marriage...hiatus

as is expected, after a good marriage, one disappears for awhile.
So...have fun while I'm gone...because I'm going to be in Amsterdam, drinking champagne and wearing all my favourite underpants.
Will post from the Dam, but probably incoherent nonsense will spout from my piehole, given lovely narcotics laws over there...
expect the juicy PG-13 details after monday.

lovers...in a dangerous world.

going to the chapel and we're...

going to get married!
today is the day.
must sleep.
so stressed.
dress is fine
food is good
party is ready
fuck must sleep otherwise eye bags will ruin reputation.
wish me luck
will be out of blogger universe for the next 24 hours.
BENOIT FORGEARD IS A GOD! (with a moustache)

what if they had moustaches?

what if...
Originally uploaded by nardac.

BUSH vs. KERRY: a question of facial hair

Well, as a preamble to the next installment of moustache mania, I’ve decided to try a little experiment. Can we predict the next president based on moustache power? I believe it’s possible.

Both candidates for the American presidency are men with thin upper lips, the prime candidates for a lovely fluffy moustache. However, while Kerry’s upper lip is a lot smaller than his humoungous jaw, Bush looks like he’s well within the Golden Mean for Moustache Madness.

Surprisingly, if Bush were to port a moustache, he would look remarkable similar to Saddam. Both of them are men with a certain pressed thin lipped smile, that benefits from a virile bushy moustache. The only caveat: we’re not sure if Bush would go for the Saddam snot brush, or something more Hitleresque. Anyways, I have to say that Bush’s face takes well to a moustache, and might even be a face that we can say is lacking a moustache.

Kerry. He has a problem and it’s that his face is naturally quite ugly. Yes, it’s sad to say, but nobody wants an ugly leader. After all, if we imagine why Tony Blair could win, we could only say that it’s because he ressembles some kind of leprechaun or doorstep elf. He’s not glamourous, but he’s not the boiled bread face of Major, or scary cheese-head Thatcher. Blair got elected because he most ressembles, in visage, something human.

Anyways, Kerry. God almighty he’s so butt ugly! His face is too long, he has helmet hair, and his jaw is almost Frankensteinish. What to do about it? Well, I tried the moustache on him, but I think it only emphasizes his oversize jaw. However, it tends to lend a certain French Canadian appeal. That could be useful…with biker chicks!

So, no moustache for Kerry…

So, to no great surprise, Bush wins again. This guy will storm the elections. I predict a 75-25 win.

However, the odds could change if Kerry changes his haircut.

Side note: We can see from the picture above that Bill really missed out in not grooming a moustache. He’s so sleazy hot that he could have had run his own brothel, instead of his ill-fated cigar encounter with Ms. Lewinsky. Holy Rhett Butler!

A fantastic photograph

Prince Harry is pictured shoving paparazzi.

Aside from the news, which is quite funny and unimportant in all ways, the photo is amazing. I mean, we don't see his face, nor even really that of his bodyguard. The pictures is formally intriguing on an aesthetic level. The gestures are ambiguous yet emphasize the blockish physicality of the forms of the body.

The best part though is the photographer himself, here finally pictured getting physically attacked. Yet if we look closely, we can see that he's smiling. And then we realize that the fourth character in the photograph is the flash of the camera that has taken this picture.

The photograph is a gorgeous document on the consensual feast that is the cannibal culture of celebrity photography.

Why are people using pseudonyms to blog?

Was reading grumpy irish boy's blog and interesting recurring question came to me. Why to post with a pseudonym?

In an earlier post, an old friend had questioned the validity of blogging under a pseudonym, as if it was somehow more cowardly to use a false name. I had fired back quite vehemently, questioning the idea of veracity by name, and hinting perhaps that the separation between the business and personal worlds being necessary. After all, if you blog about your workplace, the last thing you want is for someone to know about it.

For personal blogs, blogs where people rant about their various daily activities, the preservation of a certain kind of distance and protection under a false name gives the possibility of reversing the power relationship by minimising the possibility of recrimination. Like a panopticon, the power relationship is reversed by the viewer becoming invisible. I can talk about what a jerk a certain S. Rousseau was without really worrying whether or not he will find out.

But is this any different than digging a hole in the ground to scream out a secret, then burying it again. After all, how many people who read this blog will actually care about said Rousseau, and how many people are retaining details after reading blog after blog?

There's also the issue of a certain kind of fictionalising of one's life. If I write under a pseudonym, and then read my own adventures as if they were someone else's life, isn't that a perverse way living vicariously through one's own memories?

Anyways, just thinking out loud... for all you readers out there, tell me why you use or don't use a pseudonym. curious.

It's a crying shame

Ok...here we go, Star Academy post #3.
For those who don't know, Star Academy is this really shitty fame-like reality tv series where they pick 16 people, get them to sing dance act and fight each other, show it all on tv, and then, week after week, vote them off. It's french, so if you're from anywhere else, you probably don't have a clue what I'm talking about. But if you need something to prolong your insomnia, here's the link to star academy.

I soldier on.
There's only about 10 of them left now. And this week, they managed to nominate two dingbats and the only girl with any talent. The nominations mean that the public is allowed to save one of the three candidates, and the other students pick who they want out of the two left.

Gosh, John, and I already blogged about this talentless tasteless loser with pyramid hair, was saved again by the public. I can only assume this means that 11 year olds have the worst taste in music and that their parents should probably take away their cellphones so they can stop burning money on all those SMSs.

So choice then fell between Sofiane, this ape of a boy who can't sing in key, and Radia, the only girl worth looking at, who not only knows how to dance, but can actually sing...and sing fantastically well! We're talking almost opera standards. She's never off key, she does amazing interpretations. Two established artists have already invited her to guest star on their tours. I mean, she has serious talent! And...she's probably the only one left on that show, besides Matthieu, that I could tolerate.

I mean, Radia could actually have a life outside of this star vehicle show. She's a law student, and seems quite balanced and normal, though a bit on the perfectionist side. And, her singing is incredible. Just last week she put on a performance that had one of France's leading singers, Danny Brillant, in awe. He flat out said she was already a pro and offered to record with her!

But this kind of talent makes people jealous. Between a goofball dingbat who can't sing in key and her? Only a sour talentless soulless bunch could make such a mistake. The other students, as became clearly obvious, were not keen to have her in the competition because she was TOO GOOD. So they voted strategically and knocked her out of the show.

And maybe they had a point. If I was in the show, gunning to be the next pop sensation, and I saw a chance to knock out one of the clear favourites, would I do it?

No. I'm not an asshole and I believe that talent and hard work deserve merit, rather than this butchery by mediocre conspirators.

On an afternote, though, true talent cannot be hidden for a long time. And when one sees it, one knows it. I'm sure Radia will get many more opportunities to sing and perform, and maybe it's for the best. She won't be a tweenie star. She will be an artist.

a useful resource

here's a very useful resource for pretending to be enthusiastic about literature.
BARTLEBY.COM

in mid-elbow a gaze turned back

I wandered through a dense and long
tree lined trail, with frequent stops
for though my heart was willed with envy
an unsure soul whispered evermore.

every song a bird did sing
threw my eyes in foreign directions
each lily green flicker on sight's breadth
did make me shed time and gain space

and still my thirst was not sated
the quiet of the brume was not for me
longing for the fairy fruit already tasted
made me pull far and further through

the trees look bleakly over dashed sunlight
the voice of a sun still young made chill
wherefore you search and what eve you desire
is welcomed with the turned heads of disloyal leaves

in vain turning like a whirlygig
to come upon a clearing, grey and blown
ended sight in the loam and gravel
the worms plundered blindly sure of home.

DACNAR!!!

dacnar!in the running for the moustache of madness 2005
Originally uploaded by nardac.

MOUSTACHES OF MADNESS

moustaches of madness
Originally uploaded by nardac.

Famous Moustaches – Part 1: The Moustache of Madness

As some of you may know, my fiancé, Dacnar, sports a mighty mean moustache. It's strange how some men’s faces were made for moustaches, and when you see pictures of them without one, you’re baffled because something is missing. When Dacnar first walked into the building in my old school, when I first set eyes on him, he had just entered a room and immediately began shaking the hands of men around him, like a visiting dignitary. Or…like a great dictator.

In honour of my upcoming nuptials, I present the first in my series of FAMOUS MOUSTACHES…THE MOUSTACHE OF MADNESS



In my short experience, and short research, one thing has become evident: the 20th century displayed many a dictator sporting a certain kind of facial hair…the moustache! While they vary in types, from a curt and almost square Hitler, to a cheeky and vibrant Saddam, each of the following show style and a distinctive flair with their moustaches, often contributing to their image as an icon.

There are two exceptions in this list, Einstein and Gandhi. They are not dictators, or brutal tyrants, but they fit in no other category. Einstein isn’t really a writer. He may be a physicist, but I believe Einstein to stand for something more. He is our official 20th century icon on the great genius figure. Gandhi, on the other hand, is less important in our mental imagery right now. Most people misspell his name. However, his image is indelible, and I couldn’t put him in any other sphere because he is a political icon, beyond anything else, and he’s just stark CRAZY, if you think about it. I mean, who stops eating to bring on world peace? That’s genius.


1. Adolph Hitler – misunderstood contemporary artist

I know that the general opinion of Hitler was that he was a terrible twat and evil monster. And yes, it’s true he was responsible for emotionally scarring a whole generation of Europeans. But, if we think about it in a less humanistic level, one can see that in fact Hitler was one of the least understood of the modernists. His art, wholesale lifting of Asian iconography, stands in similar weight with the plundering Picasso did of African art. However, we can see how Hitler was just better at the game. The aesthetic extended far beyond just tableaux. He organized performances, created an aesthetic you could use on furniture, and worked on fashion too. He was like Ikea, Caban and Vanessa Beecroft all boiled into one.

And if we need any other proof of his greatness, we only have to look at his greatest visual achievement: himself. He was the only one allowed to walk around hatless. And his moustache provided the anchor for the madness in his eyes.

Adolph Hitler receives the #1 prize for the moustache of madness.


2. Albert Einstein – herald for the kingdom of the mysterious geek sexual magnet

Look, he’s got fuzzy static-out of-control hair, his nose is like an overboiled frankfurter, and he always had a weight problem. But we like him, and we want to jump on him, and some girls would strip bare just to have his genius babies. With Einstein, we have the very first and the very last of the sexual icon represented by scientific genius. C’mon, you’re not having wet dreams about Hawking are you?

The only reason he lost out to Hitler, and I had a hard time because I find Einstein’s hairstyle to be a mark of genius, is exactly that. There are too many things in his face competing for attention. It’s like, what do you look at, the doughy sweet eyes, the fantastic hair…it’s all too much. Finally, Hitler wins, but only because it’s a moustache competition.


3. Joseph Stalin – destroyed world’s largest country for 50 years

What do you say to that? I mean, before Stalin we had many dictatorships. We had Napoleans, and Hannibals and Neros. But they all came from military might (well Nero just had luck) and fear. But Stalin was the first to use community enforcement, police in every member of the population, surveillance on an altogether unprecedented version, and, yes paranoia. The man gave new meaning to the idea of paranoia by converting it into a way of life. Essentially, he precipitated the daily Soviet into a state of paranoia and terror that has driven our camarades crazy, and it’s a madness they still haven’t sorted themselves from. Scary stuff.

And Stalin made moustache wax de rigeur. Look at that form!


4. Saddam Hussein – how destroying a moustache takes away his power

I’m angry at Saddam. Because he revealed the Achilles heal of every great dictator. When you grow a beard in hiding to disguise yourself, it's obvious the other side has already won. That’s pathetic. You could see how the Americans were very anxious to publish the pictures of him looking unkempt, and sporting a beard! The beard is a sign you’ve given up. It’s the antithesis of the moustache. The moustache is debonair, en forme. It shows you’re taking care of business so hard you can afford to be fetishist about a few stray hairs dripping off your nostrils. But a beard! That means you just wanna lose it, and separate yourself from the respect of human beings…either that or you’ve given up on having sex.

I’m glad he got shaved after, but we still see less pics of him with the moustache than those damn capture photos. I thought I’d give you guys a little taste of the pre-capture Saddam, back in his glory Harlequin romance days. But I’m still angry and he’s still mad.


5. Gamal Abdel-Nasser - 005

Former new model for the modern Egyptian state, this guy put that country back on the world stage since their spectacular fall from Pyramid grace. He looked modern, wearing cool cream shirts, cut his hair short, spoke in a lovely graceful accent, AND, worked his moustache like a matinee idol. A man not naturally graced with beauty, he understood the importance of a good cut and fine moustache. One of the less angular and strongly iconic of my moustaches of madness, he nevertheless remains, for me, the most charming. Just stick a cigar and a good martini in his hands for god’s sakes! Ok, he wasn’t so nice all the time, but shhhh…the music’s playing.


6. Gandhi – a gentle moustache hiding the big balls

At long last, Gandhi makes his appearance, trailing long after the big boys. But, we never saw the type of bollocks this guy kept hidden under his white robe. And I guarantee you girls, this guy must have been loaded. Look, he’s got all the signs, oversize nose, large hands and feet, monstrously flamboyant ears! But the dead giveaway is the moustache. Look at it, it’s so charming, so quiet, so inoffensive and reserved. It doesn’t need to be advertised. He’s a man that knows you know. That’s the mark of a man with the big balls.


7. Charles de Gaulle – pudding face, get off my list!

Because, yes, we’re in France, and so must give kudos to local guy whose name is plastered everywhere. In truth, I hesitated putting de Gaulle on the list because he was an infrequent moustacher. I believe he really only pulled it in during the second world war. But, that was also the height of his charisma and the source of this rise to glory. But just look at his moustache. Gosh, on his wobbly pudding face, with it’s eyes almost falling into all those folds, I dunno, the moustache looks out of place. It’s not even well-coiffed. And that hat! What’s wrong? It’s like he forgot he was French.

Still, he’s great, he’s important. And most of all, he was a better icon than he was a head of state. That’s why he made it on the moustache of madness list.


8. Franco – Pulling up the rear

People have forgotten about Franco. Most kids don’t even know about him. He’s the guy that destroyed Spain for roughly 30 years. Much more quiet about it than Stalin, though no less idiotic and monstrous, I think Franco’s moustache and face say everything about him: terrible lack of inspiration. And, he really could go without his moustache. It seems unconvincing and unconvinced to stay attached.


That’s all. Stay tuned for the next installment: The Moustache of Sex

Gosh darnit!

Everytime I go out with a frenchman, just to hang out, he has to hit on me like mad, and then eventually jump for his french kiss. I mean, haven't these dingbats heard of platonic relationships? I'm getting so fed up with just going for dinner and drinks with someone, and then deaing with their petulance when I refuse.

I'm tired of all this "draggeur" "draggeuse" nonsense. That's the french word for a certain kind of extreme flirting that only happens in latin countries. I need to put up a sign saying, hi, I'm originally from North America, so I'd like to just talk like normal people before you start joking nonstop about how sexy you find my hair. (though I do love hair compliments)

maybe it seems like I'm ranting for nothing, but you don't know how hard it is for a girl in her 20s, with a fiance who likes the independance of his woman, having to deal with overly friendly and incredibly aggressive behaviour. The whistling, the hissing, the following and talking in a metro... And, do I really have to sport a ring, or cling onto the arm of my boyfriend to shut them up?

It's not even like I'm a bombshell or anything. I'm weird looking, asian, and slightly boyish... it must be hell for anyone who likes to wear tighty pants and blond streaks, though it tends to be the sullen removed french brunette that everybody howls at. Those pigs.

France is a mysogynistic country. I may be here, and I may be having a ton of fun, but it's hard to imagine that much has changed since the coming of Simone de Beauvoir.

Oh gosh.

I'm so dumb. Those semen things are just the chinese scientific name for foxseed, Job's tears and friggin' lotus seed. Those pimply faced guys in the lab must have had a helluva laugh naming those things.

Salon International de l'Alimentation

veggieburgers
Originally uploaded by nardac.

Today, thanks to the Scoobs, managed to get into the International Exposition for Food Products, located just outside of Paris. In a giant commercial complex just south of the airport in Roissy, set amongst several kilometers of warehouse space, were hundreds of stands from all around the world, showing off their food products.

For those who don't already know, besides being the Nardac, my other nickname as often been "the stomach." I've been known to scream with pleasure over a great raw sea urchin, or shriek with anger at an overcooked fish. Led by my trusty sense of hunger, and overbearing need to appease my tastebuds, I've led my life of degustation in all countries and with all cuisines. Yes, I'm a food whore.

So this kind of thing is like Christmas...x10!!!.

I got there a little late, because I'd waited too long to cook my lunch and slaved over two very sweet little dorades for over an hour (dorade cooked in the oven with onions, garlic, tomatoes, fresh fennel, curry and thyme.)

The first few steps inside were quite disappointing. I mean, the stands tend to be quite industrial, with lots of pamplets, fancy lighting, and things hidden behind glass cases. In the Middle East, especially, you have your fair number of dried lentils and cereals, things that need to be cooked, and thus, no samples. But, burrowing deeper, I turned off from the Middle East and headed straight into Asia. Yay Asia, ancient motherland and place of fearless tastebuds and endless stomachs.

Got a quick sip in at a Thai stand that was showing off their new packaged teas...green teas, thai teas, iced coffee. Not bad, snagged some samples. Then turned off into, yup, Singapore, where gobbled down some curried beef with rice, made from a package. Then found a wacky sauce made of coffee. OK, you Singapore people, tell me if you know about coffee sauce because, frankly, I've never heard of it in my life and my family's obsessed with food. I tried to ask her if it was traditional and something used often in cuisine...and she said "yes yes of course." Right. So I asked, with what kinds of food would you cook this with. "Pork. You want taste some? Have sample LAH." Gag...I totally miss those fucking LAHs. So she whipped up a little sample, and gosh darnit, was sooo good. It's like spicy ribs with hoisin sauce, but something nuttier in the background. Good work guys!

Then, headed off to my next favourite place to munch in the world, JAPAN. There was some very great sashimi, a type of hamachi, from Burimi. Gobbled up quite a bit of that. Then, also managed to taste some great chicken teriyaki, spicy beef tripe shish-kebabs, and grilled unagi. On the way out of that area, fell into fancy tea tasting. There was green tea, and grilled green tea, and gosh darnit, so much else... The guy was so impressed with my designer glasses that I received a week's worth of tea samples.

Heading out of there, stumbled upon a funny stand with canned aloe vera. Besides being good for your skin, this stuff is fantastic canned with a little bit of syrup. A very light subtle taste and tiny crunch.

Then, while getting lost, fell into the laps of those darned Thais again. But this time there was a great little chef in action and he whipped up some pad thai, beef in tamarind-like sauce, pineapples with green pepper and green papaya salad. Holy moly...starting to count how many tiny plastic cups and forks I went through and realize I'm killing the universe. But really happy I decided not to wear a belt with my pants.

Got trapped at a Buddhist vegetarian stall where tasted the usual bunch of vegetarian far...you know, faux turkey, faux burgers, faux chicken, faux duck. And finally, he served me these new soy burgers he's been working on. A mixture of gluten, soya, peas, carrots, corn, soy and water chestnuts. These things are so addictive...you want one, you want another. So he gave me a whole package worth. (When I got home, I cooked them up, ate it with ketchup, and fell off my chair ...explanation of picture).

Stopped by the Canadian stand where they were serving maple syrup liquer, which I never even knew existed. This is good stuff. Very mild, with a soft taste characteristic of maple syrup, slightly smoky, and a tiny licking of liquer at the end. Chilled in a tiny tumbler, this could be a good substitute for cognac.

Then the expo closed down to the public. Found the Scoobs, who was just finishing up at the Turkey stand, where she works. I thought that was the end of the day...but NO! The party starts when everyone leaves. That's when the guys go gangbusters with the alcohol. Drank Argentinian wine, Dutch wine, a little punch from the Martinique, and nibbled on some very excellent jerk-like chicken thighs from Senegal. Got hammered in under 15 minutes.

Scoobs scored a shitload of olive oil, pulses, dried apricots, and spices. I'm getting a care package in a couple of days.

This is not the end though. This exposition will last till Thursday, and Scoobs, who's a veteran at this thing, told me to come Thursday afternoon with a big bag. Before the closing, all the stands try to get rid of as much produce as possible. So it's free food galore...you just have to ask. I know where I am going. I just hope I'll have enough space to score all those truffles and charcuterie that's promised from the frenchies (as well as plenty of frozen fish and tea). Just sad I've missed the oyster tasting contest.

Ok...enough. Ã table!!!

PATXI!!! patxi patxi!!!

patxi
Originally uploaded by nardac.

hahahaha, tonight, after incredible meal at super french brasserie, the Bofinger, chowing down on oysters, ris de veau, foie gras and salmon tartare, realized, to great great SHOCK, that old Star Academy crush was sitting at next table.

Was overcome with hysteria and shyness, over teenager no less! But, was too weird. I mean, here's this guy, whose misadventures on a tweenie star search had me scotch taped to the tele for all last autumn, sitting right there, in eyesight, with the same hair and shirt, like a normal guy.

Maybe it has to do with the fact that everything about his life was televised for those couple of months, and maybe I thought that if I talked to him, somewhere it would be televised.

He seemed quite shy. But very friendly, and completely knocked out by the rambunctiousness of our table. We were well into the 4th bottle of champagne when he got ready to go. He looked sad, as if somehow, with giving up his superhero tvsuit, he longed to be part of the immortals, even in their everyday gear.

You were great Patxi. I'm sorry I drew sunglasses over your face that day.


(tr.
For Sam,
From Paris to Canada,
it's but one step,
and that step
is music.
Cordially,
Patxi)

GHB party - or how to be STUPID

Jeepers, had crazy crazy night last night. After art opening, which was mild and quite reasonable, went home to drink with teenagers, then opened up some champagne, after which was attacked by emotional crisis, resorting in quick retreat to where else...Voinland.

This is a sequel in many ways to two previous posts: the gay boyfriend, and Leave Now, it smells like onions.

Voin, as many of my faithful readers already know, is my gay boyfriend. He takes me shopping, chaperones me to all the best parties, general conspirator on all sorts of nefarious schemes, and my friendster friendster. Since I've met him, we've become combustible, exploding into all sorts of Russian grandmother fashion schemes, and terrorizing everyone with free stupid laughs at our expense. He's the best...though sometimes watching him layer five jackets, starting with neon and ending in macintosh can give me second thoughts.

But, like a true gay boyfriend, he has a 100% ERA with emotional curveballs. Last night I ran screaming from the apartment at 3am, phoned him, where he came rushing by in his little red car, and we sped off into the night so that I could cry on the highway. Terrible start. Anyways, in between several sputterings, smoked a couple of joints, felt more relaxed, and started to prepare for party at the flea market at Clignacourt.

Twice a year the flea market there hosts a big party. When we got there, at 3:30am, the party was most definitely on some strange legs. First, when we were circling the area, and everything looked dead, we tried to find someone to tell us where the party was. We turned the corner and saw a couple, the man holding a giant sunflower, and the girl, dressed all in white and highheels, keeling over on the sidewalk, lurching over a hood of a car, and puking her brains out, before sitting heavily down. Disgusting.

So we roll down the window and do the obvious.

-Excusez-moi, mais est-ce que vous savez où est la fête?
(Excuse me, but would you happen to know where is the party?)

-Oui, c'est juste là. Tu dois tourner et entrer par la rue derrière
(Yes, it's just there. You have to turn and enter by the street behind you.)

-Uhm, merci, bon soirée.
(Uhm, thank you, and have a good evening.)

So we park the car right in front of the entrance, and, piling out, are immediately assaulted by an unusually tasteless track of techno. Gluck. Then, at the door, there's a like gorilla asking us if we have invitations, and I say...NO, Vincent invited us.--Vincent who?--Vincent Voillat.-- Vincent Voillat?--Yes, Vincent Voillat.--I don't know any Vincent Voillat.--Oh really?--(silence)
--ok, go in.

Then, two steps through the door, something rings wrong. Everybody here is beyond wasted, tittering, doing weird rotating movements with the tops of their bodies while their bottoms are stationary. They don't seem to be drunk. They seem to be incredibly high. There's tons and tons of monkeys here, guys in suits. It's a nasty crowd and people are pushing and falling over each other.

We finally get to the bar, and Voin is freaking out...he's like, this place is awful. It's the most terrible party ever. But, hey there's the open bar. The bartender says, "we only have whiskey," which changes to "we only have white wine," to "we only have vodka," all in under 1 minute. This place is insanity. So finally snag a whiskey while Voin takes the vodka.

Head off deep into the house, which is jam packed, and everybody mad high, and finally find a weird slightly official looking room with, you guessed it, a "round table." So Julia screams out "it's a round table, let's go sit there."

But I'm not stupid. We're not round table material. I can see all those people sitting around the table...two of them have pony tails and one girl has seriously fake boobs...I'm not stupid... Those guys are responsible for this mess of a party. It's too obvious, and they're mafia to boot!

And then Voin says, "let's smoke another joint." And I'm too freaked out to say no. So, as he starts to roll, I realize that the whiskey is kind of weird...that it has this strange taste to it. And suddenly, just in mid-pause, Voin turns and says:

"Oh my God! This is a GHB party!"
"What WHAT WHAT!??"
"A GHB party. It's that new drug. You get really messed up and then you don't remember anything. People can take advantage of you."
"Shit, we're going to get ass-fucked!"
"Oh my God! What a terrible night!"
"Oh Voin, I'm such a loser!"
"Well....let's have a toast to that!!"

So we're too stupid to say no, and we keep drinking our dumb drinks, and smoking our stupid drugs, and nothing really happens. The two people seated next to us pass out from some sort of extreme inebriation. Other friends show up. We try to freak them out with GHB stories, and it works really well, that we move on to ACID..."There's acid in the drinks man!!!" That doesn't work as well because people are too buried in their GHB paranoia, and trying to say sober while frantically drinking more (why do we all want to get ass-fucked so badly?), that eventually friends go crazy and leave. We finally can't take it any longer and decide to brave the dance floor (because we need more drinks and the bar is there).

At the dance floor, it's even more dumb. There are these two guys dancing in front of a potted tree. There's flashing lights buried in the pot. Suddenly, one of the guys turns around and stands right in front of the other guy. He then grabs branches on either side of his friend's head and shakes the tree in tribal frenzy. Potted plant almost falls on top of the two of them, but instead they fall and potted plant wins.

Then, turn around to see two guys doing very lascivious licking lips dance, while pointing fingers in disco style, in sync, in front of girl standing on a chair. But the girl is a midget and with the chair, she's normal height.

Start giggling furiously. Finally night comes to an end as neighbours call cops for 18th time and this time the bribes don't work. Go home driven by designated driver, who might or might not be sober, but is definitely novice at stick shift.

Get home to realize that left keys at house (in mad sad rush), code for door changed and don't remember new code, landline disconnected from last internet use, and dacnar's cellphone turned off for night. Stuck outside in early morning cold. Manage, after 4 tries, to guess the new code (I'm so smart! Ok, they didn't change the codes after all and I was paranoid), then punch our apartment buzzer, let in, bed warm, hot chocolate, snuggle and all thoughts of bad vibes and stupid argument completely evaporated in loving embrace and warm feet. Almost ready to be ass-fucked, but GHB all gone out of system.



GHB FACTS (checked today)

GHB is usually taken orally. It is sold as a light-colored powder that easily dissolves in liquids or as a pure liquid packaged in vials or small bottles. In liquid form, it is clear, odorless, tasteless, and almost undetectable when mixed in a drink. GHB is typically consumed by the capful or teaspoonful at a cost of $5 to $10 per dose. The average dose is 1 to 5 grams and takes effect in 15 to 30 minutes, depending on the dosage and purity of the drug. Its effects last from 3 to 6 hours.

Consumption of less than 1 gram of GHB acts as a relaxant, causing a loss of muscle tone and reduced inhibitions. Consumption of 1 to 2 grams causes a strong feeling of relaxation and slows the heart rate and respiration. At this dosage level, GHB also interferes with blood circulation, motor coordination, and balance. In stronger doses, 2 to 4 grams, pronounced interference with motor and speech control occurs. A coma-like sleep may be induced, requiring intubation to wake the user. When mixed with alcohol, the depressant effects of GHB are enhanced. This can lead to respiratory depression, unconsciousness, coma, and overdose.

Side effects associated with GHB may include nausea, vomiting, delusions, depression, vertigo, hallucinations, seizures, respiratory distress, loss of consciousness, slowed heart rate, lowered blood pressure, amnesia, and coma. GHB can become addictive with sustained use.

According to the Drug Abuse Warning Network (DAWN), GHB emergency department (ED) mentions have increased from 56 in 1994 to 3,340 in 2001 (see table).

Food Blogs

Jumpin jehosahfat! It's Food Blogs. And it started with kuwentong-buhay. I never got so hungry reading before.

and she links to other food blogs. But for the ultimate listing you must go to the food porn watch.

Free Wu-Tang Clan Membership

Thanks to grumpy irish kid, managed to find out my wu-tang name.
nardac = friendly swami

That bites.
However, with real names I am...
Friendly Knight (full name)
Merry Menace (abbrev. first name version)
Visual Scholar (abbrev. version)

I have the lamest wu-tang names. It's obvious, according to the wu, that I'm the loser idiot savant monk missing a tooth, but spouting off all the wise things in the universe. bleah.

On the other hand dacnar became SMILING DESTROYER. How fucking cool is that? With his real name in full version, middle names, he became FEARLESS COMMANDER. And with his regular name he was DYNAMIC KILLER. Obviously my man is more dangerous than I thought.

And so I attached his name to my last name, like Newton-John, and typed it in, hoping to profit from some of dark mojo. But instead I became IRATE CONTENDER.

If you too want to waste your time, and get humiliated, click here.

why asia is the future

because they know what to do with technology, and they're not sitting around reading everyone else's blogs.

Now that's a 21st century religion

I'm not religious. Somebody once said I was spiritual and I thought that was nice. Religion is like a handy wrench you conk your head with to forget the fact you have a brain and can decide things for yourself. But, there's some very religious people who are very nice and they seem pretty honest about it. Like my uncle and aunt, who like to smile a lot and seem very very happy and pleasant together, though they're always talking about Jesus the way I'm always talking about what's wrong with my hair.

So there. I'm walking down the street, minding my own business, when some dude with a very smiley face and great sweatshirt pokes a piece of paper in my direction. His sweatshirt is all greyish white from too many bad mixed washes, and he has a really daft grin, not to mention he's over 35 and trawling the streets. Still the sweatshirt is fabulous. It reads JEWS FOR JESUS, real witchy stuff. So I figured, what the luck, I'll listen to his spiel and find out what's going on.

Aside: obviously being temporarily on vacation in a big city means I'm suddenly listening to all the weirdos in the city, and giving them some free change and time.

So he asks me if I'm religious? If I've ever thought about Jesus, and if I ever heard about Jews for Jesus. "yah, NO." Then something comes out of his mouth that I can't understand, it's full of words like "believe" and "compassion" and "something else." Good, heard it many times before, BYE.

Walk home, and start unloading packages. Yummy, cheese, potatoes, orange juice, chocolate, my new toothbrush, and oops, a little blue pamphlet. G'damn Jew for Jesus is sneaking pieces of paper into my carrier bags for fuck's sakes. I mean, I know they didn't take anything but it's still creepy. And then I read the bloody pamphlet, while stuffing my face full of bread and nutella.

That was the damn funniest piece of paper I darned read in a long time!!! I pissed my pants laughing. There's a line in it like this: "if you were born in a bakery, does that make you a piece of toast?"
and at the end, there's a link to the website (french) that contains the animation sequence of my pamphlet...like really funny animation for selling religion...and they even say it's funny!

There's also an english website with a FLASH animation...like when does the Pope ever have time to dish out some FLASH for us...dude's gotta get into the 21st century. There's a line in that animation that goes like this: "Government by lunatics is yourallcracy." That's so rich.

So, hats off to those JEWS FOR JESUS GUYS...They're nutters, but funny nutters.

nailing it on the head

I know it's bad, but bear with me during my junkfood season on the blog. anyways, at least this time I'm a girl. And for those in the know, what a lovely coincidence!


You Are Most Like Samantha!
For you, dating is the ultimate sport. You're into guys with power, looks, or a lot of money.
You rather have a great two weeks than a great forever. But even you fall victim to love from time to time

Which Sex and the City Vixen Are You Most Like?

SAD SAD SAD!!! but still damn sexy

Gag, this is so out of control and it's all YOUR fault TERSE. Gruph, how did I go from being The Godfather to silly Sam, the idealistic pen pusher? Could it be the real me?!! (at least all my alter-egos are sexy!!).but why are they all men?



The idealistic speechwriter is well-liked by just about everyone. He's known for his excellent writing, sense of humor, and tendency to be clutzy. Although being younger than the rest of the staff, he's often treated as so, much to his dismay.

:: Which West Wing character are you? ::

The facts of life

So, another reference to the dreaded Star Academy. This time, it’s John’s turn to get a slap in the face. John is one of the those guys you see in arts highschools, holding on belligerently to his flowing pyramid style hair, popularized in the eighties. He probably took tap dance lessons, along with the whole ring of vocal and acting coaches. He’s the type of guy that eventually ends up being a chorus singer in a musical called “Gladiator,” or a rather mediocre singer of a new rock band that nobody knows. In other words, the boy can sing in key, he can dance, but he has nothing we can properly respect as taste.

And taste, while completely arbitrary, is important.

So, there you have it, since he’s been on Star Academy, John has been spectacularly visible as the “worker,” singing, dancing, wiggling his way all over the place. But he hasn’t managed to seduce any of the girls, NOR any of the boys. I mean, he seems to be a nice guy that doesn’t get into trouble, and if you want to be a star, you gotta get into trouble!!! Unfortunately, while this fly under the radar technique can work for some candidates, looks like John’s got himself a heat seeking missile on him, the BOSS!

That’s right, the BOSS, a certain Gerard Louvin, is largely responsible for nominating the three candidates that risk to be eliminated each week. It’s no secret that while he has his little round table discussions with the other professors, to ask them who they nominate, he’s the one who pulls the chair out of their bottoms at the end…those little pow wows are used to enforce his opinion and bully all dissidents into line. A man so vile and evil (ooohhh, that was nice!) that he wears a periwinkle blue blazer, everyday.

But he’s also someone who’s worked in show business all his life, and if he has the power of running Star Academy, it came from years of enforcing, bullying and generally knowing the name of the game.

So, John, after his little examination, where he went topless, painted a black stripe on his face and sang “eye of the tiger” in Nickleback style, heralded by nothing but praise, finds himself face to face with Gerard Louvin the day after his nomination, looking for an explanation.

-I work really hard, I thought the performance was good, everybody gave me compliments…what gives? I don’t get it.
-It’s simple. You may be good, but you’re not good enough.

(intercut – John speaking into camera confessional)
I give my best, I give my all, everyday. When I left, I was really happy with my performance. I thought I did well.

(back to Louvin’s office)
-no but really, show me the tape. I want an explanation.
-It’s simple, when there was 16, you were 10. Now there’s 12, and we have to nominate you.
-but I’m good, I’m really good.

(intercut – John confessional)
I always thought that if you could be happy with what you did, that was the most important thing. I have high standards. I work really hard so I can be happy with my performance.

(back to Louvin’s office)
-what do you mean? Do you mean I’m not good enough.
-no, you’re not good enough. You have to work harder. But you’re good, you know that.
-but I still don’t understand…help me understand.
-there are others. It’s not important that you’re good. You’re just not better than the others. That’s what’s important.

So, John, who after years of believing that believing in himself and doing his best was all that he could ask of himself, and the most important thing in his life, finally finds out the real facts of life.

Trying your best is ok, but not really important at the end. The most important thing in life is to be better than the others.
----------------------------

“Conan, what is best in life?”
CRUSH YOUR ENEMIES,
SEE THEM DRIVEN BEFORE YOU,
HEAR THE LAMENTATION OF THE WOMEN.

-and he's a barbarian!

prophetic

l'outremangeur
Originally uploaded by nardac.

When the seagulls... follow the trawler... it's because they think... sardines will be thrown... into the sea

talent vs. icon

I had to take the metro today, something I don’t like to do on a normal day to day basis since this can translate into smelling other people, and being un unwilling participant in group sex. However, the metro is also one of the things, like trains and planes, that gives you an opportunity to buy a really shit magazine and do a little self indulgent wallowing in the dregs of pop culture. And it sometimes gives space to a little unexpected reflection. So, let’s start with the beginning, me buying my So Foot magazine (hip football rag).

Aside: yes, I am one of those girls, the ones who actually really like sports: things like cycling, tennis, swimming, american football, basketball, rugby, F1, football and, of course, hockey. I buy Equipe on a semi-regular basis, and Velo Mag from time to time. I read stats on hockey from overseas, mourn the decline of Patrick Roy, worship Joe Sakic, and the one thing I desperately miss from Canadian television, besides Gord Martineau’s pancake makeup, is Don Cherry’s Grapevine. The only sport I don’t really follow, out of principle, is baseball.

And it was in my So Foot magazine that I saw an image of Eric Cantona, old Manchester United football star, fresh from his new film. He was sporting a mighty rough looking beard…not so far from Kris Kristofferson’s shaggy days. Gone was the sharp cut, gone was the bones and brooding angry lips…everything hidden under shag. And weirdly, he kind of looked like a fatguy who had lost weight.

You know Cantona, of course. Sometime in 1995, the dude got suspended 9 months for high-kicking a fan during a game. Dacnar, who followed Cantona’s career a little bit more studiously (c’mon…football doesn’t exist in N.America), told me that he was always trying to be poetic and intelligent during the interviews- always talking with depth about pseudo-politics, while explaining his value of intelligence in one’s psychological self-evaluation, and his budding talent for painting. The high kick should have ruined his career. Instead, it blew up his head. The guy got a role in a film and now he’s an actor.

But that’s kind of the appeal of guy like Cantona. He looks like a thug, he acts like a thug, but he’s desperately trying to show everyone that he has a soul. Kind of the same deal as Keanu Reeves. I mean, we know Keanu is just a very pretty face, but he does this backwards somersault and suddenly, by trying really really honestly and faithfully to be a great artist, and failing every instant, he suddenly becomes this emblem, this icon, which in a way supercedes any real pretention of talent. Eric Cantona is blood brothers with Reeves in some strange way. Next thing you know, the ole’ Cant is going to get it in his blood to do a football version of Moliere, or a Jackass adaptation of Bertoldt Brecht, and his overly cartoon-thug performance will only heap tons of praise bringing a sense of “the street.”

And then, I flipped the page, and my goodness gracious, what was waiting for me there! It was a picture of Cantona in his new film. He was enormous…like rippling layers of fat oozing off his frame…bigger than Brando every got! Think Chris Farley at the height of his powers. And next to that, a picture of the same Cantona, brooding his usual look into the camera. Except, with his fat guy face, he now just looked like he was pissed off that you tried asked him for an interview while his cheeks were full.

You know we live in an age where there’s lots of special effects in film. Like, look at that film, the Klumps, with Eddie Murphy where he plays a whole family of fat people. That’s all makeup and special effects…or like, the friggin’ lord of the rings…as if that guy is really a midget. He didn’t look like a midget in that Time Portal series. So, why is Cantona really getting fat? Why didn’t he just bluescreen himself and get some dude in a chair to render him into blubberkins?

It’s because he’s a big fan of de Niro. Besides being a massive adulator of Maradona, Eric Cantona believes that Robert de Niro is one of the world’s greatest living actors because he got fat for Raging Bull. And so de Niro became an actor by getting fat, why not the same for Eric? Like, what about Renee Zellweger in Bridget Jones…why doesn’t he quote her? Why de Niro now, when he hasn’t made a good film in the last 20 years and he’s played the same role for the last 30?

And what the hell is up with that, like getting fat makes you a better actor? I thought it just made you bigger. Maybe people are so impressed that you’d ridicule yourself for your career…(though Renee does look very cuddly in her padded self), or maybe they think that you’re so scared to show how much you can’t act that you start hiding in your own skin…who knows. All I know is that Brando set a really bad example to the children of America by eating all those cream puffs and drinking so much Coke in between takes.

Aside: is it any less or more scary that the current American obsession with physical perfection involves a scalpel and plastic implants, instead of mating complementary genes like the Nazis? Is it any less sinister to claim superiority based on displayed buying power than genes…and aren’t they becoming the same thing in this day and age where half the people who are celebrities are daughters and sons of older generation celebrities?

Anyways, so Cantona puts on a few pounds, believes himself to be doing a short nod to de Niro’s Raging Bull, and gets interviewed on being an artist. And that’s the fucking hitch…he believes he is an artist. He speaks with pride about his old passion, painting (the guy did a couple of canvases, with pink flowers), and explains what real intelligence is. And here’s the catch…I sat there, on the subway, and ate the whole thing up, like a giant kielbassa, double spicy mustard.

As the train came closer to my stop, a busker got on. The windows were down so he all but drowned out in between stops. My back was to him, but he had a violin and a portable pre-recorded bass guitar backup. If you’re from any city, you know this scene, and if you know Paris, you know how this place is overpopulated with Gypsy musicians, riding the subways with their sad accordions and violins. Normally, the moment I catch on the opening strains of La Vie en Rose I know to keep from making eye contact.

So, what happened? Just as I was finishing up the Cantona, he started to play. He played and played and played, and I started to pay attention. The violin was marvelous, straining, whirling, diving and sometimes slowing in complaint. The technique was unhurried, no unnecessary displays of wizardry. Just a very beautiful, very emotional performance. It couldn’t help to go on against that kind of sound, when something reminds you of something you can’t remember where and how, but like a finger dark against your back late at night.

He played three songs, each going on for about 3 minutes. We crossed three arrondissments, and still he didn’t come trawling for the coins. He just kept playing, slowly, those very lovely strange gypsy songs, nothing I’d heard before. And then, just before my stop arrived, he came by. I didn’t look up, just saw the plastic cup and put my money in. I never give money away to buskers, or beggars.

And then it hit me. I had no problem paying my 4 Eu for a silly magazine that made me laugh, that was full of funny junk, things I can read in the bathroom and comfortably package away for a funny story for friends, but why do I never pay money for people who are making music for me? Why could I spend 5Eu to buy a pack of cigarettes, something that kills me, while I think twice about giving something to someone making music? Isn’t music one of the most direct pleasures of life, an art immeasurable in concrete sense, and should I not have the most infinite respect for those who would attempt to gain their life in such means? Is my love for an icon, for the imagined worth of something, the abstract important?

Yes, most definitely. The abstract is my god, and my lord, the only religion I know is what I can morph into meaning for myself, no matter how irrational or unplaceable, or how many layers of reference I need to bring it into access. But, somewhere along the way, the thing must be said. There is talent, and it’s palpable, and it’s real, and you don’t need a highly developed sense of culture to get it. True beauty is direct to the sensible.

they were dropping like flies this fall

francoise sagan
Originally uploaded by nardac.

This is Francoise Sagan, french writer and true rebel. She passed away on September 24, 2004. Gosh, now my blog is completely morbid, but at least it's illiterate friendly!

another dead superguy

derrida
Originally uploaded by nardac.

jacques derrida, died on october 10, 2004

optimised by Camino??!!!

ok...before everybody starts yelling at me for ruining the layout of my blog...I'd like to say that I optimised it for Camino, a very nice web browser for MacOSX! So, when I saw what it looked like in Safari and Explorer, well, sorry guys...it's going to take me and my little guidebook a tiny bit of time to straighten this baby out. Till then, enjoy my wild and free aesthetic!!! (or download camino like a good little earthling beastoid)

blogs from soldiers in Iraq

They exist, and they're called warblogs. It's the type of word you know your daddy would love to bust out in scrabble, and with a w, b and g in interesting places, could be useful. Anyways, these blogs are really psychedelic. I mean, I know I'm supposed to be all grownup and everything, and have compassion, but I find the warblog to be strange...like reading deranged Milton talking about tv from his army campground.

superman is dead

Reeves
Originally uploaded by angeler.

another blow for our brave new world. first his daddy croaks, and now him. lucky for us spiderman is still young and frisky.

speaking of which, a long time ago someone enlisted me into their troupe of superheroes...I was known as BIG BOSS, and my superpowers entailed wearing a giant helmet with big big wings, that slowed me down when I tried to go barging through narrow doors.

whoaaaa...after looking at last couple of entries, am certain of my megalomaniacal tendencies.

laugh it up funboys!

How's this for a hat trick:

I hit number 1000 on my stupid counter.
I (finally) get my semi-unlimited internet access.
I changed my blog template (my first experience with the html/blogger).

AND......I just topped the Degrassi Fansite Webpage for popularity (hits per day baby!)
Yeah! This calls for a Canadian! (or at least a heavy chug of Chardonnay...ooooffff...off the wagon again)

Now I have everything ... not only everything ... I have a little bit more.

so...I took the damn personality test one more time, answering the full lot 45 questions, to get a more 'precise' answer. Suffice to say that I managed to be two of the more historically sexy presidents, it goes without saying that somehow my reputation as a great and glorious leader is threatened by my libido. But I'd like to stick up for my guys: we wouldn't do all the great things we do if it wasn't just a cheap ploy to sneak into someone's pants.

Anyways, happier to be JFK than Clinton, because at least JFK had a partner that was equal measure to his glam. That's important.

What Famous Leader Are You?
personality tests by similarminds.com

staring contest

friends
Originally uploaded by nardac.

He said I wasn't Bill Clinton!!!

Except the Godfather never had so much time on his hands.

What Classic Movie Are You?
personality tests by similarminds.com

me on the radio

I will be appearing on the radio, at 8:30am, Monday morning, giving a short comment on my favourite DVD of all time. France Nova…fuck, I hope I don’t sleep in. On the other hand, it’s only like probably 20 seconds so whatever.

The O.C.

Has come to France, finally. I missed all the fuss with the O.C. because I moved to France the year before it became the big shit. So, here are all my friends, my cousins, random people, talking about this tv show and riffing on it, and I have no friggin’ comment. Kind of how now I read the word “deck,” that’s supposed to be like “the shit” in new slang…but I have no clue because nobody here uses it. Missing this general accumulation of all kinds of useless information is the thing that’s going to ruin my humour in the new world.

Anyways, so the O.C. has come to one of France 2, the national station. Fun fun fun. However, it’s all dubbed, and now I’m really sad, because I’m sure California speak cannot be properly translated into parisien banlieu slang…it’s just not the same thing. And richie riches here don’t have the same respect for grammatical simplification. So all in all, watching this kind of nasty teen entertainment is really sad in translation.

Can somebody send me a region-free DVD!!!???? Plllleeeeaase!!!! (Hello, birthday November 17)

On the other hand, Columbo reruns in French are awesome!!!

No Correspondence

If you’re on the line 5, going in the direction Place d’Italie, and you want to switch to the line 14, you can change at Bastille then Gare de Lyon…or, you can change at Quai des Rapées, walk out the turnstiles, walk to the Gare de Lyon, and stick the same ticket to get back inside the métro.

When we arrived at the Quai des Rapées, weren’t sure what was possible. The map indicated a little dotted line which translated to “correspondence.” However, at the station there wasn’t a passage leading in that direction. So we walked to the turnstiles, and the only available to speak to was on the other side, so we had to leave.

What made it even worse was that the ticket person didn’t know anything…she phoned what appeared to be a superior, who then told her that if you leave the metro, then you have to use a new ticket.

She said:
-It’s a correspondence passage in public, but you’ve left the station, so your tickets aren’t valid anymore.
Dacnar replied:
-If that’s a correspondence passage then I’ve got a correspondence straight to my front door.

She said we could go back in and change at Bastille, but darn it, we just didn’t have the time to make two metro changes just to get to the changeup.

So we left the station, walked about 5 minutes to the Gare de Lyon, and, out of sheer annoyance, I stuck my old ticket in, and it worked. Thanks Ms. RATP, for being not only uninformed on your job, but being incompetent enough not to find the correct answer. Pathetic. I’m sure this question gets asked many many times at that station and god knows how many people are ripped off on this nonsense. And what drives me nuts it’s the lack of coherence between the map and the signage. Sometimes I hate france.

Luckily all my bad energy was let out with Dodgeball…what a dumb movie.

One Day in Fashion Week Paris

Gosh, what’s there to say really? It’s a whole bunch of models and clothes running around, being watched by people who need a serious reality-check. Afterwards, though, there’s always the parties.

So, after checking with Voin on Tuesday afternoon, we ran by the Chapel in the Beaux Arts, like I mentioned in the earlier blog. What I didn’t mention was that inside the Beaux Arts itself was a fashion show, a défilé as they like to call it, by Costume National. Of course, after the show, we raided the room for the “modem” which is the guide to the Fashion week, giving all the clues on parties and shows. Voin snatched a copy, and that’s that…now he’s got his party list for every night of the week.

Myself, fashion week didn’t really start until last night, and I think it ends there too.


Part 1 – In a chic hotel with Coke

The day being slightly shitty, and feeling a little unmotivated, still, manage to find Voin and head off to the Hotel Continental, just off Place Vendôme. (that’s where the Ritz and all those other mega-chic hotels are all located) He has a designer ladyfriend, his ‘original crush,’ who had rented a room there for a couple of days to show off her prêt-a-porter collection. After trying to sneak into a room to steal free champagne, and then finding the room (which was weirdly full of girls in pretty-girl outfits saying ‘hello’), find the designer ladyfriend, who then offers us coke (a cola) and chocolates. They speak for a bit…

I’m just bored, and the fashion isn’t what I’d spend money on. It’s like all blousy and gossamer with sequins sewn in, the type of shit Hong Kong has been ripping out for the last 4 years. So…duh, why would I pay 300Eu for something I know I can buy in Chinatown for 5 bucks?

On our way out, Voin stole a nice silver coffee pot that was sitting outside in après-room service mode. He stuffed it into his bag, in a horizontal position. This is an important detail to remember for the rest of this story.


Part 2 – Big Equipment, the Materials you need

Still though, she’s nice. Anyways, we’ll be seeing more of her later. Right now, it’s off to see the Materials show, which was jam packed full of twenty/thirtysomethings, very hip and rock and roll conscious. Just waiting outside was fun. Everybody saying hello, and being very friendly. Was offered two joints, and got introduced to many interesting looking boys, some of which were straight!!! (even with their fashion digs) One boy in particular, the Turkish connection, music-maker, very long fringe, was very charming…but he told me he was going back to Istanbul on Sunday. Darn.

The show was ok, lots of ripped shit, and suspenders and stuff. It was like that whole layered slouchy t-shirt thing all over again…but the boys were in very very tight jeans. At the end of the show, the models did this little walkaround. There was this tall guy, wearing the tight tight jeans, with his hair pushed back. A very arrogant nose and very noble voluptuous lips, all topped with some crazy Czech spong-do, and he stopped and looked right at me. At first I thought, well, it’s the game isn’t it? But shit…NO, that’s when I remembered he’s this crazy friend of Voin’s who hit on me at this industrial party…he invited us to another party, and then we disappeared. Shit! So I just looked away.

After the show, gave big hugs to Wolfie, German stylist boy who I met at the Louvre two days ago. Poor boy has the flu for fashion week, so only small amounts of coke for him! The Turkish Connection asked me to wait for him, but we were running out the door, so couldn’t. Managed to avoid the Noble Lips, but was a little intrigued by his staring contest. Wonder if he will snub me or be friendly the next time? Then talked to Wolfie about Noble Lips, and he said,

-oh my gawt! Das guy has the BEEG equipment. Vee saw him vithout his pants on…if dat’s what it’s like on vacation, I vanna see what he’s like excited!”

OH MY GOD! To think I just passed up on that! It’s like the whole fucking Bago story again!


Part 3 – Making art at the art-opening

So we sent to this stupid invitation-only art opening afterwards, at some gallery or another in the Marais. It was all like conceptual with mirrors and metal bars, like weird jungle gym for fashion victims. The bar was hot-packed because it was, sigh, OPEN BAR!!! The show was hosted by martini, so was drinking free Martinis all the nightl long. Martini Bianco with apple juice, and Schweppes, Martini Russo…yada yada yada. Packed into corner with Wolfie, and met Stephanie and Kim, and Julia too. Julia’s got a funny connection with me…old Toronto girl, but also the cousin of one of my best friends in France (weird???).

We were all having a good time, I put my hands against the wall, and suddenly realized that there was lettraset words all over the place…you know, the shit you scratch and then it appears on the other side. Anyways, what was written was the words EVE all in a column, about 9 words deep, and across the fifth was attached an N on the left and a R on the right. Anyways, with my sweaty hands and scratchy nails, managed to inadvertently scratch off the N. Whoops!!!

Anyways, I’m an artist, so it’s ok. And take credit that whatever harm was really done, at least it was in the name of feminism!

Then Voin starting hooting and screaming. Yes, the stupid coffee pot finally dripped out its stupid coffee, drenching the bottom of his bag, and all his fake documents, as well as, making a HUGE STAIN all over the red designer felt seat he was on. Was terrible mess. Julia finds him a plastic bag, stuffs all his shit inside and we hightail it out of there. Then we hear the terrible scream of the woman responsible for the gallery…so primal, so raw!

Have to say this his dark nasty coffee stain was an improvement on what was kind of a dull Dutch designer chair. And think my little improvement was good too. All in all, we are both such good artists that bad art calls out of the deep out inner child to go trampling all over that dull garden.


Part 4 – the Pulp and real Coke
There was a wine bar interlude, next to the Canal Saint-Martin. Designer Ladyfriend’s husband bought us wonderful bottle of Chardonnay. But the guy is really coked up, even if he’s nice. The neighbours pour water into the plants to get us to stop screaming on the corner, but it doesn’t work because we move to the other side and continue drinking our expensive wine. That’s when suddenly the nasty white stuff makes its appearance.

I have to say that coke is one of the drugs I never got into, or never want to get into. I took it three times, and each time, while the high was pretty fantastic, afterwards I felt like a complete asshole.
The wine bar was chic, people were getting taken backstage for a whiff, the mood changed.

Then we headed off to the Pulp to party. But was thoroughly bored, too crowded, and the scene is not what I’d call funny…just young and snobbish. So, no fun for us. Then these stupid eurotrash electro-idiots started to play, and it reminded me of whole annoying Chicks on Speed Halifax incident, and suddenly felt like vomiting all my cheap vodka all over them.

Left to go home and sleep.


Epilogue: Wrap-up

What’s to say? Some fun incidents, some good moments, but generally a let down. They say Fashionweek in Paris has lost some money. The parties are smaller…like, it used to be that the Dior party was the party of parties…now it’s the Nike party???!!! I wished I’d gone to see more of the smaller shows, because at least the crowd there is more fun. And now I’m going to buy bay leaves so I can stay at home and marinate my boeuf bourguignon.

les chapeaux de l'Arc de Triomphe

les chapeaux de l'Arc de Triomphe
Originally uploaded by nardac.

a lovely picture of from the Grand Prix at Longchamp. I can't show you my own lovely self because, hell, I wasn't even in the running.

That's the type of rebel I like, I man who knows what to do with pig kidneys

I said this to someone from London, when discussing St. John’s restaurant, which specializes in all sorts of strange parts of meat and abats. I stand by my words.

And saw Maurizio Cattelan’s new exposition at the Chapel of the Beaux Arts de Paris. Phenomenal. Best art in ages. Dark dark place, with lots of sepulchral stone statues all on the side, high vaulted ceilings, and three little gnomes as caretakers, and in the centre of it all, something so grotesque and beautiful that I refuse to describe it. It must be seen. Everybody in Paris, get going now!

A horse named Bago

The Grand Prix Arc de Triomphe
After the nuit blanche, wake up at decent time, 1pm, and get ready to go to the horse races. But not just any.
It’s one of the richest horseraces in France…tons of people in expensive hats. French version of the Ascot. Work smashing red hat, on a tilt, with vintage red and striped dress. Sweet and comfortable.
Sun brilliant.

Horses amazing and big. Finally, after good examination of the stats (like that ever makes a difference), make bets. Around the middle mark realize that I’m three for five in the top five!!! So, if I get the quint, that’s some serious moolah…get really excited.
Horses round the corner, I can hear them, I can see them, they’re coming.
And just at the end, crazy number 14 takes the lead and slips into first, to win the race. It’s a horse called Bago…Dude! That’s a dog’s name!

Anyways, big surprise to almost everybody on the track. Horse almost too young to run, and longshot.

File out a little disappointed at being so close to winning shitloads of money, and then NOT. Annabelle even more disappointed because she didn’t even really see the race. Scoobs and her were trapped at the counter making bets.

But was really fun to see all the super rich people in their fantastic hats and gear. Everyone super well dressed. This isn’t couture for the runway. This is couture for people who have castles! Funny scene with all these young rich girls, super well dressed and coiffed, dripping over the stairs in inebriation and sunburn, with several emptied bottles of champagne next to them. Good one girls!

Went home to eat food and finish reading new Coetzee book, which is too good. This guy is beyond good. He’s my writer of the century. “Disgrace” is a magnificent book, vicious, profound without dripping a hint of melodrama. Decisively lucid and sublimely frigid. I’d trade a thousand Bagos to be able to have an inch of Coetzee’s talent.

Nuit Blanche (all night city-wide party)

Was in fact a strange and unlikely bet for a good time. Dacnar had the program for the evening, and there were only two things that seemed worthwhile: a child suspended in front of the National Opera, singing from 10:30 to 2am; and the menagerie of chimpazees and camels hiding in corners, posing in frozen plastic, in the Victor Hugo house.

My secret divination is that the Nuit Blanche is a secret Parisien plot, between the government and the cellphone companies to get people to blow out their cellphone budget. It seemed every other person was calling each other to find out where they were, what they were seeing, and if it was worth going to.

Called Voin to find out what the party-panther had in mind. No ideas there…the boy seemed confirmed to stay home. Which makes sense. If every night is a nuit blanche, the beauty of cruising on a bike deep at night, with a small number of conspirators, seeking hidden treats, then the Nuit Blanche is the equivalent of your mommy asking to tag along. Not cool.

But hey, we’re not cool!!! So it’s ok.

Dacnar eventually thought that it would be a good idea to go to the Left Bank, and go swimming at St. Germain. There would be a DJ and disco lights!!! DJ AND DISCO LIGHTS!!! party. I thought it was a pretty dumb idea, but sometimes, when you’re in a couple, you have to have to make allowances. So I swallowed my worries about pool-hair (you know, it gets puffy and stinks of chlorine…guh), and packed my nice bikini.

Aside: despite massive consommation of alcohol and cheese and cream, have managed to stay very trim and little belly not at all visible, so felt safe in bikini.

When we finally found the pool, which took a stupid amount of time, the line up wasn’t that deep. In fact, there wasn’t a lineup. And the people standing around were definitely not cool. Not even college kids would take this on. This was strictly family business. So, so much for it being a cool night out.

10:30pm
The guard warned us that wearing a little swimming cap was obligatory, but that we could pick up one from the vending machine inside for 1.30Eu. Not bad! There was other strange shit in the vending machine, like swimsuits!!! You could buy a lady’s one piece or a man’s speedo for 7Eu. Yay equality. We get more for tha money, for the first time! Goggles, swimming paddles, weights, flotation pads, it was all there! That was the coolest vending machine I’ve ever seen.

Anyways…finally get into the pool…really fun with silly disco lights and everybody doing funny dances and giggling madly. There was a bunch of 16 year old boys dancing to Ricky Nelson and Elvis Presley> it kind of doesn’t get cooler than that!!! Managed to do some laps and had really fun time swimming and watching people while listening to 50s and 60s music. Finally packed and left.

11:30
Head off for Palais de Tokyo for the 24hr Michel Foucault party, set up by Thomas Hirschorn, which could have been amazing, but wasn’t so bad. But think about it, it’s a Michel Foucault party…like, totally rock on at 2am to wacko German theorists blah blahing while getting hammered off 1Eu Vodka Michels. Scoobs and the girls were there, looking suitably bored piled on a sofa.

Crowd was very very art cool, which means it was so NOT cool. Hahahahaha Tons of people trying to read small type and look intellectually at gay porno, while neon lights did their best to terrorize already limited ambiance. But, the set up kind of worked. I mean, it was like oldschool 80s underground art aesthetic, with tons of shitty collage and kind of homemade fanzine feel, which, I have to confess, while I find a bit old, still kind of funny.

Anyways, profited from great vodka, and friendly bartenders. And received phonecall from Tibo, visiting from the Fresnoy. He’s this little baby-faced German boy born on an American commune, with Euro-art hair, black blazer, baggy jeans and white sneakers. You KNOW this kind of boy. Still, he’s funny and nice, and it’s always great to have suitable ornamentation. So head off in direction of Buttes-Chaumont Park to find my old favourite accessory, a cute boy. Bwaaaahahahaha

3am
Dacnar really wants to go see the floating child in front of Opera, but realize we are too late, and kind of trapped in the wrong part of town. It’s deadland around the palais…so have to take a hike all the way up to the Arc de Triomphe to catch the White Night Express…

3:30am
Everybody is waiting at the bus stop. It’s kind of a wack scene. Like this is the real nuit blanche, 20 somethings just packing round a bus stop late at night, hanging out in mass gangs for a bus that might or might not come. People still nursing cellphones, which is surprisingly comforting so you know you’re not in the Twilight Zone.

Bus finally comes, but keeps going round the circle so there’s sudden surge of large scale sprinting across the grand avenue. Finally jump into the bus, but we have no fucking clue if it’s going in the right direction. And, even stranger, everybody, like EVERYBODY, is speaking English. Yeah.

4am
pack into the Gare de l’Est and walk across to the Buttes, which is fine and kind of suitably sexy at night. Bad sound installation giving proper sense of how fucked the night is, in terms of level of spectacle. Find my ornamentation, who proceeds to share my bottle of cheap whiskey. The boy asks a lot about career…but shit, I don’t know any under 25-er in art whose not desperately ambitious. At least he’s honest, and fun. Dacnar is dipping. It’s time to find the blankets and get all warm and comfy. So we walk back to the pad.

5:30am
Tired, and stupidly full of food. After rushing home, made massive dinner out of curried potatoes and homemade tortellini, with peas and onions. Bastard meal full of evil calories. But too tired…crack…sleep. Not even a sign of the sun. That’s my white night.

Star Academy vs. The Simpsons

One of the moments I most remember from the Simpsons was during a certain Valentine’s day episode. Lisa sends a Valentine to Ralph, out of pity, and this sparks a whole series of false hopes in him, out of which he asks her out on a date. She accepts his proposal, mainly out fear of hurting his feelings. However, when the camera is on them, and Ralph professes his undying love for her, Lisa rejects him absolutely, telling him that she only dated him out of pity. Then we see Ralph do a double choke and his whole body and face crumples in pain. This rewinds, and we see it in slow motion and while hearing Bart say « you can actually see the moment where his heart breaks, over and over and over….» (rewind-play slo mo-rewind-freeze frame).

The genius of this moment is in how we can actually see the moment of deep and irremovable pain in Ralph, his whole body convulsing in gruesome emotional trauma. It’s spectator sport at its most obscene.

Last night, while watching Star Academy, I witnessed something similar.

The biggest shit to go down on that show, because this year it seems to be quite boring, is, as usual, the love affairs between the students. There are several hopeful couples, but the couple which seemed to have the most potential, the most real life love, was Karima and Harlem. He’s like a children-friendly french Eminem, and she’s just his cute little Arabian princess. While Karima can sing and dance passably, she winces and minges about a little too much to be actually charming.

They’re relationship has gone from friendly tussling, to flirting in the jacuzzi, giggling together during rehearsals, prancing around each other, getting hot and oily, and finally, sleeping in the same bed (though it’s all PG-13 stuff). It’s obvious he digs her. It’s seems kind of probable she likes him too.

Which makes last night’s voting the big surprise. When the students were asked to pick between Morgan and Karima, the vote was tight and decided by one. Harlem picked Morgan. Here’s what he said :

« Last night I spent the night with Karima, to comfort her. And that’s why maybe my decision will come as a bit of a surprise… I pick Morgan. »

(camera on Karima) Karima’s face crumples slightly, her smile still plastered dead on, but she stops swinging her hips and her eyes go completely flat. Hi Ralph.

Why ? There are four possible solutions. Either he really likes Karima, but he thinks she’s a really shit artist. OR…in the midst of comforting her, he tries something, and she rejects him. OR…he realizes in that moment that she’s a really silly pathetic girl and he can’t support her anymore…OR she tells him she doesn’t want to be there anymore.

I don’t think it’s the first one, because people don’t vote like that with their loved ones. I don’t think it’s the third one because it’s obvious he still likes her. I think it’s number two and four combined…she whines about how maybe she’s really bad and maybe it’s time for her to go home because she can’t take the pressure anymore, then, while crying into his armpit she realizes he has a mega boner which cannot be ignored, and a funny reaction, a slight rejection, and that’s all.

Whichever one it is, it just comes down to one thing…I’m sad I didn’t tape this episode because I’d like to rewind and see the reactions all over again. And…I don’t know why in the hell I have any reason to keep watching this show since romance and bitty booty are what makes it watcheable. Unless it’s to watch the ever-bad dancer Francesca get down with Kamel (who I always thought was gay, like all professional dancers.)