Bollywood

"Bollywood" means Indian movies. It rhymes with "Hollywood," get it?

Evidently India churns out movies faster than Medicare churns out policy corrections. (For those of you out of the Medicare loop, that's very, very fast.) 1,000 movies a year, they say. That works out to roughly three movies a day, according to my space-age calculator. While that might seem impossible, I have to vouch for it: The Indian movie theater next to my office shows three movies at a time, and they change the lineup every day.

How on earth can they make so many movies? The answer is that they do exactly what Hollywood does: They make the same movie over and over. I love looking at the billboards for these movies as they come and go. The Hindi titles are meaningless to me, and yet it's so painfully obvious what each movie is about. Here's what I mean:


"Shaadi Karke Phasgaya Yaar": Sweetheart girl-next-door falls for dangerous guy who doesn't play by the rules!


"Elaan": Group of hot young devil-may-care warriors battles evil super genius!


"Swades": One charismatic teacher refuses to give up on disadvantaged students/sports team/prison group!

Also, just so you know, Bollywood is just the tip of the iceberg. There's Tollywood (Tehran) and Lollywood (Lahore, Pakistan). And of course, Dubai is aspiring to be Dollywood. Google even informs me that there is a Mollywood and a Kollywood, but honestly, I think they're only doing it to seem cool, like Tehran.

Federer

I saw Roger Federer, the top player in the world, play J.C. Ferrero -- the top player until he hurt himself a couple years back -- in the quarterfinals last night. I had never seen live tennis before, and I don't expect ever to see a better match again.

Federer came out to a huge ovation but immediately started playing like crap, losing the first set decisively. The crowd, though always polite, turned against him surprisingly quickly. But Ferrero seemed to crumble in the second set, losing it even more decisively. Ferrero couldn't stop hitting the ball into the net.

The third (and final) set was a battle royale, full of botched calls, impossibly long rallies and ground strokes so fast I couldn't even see the ball. It went into a tiebreaker in which the lead changed hands at least three times. Finally, Federer won 7-5. I wouldn't have believed a one-handed backhand like that was possible.

My camera doesn't have a fast shutter speed, so these pictures are blurry as hell. But I guess you can go to ESPN.com for good sports photography. Consider these... impressionist images of the world's top player in action.

Tennis at the Burj

Remember the Burj? Here's another picture to refresh your memory:



See the part that looks like the old Starship Enterprise, jutting out from the top? That's the helipad. But when necessary, it can be converted to other uses, such as when Roger Federer and Andre Agassi are in town:



Photo credit: Getty Images, whatever that is.

Notice that there is no fence or barrier between them and the ground. Don't chase after those balls too far, fellas.

I'm going to see the Dubai Men's Open quarterfinals tonight and tomorrow. Please, please, please let me see Federer or Agassi...

The Glittery Camel

The glittery camel.


The glittery camel with flash. How he glitters!


Glittery camel gazes nobly at the flag.


Close-up on the glittery camel.

My Oscar picks

Step aside, Academy. The results are in.

My Oscar picks:

Best Picture: "Million Dollar Baby" (should win: "Sideways")
Best Actor: Jamie Foxx (should have been nominated: Paul Giamatti)
Best Actress: Annette Bening
Best Supporting Actor: Morgan Freeman
Best Supporting Actress: Cate Blanchett
Best Director: Martin Scorsese (should win: "Sideways")

Anybody disagree? Post below.

From the Brad and Jen files

Madame Toussaud's wax museum in London decided Brad and Jen would be perfect for a first-ever double waxwork. So the couple's heart-wrenching divorce recently had its literal counterpart: The wax museum had to chop apart the wax lovers -- presumably with a hand axe or chainsaw -- and the whole thing cost the museum 10 million pounds. Now Brad lacks an arm and Jennifer lacks part of her torso. Friends itself couldn't have done it better.

The world's funniest statistics problem

My friend Bhavna is taking correspondence courses in statistics from a university in Delhi, India. This was one of the problems in her textbook. I swear to God, I am not making this up.



It's a little hard to read, so here's what it says:

"A man wants to marry a girl having qualities: white complexion -- the probability of getting such a girl is one in twenty;
handsome dowry -- the probability of getting this is one in fifty; westernised manners -- the probability here is one in a hundred. Find out the probability of his getting married to such a girl when the possession of these three attributes is independent."

My question is: What is the probability of ever finding a funnier math problem than this?

The haircut

I left the Internet cafe a half hour ago and passed the Thaqeb Gents Saloon on the way home. Having gotten a bit shaggy, I ducked in for a quick trim. Thirty minutes later, I exited and headed right back to the Internet cafe, where I sit this very minute, because this experience must be recorded.

It didn't start well. I stepped on the footrest of the chair, assuming that it -- like American barber footrests -- was somehow affixed to the ground and would bear my weight. I stepped on it and nearly flipped myself and the chair into the sink.

Once settled, I attempted to communicate with the Indian barber. I was vividly recalling my grueling haircut experiences in France, where my vocabulary was insufficient to convey how I wanted my hair to look, ensuring a series of bizarre attempts to bring continental fashions to life on my head. In truth, I don't even have the English vocabulary to explain how I like my hair cut. Only Tony knows how to do it, and he just retired.

Strangely enough, our lack of a common language helped me explain myself to the Indian barber. I held my fingers an inch apart, indicating the length I wanted him to trim. Then as he reached for the scissors, I panicked: What if he thought that's how long I wanted it? I grabbed for the scissors, took a piece of my own hair and mimed cutting it the length I wanted. Then I pointed around my ears and gestured at the clippers. He smiled and nodded. Pointing and grunting like a monkey: the international language.

His first act was to quickly unbutton the top button on my shirt, which caused me a sudden uncomfortable feeling I'd rather not describe in too much detail. Then he trussed me up in various drapes and papers and started clipping away.

It turns out I shouldn't have worried about the length: In the end, he cut it right down to an inch anyway. The interim was filled with the usual head-turnings and face-brushings. At one point he suddenly started massaging my head very heavily, turning his fingers through my hair the way I used to pet my dog. The purpose of that part, God only knows. Near the end, I got patted down with a powder called DreamFlower: A Floral Misting of Fragrant Freshness, according to the bottle. Now I smell like an Indian dude.

As for the haircut itself: How does it look? Well, I don't know how to describe it exactly... but my hair has a very Indian flavor to it now.

Sushil's paper, the scrappy underdog

But "scrappy underdog" is a relative term. This is what the entrance to a scrappy underdog newspaper looks like in glittery Dubai:



The atrium isn't so shabby either:





The newsroom looked like all the others I've seen.



But the hallways were sterile and creepy, like in a mental ward:



Like almost all buildings in the Middle East, the paper was near a mosque.



And a tire yard.

Back in business

Technological problems resolved; elktown is back on the air. Sorry about the delay. I hope your lives were only minimally shattered by the absence.

The Wonderful Journalism Ethics of the Middle East, Part II

Last time on The Wonderful Journalism Ethics of the Middle East, we saw a doctored photo of Prince Harry on the cover of one of Dubai's biggest newspapers. The doctoring job was terrible, but that didn't stop the paper from bragging about its photo-editing skills in the very caption of the picture itself.

Today, in Part II of The Wonderful Journalism Ethics of the Middle East, we will hear about a newspaper reporter at Dubai's second-largest daily paper who gives new meaning to the word "stooge." Let's call him "Sushil," because that is his name.

Sushil's paper is Dubai's scrappy underdog, a little like the New York Post. His beat is unclear. It's something in the lifestyle/education area. The S.A.T. – which locals call the SAT, as in "I SAT on a pin" – falls under Sushil's portfolio, so he's always slinking around our office.

Sushil is on my office's payroll; that much is clear. I was sitting in my boss's office once while he was flipping through Sushil's paper. He suddenly scowled and grabbed his phone, punched a button on speed dial. "Sushil!" he barked. "I told you to get my story in the paper today!"

Mumbled reply.

"No!" he shouted. "When I tell you I want my story in the paper on a certain date, I want to see it on that date. I don't want to hear about anything else, do you understand?"

"Yes," mumble mumble.

"So when will I see my story?"

"Tomorrow." And my boss slammed down the phone, then grinned at me. The ferocity – the imperiousness – I couldn't help but be reminded of how Part B News is treated by MGMA. Just kidding. My friends in the media relations biz: Don’t you wish!

The amazing part is, Sushil comes through. I have personally seen a half-dozen stories about my company in the paper, all glowing testimonials to its brilliance. I myself have been interviewed for two of the stories, watched Sushil scribble down my words on paper in Urdu or some such. In both cases, I was quoted at extreme length – it's easier to write a story if it's just one big long quote – and the words were garbled, rearranged and in many cases, totally inaccurate. For instance, I'm pretty sure I didn't say that Philadelphia is two kilometers away from New York City.

Like a lot of reporters, Sushil loves to make up his own storyline. In one case, I drove out to the paper with one of our students who did well on the SAT. I had never met the kid. Sushil interviewed us together, and when the story came out, it was "Kansas meets India: Great SAT Scores Make Fast Friends of Two Young Men." I never did learn my Fast Friend's name.

One more point: racism. White skin is prized here in very subtle ways. Out of the five American teachers here, four are white; one is Indian. In Sushil's profile story about the other four, before I got here, the three white teachers were featured prominently at the beginning. Their exploits and credentials were described in lovingly wrong detail. Shantanu got one little misquote in the last paragraph, and it made him seem like a jerk. Sushil did this, though he himself is an Indian. I'm sure that means something, though I'm not sure what.

One final note: Eating lunch the other day – far from our office and the newspaper – we saw Sushil wandering aimlessly across a parking lot. He ambled towards one curb, then the other, before reversing and heading back down the sidewalk. Maybe he was looking for someone to tell him what to write?

Technical Difficulties

Elktown is experiencing technical difficulties. Blogspot, the host, is acting funky and it's driving me crazy. I apologize. Please check back soon and we'll be up and running again.

Behold the Dubai of the future!

George Costanza: "You know I always wanted to pretend I was an architect."

As long as we're talking about architecture this week, here's one more set of pictures to set your little George Costanza hearts
a-flutter.

Inside Dubai's palatial malls, you find lots of things: DKNYs by the dozen, fashion runways, and of course, miniature horses. This website will soon feature a very colorful horse show, in fact... though maybe we'll wait until Jen M. completes the bar exam.

But you find even stranger things in the malls, like giant model cities. This model -- as long as a school bus -- represents some development they want to build in Dubai, as if what this city really needed were more giant buildings.

In any case, I give you... the Dubai of the future!







Though I think this city's constant lust for more, bigger, richer is a bit unattractive, the little boy in me thought this model was totally... freaking... awesome. Look at the little people! Going about their happy little business! I'm sure it's just a coincidence that they're all adorable little white people.



The itty-bitty cars trundle happily along the itty-bitty streets. In their tiny little world, a cool breeze blows in off the Gulf, rustling the precious little trees. All seems peaceful in the world of the happy little white people... They are totally unaware of the terrible giant lurking on the horizon...

The fury of Sally Forth

I never thought the comic strip Sally Forth was anything to get all bent out of shape about. But apparently people do. Check out this page of hate mail the artist gets.

The first -- and especially the last -- are particularly funny.

More architecture

This next one is one of the two Emirates Towers, which are visible in the distance from my neighborhood. See those pictures here.

Dubai architecture

These photos aren't going to win any prizes. They were taken from the inside of a moving car (no, Mom and Dad, I wasn't driving at the time). But they give a decent idea of what Dubai-style architecture looks like. It can be gaudy, but also more innovative than what we see in the U.S.

When I lived in Chicago -- the only place in the U.S. where architecture approaches this level of creativity -- I was told that the city only became an architectural capital after the Fire burned the entire place to the ground. The best architects in the world flocked to Chicago and made it their canvas.

Dubai is so new -- it was literally desert forty years ago -- that something similar has happened here, I would guess. Designers don't have to fit the mold because there is no mold, just sand. Some of these styles will trickle their way into the West in the next decade, I'll bet.

All pictures can be double-clicked for a full screen view. Or better yet, right-click on the photo and select "Open Link in New Window."

From a distance:



Driving through downtown:









Some interesting buildings:







Only lame cities build their towers one at a time:



Even ordinary overpasses are exciting suspension bridges:



And all of this is built with magical curving cranes!



I hear Japan is working on a miniaturized version of this magic crane that will help make PB&J sandwiches and tuck your baby into bed.

Ironically, the tallest building in the world is going up just two blocks away from the smallest apartment in the world (mine). It's still just a big hole in the ground and a bunch of exciting street signs. Unfortunately, it will only be the tallest building in the world for a second, before a taller tallest building in the world is completed a couple miles away in downtown Dubai. It's History Rising, people!



By the way, do not confuse the Burj Dubai ("History Rising") with the Burj al-Arab, the seven-star hotel and my own personal Everest. The other, taller tallest building in the world will be called Burj World, or something like that. Burj is Arabic for "tower." It sort of sounds cooler before you know what it means, I think.

Last but not least, a roadside café. (By the way, I think using that little accent on "café" is a bit pretentious, but asshole Microsoft Word is not giving me any choice. Where's that talking paper clip when you need him, Dobias?)

Anyway, a roadside café.



Let's zoom in on the man. What, pray tell, is he doing? Why, he's smoking shisha!



I think I'll go have a shisha right now.