll find that version 2.0 has more to offer, including the full archive of my blog (and new posts!), my portfolio, including my books, and a growing audio and video page.

I've pulled the lever, I'm hopping back on my carriage and I hope you'll join me for the ride. Don't forget to subscribe to my RSS feed and add me up on Twitter. And drop me a line, by visiting my contact page.

Lots of love,

Tales from the crypt

For a self-proclaimed (and obsessed) geek, it came as something of a blow when those vanguards of vanity, Google, announced that I'd reached my peak in 2004. If 'Googling' yourself is considered an ego stroke, then analysing your name via new service, Google Insights, is like checking into a Thai massage parlour. Except, in my case, without the 'happy ending'. The service reported that I was most popular in the United States, followed by India and then the UK. (It seems I'd failed to make an impression on Canada.) It also generated a graph of 'Interest over time' that sloped steadily downwards from 2004 when I was first started blogging, to the present day, as I write to you now, following a four month hiatus.

So, why the silent treatment?

Well, since I last wrote, back in April, I seem to have found myself in love's death-grip. I was already struggling to update the blog when I met Brooky Wook and then embarked on a relationship completely at odds with the legacy of this website: healthy, functional, romantic. For what is essentially a catalogue of my dating failures, is being lucky in love the final nail in what was already the dusty coffin of my personal blog?

Don't worry, dear readers, there's room for one more in this coffin made for two. I won't be cracking open its lid anytime soon and clambering six feet up to a spring meadow of bunny rabbits and love hearts. Being in a relationship brings with it a whole new set of social faux pas, one of which I'm reminded this week, as Brooky Wook prepares to meet my family for the first time.

I was in a similar position last weekend, having been invited to her grandad's 87th birthday lunch in Canterbury. Her dad picked us up from the train station and drove us to the Wook household, where I nervously approached the front door, opened quite suddenly by a man waving what appeared to be a walking stick in the air. This did not calm my nerves. Instead, they rattled with the bag of gifts that Brooky Wook and I had bought her grandad. I pushed them towards the man's free hand like I was popping a flower in the nose of a gun. I smiled, wished him a Happy Birthday and watched as both stick and face dropped.

"It's not my birthday," he said. "I'm [Brooky Wook's] uncle."
"Ah," I said, taking a closer look at the man I'd mistaken for an 87 year old grandfather - tall, fortysomething, with only a hint of grey in his full head of hair. "I know that! ...But it was your birthday recently, right?"
"Yes. In January."
"Well," I said, easing the gifts back from his hand. "Happy... belated birthday!"

I stepped inside and saw Grandfather Wook, behind thick, bottle-top glasses, being helped from his rocking chair by two grandchildren and a walking stick more traditional than that held in his son's hand. Uncle Wook, I learned, had just returned from Kenya, and the stick was a cattle herding staff, used by the Maasai tribe. I imagine he'd thought of using it for a different purpose that day.

But as I left with Brooky-Wook I realised that I hadn't buried social faux pas when I found love. It may be a many splendored thing, lift us up where we belong, be all that we need, but it doesn't free us from the awkwardness that has been the legacy of this blog since 2004. If anything, it makes it worse.

Old clothes, new gags at 'Dude Patrol'

I didn't have an excuse. But believe me, I wracked my brains. I wanted nothing less than to go to an interactive comedy night, an hour and a half away in Stoke Newington. But I'm dating again and have fallen into a routine of taking turns to "host". 'Captain Dude and the Dude Patrol', at Ryan's Bar on the Stoke Newington High Street, fell on her day ('her' henceforth referred to as 'my Brooky Wook').

Accepting Brooky Wook's invitation, I thought, might make my turn - inviting her to my ex-girlfriend's house for dinner - a little easier (on me, I imagine, not so much on her). So I said, 'yes,' and rode that Overground, somewhat reluctantly, to the scary, north-east corner of zone 2.

Call me an old curmudgeon, but the idea of painting, of making things, dressing up in old, jumble-sale clothes and competing for prizes, all of which was promised by its Facebook event description, made me want to stay home, wash my hair, catch up on my junk mail correspondence - anything to avoid the kind of interaction with strangers that sounded about as fun as being mugged.

I saw a guy at a comedy night, right here in West Hampstead, whose entire set consisted of a conversation with an audience member, about as engaging as being collared by a high street charity collector. By the end of it, he looked about ready to hand over his Direct Debit details, just so that he could go on with his life.

"The comedy's not amazing," Brooky Wook said, as we took our seats. "But the atmosphere's great." The atmosphere was pretty tense, from where I was sitting. I was terrified of being picked by the compère, Tom Bell, whose sprightly androgyny reminded me of a theme park animal trainer, who once plucked me from a crowd of otherwise happy holiday makers to perform with what wasn't the real Lassie but what looked good enough to pass.

I was 10 years old, and arrived with my family just before show time, managing to squeeze onto the front row of the 'Animal Actors on Location' attraction at Universal Studios Florida. I was aware that because of my proximity to the stage and the ease with which I could get there and back with minimum interruption to the crowd, I had the highest chance of being picked by the animal trainer. I was as terrified of him as I was of the dog, so I did my best to catch neither pair of eyes. But I guess they both smelled my fear and, before I knew it, I was on the stage, shaking Lassie's paw to my obvious embarrassment. (Why can't dogs smell that?)

But here, in the basement of Ryan's Bar, the front row was the only row. I took it with a big swig of my drink and finally relaxed into my seat. If Universal Studios wasn't such a 'dry' theme park, I might have had a better experience. But last night, at 'Captain Dude and the Dude Patrol', I had a surprisingly good time.

Bell made for an excellent compère, as comfortable on stage as he was in the massive "sleeping bag-come-coat" he picked out for himself from the jumble-sale. His comedy partner, Ed Weeks, was late, but no less funny. His punishment from Bell was the accusation of racism, eliciting a chorus of boos from the crowd, triggered by a hand signal designed by Bell in Weeks' absence.

Pippa Evans put in a good turn, acting alongside Bell in episode two of 'Plaice Invaders', the completely improvised soap opera set in a fish & chip shop in space. All of this, set to a soundtrack of the worst charity shop vinyl Bell could find and all the laughter we, in our crowd of 15, could muster.

"If you like finding furniture on the street," the Facebook event description went on, "you'll love Dude Patrol." I do and I did. But unlike stumbling across a broken wicker chair or a discarded coffee table, there was nothing wooden about these dudes. It's a comedy night worth checking out, if you live in the area. I might just make that one and and a half hour journey back out there, next month.

Facebook Chat: A poke too far?

My sister, Suman, is late to the party that is social networking. At 29, she graduated before Facebook became the big man on campus it is today and left high school while MySpace was still a twinkle in Tom Anderson's eye.

In the last month, she's joined both networks, muddled them up in her head and failed in her attempts to stay relevant by referring to each as MyFace. (I had to stop her from inviting friends to meet there. It was a conversation I never wanted to have with my sister.)

Just as Suman's getting to know Facebook (and her friends in a more intimate way than she imagined), I'm trying to distance myself from the social network that's costing UK business over £130m a day and 233 million hours of 'lost time' every month.

I'll be running for the hills when it rolls out its new instant messaging feature in the next couple of weeks. It's hitting some networks and the reviews are pretty good, but Facebook's already given me a second inbox to battle, not to mention another Wall to climb, and I'm terrified that I'll never keep up with friends, nor will I want to know that they're getting a sandwich, packing for their holidays or being surprised at the result of a football match, reality TV show or STD test.

It's hard enough trying to sneak onto Facebook without someone noticing that you haven't replied to their message ("oh, I haven't checked," doesn't really work). Now its new chat features promise to bring back into fashion a certain keyboard shortcut dance I used to perform when avoiding friends on instant messengers. (If I log on and then off immediately, you'll know what just happened...)

It's not too late for my sister, Suman - she's not yet hooked. However, by making Facebook a more real time experience, its developers are hoping session length will go through the roof. But it might just be the poke that pushes users, like me, over the edge.

The Bitch Is Back

I entertain by picking brains
Sell my soul by dropping names
I don't like those, my god, what's that?
Oh, it's full of nasty habits when the bitch gets back

'The Bitch Is Back', Elton John

I'm back on the blogosphere, guys, riding it all the way to your web browser, like an excited child on a space hopper. And what better way to return - out of breath - than with an Elton John lyric. (That should put to bed those 'gay' rumours.) Expect more brain-picking, name-dropping, gender-bending nastiness soon.

 

If, like Elton John suggests, there are bad habits, one might be going AWOL. I do apologise for that. And now that I'm back from my little sabbatical, let me explain.

I've been going through a period of change. Yes readers, puberty has hit me like a tonne of hairy bricks. Not only that, but after three years of working as Creative Director of Redbrick Enterprises Ltd., and on it's flagship product, Enterprise Nation, I've left to go freelance. The decision came about after a series of escalating threats led to my departure.

"Right," I said. "I'm going to leave!"
"Leave then," said managing director, Emma Jones.
"Okay, I'm leaving."
"Go!"
"I'm going." This went on for some time.
"On the count of three," I think I might have said. "1... 2... 2 and a half... 2 and three quarters..." Until, all of a sudden, I'd gone!

I'm still doing some work for Enterprise Nation - and everything's fine! - but I'm designing, writing and presenting for other companies too. You should expect this blog to change somewhat as well. Its focus is going to shift to pop culture, technology and business. But don't be surprised to find sprinklings of the old personal stuff. Inappropriate stuff, if anything.

Old habits, as they say, die hard. Nasty habits reincarnate.

So, welcome back to my blog, if you've been here before. If it's your first time, subscribe to my RSS feed, so you don't miss my updates, which I'm going to try and make more often. In the meantime, enjoy this video from the original "bitch". It's Elton John, with a pole-dancing Pamela Anderson, and a performance that I think really captures the essence of this blog: the roaring crowd, the sex appeal, the fat guy at the keyboard...

The Bitch Is Back, Elton John

Homeworking in action

Homeworking in action, originally uploaded by San Sharma.

Coconut Boy

While other mums worry about their sons turning to drugs, getting their girlfriends pregnant or joining some sort of gang, mine is concerned with matters more spiritual. (Besides, I don't have a girlfriend, I'm a responsible member of an online community and I just turned down a line of coke because I had a "terrible blocked nose".) The way my mum sees it, the only road I'm heading down is the one clearly marked, 'Identity Crisis'.

"Coconut boy," she calls me. "Brown on the outside, white on the inside."

While there might, at least, be parts of me that resemble a coconut - brown, covered in hair and full of a white, milky fluid - at this time of the year, when my colour fades, it's quite easy to 'lose my roots' when they're not so etched onto my face in hues of burnt sienna, sepia and mahogany. I'm invited to fewer dinner parties, considered less effective as a token person of colour, and stopped far less by police men.

It takes just a two hour journey up north and one weekend with my family to bring that muddy colour back to my sweet cheeks and to remind me that my roots don't stop in Shropshire, but in a land far, far away, to which ex-pat relatives still squint and admire what remains of a changing culture.

I found out this morning that my cousin, a graduate from Kings College London, is in India to get married.
"That's crazy!" I said. "Has he even met her before?"
"Oh yeah," my mum replied, nonchalantly. "At the engagement party, I think."

He's my second cousin in as many years to go east to find the perfect Indian bride. Some send for the brides to come over to the UK. Others, like my cousin, get married in India with a view to bring their brides home once 'the paperwork' is ready.

On the one hand, I think it sort of represents a failure, as if the groom-to-be was no match made in heaven for the British Indian girls he would have seen on the arranged marriage circuit (which I like to imagine is like the selection process of American Idol; Simon Cowell as busty bride-to-be).

On the other hand, it's like the son or, more often, his parents, look to India for the 'old fashioned decency' quickly escaping British Indian girls. (It's being replaced by ambition, I'm pleased to report.)

What they don't know - or fail to see - is that the kind of girl that insists on a wedding register at the UK Border & Immigration Agency, is probably pretty ambitious. And that India is going through it's own (belated) sexual revolution (after ironically triggering western 'free love' movements of the 1960s and 1970s, with the rediscovery of its ancient culture of sexual liberalism).

The pursuit and purchase of the 'perfect Indian bride' might be more a case for Trading Standards than Border and Immigration control. Ambition and sexual liberalism is completely at odds with the requirements of my cousin, his parents and other British Indians who look to India for 'old fashioned decency', as impossible to attain as the 'impaling on a stake' position of one of its most old-fashioned texts, the Kama Sutra.

Nevertheless, I wish them luck. If I'm like a coconut, and life a box of chocolates, an arranged marriage is like a curry. It's hot, it's exotic, you can pick it up or have it delivered, but soon enough that shit's going to really hurt.

Flickr

This is a test post from , a fancy photo sharing thing.

Juno is pretty cool

"You're like the coolest person I've ever met," Ellen Page says to a knobbly knee'd Michael Cera at the climax of Juno. "And you don't even have to try, you know."
"I try really hard, actually."

Juno was Fox Searchlight's sleeper hit of 2007, grossing over $85 million in the US (after a modest budget of only $7.5 million). It comes out in the UK on February 8th and I was there at its VIP screening at the Soho Hotel in London last week.

Why am I dressed like a dork?

(If you're reading this through my RSS feed, you might not get the accompanying picture. In any case, it's probably a sensible question to ask - and on most occasions.)

My housemate Bill and I were there to help out a friend, whose event management company was putting on the screening. She needed a couple of geeks to dress up as characters from the film, greet guests and pose for pictures.

"You're like the geekiest guy I know," she said. "You don't even have to try." She was right. I couldn't claim, like Michael Cera's character in Juno, that the accolade was the result of any sort of effort. So, of course, I agreed to do it.

Not knowing much about the film however, I was somewhat unprepared for my costume: a sports vest and shorts, pull-up socks, a wrist and headband. Nevertheless, I left my shame with my trousers, in the cloak room, while Bill joked that stripping down to a pair shorts for £50 might be construed as the behaviour of a couple of "smack heads." We emerged from our dressing room all the same, regretfully sober and ready to face a room full of celebrities.

I joked with British soul singer, Beverley Knight, formed one point of a hip-hop love triangle with So Solid Crew's Lisa Mafia, even went for a post-screening drink with star of zombie film, 28 Weeks Later (and new best friend), Imogen Poots.

But the real star of the night - it's not difficult to say - was the movie itself. A sophomore effort from Thank You for Smoking director, Jason Reitman, Juno is a smart, funny and charming teen comedy, with real affection and wit. Go see it when it comes out here on February 8th (or catch it while you still can, if it's already showing in your country).

It's got an awesome soundtrack (that I reckon will do for The Mouldy Peaches what Garden State did for The Shins); it moves the plot along without being intrusive (take note, Sondre Lerche). And at one point, at the end of the movie, it sort of becomes the plot.

I won't ruin the ending for you. But when the film had finished, and we changed back into our own clothes, Bill joked that it felt good to be 'cool' again. As he did, I caught myself in the changing room mirror, one hand pushing my glasses up the bridge of my nose, the other, buttoning the cardigan that snuggled under my second-hand blazer. I thought to myself that however hard I try, I'll never quite be cool. But that was okay.

In the film, Michael Cera's character got the girl. And there I was at the end of an awesome party, having met some pretty interesting people, £50 better off and about to go for a drink with a movie star? I suppose that is pretty cool.

Catch Juno in the UK on February 8th; find out more on the link below.

• Juno: Official Site - [Fox Searchlight]