dropping down the rabbit hole

Saturday, July 31, 2004

I'm all blogged out.
offline for the week.

the guy with socks in the toilet

ok...so here's a story for all you Fresnoy folks out there:

Alex, my classmate, has just moved to paris from lille. She was vacant from her old apartment for two weeks. Before she left she thoroughly cleaned the floor and every surface, since Tami, the new roommate was "maniac," translates to crazy neat person. She returned last week, with Tami, at 10 in the morning to help her move in. However, when she got to the door, the key stuck. It had a hard time turning, like there was something stuck on the other side. Suddenly, the door opened, and inside was a man, sleepy, 50, dirty and smelling like vomit. At first Alex thought, well, maybe he's just a friend of the real estate agent, and they gave him the key? Or maybe he was one of the workers, and he decided to crash after working all night on the apartment.
-What do you want? 'he said'
-Uh, who are you?
-I don't know. Who are you.
-I live here.
-why don't you come in?
There's a TV jacked into a cable, several pairs of expensive panties and bras strewn all over the place, and vomit everywhere, all over the floors, and on the walls. It's disgusting and dirty. He lies back down on the bed, lights a cigarette, and puts his hands down his pants, looking at the two girls. And then he says:
-So, the floor's in good condition, a few stains here and there, the hot plates work, the walls are straight...
-But who are you?
-Oh, somebody from Roubaix gave me the keys.
-Oh really.
Tami almost vomits from incredible stench and squalor. They tell him to get his things and get out of there. He starts to pile all sorts of assorted clothing into the stairwell. He takes his time. By the time he's finished, he's smoked about 8 cigarettes, and it's almost 12. He's seems almost defensively aggressive the whole time. There's a cellphone floating in a glass, socks he fishes out of the clogged up toilet bowl. Turns out he used a rag to clean up some of the vomit, then stuck the rag in the toilet bowl and flushed, to clean it...but the rag went down the bowl and the toilet overflowed. So, then he just started throwing dirty things into it, like socks.

Finally he leaves. Tami and Alex are cleaning the apartment when the doorbell rings again. there's the sound of a girl on the other line. Alex runs down the stairs to see who it is. It's the owner of the expensive bra and panty sets, a young girl of twenty, a bomb, very chic, a knockout blonde.
-No, I didn't know him very long.
-Do you know how he got the keys?
-Some guy in Roubaix gave it to him.


Ballbuster Blockbuster: le Retour de la Chine!

Friday, July 30, 2004

That's right...we got it! We got it! WE GOT THE APARTMENT ON RUE DE LA CHINE!!! (pictures will arrive as of August 15th, when we move in!)

Dacnar and Nardac spent two minutes jumping like idiots by the side of the Seine after receiving the telephone call. Then ran off to Musee D'Orsay to drink some beer!!! Phoned everybody in Paris to invite them for impromptu party at friend's apartment tonight. Then looked at some art, just Printemps de Jardin, Olympia, Boating Parties, and other priceless treasures seen in textbooks before, before running off, again, to St. Germain des Prés, for a quick look at Gainsbourg's house on Rue Verneuil. Gainsbourg is Gainsbourg. Happy to finally enjoy being tourists for a bit.

forgot to mention that we went to Pere Lachaise Cemetery the other day, highlight of which was seeing Gilbert Becaud's grave (awesome french singer...L'Indifference is lion of a song), and accidentally saw Gericault and Allan Kardec's grave as well. Kardec, thanks to my old job looking up occult influences on modern art I know this, was the leading writer for the Spiritualist movement. His crypt is incredible...like miniature stonehenge with a bust of him within. Written on it is, "born, died, born again, never stopping in upwards progression, as is the law." There were some weird fanatics standing beside, touching his head and shaking. Was funny because just behind the crypt was the punchline: an official statement by the Mayor's Office about how, in convention with the philosophy of Spiritualism, it was not necessary, nor useful, to touch the crypt since the body retains no energy after death. Like mayor saying "DUH, STUPID, DON'T TOUCH." And, and Jimbo's grave is sooo overrated...even the policeman looks bored.

oh, and drinking 8 glasses of water a day makes your skin look better...but it makes you pee too much. I don't like feeling like I have to pee every half an hour. that sucks.

have to warn everyone that will be going somewhere with no internet for the next week...so dropping offline. But, don't worry...will have even more grumpy and frustratingly idiotic tales to recount.


can't sleep, and, while thinking about new blogger links section, suddenly realized why I wrote my archipelago bit...I'm homesick. finally...and this was a cheap way of throwing out a fishing line. So, for all you people in Toronto, or wherever you are, I'm not coming back anytime soon, but it doesn't mean I don't miss the hell out of you.

what I actually miss:
jumbo empanadas, tacos el asador, and cheap sushi
going to bars with friends and smoking my face off
knowing everybody at all those stupid art parties
dressing outrageously for pennies
riding bikes all the time
North American TV
knowing where I'm going almost blindfolded
buying too much produce for the week then going out for dinner at korea town while lettuce rots in fridge
dating cool art/rock boy with lots of fun connections
throwing a dinner for my friends and then cooking something completely stupid and complicated, just because
la ha, in the good old days
giant boxes of Tropicana
nancy on her bike
shelton's bad decisions
chris's sunday dim sum date
don cherry on HNIC
speaking english

what I don't miss:
getting insane allergies every spring and summer
having to filter my water in Brita everyday
seeing the same people who talk about all the same other people and what success they have
pseudo-cool art openings that are really a drag unless you're a queen
the predominant idea that gay/issue-based art is so cool
smoking my face off
dating pussy-whipped art/rock boy
fear of staying at home unless I miss something
watery tasteless yogurt
ignorant racists who think they're really hip just because they can introduce their parents to dim sum, false sympathy, thoughtless PC posturing
having people understand the words, but not the meaning, of what I say all the time

ok, I'm going to sleep now, with dreams of wading through slush and ice in February...


en français, le B-list TV celebrities are called "people." I guess if you suck, or you've spent lots of time on plastic furniture in front of hidden cams, you get this anglophone appellation.

and, as a note for the future, for all the people who know the Nardac's former incarnation, please be respectful of my new moniker.

Hangman's Supper

it's always interesting to find out what people would think of eating as their last meal. so here's my version of the Hangman's Supper

(Paris tap-water throughout)
freshly sautéed fiddleheads in peanut oil and a toss of salt (chardonnay)
one very cold, large and perfectly fresh uni (perrier)
one cube of charolais, point bleu, with butter (bourgogne)
fresh sweet pea purée, topped with perfect boiled egg
a good large coquille saint jacques, flash poached in butter, on fresh rocket (vin blanc de savoie)
fresh raw sardines marinated for half-hour in olive oil, salt and lemon (deep rich pinot noir rose from alsace)
chilled seaweed broth with horseradish sprouts
tiny strawberry tart
roquefort on a cracker served with pineau de charentes
cognac and cigar

Ballbuster Blockbuster: the sequel, Dawn of the Recompense

Thursday, July 29, 2004

Ok...so, for all those interested in my incredibly fascinating apartment hunting in Paris, here's the news today.
Dacnar and Nardac saw two beautiful apartments today.

140 Blvd. Menilmontant, 4th floor, north exposure, 35m2, 660Eu
Advantages, the metro menilmontant is two seconds from the door, 4th floor ensures beautiful thighs and lots of light, there's a BATHTUB in the bathroom (if you think it's funny I mention this, then you haven't visited Paris yet...this is a RARITY for the price!!), hardwood floors, gas gas everything, large kitchen with white and green mini-tiles, newly refurnished heating. 3 minutes from the Pere Lachaise Cemetery, 35 minutes by foot to centre of Paris, next to very cool popular bar areas, close to two metro lines. WOW!!! Plus, the lady at the agency really likes us, the dossiers, and she seems to think it's up to us to choose whether we like the apartment or not.

Usually, in Paris, you prepare a file, with about 60 papers, including all possible financial employment education tax past-renting information, coupled with the same thing for a guarantor. It's hell just getting this together, and usually you have to make multiple copies. In any case, if you're unemployed, or an artist, or anything not regular, chances are THIN. For every apartment you see, there's about twenty people with you who've dropped off a file.

56 rue de la Chine, 4th floor, south west exposure, 40m2, 686Eu
This is the one I adore. Lots and lots of light in a big stone building. Giant ceilings, with enormous windows, grilled window casing/balcony, amazing view of Paris and lots of mouldings. New dark dark blue carpet. Kitchen is ENORMOUS, and all modern fixings. The bathroom has glass tile wall so it's full of light. One of the rooms has a fireplace. It's not as well located, about 7 minutes to the nearest metro, and about 50 minutes by foot downtown. Giant hallway, building in tip top condition, excellent gas water radiators, close to Chinatown, slightly quiet area.

Soooo, I think we're going to be offered the first one, but do we take it or do we hold out and wait for a decision on the second (which we stand less of a chance of getting...???) Stay tuned!

Oh, and this was like the 14th apartment we looked at.

where's my archipelago???

Wednesday, July 28, 2004

suddenly realized, after reading cousin's blog for the last little bit, that in fact I don't belong to any discernible group of blogger buddies...
besides finnish roommate, and cousin, am completely separated geographically, and perhaps culturally, from huge blogging potential community. All my cousin's links are related to friends and relatives who blog as well (as well as living in the same city). I am the only blogger among my neolithic anglophone friends, while my francophone buddies are too busy trying to make new media work to blog very much. Wonder if Frenchies are more obsessed with the romantic intellectual potential of technology that the dirty basic fun of it all. Notice asians are really at the top of this market, using technology for fun, not academic or pretentious means. anglophone friends are too far away to get my gnarly parisian observations. So, like art imitating real life, I'm a blogging island with ferries to an asian archipelago.

cooking lesson #1

last night went for dinner at scooby's place. She made tomato soup, fried limande and chocolate cake. Here's the recipe for the tomato soup:

take seven large ripe tomatoes, and put them in a pot, cover with water, bring to a boil, then take them out and drain, reserving about a two cups of the tomato water. When slighly cool, peel the skin off, then cut into chunks. Mix with tomato water, grated ginger, handful of chopped basil, minced clove of garlic, sliver of olive oil, pepper, salt, and quite a good lot of sugar. If you have time, use two large wooden spoons (or anything else available, and smash chunks of tomato against side of pot to reduce size and puree a little. That's all folks!

the chocolate cake was soooo delicious...but it was harder to follow exactly what she was doing
a good chunk of butter (maybe half a block) creamed with half a cup of sugar, add four eggs, then melt six blocks of chocolate, stir it into mixture, finally, one cup of flour, a handful of chopped basil, and a little bit of levure (baking powder). finally, make sure the oven is hot hot hot (475-500F?) and put batter into square tin, and shove into oven for ten/fifteen minutes. Pull out and cover. The idea here is to have a bottom and top that's crisp and well done, while the middle is slightly wet and fondant (like fudge in the centre).

fried limande, fried fish. if you need a recipe for that, write me for a free insult.

yup, food good!!!

tomorrow: how to make a good boiled egg, and famous death meals (what would be your last supper?)

Armstrong, winner, and THUG

I really hope this is true: If Simeoni can get criminal charges upheld against Lance Armstrong, for "fraude sportive, violence privée et intimidation de témoin" (fraud, personal violence, intimidation of a witness...), for the incredibly shameful behaviour during the third to last stage of the Tour de France, it would be GREAT.

For those who don't know what happened, Simeoni is a witness in the trial of Dr. Ferrari, who has worked closely with Lance Armstrong, for charges of doping. Simeoni has publicly said that Lance is doped, and Lance is suing Simeoni for slander. During the tour, on the third to last stage, Simeoni was in one of the breakaway groups. He wasn't in any position to threaten any of the standings, and, normally, this means that the leader, Lance Armstrong, would leave him be, since, tactically, there's no reason. There were six other riders in the breakaway group, which had two minutes on the peloton.

Lance then decided to take things in hand. He chased down the breakaway group, the lovely yellow shirt looking so small on such a mean man, and when he got to the group, he told all the other riders in the breakaway group that he would allow them their small margin if they made sure Simeoni was brought back to the peloton. The other riders asked him to do this (winning a stage is soooo much glory!), and, finally, under a lot of pressure, Simeoni gave up. Accompanied by his trusty friend Lance by his side, Simeoni was treated to a private talk all the way back.

This is the real beauty of sport, when it becomes no better than a mafia deal.

I don't care if Lance is doped. So many of those riders are. I don't care if he only rides the Tour de France...that's his business. What I do hate is when someone takes my sport away. I don't watch cycling to be reminded of the injustice inherent in big business. I don't watch cycling to see fairplay and courage dissolved by intimidation and coercion. He can take his six tour de Frances and stick it where the sun don't shine. A thug stays a thug, and it's a tarnish no amount of glory can hide.

make or break it! that's racism!

my dear finnish friend just told me that my blogger burnout is an indication of growing pains...moving from freshman to sophmore in the blogging world. Apparently, after the initial wonder has evaporated, many people leave they blogs for better days, or attack it sporadically...

~hmmm...nothing to say.
~Am I blacking out?
~Is my blog made yet?

ok, since that didn't work (still leaning towards making all my readers hit buttons, whether from head crashing into keyboards, or plain bored willfulness), I'm going to move on to my next favourite topic, racism.

~what the geehaw is she up to???
~shut up, shut up...Shit, I hope she's not going to talk about the olympics and male domination.
~the topic today is racism, not sexism.
~yeah, but I heard her say today that all men have compartmentalized brains that are dedicated to monotasking.
~yeah, well...we still win more medals in the olympics that chicks!

That's right, racism. It's alive, it's well, and it's not going away. There's a funny sense of it in big cities, as compared with little ones. Being of mixed race origin, living in a small town in france, it's funny to see people react to "difference." There's a sense of curiousity, coupled with plain ignorance. I remember one day someone asking me if I wanted to put my film into the aboriginal film festival...when...duh!!! I have no abo blood! (this comment came from the delightfully educated and mildly professional head of distribution at our school. What a sparkplug!) I guess the fact I made a film that was supposedly Canadian, piled into an igloo with a mounted moose, must have made me recall my ancient hunting days of seals and spears!

Oh, shit, yeah racism. Ok...where am I going with this?
Living in big cities, under tight living quarters, makes one acutely aware of cultural differences.

~A quiet statement, some might even say, general.
~Monkeys don't believe in racism.
~Your mother doesn't believe in racism.

I was on the subway today, the paris metro, deep in rush hour, around the barbes-rochechouart area, line 2, heading to Place de Clichy, when suddenly the doors opened, and what was already an uncomfortable squash became an all-out pile-on. An african woman, in ridiculous overly bright clothing, multipatterned to the max, multiple pleats, and various layers, well padded in every sense, came stuffing through the door at top speed, pushing everybody aside pell-mell, and generally slamming into a little turkish old man, who had to come up to his wobbly feet quickly before she sat on him. She then proceeded to sigh and push ever so slightly against my back and his side. The train started, and it got even worse. I was trapped, and this stupid behemoth of a woman had no sense of bodily control. She just kept sighing, as if she was irritated that we just happened to be standing there when she barged into the train. Finally, a seat opened up in the central area, and I could feel her start pushing to get to it...but, sometimes dumb people do great things, because she couldn't go around me, and, thankfully not through me, so I managed to be pushed straight into the seat, at which point I gratefully took it, smiled angelically, and kicked my feet out a little, hoping the menhir would topple over.

Later, on the same stupid metro line, I was sitting, reading my big Dick (I'm still churning up dark waters as reality tv has eaten all healthy reading time) when another crazy over-patterned moomoo came charging in and sat next to me. Obviously she should have paid an extra ticket because obviously she thought she was responsible for two places.

Finally, on the train coming home, already exhausted, overly fondled, and ready to scream, I walked in through the doors, only to see the one available seat being taken up by a foot of the final witch, another be-patterned inflated beach ball. She sat next to her foot, looking up at me challengingly. I conceded. I gave in. I hated them all.

You hate Americans? I hate Africans. What makes this a funny statement is that a lot of people will think that discrimination based on the colour of one's skin is any more dire than discrimination based on one's cultural appearance. What we imagine Americans to be is largely reflected in their overly large, overly made-up, slightly plastic appearance. There's something physically there. And, whether we discriminate based on that, or any other factor, it's still a certain kind of discrimination. I have to admit that maybe being in the metro is not the best place for this, and that rudeness is a quality not limited to colour or multi-patterned dressed women, but what I am trying to illustrate is that in the course of one day, three incidents took place, with one physically recognizable pattern. That's chance...and that's what happens.

I'm sure, as well, that if I had been a large powerful looking black man, the reaction might have been different. Or maybe not...gosh, who really knows.

What makes this situation sad is the fact that it made me realize the inevitability of racism. In the day and age where we live in big cities, where immigrant cultures are largely unintegrated, where the social structure keeps them from being integrated, and where the general public feels betrayed by a government that can no longer provide adequate urban living conditions, this type of animal aggression is no big surprise. I'm not saying anything revolutionary. And I don't believe that academics aren't prey to the same dark thoughts as the rest of the multicultural population, being as they're not excluded from what we call society....but, here's the depressing thought...we live in a society (paris here) where no amount of academic training can prevent racism. Living conditions change the way people think. A healthy mindset for the population comes from a sense of growth and possibility, not desperation and aggression. If academics and leading government members cannot and do not take the initiative to change the urban environment and the massive immigration (provide adequate housing to resist the ghetto-effect, create job opportunities so that young louts don't spend most of their day standing around, waiting to steal or defraud someone, provide cultural centres so that they don't feel a need to be on the streets the whole fucking day, and therefore *sigh* change the whole way they think about integrating in a community), paris will continue to decline, rapidly, and will pay a high price for it's apathy and arrogance.

What's even funnier is how many white people in france, urban Parisiens consider living in the ghettos "chouette," cute. "Oh, there's so much life...things are really buzzing on the street...what a lively neighbourhood...people here aren't trapped in their houses...there's a real street life...blah blah blah." Wanna-be blacks are even more stupid than the unemployed louts themselves. The cool Parisiens, who listen to black suburban angst hip hop (like the same stupid whiny pap about the fucking ghetto and hookers and pimps...boring), while living off unemployment benefits, going every other day to the cinema...looking for free art openings to drink champagne, ways to scam stuff, making money doing inept overly-trivialised VJing...these guys are the worst...the real locusts. If France were to do something good, they should look at the number of pseudo-artist types who've worked less than a week in the last year (there's a good number of them), and ship them all off to Africa, to work the fields like slaves.

So, that's my solution, conscript blacks AND whites into slavery. Let's give a big huzzah for equality. Let's put all these healthy bodies to good physical use. Black and whites of the world, UNITE!

~well, I guess she makes it after all...
~it was a good rant
~but it's always the same, hate hate hate
~duh, obviously blogs are spaces for people to say things they can't find a forum for in daily life...
~or things that maybe nobody wants to listen to
~I don't want to listen to this.

Ballbuster Blockbuster

Saturday, July 24, 2004

Dacnar and Nardac are on a new adventure: The Quest for the Nice/Cheap Apartment. It's a special Paris edition. Our two heroes imagine themselves to be capable of taking on the ancient idol, Paris, but find themselves awkwardly stranded by imaginatively rude and awful landlords, vicious swimming tides of other apartment seekers, and mountains of administrative red tape. Will our two heroes make it through the adventure alive, without being swallowed up by massive debt and the evil monster: A SHITTY EXPENSIVE APARTMENT. Stay tuned for more exciting and strangely demoralising tales!!!

In this weeks episode, after battling the sharp restrictive glances of a basement apartment landlord, our two heroes rebound magnificently in St. Fargeau; but the battle is far from over. Even as Nardac used her super charm magic manouveure (costing fifty soul points), the landlord put her on the list...with twelve other hopefuls!!! The couple then takes a short break to Chateau Chinon, Mitterand's old stomping grounds, where tennis, petanque, swimming and moving independant films...breathlessly await!!!

What's coming up next: The story of the multiple files, Begging by Nature, Desperate.com, more other modern french urban legends. Special guest stars include the Prefecture agent, and My Guarantor.

Greek philosophy is boring (Euro 2004)

Monday, July 05, 2004

Just to prove my point on how boring the greeks were, I couldn't even finish this bloody blog, that was saved as a draft the evening after the Euro final...it was too boring, like the game. So thanks, Mr. Greek football team, for boring the fuck out of me. And good luck with your fucking Olympics. I can't wait to be thrilled by the possibility of cracking more world records by super doped up athletes...like the Rock, they hardly ressemble any normal walking talking human beings but have morphed into some super-plastic figurine. Oh, I'm bloody fed up with sport...they should just add some people dressed up as spongy vegetables, and boil them into some reality soup.

p.s. -- Scooby has wicked apartment on fringes of Paris...I just feel like sleeping the moment I enter through the door. Except stupid cat keeps jumping on head...darnac said he's going to sit on it...but instead he just says "hey you...STOOPID" ....that does NOT work


Saturday, July 03, 2004

dacnar is going to the brothel's unshaven, with dried cheese on his lapel and shod in sandals. he's really the cream of the crop as far as fiancees go.

late late late, as usual

I need to find a way to get out of this school...it's almost 6 in the morning, I've been waiting for my stupid files to magically change transform themselves, so I can move them onto my hard drive and blast out of here...I've been here all night. I'm going mad.

on the other hand, I've read all the sports news available, googled everyone to hell, written an endless blog entry, and sneaked peeks at everyone else's blogs for secret entries of me...

which brings me to a nice point. my cousin, who pretends to be slightly more uncool than me, (if she could only see me now, all accounts would be settled), has been keeping a blog for almost a year now. This means that she's been keeping it from just before I came to visit her in August, last year...so, being a natural snoop, I peaked into the entries August 8, 2003- September 8, 2003. Lo and behold, there were the documents...like peeking into a pandora's box, because there's no such thing as a little glance, and there's no such thing as a casual reaction when family's involved. I have to admit, I was really touched. Of course, this was accompanied by the family guilt I still bear over an uncompleted family project...but, whatever, that'll be done in due time.

So, here's the 411 on my cousin: she's older than me (by a question of months), she's been schooled mainly in Singapore, though had a decent amount of education at a respected american university, she's quite open and funny, married to a guy who's following his artistic ambitions, and, while she can't hold her alcohol, nor eat a lot, she can sure give her point of view in a pointed manner! It might not sound like a lot, but it's quite substantial. Singaporeans are, by my experience, obsessed with what's normal, or aberrant, or cool, or controlled. They need to know where they stand, in measure to others, all the time, so that they can feel inferior or superior, either of which provokes an ugly reaction. My cousin is not like that. And, in an island like Singapore, that makes her ten times cooler than my painted toe-nails. Thanks a bunch, tym!

the big Dick and the little Ulysses

Friday, July 02, 2004

so it's finally happened...after years of avoiding it, wishing to read it but having no time, and using it as a means of anchoring my apartment to the ground, I've started reading Moby Dick.

How did this happen? (anybody who keeps reading after this is an inveterate masochist, or an unimaginative procrastinator, or maybe unaware of what is the Moby Dick..."is it porn for technophiles? lots of weenie shaved-head guys wearing prosthetic schlongs the size of Georgia?)...

like most people out there, I confess to summer book fever, where the combination of guaranteed vacation, mixed with heavy drinking and long nights makes for the ideal conditions to consume lots and lots of books, of all kinds, in immoderate amounts. This can vary from the horror/mystery/fantasy genre, to non-fiction, to plain old 30-something life-drama narratives. The only kind of book to avoid, normally, is the heavy literary types, with which one likes to punish oneselves in winter. In fact, one might say that summer reading is the antithesis of winter-reading...I'm not sure is there's a marketing strategy that's giving me this impression...and it very well maybe that I've been programmed from my youth to read schlock and comics in the summer, and homework-type books in the winter. However, back to the main story.

Turns out this phenomena is worldwide, with tons of people recommending books for the mandatory vacation period in July and August, in franceland. Just the other day, on the television, there was a show featuring 8 writers, each talking talking talking their heads off. There were four non-fiction writers, doing their best to be serious, and selling their books on the guilt of the western world...then there were four fiction writiers, all of them in their thirties. One of them decided that he would rewrite some book, I can't remember, by Flaubert, but replace the setting in the modern age. And then they got into some pseudo intellectual conversation about the superficialities of Flaubert and relevance to the pop culture artifacts referenced in the book. I almost tipped into snoozeland by the end. The most pretentious of all the books the one "the erotic adventures of my wife (not an autobiography)" I had to laugh a bit though...the guy had a wicked natural sponge haircut. Finally, the speaker came to the end of the show, and he pulled out his recommendation for the summer, Ulysses, by James Joyce. a real headwringer, and one that will keep you "passionate" all summer long.

hardee har har I can only imagine all those french pretentious dingbats, who probably already have one copy of Ulysses boiling away somewhere, rushing to put their best pants on so that they can get this "passionate" book. That's by far the funniest summer recommendation I've ever heard...in fact, it was a rather courageous recommendation since, given french obstinacy, there might be many a frenchperson having their summer completely ruined by trying to decipher and analyse the moby dick of english lit. It was required reading in university...my class spent two months on it, at which point attendance dropped spectacularly. Being quite a voracious reader myself, and having been a huge fan of The Dubliners (which has some of the most elegantly overwrought short stories ever written), I was anxious to start on that "brotherjumper." However, everytime I tried to jump in, my eyelids fell down. weird. the phenomena still continues...I can read odd pages, here and there, and there are moments that are just a pleasure to savour, from an aural point of view, however, it remains, for me, the Greenland of Literature, Beautiful, Mystical, utterly impenetrable.

but, going back, I suppose I should say that for me Ulysses represents the thing in literature not so far from what Ahab felt for Moby Dick: a representative of all that frustrates and enthralls in literature, the most beautiful and terrifying cipher. (oh boy, I can feel a thesis rising up). And, if I say that my explorative nature leads me naturally closer to Ishmael, than to Ahab, I can also so that the temptation of the challenge, the unbeatable foe, the conquering, is also close, and that, therefore, I keep a spare copy of Ulysses on deck, as a reminder of what I have failed but would like to have boasted about.

However, at the bookstore, things happen much more naturally. One is seduced by covers, packaging, prices, positioning...which makes it all the more strange that my hand wavered and finally picked Moby Dick, amidst all the other gooey new stuff out: Auster's prestigitation, Zadie Smith's new temptation, and even the Olivia whashisname book by ex-bridget jones writer. well, the price was one: 6Eu, cheap for foreign books, and secondly, I started reading it, cracked the first page, and it sucked me in. So strange...Melville's voice seduces one in the search of voyage and adventure, and quickly turns gothic. But then, quite suddenly, the religious aura becomes less of a stylistic hindrance, so much as a bearer of his "niagara roar" of a voice. What authority and sheer passion! Gahhhh....

Well, I'm not done the book yet, and it remains to see what will happen, if it will join the dusty pile under my bed, or the crinkled covers beside the bed. But, that's my big Dick story...and I think there's a sequel on the way.

Cthulhu on Broadway!!!

for all you Lovecraft maniacs, this one's a doozie.

A Shoggoth on the Roof...what the f*&#!
...just click on the musical title...and they have mp3s free to listen to. OHMYGOD...best site ever except... I took the sanitest "how insane are you?"...and it didn't give me any results. that sucks.


Thursday, July 01, 2004

yeah, for real...now that I live in franceland...where everything runs backwards and the administration is made of poo, I can honestly say that Canada is a safe, efficient nice place to live and grow up. GO LEAFS GO!!!

whoops...i'm dating a cro-magnon!!!

people are inflexible because they choose to be inflexible...not because they actually are incapable. boyfriends who refuse to wash the dishes because they're too busy watching a commercial at half-time are the dregs and remnants of our primitive mysogynistic origins. What makes this an even more despicable scenario was the fact that I only asked him to clean up the dishes, so that I could cook dinner quickly, so that I could go to work.