Book review of The Two-Second Advantage by Kevin Maney and Vivek Ranadive

Just devoured the Two Second Advantage by Kevin Maney and Vivek Ranadive. The book underscores the Gladwellish merits of spontaneity, and touches upon a theory that predictive abilities can, have and will translate to better, timely decisions. The book, however, doesn’t do justice to Maney’s research and merely is a teaser to the depth of innovation that Vivek has. What it does, though, is make the reader aware that such an advantage exists, and that it can be exploited to make the difference between success and failure. The dimension that I think is very unique in this is something that TIBCO has always been comfortable with: speed. It’s not just about how to get to where the puck is going to be; it’s about getting there in time. Tee-minus-two seconds, figuratively.

Mission Impossible 4: Ghost Protocol Unreview: Burj To Brij

Scripting a new Hollywood movie is quite simple, actually. First, you got the write the words “the world will come to an end, unless …”, and fill it in with what you think should be there. It could be as random and ridiculous as it gets.

Like a man blowing up the Kremlin and then launching Russian nuclear missiles from Mumbai Bombay.

Being Dutch – part 1

Dear Diary,

Today, I have decided to take a big step towards being Dutch, and that is to learn how to pronounce the Dutch word “gracht” correctly. Without scaring three people and spitting on twelve, that is. Yes, dear diary, twelve. Makes us wonder, don’t you think, if they dope because they speak that way, or if they speak that way because they dope? I mean, flem and saliva ooze out of the orifice in the face when you pronounce the word a lot more than when you have pneumonia. Yes, Pneumonia. Which … reminds me of something.

You know, dear diary, the word “gracht” is rather deep. Literally. Sixteen feet three inches, to be precise. It means “canal”, and if you drop your wedding ring into it while on a walk with the lady, you will forever live with two metrics for the rest of your life. The depth, as I mentioned above, and the temperature of the water in mid-January. While we went for treatment, the doctor said he had never seen testicles take so long to defrost.

Sensor Ship

Dear Mr. Sibal,

I’m going to say two things that will – and should – make you love me. And make the rest of the world hate me. Terribly. First, I’m in favour of censorship. Secondly, you have a point.

There. I said it. If you think I’m being sarcastic, go fuck yourself.

By censorship, Mr. Sibal, I don’t mean what you mean. All I’m really asking for is a few things to be banned in this lovely country of mine. A few items that do not merit a public audience. A bunch of retarded people, whose names I can call out, who should not share any public opinion.

To begin with one such lunatic, we needn’t look very far. Kapil Sibal.

Academy Award Winner Megan Fox

I never thought that I would say this, but recent events have provoked me to it.

Megan Fox is a *good* actress. I’m not talking about her looks or her lips (the pair of which would be banned in the Corbett National Park, for being too plasticky). I’m just speaking of her general acting abilities. Her commanding screen presence, her soothing voice, and her intense facial expressions. And if you’re wondering what I’ve been smoking – the answer is: nothing. You would, of course, share my opinion.

If, and only if, you watched Rosie Huntington-Whiteley in Transformers 3.

The no-fly zone

What if you want to provoke a ruthless dictator? Threaten him with death, yet keep him alive? Bring him tantalizingly close to death – yet intend to capture him? You need a soldier who has the ability to spray bullets all around the shooting zone, miss the target, and push the odd one that *almost* takes off the target’s head. Who better, then, than a man whose radar is as accurate as a rickshaw meter in Bangalore? Besides, if there is anyone who can ruffle the cold-blooded – it’s Sreesanth. He can provoke Gaddafi with a safety-pin.

Dear Hans Hillen,

Dear Dutch Minister of Defence,

While most countries are sending a fleet of warships to rescue their citizens from Libya, you send just one – pray one – unarmed helicopter with three Dutch airmen? To pick up two people who are almost in a warzone? Why, I wouldn’t send such a small crew to pick up two Irish tourists high on Dutch beer playing shag outside Pathe Tilburg. And you send the tiny crew into the heart of Gaddafi’s stronghold?

Oh, right. You picked the cheapest option on offer. Typical Dutch. I’m surprised your airmen didn’t ask Moses to split the Mediterranean so that they could cycle through it into Libya.

Regards,
S.

ICC Cricket World Cup 2011 textual highlights – Week 1

The World Cup is finally here, and is – already – nine matches old. Matches that have showcased top quality batting (read: Sehwag), questionable catching (but of course, it’s England) and a demonstration by the Kenyans on how to bowl as inaccurately as possible. Amidst these eighteen innings of cricketing class and crass, there have been a few incidents off the pitch that the social media have dedicated ample webspace, including a television that was subjected to the wrath of a splice of cricketing equipment that stands in the way of fast bowling and Ricky Ponting’s manhood. A mansion of opinions that I can only intend to add to. So here are my textual highlights from the first week of the ICC Cricket World Cup 2011.

Tees Maar Khan Review

If you’re wondering why this “review” of Tees Maar Khan is so late, it’s down to two reasons. (1) It was probably so hyped that you watched it anyway. And (2), I’m still getting over the shock. How, pray tell me, does Farah Khan consistently manage to churn out crap after crap, yet rake in the moolah?

But a word of praise, before we begin. Only Akshay Kumar can wear pink, purple, red and fluorescent green – and get away with it. Respect.

So, TMK is the kind of movie that leaves your sides hurting by the end of it, because you’re constantly switching from laughter-induced-pain to cringing in disgust. It’s the kind of movie that has the Dutch flag as a tiranga, where a foetus that eventually grows up to be Tees Maar Khan has a piercing. It’s also the kind of movie where two perfectly respectable adult twins, Raghu and Rajiv of MTV fame – one of which is rather stern – are made to look and behave so irrational and childishly absurd that it becomes painful to watch them after a while. And Ms. Kaif, goodness me, displayed her ability to overact more than the overacting required of the role assigned to her.

On Her Majesty’s Service

Cricket, my friends, is a writer’s best inspiration. Only if the writer is fanatic about the game involving wood, leather and days of commercial breaks with cricket broadcasted between them. So, what better way to return to blogging that write about cricket?

And, as with any willow fan in the world, no discussion in 2011 can begin without a mention of the Ashes. England have won, and although many expected it, the event has triggered a mix of cricketing emotions that I simply can’t cope up with. I mean, I obviously must be rather delighted that Australia lost, and lost miserably (as are the cricketing-loving citizens of other Test-playing nations that were subjected to years of Aussie domination accentuated by years of Aussie arrogance). And that face of Ricky Ponting – priceless. In fact, I hear many Indians (fans of VVS Laxman, I’m told) have lined up outside Buckingham Palace, offering the Queen a stake in the ownership of the new IPL team, Telangana Thunderers.

The other emotion is disgust at England having won, marginally overridden by surprise at – you guessed right – England having won.