Tony Stark v/s Bruce Wayne

Iron Man and Batman are at this moment my two favourite super heroes. I watched The Dark Knight Rises yesterday and as epic as Christopher Nolan's interpretation of the comic is, the last installation was a bit of a let down. Boring in parts, too much happening in others and in general a little scattered. But all in all his Batman is a reflection of our times. His dark, thrilling interpretation is more realistic than that of any other superhero.

My favourite thing about both these superheroes is that they are grounded, 'human' so to speak supported and purported by technology. They do not have god given powers like Spiderman or Superman but rise on the basis of the technology they use, their 'suits' and ofcourse staggering wealth. It makes us believe that we could be them if we had all of the above - in short if we were extremely nice looking, fit, tech savvy billionaires.

But as superheroes and their film interpretations go they could not be more different. Their difference lies not in the suits they put on, though they are a reflection of who they are but in the character difference between Bruce Wayne and Tony Stark. They have their similarities - the money, the toys, saving-the-world-phenomena, the parents that they lost when they were young, the companies they run. It plays out like modern man's ruinous dream. But where Wayne is dark and brooding, Stark is known for his quick wit and one-liners. Where Wayne takes himself too seriously, is modest and careful to keep his identity hidden, Stark is almost irritatingly flippant and for lack of a better word, a show-off. And this reflects in the superheroes we love so much.

Batman has the most iconic villians in comic book history while Iron Man is the new kid on the block. One can argue that his villians make him. Batman on his own is not all that we perceive him to be, while Iron Man is very much his own man - he "owns' his suit so to speak. His shiny iron suit reflects his flamboyance while Batman's caped black number reflects his burden to wear the mask. Ironman is a playboy by nature, its never an act, while Wayne makes a conscious decision to project himself as a playboy billionaire. Iron Man makes his own suit, has his secretary as a love interest while Batman relies on Fox and Alfred plays the secretary though thankfully not the love interest.  Both are constant, grounded, voices of reason to these powerful or more correctly power hungry men.

Iron Man leads us to LA but doesn't explore it. His villians are international terrorists and his desire to don the Ironman suit stems from that. Batman leads us into an obviously New York City-based underbelly of Gotham, unveiling and playing with the concept of fear, anarchy and chaos as real ideas and alter egos of ones self. He broods us into boredom but rises to epic proportions. Unlike Iron Man where you can write a text message, eat some popcorn and come back to the movie, Nolan's Batman draws you in, he engages you. Iron Man is a feel good movie, that you go out discussing happily with friends while Batman makes you introspective and serious.

As similar as they are, their differences stand in stark contrast. If you make me choose, i'd be torn. They play out like almost two separate genres. Just maybe Iron Man in Nolan's hands can be what Batman is or vice-versa but where's the fun in that. Each feeds separate parts of our intellect and both are highly enjoyable.

British Royalty - So messed up!

If you know me, actually know me, you know that I have a weird, almost fanatical obsession with the British royal family. This is not just present day royals (as past posts may allude to) but all of British royal history. I havn't yet figured out if this unhealthy preoccupation stems from the romantic notion of 'royalty', 'palaces', 'crowns' etc or from their lives that play out like soap operas but most likely can have begun with Princess Diana. I watch period movies constantly, infact some of them are in my list of go-to comfort movies. I follow numerous blogs on the monarchy, even the newer ones that only follow the present Duchess of Cambridge's fashion (I generally love what she wears, but I cringe when I see just how 'commonly' she's dressed as compared to her husband's ancestors. Definitely unlike a Duchess). I've watched most of the BBC series, read the books, even the fictional crass ones by Catherine Coultier and not so crass ones by Victoria Holt. And as a rule I google stuff when i'm watching/reading period anything to see how much is fictionalized.

Today, I spent the day feeding my obsession. I watched 5 films (Young Victoria, King's Speech, Her Majesty, Mrs. Brown, The Countess and The Duchess), then googled/wiki-ed them all and now I sit down to write this. Not the perfect way for a 24 year old to spend a Saturday! I now know most of what went down since before Victoria became Queen down to  Prince Harry. Infact, I know everything about the cousin's, the Duke's and Duchesses and Lady's and Earl's and Countesses. I can rattle off who married whom and why someone like Louise (all of 7) is not fashioned HRH Princess Louise but just as Lady Louise Windsor. Hell, i might even be able to tell you who her godparents are! 

Obviously I need a new hobby!

But while i'm still on this - Almost everything the royal family owns still and did before Cromwell decided the monarchy is redundant, is stolen from someone. I mean even the 'coronation chair' on which almost every king/queen we can think of ascended the throne was made by King Edward with the stolen Stone of Scone. The Kohinoor they took from us, a million other stones from Africa as well as the crown jewels of the Scottish, Irish and the Welsh! 

What irks me the most however is the British Queen is actually German! Google it! It comes in the drop down suggestions (how german is the queen). Victoria's mother was German (House of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha), incidentally the same house as her husband Prince Albert which makes her entire line of descendants German. Even her father's ancestors were from a mixed ancestry from Denmark, Prussia and God alone knows where else. King George V changed the name to Windsor during the war because it was too Germanic! The reigning Queen has an ancestry of madness, hemophilia, pedophilia, unnatural longevity, beheading, looting, raiding and a number of other horrific things. (I'm beginning to wonder if Kate made a wise albeit suitably informed decision to marry into this family!)

So her husband, His Royal Highness Prince William Arthur Philip Louis, Duke of Cambridge, Earl of Strathearn, Baron Carrickfergus, Royal Knight Companion of the Most Noble Order of the Garter, Knight of the Most Ancient and Most Noble Order of the Thistle, the balding Prince we know simply as Wills is basically German and Greek from his father's side (Prince Philip is Greek and Danish I think). Incidentally, the most amount of British blood this future King of England has is from his mother Diana, Princess of Wales nee The Lady Diana Frances Spencer whose father's and now brother's title, Earl Spencer, was created in 1765, along with the title Viscount Althorp, by King George III. 

It is believed that when Prince Philip told Diana that if she did not behave herself her title would be taken away. She retorted saying her title was older than his. You have to give it to Diana to have the last word.

The Middletons

I am seriously beginning to envy this family. How did they get so lucky?

Kate was lucky enough to go to St. Andrews where the future King of England happened to also be studying. Without any effort she managed to capture his heart albeit via a see-through dress. (I doubt the Queen finds that a funny story!) And now she is Duchess of Cambridge, future Queen and style icon. I'm not complaining. Personally, I think she's affable and adorable and most of the time I love what she wears (especially the Zara, Jenny Packham & Alexander McQueen ensembles). I am well under the spell of what is now called the "Kate Effect".

Pippa may have got into the limelight because of her sister. But she may just be doing it better than Kate. Among her many link ups, (and I fervently pray Harry isn't one of them because he deserves better) is the Earl Percy, future Duke of Northumberland who will get the Duchy of Northumberland valued at £300 mllion, Alnwick Castle (The Harry Potter one, also my favourite, and the 2nd largest lived-in castle after Windsor), Syon Park and land in Scotland & Surrey. Plus he's a catch, not the party types but more adventurous and down-to-earth (again I don't think Pippa deserves him but then I'm biased. I always did like Kate and not Pippa). How and where did she meet him? They both studied in Edinburgh University and even shared the same flat. Earl Percy is apparently besotted with Pippa. And she has it better because she'll have all the trappings of a Royal without any of the troublesome duties that her sister has to perform.

How? How is it possible that the daughters of two flight attendants managed to bag Britains most eligible bachelors? The parents must be sitting at home all smug. I mean for heaven's sake their mother came from a family of miners and now is lady of a chalet in which Viscount Bolingbroke lived, has a royal Coat of Arms and is regularly invited to Windsor Castle for tete-a-tete with the Queen herself.

Talk about fairytales coming true. It seems everyone in this family is suddenly the talk of the town. The only blimp at the moment is brother James, but how bad could it really be for his cake business that his big sister will be Queen someday.

Death March

Waiting on crowded platforms, fighting to get into a train to go to the one place I'd rather not go to.

Clambering, half dead, already waiting for the day to get over.

Packed into tiny compartments like canned meat. More people get on than get out. Each trudging to a different slaughter house, to dictators on power trips that create for us our personal hells.

Lines that lead to trains to take you to "work". Modern day corporate concentration camps. Ultimately marching to our untimely demise. A death march of sorts.

Confines

In the confines of a glass and steel office building, wishing my view could change magically into that of the ocean. A sight for sore eyes, an aching heart and a mind that longs for life changing experiences.


I've just finished a gruelling weekend, struggling to complete three elaborate costings and operations briefs' while trying to complete my poetry syllabus in time for my exam this coming Monday. Needless to say, Blake, Wordsworth, Shelley and the others had to be put on the back seat.


My usual bacon laden, sunlight streaming through burnt orange curtains, Jack Johnson filled languid Sunday turned into the nightnmare I only associate with costing (read numbers) and working on weekends. The sunlight seemed to mock me.


Now I look back to the past and wish for the exam free, work free weekends that I took for granted. Now an hour of TV a week is a luxury. Corporate life may just not be suited for me especially when the pay is so low. I could trade a sun kissed afternoon for work if the money was better. I'd even trade drinks on a weekday for slaving till 1 AM in the office if I was paid overtime.


So when I have no work and catch up on my reading in office and my boss asks why I'm not working. I'd like to tell him: I work in my free time so I'm reading in my work time.


We do need to make the world a fairer place.

I hate you.

I hate you for hurting me, for laughing when I cry, for treating me like a prostitute, for making me feel invisible and insignificant.

I hate you for never picking up my calls and never letting me finish a single sentence when you do, for being the only person who makes me happy and being the only person who won't.

I hate you because I love you, inspite and despite all of these things, because it's proof that I am weak and stupid and dependant when I spend everyday trying to be the opposite.

I hate that you treat me like I dnt feel anything when I feel everything, even the pains and burdens that aren't mine. I hate that I can have anyone I want but I only ever want you.

I hate that you are never around anymore but more importantly I hate that you don't want to be here. I hate that i'm not important to you, that after 5 years you can still tell me that you regret knowing me at all.

I hate that you are hurtful and callous, that you dream easily when you sleep while I lie awake crying, that you think saying sorry will make me forget everything you ever said.

I hate that I forgive you, I hate that I can't forget. But most of all I hate you for making me hate me.

The Applecombes

Chapter 2

It was a sleepy, sunny, Sunday afternoon in Sleeperstown the day the Applecombes arrived for the summer. They arrived in a red roadster with silver rims and mint coloured luggage towering high. They also arrived fighting. Try as they may the Applecombe's couldn't have a conversation without one or the other completely losing it. This time Marissa seemed to be complaining about Rick's lack of direction sense. With Sleepstone Manor being a couple of miles from Sleeperstown, one could not really blame Rick for having not found the well hidden, overgrown dirt road that took them there.

The towns people had all come out to check out the commotion. Mr Pierce was re-opening his convenience store right across from them and volunteered to take them all the way to the Manor. Brash and loud as they may seem, Marissa and Rick were good of heart. Sensing that Mr. Pierce would not take too kindly to repayment of any kind, they decided to purchase their stores from his store before heading to the Manor. The townspeople had wanted just that.

Marissa Applecombe was first to step out and she was a beauty. Her hair was the sort of colour that caught the sunlight. It shimmered and fell over her shoulders, all the way to her waist. For lack of a better description, her hair was the colour of rust, mixed with brick dust and a particularly brilliant African Serengeti sunset. She was of average height and her skin was tanned from all those trips to the beach. But unlike most women with tans, she was unfreckled. Her face provided the perfect canvas for her haunting grey eyes. People had always said that she could never lie because her eyes gave her away. They became cloudy when she was sad, clear and full of light when she was happy and darker when she was angry. She wore a coral, full sleeved dress that puffed at her shoulders and stopped at her knees. From the moment she walked out, everyone was entranced. Marissa Applecombe was by no means thin. Infact, she worried about her weight constantly. She wasn't fat either, she was rounded and looked all the better for it. She walked with the gait of a child, fast paced and almost skippy and chatted easily with Mr. Pierce about the ride into Sleeperstown.

For a moment, everyone had forgotten about Rick Applecombe. Until, he stepped out into the late afternoon sun. He looked like he had stepped out from a magazine. A magazine whose content talked of aristocrats, fashion and travel, for Rick brought to mind all those things. He was a tall, dark haired man with an almost sadistic glint to his eye. Eye's that were as black as tar and as dark as All Hallowe's Eve. He wore khaki trousers and a white shirt that was casually tucked in at one end. Where his wife just looked tanned, Rick's tan made him look like he came for a long lineage of strong Italian men. Italian or not, he did have an aristocratic lineage. His grandfather had been a nobleman and he had been given the best education money could provide. Much to his mother's horror, Rick had never confirmed to the stuffy ways of that education. He had taken off to back pack around the world, in search of adventures and new friends. In fact he had met Marissa during those travels and they had immediately taken to each other. He had a quiet confidence about him that made him stand out. Rick Applecombe was the sort of man who had never had to ask for someone's attention, his very presence demanded it.

He followed Marissa and Mr. Pierce quietly into the store with a genuinely sweet smile at his audience. As he disappeared into the store, the people of Sleeperstown stood dazzled.