I took the missus up to Austin this last weekend (MemDay). One of the more interesting things we spent a lot of time looking at was the Baylor Street Art Wall. This is a patchwork of concrete walls and floors set into the hillside. Anyone with a can of spray paint and a moderate inclination to climb can spend a weekend Michaelangelo-ing their personal manifesto. Of course, since this is a public space, your contribution may be painted over the very next day. So it goes. Parking is iffy on Baylor Street, which is itself accessible only by a somewhat steep, though thankfully short ride. Austin roads are full of surprises - crest a small hill and find yourself rollercoasting down a much nastier slope. But this ride was worth it. Here are some pictures.
Every time I drive down from Chicago Midway to West Lafayette, I end up taking exit 178 on the I65 South. I then turn left on River Road and fuel up. And I walk across the parking lot at the petrol pump to look at this rusting carcass of an old American land yacht which has been living in a disused field seemingly since the dawn of man.
This ancient beast appears to be a Lincoln Continental Mark VI Coupe. Aft of the B-pillar, it sports a vinyl roof. This is a strange symptom of design creep - vinyl roofs were initially built to give hardtops the appearance of having convertible roofs. Which makes the same kind of vanity sense that, say, the Trump's toupee does. But then, people started designing half and three quarter vinyl roofs. And that makes not an iota of sense. The only redeeming feature are those dinky portholes in the C-panel. Also, the dual headlamps apparently have a closer panel. And finally, what are those louvres on the side of the engine bay? Are they supposed to be the ventiports of yesteryear?
This period of engineering is rather sad. The attempt was to make something elegant - a sweeping statement of grandeur. What it ends up looking like is a monument to inefficiency. Still; there it sits, this ancient one, waiting to be woken up perhaps by someone who will take care of her. For old times' sake.
I confess, I have a soft spot for minigolf. In the outdoor variety you range through concrete cast obstacles mostly drawn from the pages of cartoons, the water barriers are festooned with rubber ducks. Sometimes, you have to work your way up a wee concrete mountain, possibly around oversized tyre-traps. It is a great deal of fun. Yes, yes, go ahead and judge me for enjoying such plebian pastimes - I won't mind.
The decor in the indoor variety, on the other hand makes more than liberal use of black light, UV paint, fluorescent lamps and possibly imagination expanding mushrooms. The result can be very trippy. I went to one of these places in SA. Took the Karmakars along.
That clown you see up top was the last challenge. Understanding that fear of clowns is such a real thing that the English language has a word for it - Coulrophobia - this was borderline cruel. But, we managed to sink it and all was well.
Always nice when you see something special. This car lives in San Antonio. What I like about an old school muscle car is the design. No discernible B-pillar, a slight Coke bottle bulge in the hindquarters, a wee bit of a bustle, in fact. And that wide gaping maw of an air intake. The sad thing is that I cannot identify this beauty. Any help, ya' all?
These
things are lamesome (really lame and yet somehow awesome). They are
used as unofficial public transport in many parts of rural and suburban
India (protip: suburbs have a very different connotation vis-à-vis
economic status in India). I used to ride them quite often - from the
train station to a rather remote wee township where I have family. The
ride wouldn't leave the station until it had loaded up all the
passengers. And I mean to the gills - that car carries about 20 people
(somewhat precariously) and drives on roads that are about 5 feet wider
than itself. The driver had an assistant/barker/conductor who had to
first qualify as a contortionist-cum-daredevil to reach everyone and
collect the fares. Do bear in mind that if running boards were
available, there would be four or five people wedged on each side.
Thankfully, the speed never seems to exceed 30 kph. Meeting another
Trekker coming in the opposite direction was always fun. The two cars
would shunt half their width on the shoulder (aah, who am I kidding,
there was no shoulder!) and gingerly squeeze by while every passenger
(and possibly the chassis itself) held their breath. Thing is, they run
for-evah and are quite cheap to maintain. I, for one will be sad to see
them disappear.
1982. A good year. The oil crisis had come and gone. Pesky environmental scientists had not yet pointed out that we were busy slow baking the planet. There were some ups and downs. The atrocity known as the Fox body Mustang had been unleashed on an unsuspecting public. However, in compensation, the DeLorean DMC12 had also been built. A few scant years later, Doc Brown and Marty McFly would use the flux capacitor and the magic speed of 88 mph to go to a better place (time). The Berlin Wall was still standing, the CIA was busy supplying Stingers to Afghan Mujahiddeen to blow up Soviet Mi24 choppers and the sense of irony had not been rediscovered. (It is not well known, but the last great practitioner of irony was, of course Oscar Wilde)
Anyway, coming to the subcontinent. A genius called Bappi Lahiri was hired to write the music for a fillum called Disco Dancer. This man would never again repeat what he did with this fillum. He would eventually lose all semblance of a neck and replace it with uncountably numerous chins and enough bling to blind even Mr. T. The actor selected to play the title role was Mithun Chakraborty - plucked from the obscurity of art-house cinema (critically acclaimed, but still obscure).
Mithun brought something refreshingly different. From his bare upper lip (remember, this was before mustaches were deregulated by the UN - this was the era of Sean Connery and Burt Reynolds in their bewhiskered glory), to his abs strategically revealed by bejewelled spandex (yes, this was the first Hindi fillum where the protagonist had defineable abs) - Mithun was a veritable dance-dance revolution.
And then there is the title song. I went back and saw the viddy today. At that time, song and dance routines in Hindi fillums had evolved from the run-around-trees-in-a-wet-sari to what were called 'charity shows' where someone like Salma Aga would sing her heart (and life) out. I didn't understand - where was the charity going? Does Bono do charity shows? Anyhoo, Mithun dances with a troupe of some very fit dames. And dances - doesn't just waddle around like RajKumar (yes I went there, bring it 'Digas). There are electric guitars. There is a big band orchestra. There is a wee girlie keeping time by strumming her fingers on the completely bald head of someone who looks like her Grandpa. But this must be a really chillaxed Gramps, not a lecherous one - look how caught up in the moment he is! And then the other wee girlie (10 years- ish, methinks) dressed in a purple smock who is dancing completely out of sync on her chair. Being egged on by her moms. (Inner voice - something doesn't add up). And finally, Mithun asks a girl if she knows what is 'jawani'. She giggles that she doesn't - and somehow this drives all the uncles and aunties in the audience wild.
Then the other show drops. That audience. Sure, there are some people in their early twenties, some high school kids, some college go-ers. But there are also 4 year olds. And grandparents. And realization dawns. Disco Dancer is not really a fillum about a bloke who can sing and dance. It does much deeper. This reflects an India in 1982, where
Disco exists (outside the Oberoi, that is)
Disco concerts exist. This is a vomit-inducing contradiction, but there it is.
People go to watch disco concerts with their whole joint family. Bring Papa, Mummy, Bunty, Babli, Daddu, Chunnu, Munnu and don't forget Tommy the dog.
I am not sure if this reflects a Gene Rodenberry-esque optimistic future where all conflicts are forgotten and Disco is where families bond - or if this is some hideous Dystopia where the plebes must watch Disco en-masse under pain of death. In other words, is this the Brave New World, or is it Pala? But one thing is certain - Disco Dancer is not an ordinary movie. It is a science-fiction alternate-history cinema masquerading as a song and dance routine. Now go watch it.
