a real love story

Thursday, September 30, 2004

Love is in so many different foms, in so many different possible combinations. Some people are just lucky I guess. Others are creative.
The Unlimited Supply of 35 Millimeter Film
By Richard Brautigan

People cannot figure out why he is with her. They don’t understand. He’s so good-looking and she’s so plain. ‘What does he see in her ?’ they ask themselves and each other. They know it’s not her cooking because she’s not a good cook. About the only thing that she can cook is a halfway decent meat loaf. She makes it every Tuesday night and he has a meat loaf sandwich in his lunch on Wednesday. Years pass. They stay together while their friends break up.

The beginning answer, as in so many of these things, lies in the bed where they make love. She becomes the theatre where he shows films of his sexual dreams. Her body is like soft rows of living theatre seats leading to a vagina that is the warm screen of his imagination where he makes love to all the women that he sees and wants like passing quicksliver movies, but she doesn’t know a thing about it.

All she knows is that she loves him very much and he always pleases her and makes her feel good. She gets excited around four o’clock in the afternoon because she knows that he will be home from work at five.

He has make love to hundreds of different women inside of her. She makes all his dreams come true as she lies there like a simple contented theatre to his touching, thinking only of him.

‘What does he see in her ?’ people go on asking themselves and each other. They should know better. The final answer is very simple. It’s all in his head.

The first time

Last night, over dinner with two good friends, both of whom are filmmakers, I asked the question, what was your first experience in a cinema ?

Alain – I went to a cinema, on the northern coast, near Caen, and they were showing archival war films. The seat was very comfortable, class. I said this is what I want to do.

Vimukthi – My mother took me to the cinema. The room was very dark, and like a lot of cinemas in Sri Lanka, there were coloured lights all around the screen. I kept looking around and I noticed everybody was staring at the screen. Something very exciting was going on. But the screen was dark and there wasn’t anything to see. I pretended to understand but eventually, I asked my mother what all the attention was about. She said « wait and see. »

Dacnar – It was film with and by Coluche, « Vous n’aurez pas l’Alsace et la Lorraine» (tr. You won’t want Alsace and Lorraine) a real ‘navet’ (tr. turnip). I laughed a lot.

Me – My aunt took me to see Superman in a beautiful old theatre, with my sister. I was very young and the seats were all red. After the film, she took me to Shangri La, a very chic hotel, to eat my first banana split. The banana split was excellent.

Oddly telling of our current work.

Just when you thought the party ended.....

Wednesday, September 29, 2004

Last night had marvelous display of French ingenuity. Scoobs was broke, and to herald a coming 20Eu, she decided to host a dinner party. She provided the lentils, the rest was up to the guests. Turns out everyone was itching for something to do, someplace ot go, to huddle, to smoke, to drink and eat themselves silly, because sooner than later, the guestlist had swollen to 10 and everybody was bringing something good to munch/glug on.

Had to swing by Voin’s place to pick him up because, YES, the boy is back in town. Thank god, I was starting to feel like a housewife. But, was about 2 hours late due to bad Fougace experiment and bomb alert on the metro line 2. So, ended up walking in between Anvers and La Fourche, which was terribly funny because cars stuck in giant line all in the left hand side did NOT move.

Finally see the beautiful Voin, looking the same, if a little tired, and his boyfriend Mr. T, a lovely boy with a dashing black mackintosh. Turns out our little Bulgarian troublemaker has been imbibing in too many powdered and pilled substances and has turned into a deflated souffle…but given the list of ingredients in his chemical menu, all is forgiven. Anyways, he brought me a really lovely polyester scarf with eighties print of horses, and spray painted Chanel-ish chain bag. Sigh. Hands off girls, this one’s MINE ! ! !!

Got to the Scoobs and were the second people to arrive, preceded by the Dude, Queenie’s boyfriend. The Dude always sports some serious hip hop style and he showed me how my name would look if he tagged it. Everybody very charming, immediately grabbing wine bottles and glasses, and night officially started. Other people showed up : J-girl with the German Boyfriend, Queenie, Manu and the Philosophy student, and finally Annabelle, Scoob’s roommate.

Impressive amounts of wine was drank, tons and tons of delicious goodies, I amused Voin with my more sophisticated version of the Camembert, and Scoobs did her best with the Parmesan. We did three rounds of my roasted pleurotes (oyster mushrooms) and had divine moment with rabbit terrine. It hit a nostalgic note by reminding me of the potjevleesch (pot of flesh, wacky northern french jellied meat speciality).

Then the Dude disappeared into the kitchen for a bit…finally, piqued by curiosity and joint-smelling, found out what the Dude was up to…he was beating a cupful of sugar with a spoonful of coffee…talk about heroism. Queenie was overcome with adoration and did a tiger pounce…Voin and I retired back to the salon to see what was going on. People were talking about Dune.

Finally, Herbie made a show. He works late so it’s forgiveable, plus super gift of three beer bottles and two wine bottles. Everybody left minutes after he got there, so was just Scoobs, Annabelle, Herbie and myself. Voin had already signed his check hours ago. The boy looks like he needs a week of serious R’n’R. Managed to drink a helluva lot more, and discuss the problems of contemporary art, as well as sing some Hank Williams songs, before being shown the door.

Then, thank you Herbie, managed to be taxied all the way to the door for practically no money. Crept into bed warmed by Dacnar and drank at least two glasses of water before sleeping, like good girl. But hasn’t stopped me from feeling like a monkey head and wondering if singing Daniel Johnston songs really loudly in front of a french audience is ever a good idea. Oh, just remembered hilarious history lesson between the Dude and German boyfriend on Notorious B.I.G./Tupac and the whole west coast : east coast thang. Hah ! That’s some good EU Exchange going on.

P.S. at this very moment, carpenters are fixing my doors and windows so am surrounded by all sorts of banging and hammering, all day long, while gradually seeping day-after alcohol fumes. bad planning.

Oh Tyler!!!! How could you

Sunday, September 26, 2004

Originally uploaded by nardac.
This is picture of Tyler Hamilton, Olympic champion(??) and his dog Tugboat, who died during the course of the Tour de France this year. Looks nice doesn't it?

Tyler Hamilton, who I mentioned in an earlier blog reference on the Olympics, seems to have been royally convicted of doping. He got caught doing a blood transfusion. That means he had his blood exchanged with someone else's...dude, that's so disgusting. You have to lie there for 6 hours while all your blood gets exchanged for someone else's, and you're not going through open heart surgery??!! I don't know why that has to be illegal, because it seems to be super nasty already. Punishment like beating a dead horse.

Apparently he might keep his gold medal for the Olympics, because he has proved to be clean for that. But...good comment by fellow sports-maniac Y, you have to doubt when someone suddenly becomes a champion cyclist at 32 years old. However, good guy status of Hamilton and general admiration from sporting community makes convincing proof that ALL cyclists must be doped in some way or another. Everybody on the inside must know who's doing the crack.

Afternote: Richard Virenque announced his retirement just this week, at the prime age of 35. Laurent Fignon wisely noted that "perhaps Virenque was not the best climber, but the climber who best understood the rules!!!" That's mud on your 7 pea shirts Richard...oh, and he had to make his announcement at Olympia, the rockstar venue. I like this guy.

Apple Lies

Friday, September 24, 2004

I left my computer with Apple Repair, on August 19, 2004. The UPS guy came by and took my computer on a health trip to the Netherlands. It broke my heart. But the Apple representative had assured me that for my problem, I would have to wait around 2 weeks, at the most. I still don’t have it.

My computer had a screen defect, giant splotches of light…think bleach stains on jeans. I had hesitated sending the machine away because, like most computer users, I need my laptop ALL THE TIME. Also, I wasn’t sure if these splotches were my fault, being careless, touching the screen back too strongly. Those Powerbook G4s, despite being a marvel in design and elegance (the new ones look so clunky in comparison, like difference between old and new Volks Beetle), are damn fragile.

However, I learned through good detective work on the Apple forums that this is a known default of the G4s made in Taiwan, and that Apple takes responsibility for this default and repairs it, free of charge, as long as you’re still under Apple Care.

So I phoned them in the dead heat of August, when everything is dead in France, and when I knew I would have the least need for my machine, and sent it off. Today, the 24th of September, I still don’t have the bloody thing back. I’ve called Apple repeated times, from my land line, which I have to pay for by the minute, each time receiving replies like ‘it’ll be there next week, we’re waiting for a piece but it’ll come at the end of this week….’ I’ve been getting this BULLSHIT for the last couple of weeks, logging serious time on the phone (which I will have to pay), for lunacy and incompetence.

Two weeks ago a representative said that if I still don’t have my computer by the end of the week, they would give me a new computer. I called back to ask on that and Hello, that guy LIED.

Finally, today, out of total anger and frustration, I did what I should have done a long time ago, I spoke to a Superior...who then too my phone number and address down, and they will mail me a voucher of 150Eu, so that I can go to the Apple store and rent a computer, and they will also phone me to tell me when the machine is ready.

That still doesn’t leave me completely satisfied. I’m bloody fed up. If anything ever happens to my computer again, I’ll cry and scream and go to the Netherlands myself to watch those bastards put it back together again. And, as much as I like the product, little word of advice to Steve Jobs, you’re not done yet…work on the Apple Care.

stay gold ponyboy


Today is the birthday of my ex-boyfriend. It’s his 30th birthday, and while I had anticipated that we might not be together as lovers for his birthday, I had never in my life expected that we would be on non-speaking terms.

Yuri and I met when we both 22, around the beginning of January. It was a friend’s birthday party. I had seen him at various parties but never had any occasion to say hello. That night, before leaving, based on pure impulse, I stood on my tip toes and ran my fingers through his sandy blonde hair. He was too tall. Two nights after, we met up by chance at a cafe…he walked in through the door just as I was walking out. He asked me what I was doing, we went together to a club to dance, then he lit a pack of matches in the snow, and we did a little shmeezle-shmozzle dance on the street, and the night finally ended when he taped the sound of my cat eating with Glenn Gould in the background. He slept on my couch that night. We didn’t touch. I wasn’t even sure if I liked him so much as I was charmed by his way of being.

Then he didn’t call me. Then he called me while I was out and didn’t leave a number. And then I stared out my window three nights, scared to miss him if he walked by. Finally, frustrated with being inside the whole time, I walked out and there he was, right on the corner. He asked me to cut his hair and we spent the next couple of days together without stop, barely speaking, not touching, just spending time together.

Two weeks later we went to the island on the coldest night of the year. It was something like –40 with the windchill. The boat broke the ice as it went and the sound was like bone cracking. We broke into a house, hung out in the attic. Then the cold became too much, and we went to catch the boat back, jumping up and down and screaming to keep warm. When we got back, we drank hot roasted barley tea. And then, while sitting on the couch and listening to music, he turned around and kissed me. I was happy…not over-excited, not turned on…but completely happy.

We stayed together for 6 years, we lived together for 5.5 years, and we broke up in the most heart-breakingly unpoetic abrupt way. I have no news from him, no phone number, no mail, no contact, and his new girlfriend :fiancée :wife (not sure) sent me hatemail just a couple of months ago. He cut himself off from the rest of the world shortly after he met her. None of his friends know where he is. He’s disappeared.

But when you grow up with someone, all through the 20s years, it’s hard to let go. I mean, I’m glad we broke up, because it would have been hard to be together as man and wife for the rest of our lives, but it’s hard not to think of those years without him. Despite all the bad moments, and the fights, and the ugly decisions, I like to remember the best of him, the lost boy and the brilliant artist, too sensitive to talk, pure joy in his laugh. I hope he is happy, wherever he is, whatever he’s doing.

Stay gold Ponyboy.

brain cheese

yup, that's the title of my new favourite breakfast food!!! No really, it's bean curd cheese. It comes in a little white powder, you add hot water and stir, and presto dasto, 2 minutes later, it's bean curd cheese! sounds gross...well it looks gross.

but for all those already familiar with soy milk, it's like delicate soft bean curd petals, floating in delicious sweet syrup...chinese people need not read further to know what I'm goofing off on...it's like a dessert there. YUMMY TIME!!

I don't care if you feel like ralphing because I feel like a million bucks! right off to the market to buy fungus!

Bernard Bone...pt. 2

Wednesday, September 22, 2004

He's not dead.
Look at post in August for first reference to the Bone man.


yeah...this means nothing to everyone else but I punched the reload button just so I could be no. 666 on my uncool meter. For everyone else, it's history.


Warning: the following blog entry contains serious amounts of sentimental overture. Those expecting irony and bloodless rants, please avoid.

Yesterday, under pretense of trying on possible wedding outfits, conned Queenie into coming over to my place, drinking tea, and trying out different recipes for girolles, even though I could feel the inevitable back of throat burning that precedes serious cold. Had scored really gorgeous slice of gorgonzola marscarpone at the market, and between scarfing that down with grapes, munching on fungus, and talking about art, writing and boys, suddenly realized that Queenie must join my select circle of girlfriends.

Queenie is the good friend of the Scoobs. She’s a very fine lady who has a distinctive prediliction for wearing tight-leg-above-knee-capris, with high heels, coupled with body hugging sweaters and blousy windbreakers. It’s an adventurous and singular style, and being no stranger to sartorial experiments, I tip my hat off to the Queenie. Yesterday she even had crazy bronze coloured sorceress shoes. The thing that ties it together is her hairstyle, which is just a cute very neat boyish bob. It’s the strong restrained touch that sets the rest of her in sharp relief.

She also has the same annoying habit of being hungry every 2-3 hours, needing to pee every couple of minutes (wasted at bar last night, we bonded in peeing desperation and shared a cubicle) and wields a mighty pen. That’s right…Queenie’s a damn fine writer.

Her only wonky bit was last week’s mono-diet phase. Queenie ate only grapes, no alcohol, no ciggies, no cheesies, for a whole week in some maniacal attempt to detox. She described crazy moments of being in stupid bad art openings with everyone drunk and messy, and having to endure the massive buffet table that somehow managed to not have grapes. That’s a fucking nightmare…I mean, most Parisian art openings don’t have food, so when you stumble on a fucking buffet, it’s battlestations GO.

Anyways, after spendid day of libraries and snacking, had wonderful night with the girls, Scoobs and Queenie, where we scammed some free champagne and scotch from the Villete Digital Festival opening, and knocked back some patissons and curry chicken bits (delic ! !). I think the bartender thought I was an alcoholic because the second round of scotch he poured me was a triple, tipped with a miniscule shard of ice. Thanks man ! !

Then ran off to nearest bar near the canal, and giggled like fools. During a bathroom break, I tapped out a drunken SMS to someone I shouldn’t have, but, to be honest, was drunk, carefree and happy…and I don’t have time for sadness anymore. Scoubs and I eventually went back to my place to eat more food, and finally we make our midnight descent to the Cherie Bar. Had some late night beers while discussing boys. We ended the night well, with three cheers and stumbled into the now crisp autumn air. We were real filles last night.

Today I’m sick as a dog with the flu.

Which bring me to this final point : after a week of slightly painful party withdrawal, suffering over self-respect damaging antics, getting annoyed over boy situations, and several other forms of meaningless self-punishment, have come to conclusion that in some weird way, am coming to the place where I should be : good friends, both boys and girls, are starting to come my way, people who understand the unpredictable and willful nutcase I really am, and who might be in my life for awhile…these are all very good things, the things I need to live. And it’s a fucking miracle I find people to put up with my monomania.

Because, shit, even if boyfriends/lovers are temperamental, and can leave you shivering in the cold at night, your girlfriends will always be there to laugh it off with you. So, for all my other girlfriends, out there in the world, the Slovakian Princess, the Keerbergen, the Barrett, Precious Cashew and my little Slavka, thanks a bunch gals. You rock my world.

people 25 and under

Tuesday, September 21, 2004

they're different from us over 25-ers. I'm not sure exactly what it is but my impression is that they're not even disillusioned. They were born in a world already shitty and denuded of idealism, a little bit plastic and populated with the precept that even if you had ideas, they were good for making money. It's a generation that never had to live the before 90s depression in any conscious way. Nirvana was like the 80s for them. They're different. I'm not really sure how, but they're less angsty, less idealistic, and definitely more ambitious. I wish I was born a couple of years after.

go getters, under 25-ers...brrr...the world is too scary

if I had children...

Monday, September 20, 2004

they would look like this
Originally uploaded by nardac.

party communist headquarters

Originally uploaded by nardac.

patrimoine madness

sooooo, it was the patrimoine festival this weekend in france. That means lots of people running around seeing the insides of buildings that are normally closed off to the public. This year, the nardac and dacnar took on two very cool locales: the École Supérieur de la Cuisine Française and the Party Communist Headquarters.


party communist headquarters
notable for the presentation of the original Marcel Duchamp Mona Lisa picture, donated to Louis Aragon, who then gave it to the Redheads.
also stunning inner underground dome, like a cross between gnome hovel and star wars parliamentary headquarters, that hosts the general meeting of the party. designed by amazing brazilian architect oscar niemeyer, guy who also designed very cool building in brasilia...google him for god's sakes. anyways, pictures speak more than words...

funnily enough, everyone had warned us about the insane line ups for the patrimoine events, but this one was breezy. no line-up and the building's main rooms were all open for viewing. Unfortunately the brutal concrete walls were obscured by several oversized corporate paintings. It would have been better if they had some pictures of leading commie heads when they came to visit, like Leonid Brezhnev, Yuri Andropov
or Konstantin Chernenko.

then headed to the west bank where the big school of cooking was having an open house with a FREE tasting menu. The special this year is the celebration of meat. Thus, after an hour and half lineup, 30 of us were thrust into a room where ris de veau was explained, followed by a large auditorium where we were served lamb chops and explained the process...then minced pig's feet mixed with kale and pine-nuts wrapped in crepine....then boeuf bourguignon.

Have to say that the lamb chops were spectacular. Traumatised a boy in front...he turned around just at the moment I viciously grabbed the rib by hand to dessicate it with my teeth. The boeuf bourguignon was the only disappointment...no carrots in the recipe, the sauce was a bit thin, and was really offended by pushy fat chinese boy who went for seconds, then thirds. As if that's why we go to a degustation!!!

all in all success...except was so fatigued by the day that slept for three hours in the evening...only to wake up hungry.

Cyclone Activity Warning!!!!

Sunday, September 19, 2004

Reading about cyclones the other day. Apparently, and this is no surprise to everybody in the southeast US, cyclones getting more and more vicious every year in the Carribean basin, and meteorologists anxious that this could be a continuing trend. They think it might have something to do with global warming because hurricanes need a water depth of around 6m at 28°C to germinate.

And, interestingly enough, though the Bush administration has been responsible for all sorts of pro-global warming policies, the hurricane situation in Florida might play out in his favour since it’s proving to be a distraction from his real nightmare, Iraq. There’s proof in your pudding that the W is no fool.

Then I realised that the weather has been really screwy in France this year, with wacky amounts of rain, and cool temperatures in August, warm in September. Wine potentially fucked this year. Last year, when all those old people died, they ignominious end was traded for potentially spectacular wine results, which we might not know for at least the next ten years.

So, when 2003 becomes known as magnificent vintage around the world, we will remember the heat wave, but not for it’s tragic catastrophic results, but as a fact.

Weather, immediately threatening everyday, if only a fact the day after if you lived through it. Major events are minor unless you get bad spin. Chirac and W may be total dumbbells to us, but somebody out there keeps forgetting not to vote for them. And how can people stay in an area that every year gets battered by cyclones? Do they forget every year that the cyclones are coming?

Real memory becoming obsolete since only way stupid shit keeps happening is because nobody wants to remember how stupid they are in the first place.

Key to saving human race : remember your stupidity, and watch out for cyclone activities!!!

a creative endeavour

Saturday, September 18, 2004

resolving to leave this blog for strictly anecdotal and private musings, have created a new blog, entirely devoted to my stomach. In fact, one might say that my stomach is the definitive source of my literary devices. So, for those who like a little haiku mixed with their boiled noodles, this is the one!!!

  • le ventre à la fin du monde!!!

  • celebrity madness

    just when I think I've had enough, I go for a refill. That's right folks, if you ever wanted to see Madonna's lips change place on her face, or Meg Ryan turning into oggy cheesemelting monster, this is YOUR site. I've been a fan for years.
  • awfulplasticsurgery.com

  • I was watching a pretty stupid tv show the other day, Docs that Shock, and they had a special on celebrities who got into trouble. The best shit was actually on Boris Yeltsin. Since I grew up in North America, missed a lot of the Yeltsin good stuff. He's exactly like Benny Hill, pinching his secretary's bum at official state meetings, and doing the twist and shimmy before the military band. I need a Yeltsin compilation tape. Anybody got some Yeltsin crack for the Nardac?

    apple is starting to bite my zanzibar

    why is it that when you leave a computer to get fixed, a portable computer, that it has to take over a month? I handed in my lovely G4 powerbook over a month ago and it's still hovering somewhere in the Netherlands. Is there any logical explanation for this kind of behaviour? NO!

    If you buy a laptop, it's a given that you're moving a lot, and need your computer with you. aka, you log serious time as a computer user. So...having it held for over a month is like a major hostage situation.

    what have a I done since my computer has disappeared? Learn to despise my boyfriend's evil nasty aged monitor, the idiotic Windows OS is beyond my patience (getting bullied into using this bullshit makes me homicidal), hate hate hate typing on clickety clack keyboard, everything is soooooo slow...plus cannot run around plugging computer into all sort of random orifices.

    Will Apple kindly stop the bullshit and give me my baby back?


    Friday, September 17, 2004

    birds are singing like mad-end of the world chorus in park across the street. have almost finished beer and now know stupid weird guilt over mad flirting is serious over-reaction...brrrffff...will go to races with lesbian friend and flirt with same sex so as not to have guilt.

    btw, thanks Mr. Taekwon Dodo for the links out into the french wilderness...will most certainly profit from your nefarious research.

    and got great sms from the Voin in Basque land...invite for impromptu party in Barcelona. catalan allnight tapas parties with half-naked boys...sounds like the perfect bachelorette party to me.

    oh, and read funny article on fantasy mixed tape from LL Cool J. His number 8 song is Wanted Dead or Alive by Bon Jovi...WTFUCK!!! what a stupid black cheeseball that guy really is. save the Jovi for the POO-BELL (that's GAR-BAGGIO for all non-frenchies).


    I think that if we believe in love, we believe in heartbreak...because one comes with the other hiding in the back seat. I just want to figure it all out before I crack...because if there's a job someone needs to be on, it's love without the heartbreak. Too many people are dying out there.

    l'anglais de homo

    weird thing I noticed : gay men in Paris all speak some kind of english, and they all seem to speak english much more proficiently than straight boys. However, notice hilarious tendency to porno talk spelling…like « can i cum over place, » I guess the internet is helping people learn since online cruising like brushing teeth for fags.

    it's back!!!!

    It goes to show that everytime I pause from hyper-social activities one particular part of my body becomes the primary voice : my stomach. And, if I ever had a reason to stay in France, despite my moanings and gripings, it’s because the food is about ten times better than anywhere else in the world I’ve ever been.

    Yes, Japanese food is incredible. Though I’ve never been there I’ve freaked out on some low end high end stuff and it’s hard to beat the sheer elegance and delicateness of taste and presentation. But there’s always something finicky about it, something prepratory. And the Japanese wrap everything in double dosings of packaging…bleah…

    Singapore, my country of birth, is a veritable beacon of hope in post-modern cuisine. The word fusion can hardly be a new culinary expression there. Singaporeans seemed to be obsessed with two things, money and food. (If I could just replace sex with money, I could reclaim my heritage.) Well, that’s an island for the intensely gluttonous and those in search of piercing tongue sensations…not for the subtle at heart. And while I’ve perused a few open air markets and can attest to their greatness, there’s one thing that’s missing : dignity.

    It’s the pride that sets those fucking french apart. They stand behind their market stalls with an imperious air. You should be so lucky as to be able to buy my red pepper. It been lovingly caressed since it’s childhood, slavered over in some remote region of France, and transported only under confidential cover. You cannot touch anything. We hold all physical rights until money changes hands. Bwaaa haaaa haa haaaa. Evil deadly emperors from empire strikes back could have nice wars with french fruit sellers.

    Of course the situation is changing. France in definitely not immune to the industrialization of food. McDo and Pizzas have made significant inroads, and local farmers are becoming an endangered species in almost all the major regions. However, the French also have people like Jose Bove, radical farmer striking fear in the hearts of industrial agriculturalists everywhere. And they also have the national pride to fight for the preservation of a certain kind of culinary heritage. Leading chefs like Joel Robuchon or Alain Ducasse are rabid supporters of biologically concious farmers…the type of guys who specialize only in making a certain kind of potato, in very specific soil, with specific kinds of water and organic fertilizer. (had ephiphany-like experience the other day when I found a lady who was selling 9 different kinds of organic potatoes) And they still have knighted societies devoted to things like sausages and hams. (I will be a lady of the boudin noir one day...)

    Which brings me to the present day.
    Wednesday morning, just down the street at the market, I found these funny two guys, one black, the other arab, not much older than me, horrifically dirty and sullen, standing behind two plastic boxes. They had just come back from mushroom picking (it’s the season NOW), and had trompettes de la mort and chanterelles. I bought a whole bunch of mushrooms, for 5Eu, and almost gave my hand in marriage.

    Then I went home, put the water to boil with a good chunk of salt, minced some garlic, threw in some mini farfalle and three ripe medium tomatoes into the boiling water, fished the tomatoes out after 2 minutes, put the pan on the fire with some butter and olive oil, when oil was hot, threw in garlic with salt and pepper, before it changed colour threw in my mushrooms, then squashed tomatoes up and squished them in at the end, with a smidgen of more garlic, and some sugar, drained pasta, threw in sauce and wizzled and handful of minced parsley and some fresh raw cream. HOLY GOD OF MERCY…YEAH ! ! !

    Today am going to indulge in a little aioli…bought mini courgettes, fresh carrots, sweet peppers and haricot verts…plus have special cheese from the Abbaye Pierre. Gooey gooey good.

    only goes to show, after the party's over there's meal waiting at the end.


    Thursday, September 16, 2004

    that's right, pathetic old me. dacnar has laughingly pointed out that I'm an inveterate narcissist always seeking compliments and attention. bleah. as if I didn't have enough things to worry about already.

    after boy yelling incident at republique, was stricken by brutal hungover and consequent emotional and moral stock-taking. have come to several conclusions:

    am terrible narcissist
    stomach monster
    temptress without mercy
    draggeuse sans arret
    love is a game I'm losing
    insecure and having bad career crisis
    my hair is ok now but will look shitty soon
    terrified of turning 30

    there you have it in a nutshell

    and I think I'm going to take a few steps in remedying the situation

    will try to read more books
    be nice to all my friends
    leave the cellphone off
    stop SMSing people I don't know
    start making more art and writing stupid ass proposals that I hate
    concentrate on exercise and sleeping well
    will absolutely regulate my drinking
    will get great job
    and start reading daily paper

    Gawd, I hope this works because if I turn 30 and am still big baghead, will never forgive myself.

    ok...that's all the waaa waaa waaaahing I'm going to do for now
    I think I need a drink, brrrrr, or at least some hot tea (oh shit, I hate my new life already)

    french bloggers

    Wednesday, September 15, 2004

    I have a french friend who's biting onto the blogging craze. But he's too shy to give a link. BOooooooooo

    suddenly sober

    after last night's debacle, which culminated in some dude with hockey hair giving me 10Eu so I could take a taxi home, have decided that must cool it...otherwise future reference in same breath as Matti Nykänen will be inevitable (yes, famous finnish ski-jumper, stripper, stabbingbackoffriendwhilesleeping guy...thanks J-man).

    had invited Scooby and the Gasp, who's visiting from Geneva, in for a quick aperatif (slash bottle of wine). then went to art opening with lots of free Ricard running around, snagged two bottles. Met one very cute artboy and managed to get cellphone number under 5 minutes flat (so strong). Then slipped onto the back of a very wobbly bike and traversed the Republique circle to get to next party, which was in art gallery+party venue. Didn't give a shit about the art, and the beer and food were paying only. Still, boys showed up with free wine and whiskey and proceeded to get super hammered, while doing cheese imitations and everybody giving suggestions about the patrimoine weekend. After midnight, they started to kick us out onto the street...everybody was looking for another party to go to, but it was impossible...some of us just had to go home, especially after the liquid dinner. That was when I realized that my ride had already left, and that everybody was catching a taxi in the opposite direction. Dacnar had taken the bike earlier in the evening, so was stuck on foot, metro finished, no money. Started to walk, accompanied by a rather nervous and irate boy, who eventually freaked out on me (because I'm me and I suddenly sprouted multiple chicken feet all over my belly), and had to run off to Stalingrad. Yikes!!!! So, was crossing the sad Republique (which sucks on foot), and heading over to small street when could hear someone yelling at me. Turned to see two boys who had been at the party, drinking some drinks in a very small bar. They came over...it was strange, one of the boys kissed my hand and said that I was magnifique (of course my pencil thin mid-calf grey wool bum-hugging skirt works!!! g-dammit), and then asked me what I was doing.
    -going home.
    -nobody's going with you
    -no, everybody's going the other way
    -take a taxi. you're going to get harassed.
    -can't. don't have enough money.
    -do you know how to get home
    -not really but I'm in the right direction
    -that's true. but a beautiful girl like you should not be walking home unguarded in Paris
    -here, let me give you some money
    hands me the money, kisses my hand again and says au revoir in delicious gentleman way
    those guys had fashion bad ass hockey hair, and they were so snotty when I saw them at the paul ricard art opening
    -au revoir bella

    yummy...so got home in taxi...but must stop the madness because becoming stupid, reckless, and dacnar very suspicious and all boys kissing hands because he knows what it is to be a boy and kiss girl's hands late at night.

    then had funny dream that was saddam hussein, lying on top of a building, getting a tan...followed by crazy dream about following the basketball championships in a small town, only to see them win...then ran out to celebrate, but suddenly walked into crazy scene were people were crushed by the crowd and there were dead blond girls everywhere. Horrible. trop de stress...


    Originally uploaded by nardac.

    LEAVE NOW...it smells like onions.

    Monday, September 13, 2004

    so...after weird last couple of days, have come to startling yet expected conclusion that being repressed in the north of france for the last two years has turned me into a voracious Party-Panther. gaining some sense of equilibrium by giving myself at least two days a week to recover from riding around Paris like a maniac. Luckily, my bulgarian escort has gone away to Bilbao to make art for the next 10 days...which gives me just enough time to plan my wedding, get my dress made, and regain good form on suddenly problem-prone skin. (not to mention attack now desperate laundry situation)

    but...before we become sedate, must talk about weird pachenga incident.

    went out on Saturday night for usual art opening brouhahas. Voin stopped by the house to pick me up and one look at his miami beach circa-92 raincoat gave me the fashion willies. Brought out the fucking unitard and souped up some wacked out NYDanceSchool in the 70s outfit, coupled with absolutely smart and ravishing black macintosh and audrey hepburn shoes. So sweet.

    Then we jumped on our bikes and started to head off to Yvonne Lambert Gallery, except got tackled by brutal end of summer typhoon, at which point I lost all brakes on the bike and had to slalom down the stupid menilmontant hill. Finally got to the gallery, which was super swank, and managed to talk gallery boy into slipping our coats over the heater in the back. Finally, armed with bordeauxs and saucisson, we managed to take in most of the show, and talk to some people...gallery boy very very cute with messed up rainbow sweatshirt and nasty black jeans...too polish immigrants in etobicoke...so wet. Showed me Vik Muniz (his show...diamond divas and caviar monsters) and introduced me to bitchy NYfags. Everyone speaks bad english in Paris. Also saw legendary stylist from the 80s in weird transparent bag boots with jean shorts and jewish metal belt??? Limits anyone???

    went to Louise Weis street for monthly opening bonanza, where all the little fashionable artsies go to show face. All shows very very miserable and bad...voin got yelled for touching the art...fucking stupid sweatshop rubber boots. Met up with lots of friends there and was spontaneously bored. Wondering what the fuck is going on that we have to support this kind of nonsense, expensive wine and nothing to say.

    So, started looking for a new party, which is when the name Pachenga showed up. I don't have a fucking clue what this girl's name is. Just got referred to the party by one of the glassbox boys, who said, well, it's a house party but you can come. Unfortunately didn't grab address but after very minor searching, managed to find out what the whole deal was...except...watch out, Olivier said "you must bring a bottle of wine." What the fuck??? got scared. so voin and I take off on bikes, find the address, and manage to scam our ways through the downstairs door. But, whoops, at the door to the apartment, am greeted by said 'pashmina' and have to give bisous. She looks at me confusedly as Voin and I are trying to get a handle on what is actually going on inside. And then it hits us...it's a fucking private dinner party. The lights are super bright, there a small collection of people around a table and we know only one of them, and he didn't invite us. shit shit shit. Voin turns around on cue and says in hysterical loud whisper "LEAVE NOW!!!" Turn around and try to get out with Pashmina hanging on tail asking us what's wrong, what's going on...and say have to go downstairs and find a telephone...voin is running and screaming all the way down the stairs. Finally get outside and can feel weird edge of panic attack moving away. flee to nearest bar, the pop-in, where, after scamming some beers, start to feel less weird and slightly warm about successful fleeing manoueveur. Figure out our double reaction: while I was getting fucked up over the bad lighting, Voin got a panic attack over smell of onions and crazy phrase ringing in head 'you must bring a bottle.'

    Find more parties and eventually get home at 5 am, after stupid industrial party filled with mad people and voin kept screaming in my ear "I'm so tired of lesbians on ecstasy."

    wake up the next morning to obvious headache and bad sickness in stomach. Receive a weird SMS from friend asking me what the fuck happened last night. Turns out everybody saw Voin and I fleeing like desperate lepers from the party...and turns out everybody, in some remote way, knew us. Nobody could figure out the reason for crazy turnaround and thought we had turned into some mad party couple that couldn't go in for completely unexplainable reasons.

    So, after short two weeks in Paris, my reputation already going down the toilet. But, thash the stuff of legends my love.

    bright lights, big city,smoked vegetables

    Friday, September 10, 2004

    Went into severe party mode for the last two weeks. Suddenly met bunch of people who, surprisingly enough, remind me of the people I used to know in Toronto. For example, by favourite gay boyfriend in toronto is now replaced with a bulgarian performance artist...and there's various boys who run around in a gang, who remind me completely of the deadly snakes bunch.

    But, that's not all. The more I meet people, the more I realize how small the world is. The other day, after meeting my friend Julie at the side of the canal, she told me how she knew two artists in Toronto, B and S. Strangely enough, B and S happen to be old friends of mine. So, there I was, two years after leaving my home town, and I hear about these two people from a complete stranger.

    But, not only that, since I've been in here, I've gone to parties where cousins of old friends have popped up...all mixed with badminton, guacamole, and international contemporary artists. Too fun. Somehow forgot the secret pleasures of being someone's guest list ( let alone the plus one), having four art openings to scam food and drinks off, oversexed underwear art involving plastic, wearing outrageous plastic bags, and making high heels an inspiration statement.

    This all goes to prove only one thing/ that in fact Toronto isn't so far off the map and that in fact
    ikeya catalog is the most inspiring piece of art ,i found in europe..;french people suck,and soon i plan
    a post-patato french revolution.;;till then,stay seated (voin is hijacking the blog)

    my mechanic

    Tuesday, September 07, 2004

    The other day, while I was riding around Paris, I noticed that my tires were going flat. So I looked for a garage to get them filled. The first garage that I went to looked at my tires and said "well, I don't know. It think what we have it too big for you."
    The second I visited said that they would pump me up, but I had to pay.
    Then, on my way home, I passed by the garage at rue de la chine. There was a young mechanic, using a pressurized water hose, spraying an aston martin, under the hot september sun. I asked him if he could help me. He looked at my tires and said, maybe. We walked in and he bent down. Then he said, well we have a pump but I'm not sure if it will fit. I said, I have an adaptor. He said ok, then he attached the rubber knob to the hollow adaptor and filled my tires.

    I'm riding fast in Paris.

    crazy bulgarian artist and paris is really small

    Friday, September 03, 2004

    last night I was out with people who reminded me of Toronto. I found myself stealing drinks at art openings, getting free beers from nice people, and getting in free in rock shows only to leave 10 minutes later because, let's face it, german industrial noise nonsense is great in theory but bad in person.

    my new friend, a crazy bulgarian artist, who wore yellow stockings and has a really great haircut, who's name is voin, and we use his real name because they can be only one so there's no use pretending he's anything else, was really funny and mad and told wacky sexy jokes and made all the paris boys squirm with desire. fun fun. but today, found out that one of my other friends, in a completely separate social circle, knows him as well...and then it turns out she knows all my other random paris friends, and that everyone knows each other, and, well, like the rest of the world, it's small in paris. weird... anyways, I'm too hungover to say more.

    my little workspace

    Originally uploaded by nardac.
    first installment of the bad architectural photographer series.