chewing on virtual curds... life after blogger is, damn, just shopping and naked men

Monday, February 28, 2005

Ironic, that people think I was in some sort of permanent state of nirvana after my PB and J. What didn't get blogged, for the ensuing reasons, was what happened after my broadband internet connection suddenly died, midway Sunday. Like most normal web geeks, I was breaking several international laws and chewing on some virtual curd while the bugger choked. The rest of the day was followed by head thumping, pouting, simmering in bed with unreadable book, stewing in front of a DVD, mashing teeth while reading Paris Vogue, trying to eat time by soaking white beans, and eyeball glazing every other hour while I watched my modem flip backwards somersaults only to land in the same place.

I have become overly dependant on my internet connection.

On a good note, went shopping today at the Flea Market in Montreuil, and picked up a fabulously cute pair of off-white boots, fuzzy cow-skin (not leather!) mod coat, four sweaters and vintage buttons, for the lovely price of 35Eu. The trick with the arab merchants is to dress casual, look mean, always have only the change available to pay for your price (and not more!) so that you can flash them your almost empty wallet, and above all, flirt mercilessly. These clothes will be paraded at the March 11 expat bloggers meeting, where, I am assuming, I will be window dressing to the main show... La Coquette's boots. (have to run now.. for naked men*... )

*I am now going to go out and get drunk with a 23 year old. We're going to watch men dress up like whores and jump all over our tables. I've got my Monopoly paper money ready.

White Bread Happiness

Sunday, February 27, 2005

This morning, waking up groggily after a deliciously long and unprovoked sleep, after I shuffled heavily to the kitchen to grab my coffee, I noticed a rather unusual stack in plastic. The little square plastic grab on the top was the giveaway. By GOD! It was a stack of factory style white bread.

For everyone in North America, this is YOUR bread. White or whole wheat, always soft, and always cubic. It's the sort of bread that you must have to make a proper grilled cheese sandwich. It's the sort of bread that's stuffed full of plastic to keep it squishy. I used to pull off all the crusts, then smash the white fluffy innards into a dense ball, which I then could nibble in front of the TV. It's the type that begs for a PB and J experience.

I think this is Dacnar's reaction to my proclamation this week about heading back to NAmerica for good. Is this the first step in a reclamation process? Nice... but contradictory. I know my stomach would regret leaving france, but not the corner of my brain that knows where its green pastures are. I don't want to live in a permanent state of hunger.

So, there you have it, I found my jar of peanut butter, carefully culled from a speciality store since peanut butter tends to come either in cans, or in substandard jars, and smashed it on two slices... dug out the prune jelly I'd forgotten in the back of the fridge, and smashed that on. PB and J, with a good coffee, newspapers, pajamas. This girl is happy... even if she's waiting for a certain somebody to hurry up and get online already. YOU! Wake up YOU!

Hey? Where did everyone go?

So, have been buried for the last two weeks with work, and strange heart-born afflictions, that have kept me effectively from the line of battle. Aside from several random parties and openings, have not been seeing anyone. Just last week, Voin had to come over to see me...

So, this week, find out that Voin has taken off to Amsterdam, Cecile is still in Geneva, Alain is in the middle of france, the Lacombite and Leo are in Germany, Basil is buried in work, and though Queenie and the gang are probably around somewhere, I have been ignoring all mails and contact so I think they think I've dropped off the ends of the earth. It's true that there is a burbling rumour circulating in the fashionable unconfirmed artist's crowd about me moving to NY, soon. But, hell, I can't confirm that. The only thing I can confirm is that the weather is cold, I'm tired, and I'm hip deep in a side project... still... how did everyone disappear so suddenly this week?

As Promised... NATURE PORN!

too tired to blog... so will provide you with a little slideshow, with commentary from this year's Agricultural Fair in Paris...

cows vs. pigs: balls
It's obvious, when comparing the size of bull testicules against pig's testicules, why most men would prefer to be called a pig than a bull. Pigs are really wonderful! ...They're bigger than you think and they are really really interested in two things: eating and sleeping. I was probably a pig in a former life... a nervous self-conscious pig but a plump oinker nonetheless. When you call someone a "cochon" in french in means they can't stop rutting, humping... I once called my husband this, in front of my in-laws, as a pet name, and they all turned beet-red. Of course, at that time, I didn't know...

pony penis
And, well, just to continue the series I guess, I spotted this lovely pony. I don't think little Titty won a prize, but he sure was quite an interesting little beast. He just stood there in the back, casually extending and retracting his penis.

mongo the donkey, akira the bull, and a dead wild boar
me with the various beasts. Mongo the donkey... who also had a rather elongated penis... But, there we are, looking like a bunch of ole pals! And Akira, a prize winning bull... a bull-fighting bull... he's the victor of hundreds of battles, against his own species, and has scars on his forehead...look how nice that man is! And then there's me with the dead wild boar. That smile is fake. Heads on a plaque make me nervous, unless they're boiled and served with gribiche sauce.

and in the end...
but of course... as if... the picture on the bottom right was my dinner for the night, a degustation of 7 different kinds of saucisson: wild boar, serrano, chorizo, filet mignon, herbed, peppered, extra (??)


kandinsky hinterland

Thursday, February 24, 2005

kandinsky winterland

it's beginning to look a lot like winter

Wednesday, February 23, 2005

snow in paris
Pssss... I heard they had to close the airports. Not enough salt.

ooohhh child things are gonna get easier! (it's always the hidden oooohhhs, that make a song... not the weeee heeeesss...)

Holy Fat Lips Maradona! I thought that my blogging days were gonna take a break but damn, those footie games got me all flustered. So, fast tiger pounce rolling game from Barcelona tosses Chelsea on its back, 2-1. Playing from Barcelona's Camp Nou, Chelsea got on the board first, with an auto-goal by Belletti, but Barca strikes hard and firm in the second half. Drogba also red-carded after the 56th minute. Non-stop offensive fireworks, led by that Maxi Lopez and Cameroon superstar Eto'o, guarantee at least two goals, though the score could have been even more lop-sided. Chelsea is really lucky to have pulled only a 1 goal (and even that is negligible given the 2-goal-away-team advantage), and must feel like they can still pull it out of the hat, on home turf.

Two turning points: Drogba's red card and Maxi replacing Giuly. Drogba's red card only proves how, under fire, the Cote d'Ivoirian is still just a hothead. Remember Marseille last year? It was a sucky match and not just Barthez who imploded. Drogba...talent to burn burn burn, but until, like Ronaldhino in Barca, he wisens up, he'll never be a clutch player. And that Maxi... the Argentinian new guy on the Barca team... talk about a perfect fit!... His already a nickname for a feminine product and if he keeps playing like he did tonight, Maxi gonna get his maxi-contract.

Speaking of which... that's really what it's all about innit? The clutch player. I mean, obviously Ronaldhino is your man for a sparkling display of ball-handling acrobatics, but in the clutch, in the heat of the play, the guy you want is probably more a Deco (dingbat Deco and his dumb dumb finger waving dance... yuck), or wooden-legged Junhinho. I'd prefer to pay these non-pretty non-personalities than one Beckham and his lousy nerveless play. In the same vein, word up to Kaki and Rui Costa, smacking Rooney and van Nistelrooy in the Old Trafford nose.

Singing Luck be a Lady... Luck be a Lady... Luck be a Lady tonight. (Brando is so sexy in Guys and Dolls... who knew he could sing and dance better than Sinatra?)

Seance to bring back Howard Cosell did not exactly work but fear channeling of his first wife instead.

fed up with blogging

This is the remnant of the post I erased: That damned unlucky Paro! (the girl from Devdas) And is hard for me, to have this photo up here and all... she's too damn beautiful... I look like some kind of third row english student next to the face/thing... ahhhh... glowing or something like that... christ, no chutzpah in the world makes up for that kind of mooning. Double dullknots.

You know... I had a post here, about 1 hour ago... and now I've taken it off. I don't care. It sucked. I'm having a hard time saying anything worthwhile these last two days... I think I need to start reading more...uh... books, and spending less time looking at this computer thing. Am taking official week off blog to work on real writing project. Bye.

wait... what! wot!

Safin just got knocked out of the first round of the ATP Dubai... like, he was supposed to go all the way and get into the finals against Federer... what is this? Too much partying after the kangaroo fest? Bad... Safin... Bad... ok, no more babytalk...


Tuesday, February 22, 2005

Michael Jackson - The Man in the Mirror

Monday, February 21, 2005

...And mother always told me be careful of who you love
And be careful of what you do ’cause the lie becomes the truth... Billie Jean

...With such confusion don’t it make you wanna scream
Your bash abusing victimize within the scheme
You find your pleasure scandalizin’ every lie
Oh father, please have mercy ’cause I just can’t take it
Stop pressurin’ me... Scream

...The word is out
You’re doin’ wrong
Gonna lock you up
Before too long... Bad

...Have you seen my childhood?

I’m searching for the world that I come from
’cause I’ve been looking around
In the lost and found of my heart...
No one understands me
They view it as such strange eccentricities...
’cause I keep kidding around
Like a child, but pardon me...

People say I’m not okay
’cause I love such elementary things...
It’s been my fate to compensate,
For the childhood
I’ve never known... Childhood

The following post is bound to inflame many people. This is not my intention. This article addresses why the Jackson phenomena has become such a witchhunt.

As is clear from the lyrics I've quoted, there has always been an element of persecution in Michael Jackson's lyrics. Right from the start, from Thriller, we can see that Jackson has been dearly afraid of losing control of his image, of having things said about him that he cannot control. And, as can be perhaps deduced from the lyrics of Childhood, he has never felt fully in control of anything in his life. Childhood...what the hell is that these days anyways?

If childhood is what changed him into a freak, being placed in the limelight at such a young age, why doesn't the same thing happen to Punky Brewster, Laura Ingalls or the Olsen Twins? Needless to say there is ample evidence that childstars fare badly with attention: Dana Plato, Drew Barrymore, Macauley Culkin, the Coreys. But, aside from Barrymore, none of the above have really had the same measure of continued success. And, if we are really to speak about the Olsen Twins, whose appeal has somehow always remained a mystery to me, well their story is yet to be finished, and I would hesitate to say that they will face the same monumental success that was Jackson's from the age of 8 till 30.

If there is a culture that supports the idea of childstars, is it the same culture that hides its pedophiles? Why is it acceptable to see children parade around as adults, mocking and lying in the name of success, and then scream at the indecency of a childhood lost? Where is the childhood when a parent is screeching at a child in hockey game/beauty pageant in the hopes of higher performance? Was it any less perverse hearing Haley Joel Osment mouthing off the type of words what would better hear from a 45 year old acting veteran when he didn't win his Oscar? Seems to me that the idea of childhood has been perverted a long time ago.

On another level, what exactly is perversity?
perverse - marked by immorality; deviating from what is considered right or proper or good; obstinately persisting in an error or fault; wrongly self-willed or stubborn; marked by a disposition to oppose and contradict.

Perversity is a tenacious and willfull opposition to the norm. It is also in active opposition against current notions of proper or good. Michael Jackson can be considered perverse on two counts, both of which constitute major liminal zones in western culture: image modification; pedophilia.

Looking at him now, all we see is a freak, a face mutilator, a man who can't be classified as clinically insane, but who is so far removed from social norms that all his actions seem tragic-comic. He is neither an outright lunatic, spewing violent incoherence, nor is he a vegetable. He is like Jocelyn Wilderstein, a member of a very select group whose desire to change his image into exactly that which he desires has breached the limits of acceptability, but outside our sphere of influence.

Nobody accepts his skin disease hypothesis, especially since it has been so heavily counterbalanced by other radical facial surgery which has had nothing to do with melanoma problems. One can imagine that Jackson just woke up one day, wanted a tiny thing done to his nose, wasn't satisfied, and just kept going from there. In painting, people do this all the time. They scratch out, erase, redo, rescrape, throw more paint on, in the vague hopes that something incredible will suddenly pop out at the end. Jackson's canvas is his face. Why not? Because if you wreck that canvas, you don't get a second chance.

He's certainly not the first one to attempt this. The french artist Orlan has gone through similar facial rearrangements, she has horns embedded in her forehead, and sports similar megalomaniacal tendencies. Famous in contemporary art, where sado-masochism seems to be the code of the game, Orlan made her name by said self-mutilation, laughable though her efforts seem in comparison to Jackson. Why? Because you have to be the type of public figure whose face is his brandname, like Jackson, and not a semi-unknown wanna-be famous like Orlan, for this act of art to take on its true monumental meaning.

But this is only one facet of the Jackson monster. The other constitutes the child-molestation charges. You know, I don't doubt for a moment that he is a pedophile. That seems beyond question. What this raises is in fact a more indecent question. Pedophilia seems to be an everyday aspect of western culture, only thinly whitewashed by a veneer of normality. It's omnipresence is only confirmed by the vehement witchhunt that surrounds any vague exposure on the subject. A culture which rigidly enforces its proscriptions and interdictions in public is a culture which already supports a large enough minority for such proscriptions to be important.

You only have to take a glance at download lists when typing something like "mpg" or "avi" into any file search/sharing program to see how much child porn is out there. It is the dominant type of illegal porn readily available on the internet, only closely followed by rape porn.

I remember a scene from Todd Solondz's Happiness where the pedophile father is asked by his son if he would ever fuck him. And the father replies, "No, I just jerk off." A sensitive scripting that many condemned as deliberately inflammatory, sensationalist. For me, I think it was quite a delicate take on a taboo sexuality. I don't think that pedophiles actively go out to be bad fucking assholes, nor do I think that pedophiles don't regret the things that they do. People act on desire. Humans are still animals. Whether pedophilia is inherited or learnt through behaviour seems hardly the point, just as irrelevant as wondering if homosexuality comes from a gene. If the cause remains a mystery... the effect is all too concrete and it is there that an active desire for understanding and aid could be useful.

Well, that Jackson, he's probably the only living human being that occupies these two giant liminal zones. The grey zombie man, neither fully human, neither fully freak, a living target for shooting down our repressions, and falsely gaining good grace. But if Michael Jackson goes behind bars, it would only have stopped a single illegal pedophile in the world. And if we place him behind bars without understanding where our abbhorence comes from, our society will most surely continue to slip into disrepair.

Mr. Bad Decision

sheltonSheltonious Bumblethwart

Just got off the phone with the recalcitrant morlock, Shelton, my baby brother. He's such a sweetie, but he has the most amazingly dreadful luck, in everything. This call recounted his latest adventures on the amorous field, and yes, it was another litany of unlikely disasters.

Ladies, Sheltonious is not a dingbat. He is a sexy mf, mighty fine on the keys, mighty fine on the eyes. But, knowing him too well, gotta say that it's true. He's the guy who makes Bad Decisions... The Official Bad Decision guy, taking it on the chin for the rest of us.

The latest crisis was when he lost his mail keys and wasn't sure where. And, I told him to just call the super and get a copy made. But, he couldn't do that because without the mail keys, he couldn't get his cheque, so couldn't get paid, so didn't have enough money to pay the super for a new mail key. And if he broke the mailbox he'd have to pay the post office to get it fixed, and that would cost slightly more than a new mail key. Then he broke the mailbox, but the cheque wasn't inside. So the super fixed the mailbox, charged him for the repair, and he still didn't have the key, or the cheque.

Or, when his parents were silly enough to live in a house where the front door and apartment door were automatic locks. Sometimes he'd leave his apartment without his keys and get stuck.... for the whole day... 9am till 5pm. I'd wait for him, then knock on the door, and there he would be, stuck in between the two doors.

And, what about that time when he really wanted to wear his praying mantis shirt... but then it got too cold and he had to borrow a brown velour sweater off a friend. After which, he tucked the shirt into his pants because a hip length wine shirt under a brown velour sweater is kind of nasty. But he was wearing pleated pale tapered jeans, that he was covering with his untucked shirt. Finally, thinking the shirt is the problem, he takes the shirt off, and is now in a brown V-neck velour sweater, pleated pale jeans, and chest hair coming sparsely off the top. Champion of sartorial faux pas extreme sport.

Whenever he recounts these adventures, he puts me in stitches. It's our bond... I always laugh at his misfortunes and the more I guffaw, the more he recounts the bad news, the more I laugh*... Bad News Bear Laughs. Tonight, he was his typical self.

-Sam, my life is one serious joke.
-Ohhh, I dunno Shelton... it's not so bad.
-No I mean, I think my life is really really funny... I kind end up laughing at it, even if I have bad luck. But it is a serious joke.
-Well.. that's a funny conundrum. Like, sometimes you need something kind of bad to happen in order to laugh at it. So bad luck is inately funny. Conversely, if you had luck enough to have a pretty swell life, chances are you'd really have nothing to laugh about.
-Awww, I guess you're right... I really should be happy to have such bad luck.

This is just a short excerpt of a long conversation, that kept circling round the idea of luck. This brings me to a very lovely quote sent to me from Outlaw from his self-help book on luck:

2. Lucky people make good decisions without knowing why. They just seem to know when a business decision is sound or someone shouldn't be trusted. Unlucky people's decisions tend to result in failure and despair.

This is from a book that is presumably bought by people with bad luck. However, the gist of the quotes seem to say that in fact, luck is unchangeable. Therefore, whoever buys the book is in active affirmation of the second rule. I already imagine Shelton buying this book going, "hey, this could really change my life..." and then later "awww man, I got had! Again!"

Still...still... Shelton has the darling soul, the untouchable stuff, that makes him a miracle on the keyboard... a miracle of life and cosmic bad luck forces. One day someone is going sit up and notice and he'll get snatched up by some sugar momma. But, I don't know if he really needs any more good luck to be honest... he's practically perfect as he is... just not of this world.

*He did once push me off a rock into the lake when I laughed too hard. But, I kind of deserved that one.

Maybe I'll fantasize about that...

Sunday, February 20, 2005

sam_lies: The Taco Eskimo!
sam_lies: That would be a great fast food joint
sultanoutlaw: Appalacian Taco......the Igloo of Mirror Kisses...sad, cold steam.....
sam_lies: lots of colours... and design... less mirrors...I have a soft spot for Steven Seagal's early films
sam_lies: oooh, the Igloo of Mirror Kisses... I'm keeping that one
sultanoutlaw: It would be...the Eskimo Corporate Logo Guy crawling out of a taco shell...
sultanoutlaw: the Eskimo could look like Steven Seagal...
sultanoutlaw: Tactile Informatin Kiosks..or for short....Interactive Igloos....
sam_lies: This really rolly polly eskimo, in his parka, sitting on a mexican beach saying... so cool he's hot... so hot he's cool... could it be, why not, who could be mistaken... he's the Taco Mysteraco... the Mr. Cool of the old Fool... he's the Taco Eskimo...
sam_lies: you buy me one mean taco, I geeve four for free!
sam_lies: And the place would be designed all round like a plastic igloo... with all round furniture, and extra strong air conditioning
sultanoutlaw: His face could be Taco Meat.
sam_lies: ahahahahaha
sam_lies: nasty!
sam_lies: his face get's eaten by the crabs on the beach
sam_lies: ahhhhh, Don't eat my Face!
sultanoutlaw: Sad....eyes behind the Taco Meat...and, pink lips...
sam_lies: crumbling lips
sultanoutlaw: so...the owner would force all the poor teen schlubs working glue taco meat to their faces and wear those parkhas...
sam_lies: and all the tacos are made of crabmeat... so you know you're actually eating the eskimo
sam_lies: lime-green mexican parkas
sultanoutlaw: across the nation! teens with Taco meat glued to their faces...crabmeat Tacos! cream crabmeat....
sultanoutlaw: Can I help you....and cRab meat would fall from the teen's face onto the register....onto the the change part of the register...
sam_lies: Hi there? Would you like a bite of my face today?
sultanoutlaw: crab meat and dimes....
sam_lies: they have to eat the food right off their faces
sam_lies: the cooks look like beauty queens, slowly pasting new creamy crab meat into the holes which the customers bit out
sultanoutlaw: Maybe I'll fantasize about that....

The Weather


In Paris today, the day started out with a light drizzle, gradually turning into wet snow. By the afternoon, the snow had melted and dried while the temperatures hovered around the 3 degree Celsius mark. Now, it's 0 degrees Celsius, with a light NW wind. The humidity is 94%, and the windchill is minus 2 degrees Celsius.

The length of the day was 10 hours and 29 minutes. Tomorrow, the day will be 3 minutes and 29 seconds longer.

In Milton and Toronto, Ontario, Canada, in the evening, light snow was reported. The temperature is minus 5 degrees Celsius, humidity at 63%, and the windchill a cutting minus 13 degrees Celsius.

In Augusta, Georgia, this evening, the temperature is 13 degrees Celsius, 55 Farenheit, with light clouds and 34% humidity.

Indoor plants often start losing their leaves at temperatures below 65 degrees Farenheit, 18 degrees Celsius.

I repotted my plants today, then had some nice chats. A lot of people complain about the weather.

it could be the finals!

Friday, February 18, 2005

the terminator... so sexy
Mourinho, what a yummers!

Barcelona is playing Chelsea in the round of 16 for the Champion's League. Crazy! These are the two top teams out of the 16. Will Mourinho and Drogba prevail, or will the spectacularly entertaining Ronaldinho, Giuly and Eto'o team rip their well-trained heart out? Too close to guess. Mourinho's so gorgeous though, like Spanish 007.

Chelsea: Febrary 22/23
Barcelona: March 8/9

Money? Drogba is only but one player... Barca has more depth... but, like the Euros proved, stars are only part of the equation of what is actually a team game. Chelsea, by 1 goal.

bonobos got me on the run

It's just like that, you know, one moment you're happy to stay inside, next thing you know the temperature drops and there are suddenly more options than bee's bottoms. So, Wednesday night, headed off to the Cartoucherie, the dark lodge in the Eastern Woods of Paris. Hidden behind the forest are a series of barnlike buildings, which hosts various theatre performances. I think it's supposed to be famous for some Communist woman being charge. Those days are done. This place is strictly bonobo now (boheme bourgeois - richies who talk about healing Indian salt baths, bio-soy while paying several thousand dollars for genuine Peruvian 19th century pottery, but would never take the metro because of the ethnics).

Well, the performance was as expected... ethnic. It was a celebration of the Korean New Year of the Cock, which isn't very much different from the Chinese idea of New Year celebrations. The performance started with some Korean shaman dude hopping around and murmering stuff. He was a lovely little bouncing ball of a man, jiggling around in about 6 different layers of primary coloured silk dressing gowns. After that, he stuck a pin cushion on his head, then a black top hat, turned to the audience and said he was free to grant wishes. The deal is, you go up to him, you make a wish, pick a flag, then he laughs at you and takes your money. I think the guy raked in over 250Eu in under 7 minutes. He may not be a good shaman but he's definitely a great showman (nyuck hnyuck).

Then there was some singing and stuff but I was really sleepy and did old trick of tilting my head back to look down my nose, so as to minimize opening of eyelids.

Aside: I haven't been sleeping too well lately. Some weird moonrock has been gnawing through my Mandy shoulder. I try and I try and I try... warm milk, extremely long tracks of dense philosophy, and still my lights flash blankly in the night.

Insomnia... is there any real cure for it besides pills (which I don't do). You know, I once had insomnia all summer, at the age of 9. I would lie in bed for hours and hours, reading in the hopes of getting drowsy enough for sleepland, but the moment I put the book down, I was wide awake. Then, when I finally fell asleep, I would have the same dream, every night. This got so bad that I was averaging maybe 3 hours of sleep a night. At the end of the summer, my mother, who, bless her soul is not the most sensitive person in the world, noticed I was acting very erratically and generally avoiding all sunlight. She asked me if I wanted to see a shrink. I said yes. And then she laughed and said she was joking. Of course, I didn't see a shrink, and the insomnia tapered off noticeably in the fall. However, that was the first occurrence of what is now a regular feature in my life. Seems to be triggered right before extremely creative stages though.

So... there I am, painting circles on my eyelids, when suddenly the guy pops up and says intermission. Oh goodie. I run down the steps, off the right side, and there was already a massive queue at the counter. Benichou, our host, pointed up to some Korean totems, which he and his Korean girlfriend verified were the real thing. However, through my bleary sleep deprived eyes, they just looked like wooden sticks some dingbat sporto made in Industrial Arts. Not too impressive, those totems. (yeah yeah, I think maybe angering the gods with such agnostic grumbling can be dangerous, especially regarding my rather tentative luck situation... but they really do look like painted sticks with a shitty ikea sheet on them).

After the noodles, it's time for more grunting and singing. It's ok, this blind man song about his daughter being murdered, then married, then murdered again, and maybe he could see her... then he squats like he's going to crap on the stage and falls down. *thunderous applause* But, I like the crap motion... he's a very convincing actor. And the whole murder, marriage, murder sequence is effective.

Finally, these guys, about 7 of them, come onto the scene and whip the crowd into some crazy tribal frenzy with wailing rhythmic drums. Surprisingly reminiscent of teenage years tucked into some bad rave by the lakeside, where thundering hammering sound was only made supportable by indecent amounts of drugs. Alas, said drugs have also wasted my brain and made me unserviceable for normal life. Thus, these Korean drumming thing was like having a thunderous message of "you're fucking your life over" smashed against the skull. Made me weary and delirious... almost nauseous.

Then, to make things even better, all those bonobos went a whooping and hooting, like some strange new breed of primate about to hump the stage in exotic satisfaction. Gosh, that started another reign of terror as the koreans took to banging away again. I'm swooning out the side of my chair my now, saliva barely controlled... dribbling... eyes are doing figure eights... Then the audience jumps up and swarms downstage... doing some crazy tribal dance round the drummers. There was even some swami looking middle aged bag doing the reach to the sky manouveurs... I felt the swimming of ancient tides streaming through my salty brine blood... the thunderous tribal tornado lasted another ten minutes, long enough for me to hold myself in reasonable shape before running to the parking lot.

Yo! I know there's many of you out there chinning around thinking this nardac girl is up the wazoo. It's not that I'm immune to real emotion, music or rhythm or the thunderous opening of heavens. Au contraire! I like it fine enough. But, I'm not a fan of techno, not anymore. The whole thing just reminds me of long-fanged cannibalistic white men, with their lost souls, sucking the brains out of the cushion-headed. I half expected to see their jagged canines tuck into soft skulls and the wailing frenzy of steel-headed matrons as they randomly humped multi-coloured handkerchiefs.

Basically, I got back... and it took me a long time to unwind, even with Harpo's inane Jewish Mamie stories... and I slept extraordinarily late, woke up later... long enough to fire off a missile down the information superhighway... then back to bed. Luckily, my early student was sick with the flu, otherwise my head would probably be crashed dead into the computer by now.

a little self-editing

Usually, when I say something I mean it. But, a couple of weeks ago, in response to a 37 question survey, I replied that I would probably get breast implants, if they improved the procedure. Well, speak of the devil. Might be closer than I thought. Looks like new and better breasts are closer than we think. However, with this improvement, am suddenly confronted with the reality of saying such a thing and, nope, I don't think I'd get breast implants after all.

the rest of the dream rundown

Thursday, February 17, 2005

dream rock band

drums: Moe Tucker
guitar: Syd Barrett
guitar: Nick Valensi
bass guitar: John Paul Jones
keyboards: Shelton Ramsay Deverell
theremin: Me

dream lover

The type of man who knows the way to San Jose. Lover of animal stories, mad poet/artist, not too squiggy looking, maybe has a watch that hasn't been wound up, possible mustard stains on the sweater vest, talks a little in public but talks a lot in private, total and utter embarassment in public situations yet famous in very select circles, sordid ancestral history, surprises me constantly, and most importantly, a genuinely nice guy with a generous heart. Somebody who anticipates my weirdness and trumps it with a mighty sledgehammer.

dream project

working with master ice-sculptors. running around the world in a catamaran. making a documentary on deep sea creatures. acting with lars von triers (ooohh, pain!). being left alone to write my book and getting paid a 7-figure advance for it.

dream alternative careers

sumo wrestling trainer
football coach
tv sports analyst
golden retriever dog walker

dream holiday

mushing across antarctica
flying one way to the moon

dream home

a modern tree house in Washington State
a tiny glass house in Maine

dream cuisine

hands down winner: kaiseki (Japanese)

dream day

riding a hot air balloon in summer across the Canadian shield, then dropping into a cottage for steaks and midnight skinny dipping.

NHL finished, even for me

There are some things good about being in France. The best one being not having to be up and close while your favourite sport gets torn apart by greed. All you guys suck! Playing hockey is a fucking privilege! So much bad faith has infinite karmic repercussions. And team owners, don't think anybody is going to forget this either. I don't give a rat's ass whose fault it is, but cancelling a whole season of hockey because of money is not only dumb, it's repugnant.

Hitchhiker Trailer (on three wheels and a wheezing visible minority)

Wednesday, February 16, 2005

The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy trailer is now available on Does that mean they're anticipating a straight to DVD release? Not sure. It doesn't look so good, but it doesn't look so bad... kind of like a mix between Galaxy Quest and the Fifth Element. Never read the books either. Why am I hyping this? Well, after sniffing through the Salmon of Doubt am convinced that despite undeniably pedestrian leanings, Douglas Adams is one of the funny guys. Movie could bomb though. Certainly looks like potential trasho heapo, like Wild Wild West, or something similar.

The Dream Team - The Prologue

So, all the megastars of the football world got together tonight for a benefit match to aid the tsunami victims. Almost everyone was there, save the players from Chelsea and Manchester United who are obviously more concerned about a Championship than playing a little casual footsie to raise money. What's even more scandalous about Chelsea's refusal is the fact that their owner is probably one of the richest men in the world, capable of throwing just as much cash at the benefit than was actually raised. But what can you expect of Russian Arriviste Mafia except that they're known for eating copious amounts of caviar and supporting a particular grotesque version of blond bimbo.

Ironically, just last night, at the Paul Ricard opening, was casually speaking to BLES who is now a fullhearted Chelsea supporter despite not really watching any of the Premier League games. What's even funnier is that at the beginning of the year, he professed his undying love for Nantes, a team which now stands in the bottom half of the football standings. If I didn't know it before, I know have clear proof of his hilarious idea of support. Still, must not snark openly because have promised myself that people who are that sparkless have to stop black holing my choutzpah.

I'm a Ronaldinho fan anyways, and maybe BLES was offended at my offering my awkward artgirl body to a bucktoothed pony-tailed Brazilian extra-terrestrial. But I like them ugly... gash toothed lumpy heads with three legs. Guys hate it when girls like the ugger.

The Lacombite was with me last night, both of us flying solo for the early half of the evening. His Soul Lover was working, and my guy was at home gristling on his website madness. So there we were, getting free drinks, ignoring mediocre drawings, watching the less than normally sexy crowd at the opening... in short, kind of being bored, and then taking off to have very expensive french fries next to Place Concorde. I'm warming up to the man... I mean, despite being a fan of the butterflies, I preferred hanging out eating fries with the Lacombite far from that madding crowd. There's something comforting about just shooting the shit in your native language with a guy who's definitely got more than his fair share of wit. It's probably just that underneath my flusterbudget exterior, I am a super geek.

After that, went on Valentine's date with Dacnar to watch Melinda Melinda, a rather paltry offering from Allen, something we've come to expect once he wedded his little Vietnamese daughter. The saving grace of that film being the great Earl Schoslinger dentist guy, his trampoline and shot animals. Otherwise, a big miss.

Anyways... why the dream team? Well, later on today, I came across a nice little survey by Douglas Adams... all about dream everything. And, while it seems ultimately pointless, I've always been obsessed with superlatives and lists, clearing the air with decisive rankings. So yah... here are the questions. Check the next post for the answers. And feel free to making your own Dream List, in Dreamtime, or Dreamstation, or Dreaming Monkeyshine Tommyknocking Hellraiser Bumblethwart.


Dream Cast

Well, how do you have a dream cast unless you have a dream film?

Will Ferrell - The 3 of clubs. The guy who hitchhikes and see the world

Udo Kier
- King of Diamonds. The voice over

Chiaki Kuriyama
- The 8 of hearts. The random Japanese girl who takes Will into the woods after he can't find Torrance Alabama, and tells him to look out for the badger's funeral.

Mathieu Amalric
- The 4 of spades. The gas station guy who doesn't know which way is Torrance Alabama. Chiaki's boyfriend. Eventually dresses up as a badger and re-enacts funeral proceedings of Udo Kier.

Lauren Bacall
- The Queen of Hearts. There are exactly forty of her in the film, and they always run around in packs. First, they are joggers with Queen of Hearts shirts. Then they are the very slow restaurant staff in pink and white uniforms.

Mickey Rourke
- The Ace of Spades. Everytime there is an important decision, Will plays his ace of spades... at which point Mickey comes out and sucks everybody into his body with a cosmic wind, after which he expels them and everything keeps going on from the point where he was called. He would be all black, (black face, no hair)

Chelsea Clinton
- The 9 of clubs. herself, lost in the forest.

Nancy van Keerbergen
- The Jack of Spades. My alter ego... the writer, drinking tea, and, by the end of the film, we realize she has written the whole story completely bottomless (no panties), while some really hot guy is mowing the lawn outside.

Danny deVito
- Joker. the hot lawn guy. We morph him virtually to make him tall and skinny, and give him hair on his head, but not on his chest.

well, that's just the rough outline anyways, and it would be loosely based on Groundhog Day.

6 mois - Le Bilan

Tuesday, February 15, 2005

They've flown by, they really have, my last six months is the city of lights. It hasn't all been pretty, and there have been more dark hole moments than I dare to count. Still... the inner grumpy puss is still there, and the same amounts of silly retardation keeps spewing full born from my head, which can't be all that bad.

So, looking back.

The month where I officially blew my top off socially. Having been starved of any reasonable social life in the dreaded North, suddenly realized that it was possible to meet randoms with mullets, crazy parties with the young and slightly beautiful, endless bestiary of monstrous party freaks, fashionable gaylords, and idiotic art parties where the wine champagne and drugs seemed limitless. The 80s of the 6 months. But of course it was still warm, and I was riding my bicycle in a halter top, even on the 24th.
Highlights: playing badminton in tiny short skirt on a narrow cobblestone street near the Buttes Chaumont, followed by insane pissing adventure with Voin, and the doubling on a bike down Menilmontant hill and around the Republique circus on a Saturday night with a boy who gave deliciously conflicted messages.

The beginning of some strange sobering up. The life of a city is much more than just jumping from one free ride to another, though I would love it to be just that. Or maybe it was just too many weekends riding on fumes. Either way, the sky fell down grey and started spitting viciously at windblown haircuts. There was a confusing moment where I didn't know whether to wear my jean jacket or my winter jacket, and ended up borrowing clothes from everybody, thus looking like a cross between and eastern european immigrant and a northwestern scarecrow. The worst moment was by far the week of the FIAC, where I had terrifying realisation that I could be more malicious and capricious than I ever expected. And, suddenly, somewhere in the last days, the sun came out and I was married. So unexpected.
Highlights: The marriage/ the marriage party.

The month was heralded by a two week cocooning period, slightly related to the honeymoon, in which I must have spent more hours doing nothing than I have my whole life. I'm not sure if I was depressed, or numb, or just terrified, but the prospect of turning 30, in a new country, far from close long-term friends, recently married and horribly unemployed, something just wasn't right. Have rarely felt so psychologically gutted, really capped by the actual birthday, where I had the distinct feeling of being on a one way ticket high speed train off a fjord in Norway.
Highlights: none, and definitely not turning 30

With the advent of the holidays, and the sudden concretisation of legal status in France, I started slowly to move out of the deathly malaise that had hung over my head for so long. The days started to make more sense, I started waking up during daylight hours, and things like taking a shower started to seem less impossible. I cannot even begin to explain to you how extraordinarily important this was to me, little nudges every day. And then the holidays were upon us, and, as befits holidays, things were out of my hands. Instead one could just focus on being a gluttonous pig, amusing with in-laws and preparing for falldown on face party at the end of the year. Started to actually go out to parties again.
Highlights: Christmas and New Year's Eve. Christmas Eve where Dacnar's parents proved that being 65 can still be a drunken messy riot. New Year's Eve for the luscious feasting and heartwarming moments with closer friends.

Started the year on a whimsical and hopeful note, as if the little yellow ribbon was again tied on my left ankle. Tipping and tapping, phoning for jobs, starting to get leads, meeting old friends, good laughs, and general warming of relations. The beginning of a very interesting social angle in my life, the meeting of a like mind on, of all places, friendster. Even if Paris friends were suddenly condemning my desire to stay home, and watch all my Glowria DVDs, I was suddenly filled with inspiration and verve. Stories were written, and finally got a job, albeit tentative and undependable. I hesitate to say the following, because it might seem potentially offensive and perhaps a little misanthropic regarding my taste in Europeans, but having new american friends, and literary madmen at that, was what was missing for so long.
Highlights: Palais de Tokyo art opening that was my catchup with the Parisian bumsniffers, and the blooming friendship with Outlaw.

Reacquaintance with working on a regular basis, in a job that, even if badly paid, is quite rewarding. Sometimes it hardly seems like work at all, and I have all the advantage of being able to reject and accept clients at will. Continuation of sudden inspiration. Of course, still no significant inroads to project completion, but the road looks clearer. So far, parties with the usual crew, chatting with friends online, and silly internet information have been my mainstay of entertainment. That and Sleeper by Woody Allen.
Highlights: the 5 hour chat with Outlaw, the night near the Pompidou with Lacombite. Look, American friends again! Jeez!

Am planning a trip back to North America in the summer, starting June 1st, and I guarantee I will be there for 3 months, if not more. What this says about my future in France, I cannot give an answer. I have an art show planned for October, so obviously I have to be back for that. But is my future really here? Is it worth it to get paid peanuts in a job that clearly makes minimal use of one's talents, struggling monetarily all the time, and feeling so drained by lethargy that making art let alone writing a blog sometimes seem like a chore... I'm not sure. Maybe I'm just complaining for complaining's sake. Either way, I'm heading home for the summer, a little party by a lake in the middle of nowhere, maybe some road trips, adventures, and occasional working, even if it means missing the Tour de France.

In the near future, more hijinks and parties with french friends. Advancement on project... more sports highlights and pre-Tour de France analysis. And... hopefully, lets cross our fingers on this, making inroads on the writing.

And, it's true...Paris has put me to the test but I am now officially bilingual.

Listening to: Got to get you into my life - The Beatles

"Il Pirata" January 13 1970 - February 14, 2004

Monday, February 14, 2005

Marco Pantani, Tour de France 1998

The history of the Tour de France is certainly rife with great stories, heroic stories and terrible tragedies, on the scale that is always somehow beyond the scale of everyday sport. After all, the cyclists not only ride everyday for more than 200km, over a stretch of 3 weeks, they also have to climb several mountains in the Alps and Pyrenees, and sometimes through horrific conditions and terrible roads. Every year, several legends are created over the different stages of the Tour.

Roland Barthes, himself a cycling fan, wrote in Mythology that the very nature of the Tour de France was legendary, not unlike the chivalric quest through the Wasteland for the Holy Grail. The Tour is a balance between the fragility of the men in their wisp-thin armour pitted in a titanic struggle against each other, set upon the backdrop of epic Nature that rises each day to torment them. Often chance steps in to destroy men in their quest; a miscalculated turn on a descent can be fatal, as was sadly the case with Fabio Casartelli in 1995. The structure of the team, with the supporting players often gruesomely sacrificing themselves for the leader, marks comparison with the lords and retainers of medieval times. The yellow jersey has even been compared to the Golden Fleece of the Argonauts.

Most of all, it is in the failure of those who are most courageous that the legend of the Tour is conceived. In 2004, the hero of the Tour was not Armstrong, despite the record-breaking 6th consecutive victory, but a little french rider by the name of Thomas Voeckler, le p'tit blanc. He stole the yellow jersey on the flats in Bretagne, and managed to hold onto it all the way to the Alps, the capping moment being his incredible tenacity at the Plateau de Beille, where he zigzagged haphasardly up the mountain, seemingly always on the verge of falling off his bike in sheer exhaustion. That day, he preserved his lead over Armstrong by a mere 20 seconds. He finished the race stripped of all official accolades, but remains the heart and soul of the Tour 2004.

For this story though, we go back to the Tour, 1998. That year, the year Lance Armstrong was recovering from testicular cancer, Jan Ullrich looked set to win his second consecutive Tour de France. From the start, with the terrible bridge crossing in Ireland which took out almost half the field, Fortuna seemed to glance favourably upon Ullrich. Unbeknownst to him, a small Italian rider by the nickname of The Pirate was to prove the infidelity of the gods. The Pirate was a reknowned grimpeur, climber, and was not known for being an all round cyclist. He wasn't a classified threat, and in fact was the leader of a wild-card team, only let into the Tour by lottery. After the bridge crossing, he was classed in the second bottom half of the standings.

Marco Pantani, the Pirate, was so dubbed not only for his look but also for his style of attack. A courageous and daring rider, but most of all alone and seemingly outside the giants's field, the Pirate was the type of rider to attack mountains with sudden ferocious accelerations that seemed to disprove gravity's rule.

On the 15 stage, Les Deux Alpes, somewhere up a harrowingly narrow path up the mountains amidst freezing temperatures, wind, rain and fog, Marco Pantani attacked the ragged Ullrich, in a sudden swooping tear. The incline of the climb was classified hors categorie, beyond classification. This means even the best climbers are made to suffer, backs seesawing, mouths hanging open, eyes glazed over. Pantani just took off into the clouds, on a day where all had suffered with wind and cold. When the day was ended he had killed the stage by over 10 minutes, taking the lead by 7 minutes over Ullrich. The rest, ordinary riders, wayward knights in this dark quest, were beaten and hollow by the end of the race. Pantani's achievement that day stands as one of the greatest moments of the Tour de France, ever.

Panache: verve, dash; a bunch of feathers/plume, especially on a helmut.

Pantani was to win the Tour that year, a year marked by drug scandal and ill faith. The picture above is from the strike held midway the tour. The cyclists were protesting the McCarthyesque witchtrial over their regime and diet... Pantani wore the feather in his cap that year. He would also go on to win the Giro, the Tour of Italy. Pantani, the antithesis of Lance Armstrong, seemed to dare the very forces of Nature to stop him. He rode against the mountain, more than himself.

One year later, leading the Giro in 1999, Pantani's blood brought back a test whose blood corpuscle count was marginally over the mean. He was suspended from the tour and ostracized. For the Pirate, a man of delicate psyche, it was a striking blow. Even as he struggled to maintain his innocence, the press was happy to find such a likely target to villainise. Pantani slipped quickly into mental illness and had to be hospitalised for several months. In the end, finally acquitted of drug charges in October 2003, Pantani took his own life, February 14, 2004, in a motel room, alone, broken-hearted after being excluded from the sport that he loved.

I admire Marco Pantani's spirit and exploits greatly. It's hard to think of another cyclist who competed with the same amount of panache. A french professor at the Sorbonne, Professor Odon, once remarked that sports needs drugs, needs its athletes to be superhuman, to defy human barriers and to make us dream. Yes, they risk their lives in doing so, but there are worse things than dying. And, if for only one moment, they are to be crowned, that is the price of the hero: that they can be forgiven for almost all other earthly vices for having sacrificed so much.

Il Pirata, li salutiamo.

the firefox revolution has eaten my brain

Screen Shot of my Firefox Browser

ok... yeah, I turned into an uber geek this weekend, tinkering around with firefox extensions and themes, firing up foxy music, and sage rss feeds... plus dumped into Andromeda and found out how to broadcast my music on the web... which won't do immediately due to server considerations... but its coming up... GEEK!!!

Besides that, have dug into an entirely lovely serving of Harpo Marx, courtesy of his autobiography, which I had no idea existed. Funny to think of that mute honker being a writer, let along chronicler of daily adventures, but there you have it... just because you play a mute guy doesn't mean you're dumb... It's Acting (remember Jon Lovitz as the "actor"... that's the voice I'm going for... everybody altogether, hands up in half moon swoop...) Acting!

The Living Beheaded

Thursday, February 10, 2005

I hung out with the Lacombite last night at some invitation-only art opening. After that, we went to a bar with an outdoor terrace and freezed our asses off looking at the twinkling lights of the Pompidou. Night ended 6 hours later, when I crammed a giant hamburger crepe into pie-hole and scrambled off to bed. Now, after another intoxicated night at Voin's, where a wig could give you the upper edge on the 2005 Chewbacca awards, am a little sick, fed up with not working on project at all, and wittering precious early morning hours by reading many different friendster profiles. I have nothing to show for myself but a head full of unwashed hair that's marching rank and file with the Living Beheaded.



The problem with being in France...

Is that you miss newsworthy items like: Buddy D* and ODB passing away, the Charlotte Hornets becoming the New Orleans Hornets, and even things like your favourite writer's birthday. Yup, happy birthday Mr. J. Maxwell Coetzee.

Jee whiz, me and my cavegirl activities catching up with me. Give me back my club humans-with-talking-God-box!

*(oh, and that Buddy D guy, yeah, the Lacombite gave me the rundown. I'm not from New that was less news than education... however, say Buddy D and ODB really fast, four times, while spinning anti-clockwise. I guarantee after that, you'll be able to speak like ODB and dance like Buddy D... or is it the other way round?)

a permafrost home for my choking black head

Tuesday, February 08, 2005


I had a post here, with a really sucky last line, but it didn't make the grade. It blew its mind out in a car.

But, hmmm, height of uncreativity signalled by random Beatles song quoting. Well, we're all entitled to a giant vats of body-changing self-rectification, it doesn't change the fact that my sense of humour has gone to see the doctor this week and hasn't come home. Damn you evil job from hell for stealing the only thing precious left for me in this world! *sticking head into permafrost ground and screaming in desperate attempt to expunge black cloudy miasma choking interior, and get wicked ultra mud facial at same time.*

Oh, and blue bread really is gross.

Dynasty - It ain't pretty

Monday, February 07, 2005

The Patriots have won their third Superbowl in 4 years. 24-21. And congratulations also to Steve Young, future hall of famer!

So, I guess it's official. The Patriots are the first football dynasty of the 21st century. Still, though, even on radio, you could tell this wasn't a pretty game.

I passed out with 7 minutes to go in the 4th, but the winds had already changed. The Eagles seemed tired, and panicky. I think they scared me in the 1st quarter, and at the end of their touchdown drive at the middle of the 3rd. McNabb looked like he could've dropped into his rhythm. It was a close game. Closer than the monstrous blow-out I had envisaged.

Does that really matter? Kind of... I mean, the Patriots are obviously not a glamour team, unlike the late 80s early 90s 49-ers. Bill Belichick emits a sort of Tetley Tea union boss aura, and those guys can never stop babbling about team work. It's practically a Disney team. I mean, looking at the video clips, I couldn't help but feel closer to Terrell Ownes, jerk that he is, for at least his brassy arrogant honesty.

But, if the Patriots represent the new Dynasty in 21st century football, does that mean we are seeing the end of panache and pure voraciousness heroism in sport? Is it being succeeded by meticulous planning, training, and cold-blooded execution? Recent victories in other sports would point in this direction: Michael Schumacher, Lance Armstrong, Vincent Riou, none of these guys are big on panache. They are just great technicians and leaders in their field, but more importantly, they never seem to make a mistake, a human mistake. Is that the new genius, the eradication of human fallibility by methodical preparation and hi-tech training?

If so, this would definitely support my theory that the human population is starting to evaluate emotion and creativity as negative from an evolutionary standpoint. Get your nose to the grindstone and you'll see all the blond bombshells you get. Dynasty for the 21st century? No, it ain't pretty.

skype... swipe, byte, autotype

Sunday, February 06, 2005

ok ok... I'm riding on the coattails of this tsunami but in case you haven't heard about it yet, there's free internet telephony out now.
used it with the voinster... which was completely ridiculous, we're shouting out our laptops, crouched over the speakers, giggling madly, saying "you can hear me? you can hear me? is this real life? this is real life. I've got've got headphones?" you get the drift. basically like talking to the ship's computer on star trek. but it works. so if you already have unlimited hi-speed internet, you now can blather away on international calls, for free.


Went out last night, for more art openings... heads swiveling left and right on screaky hinges. Saw all the usual suspects, plus a few new ones. Yours truly was wearing her old tight tight jeans, which she hasn't worn in over 6 months because of the rip on the left knee. But now that ripped jeans are officially coming back, the jeans are coming out. My ass was so packed in that thing... actually, sitting in front of computer eating junkfood, then going for occasional walks has done something spectacular to my toosh... it's suddenly like perfectly J-Lo bumpy round. Lucky lucky me!

Saw BLES and for the first time, felt neither disgust or hate towards him but a rather calm sad warmth... as if somehow time had freed us both from the old angry/hurt feelings. Then saw Voin and his happy hounds of hell... There wasn't enough free wine but at least there was some. That was at some gallery on rue Saintonge.

Got to Yvon Lambert next a little bit later... but the opening was practically finished. There's a boy who works there, a very cute one, a very gay one, with a very stunning knitted turquoise and grey tie. He's so nice, and he has this remarkable habit of brooding, just when I'm ready to crack a joke. He was my artpiece of the night. Would have posed, just in tie and tight jeans, for my crush... but there are somethings that are physically impossible.

SUPERBOWL SUNDAY in france.... (bawling eyes out)

I have to go to work early tomorrow, so I can't stay up late watching the Superbowl (and it's only on Cable so I'd have to go to some Bruce Willis Planet Hollywood junkheep, and pay 10Eu for a beer, just to watch the game)... It starts at around midnight, france time. Soooo, in a mad fit of long distance rage... I'm going to give you the game results! Because I got the second sight, the third eye, the yellow ear and the feet on the ground.

Patriots over the Eagles:
look for a first half blow-out, followed by limping Eagles come-back. Brady will be Brady.

Game Summary:
Brady forgets to tie his shoelaces, so both his shoes fly off in the first tackle... Mothers all over the eastern seaboard will think this is an omen of his imminent death, and they will all go crashing to their knees simultaneously, in a continent shuddering thump, screaming "Chikaka! Chikaka!" After which point, the game goes as planned, with fathers drinking lots of beer and choking on chips and peanuts, occasional heads going through tv sets, women frowning broadly as their mates revert back to some apelike hooting, and several immigrants breaking into electronics shops, raiding motherboards and ink refills for printers.

Gremlin Hammers!!!

A short excerpt from last night's 5 hour chat. Why do you think I rave about this Outlaw guy...

: Gremlin Hammers could be this little German roadie guy, with a mean temper when he drinks too much schnapps
sultanoutlaw: Oh....I'll investigate yer lucky man...then.
sultanoutlaw: the howls of recalcitrant mariners....
sultanoutlaw: and Lars Ulrich..all coked nose...jokes with his mates.."Oh no..he's going snap..."
sam_lies: And then one of them puts out his arm for good ole gremlin to bit on
sam_lies: "ow, Gremlin, dat really hurts!"
sultanoutlaw: and the thing about this he walks around in the nude..backstage..but he's got a micro-penis...
sam_lies: which he more than makes for by jumping up and down vigorously
sam_lies: it just becomes this fuzzy blur
sam_lies: and Gremlin buys Lars a birthday cake one day, for his birthday...
sam_lies: but just as Lars puts out his hand to accept the cake
sultanoutlaw: and this delights the Metallica Goons....this small penis german and his schnaps rage...
sultanoutlaw: and his pogo compensation Watusi.....
sam_lies: Gremlin eats the cake really fast... squashes it into his face, then bites his own arm
sam_lies: Lars faints in horror. When he wakes up, he finds out that he now has the mini watusi
sultanoutlaw: I chortled at a civilized I'm prone to do.
sam_lies: A little wee child, the orphan on tour watches all of this, and thus he spawns Gremlin Hammers, when he grows up
sam_lies: a Salsa Epic for Metallica
sultanoutlaw: The Gremlin has switcherooed their members...! he now has a Rockstar Penis...
sultanoutlaw: whereas poor Lars....a Gremlin Hammer Penis....
sam_lies: hahahahahaha
sam_lies: A Gremlin hammer Penis!!!
sam_lies: soooo funny
sultanoutlaw: Metallica will then write a gritty concept album about this whole saga...their Lohengrim..(spelling?)
sam_lies: yah?
sultanoutlaw: Bob Seger will cameo on a couple of songs.

And now for more of ME!

Friday, February 04, 2005

Tym picked up a virus, which I am now infected with. It's the ole' 37 questions trick. I couldn't resist, because, let's face it, if I created a blog it was just so I could talk more about me. Here you go, another slice of nardac-pie:

What is the geekiest part of your music collection?
All my old time Radio Mystery Theatre recordings. Love them…

What is your secret guaranteed weeping movie?
OLD YELLER, though most animal movies make me leak.

If you could have plastic surgery what would you have done?
Bigger Boobs, but I don’t want them sitting all separated and rock hard when the silicon freezes. I’m waiting till they perfect the procedure… then gagongas!

Do you have a completely irrational fear?
I’m terrified of chewing gum and toothpaste foam.

What is the little physical habit that gives away your insecure moments?
Big smile.

Do you know anyone famous?
Yeah, many people. Do they know me? No. Ok Ok… I used to be friends with Peaches, when we both lived in Toronto. I danced in junior high with the guy who’s now the No.1 Poker Player in the World. My ex-boyfriend was in a nationally famous band. I am friendsters with Bruce la Bruce. I regularly tell dirty jokes to international contemporary artists.

Who would play you in a movie?
No blond bitches could tackle my mojo! So who does that leave? Oh yeah, Rhea Perlman, or maybe Mischa Barton, actually, cut them in half and sew them down the middle, and that’s me!

What do you carry with you all the time?
Cellphone, wallet, lip balm, keys, notebook, pen, handkerchief (leaky snozzle)

What do you miss most about being a kid?
My old wallpaper, with its creepy eyes. Being happy being alone.

What colour is your bedroom?
White walls.

What was the last song you were listening to?
Tangled up in Blue – Bob Dylan

Have you ever been in a play?
Multiple times in childhood. Not since, which sucks, because I know I’d be excellent, as Focaccia or Monstrio. I played Goldilocks and the Three Bears when I was 5. I did play in a film last year though…

Have you ever been in love?
Don’t ask….(weeping in corner)

Do you like yourself and believe in yourself?
Sometimes, but not all the time…actually not often, but that depends…I try not to think about it too much. Not so happy, but couldn’t imagine being anyone else, or thinking in or about anyone else’s shoes, because I like other people, usually, even less… but I make exceptions. Next question?

Do transient, homeless, or starving people sometimes annoy you?
What? I don’t understand this question at all.

What is your ideal marriage location?
On an iceberg. All the angles and whiteness, so aesthetically pleasing. Plus, hopefully unwanted guests could slide off.

What musical instrument do you wish you could play?
I always wished I could sing, just like Aretha. Real instrument? Flute/Cello, for all those Monteverdi nights.

Favourite fabric?
Sea Island Cotton.

What’s the one language you want to learn?
Latin, so I could be a smartass in a dead language.

How do you eat an apple?
With my teeth.

What do you order at a bar?
Draft beer

Have you ever pierced your body parts?
My ears, but now that’s all closed up.

Do you have any tattoos?
3 – one behind each ear, a “?” and a “YES.” Plus the one on my arm.

Do you drive a stick?
No.. Do you drive a turtle…insane…with a stick? Grrrr….

Favourtie trait of the opposite sex?
Humour… and all round geniusness… I’m only attracted to freakish geniuses, the ones who everyone mistakes as yetis.

What kind of watch do you wear?
I haven’t worn a watch in over 15 years.

Most frivolous purchase?
The better question would be how many frivolous purchases have you ever made? In which case I would have respond in the thousands. I don’t think I need all the stuff I have…except my blue jeans, hands, and computer(so sad!)… so what’s with that mountain of shoes, clothes, books, records, films, art equipment, tragic assortment of condiments, dead plants?

What are you best at cooking?
Weird one of a kind dishes that can never be duplicated in the same universe. I’m a product of too many clashing cultures. Sometimes the dumplings turn out to be stuffed with cranberries and tuna, other times it’s spaghetti with anchovies and passion fruit!! I’m working on a series of dishes right now dedicated to famous battles. I’ve got Pearl Harbour and Vietnam nailed… Now it’s onto the Battle of Hastings and Operation Dessert Storm.

Would you ever go out dressed like the opposite sex?
Yes. And I would also go out dressed as the opposite species, one writhing sea anemone coming up.

What’s one car you will never buy?
A Porsche, because girlfriend got no spare cash, no bling bling.

What kind of books do you like to read?
Almost everything… Actually, no I lie. Usually when I go to a bookshop, I spend hours and hours reading the first 2-3 pages of many different books. I don’t know how many I put down, and I’m not sure why I keep the ones that I do, but I know that my taste is great! I oscillate between writers who are unbelievably baroque in their style to minimal stylists. I read mainly fiction and poetry (favouring Coetzee Kafka Dylan Thomas and Rachel Carson), aesthetic philosophy, crazy new philosophers like Agamben, artist biographies, biographies on mathematicians, great mythical romantic sports stories like Donald Crowhurst and Ourasi, pulpy non-fiction such as the making of the Trans-Canada Highway, and cookbooks. I love books… I’ll read anything… but I choose. Oh, and I think the Painfeeler will write the best book ever, if he ever gets past the first 50 pages. I’m itching to get my hands on that one…itching y’hear! Scratch!

If you won the lottery what would you do?
Hire a hitman to shoot holes through my door to form the image of Humphrey Bogart.

Do you cry in front of your friends?
I don’t have any control over that.

What’s one thing you like to do alone?
Not telling… oh, maybe when I do the ole’ bear in a cave trick, I don’t wash, or eat, or do anything for a good 48 hours, except sit in bed, watching movies, reading books, writing, smelling, sleeping, dreaming about mating with fabulous interstellar planetary warlords.

Are you a giver or a taker?
Both. But everyone else seems to think I take, but they don’t realize how much I give them, in thoughts and ideas.

When’s the last time you cried?
Last night watching OUI CHEF! My god, Cyril Lignac made me blubber like a blubberkins.

How many drinks before you’re tipsy?
Wine: 4
Beer: 4
Spirits: 3

Skookum Pukka Stotting Bosh

I'm currently reading the Salmon of Doubt by Douglas Adams, a collection of little essays and thoughts, sprinkled throughout his career. It's my first dip into his Universe, and it's quite a nice little surprise...he's quite the wordsmith, wordbender, syllable thunker, automat the feeling kind of writer. He wrote a short book, called the Meaning of Liff, where a selection of new word inventions are used to describe rather unusual and selective human experiences..."shoeburyness" for when you sit in a seat still warm from someone else's bottom.

In the book, he tells the story of two dogs, a poodle and a mutt, who accompany him on walks, only to ignore his presence. It is in that story that he presents this word "stotting."

"Stotting" is jumping upwards on four legs simultaneously. My advice: do not die until you have seen a large poodle "stotting" in the snow.

Stumbling upon that, around 6pm, along with today's word of the day, pukka (first rate), skookum (impressive) and bosh (nonsense), within a span of 12 minutes, produced a tsunami of joy and relief in my weak and hollow bosom. A warm penguin's egg sitting on top of clawed feet and underneath the roll of fat on its mummy's tummy... a drunken friar's bottom. The english language, is indeed a pukka skookum thing, coruscating darkly in the crepuscule of our civilization.

Some guy's doing naked yoga in my backyard!

I feel a bit green today, after excessive cheap fake champagne night, so I don't really have the heart to talk about today. Instead, I'll offer you a little gem, from my glory days in Toronto, when I dated a boy named after Dr. Zhivago, we lived in a California beach house with a cat named Eddie van Halen, and some guy did nude yoga in our backyard.


So, like many average 20-something couples, Yuri and I liked to go on roadtrips every now and again. All the usual people were commandeered for cat-sitting Eddie: Luba, Nancy, Shelton... but there was one time when none of those three were available.

It was late summer, august something of another in the late 90s. We were leaving for the weekend to go to the cottage. The problem was that everyone was leaving that weekend, and I couldn't just leave Eddie at home with a bathtub full of water and a giant bowl of food. He'd cry and barf and turn our home into a swimming pool of cat bile. So, after much hoo and haaing, Yuri suggested one of his friends, the notorious P.

I was against it from the start. The notorious P has an impressive record of socially fracturing behaviour. I think the first time we hung out, he had a rather patchouli earth mumma girlfriend, and they both decided to camp out in our living room for a couple of days, while having tantric sex. Then, on another bizarre turn, he sold all his possessions except his musical equipment, and started living in a UPS truck. That was actually rather beautiful romantic idea, except when you realized that he slept with no windows or circulation, winter, spring, summer and fall, and that he always had to stop at a friend's to take showers.

Then the notorious P got a job selling unleaven bread and sesame crackers to restaurants. He ate all the samples and quit. He also went to a music festival in Montreal, where he subsequently hooked up all the power in his truck to his musical equipment and hijacked the concert, after which the cops came and arrested him, and his truck almost blew up. There was also the really terrible raw grain wheat grass granola raspberry drinks that were supposed to be good for my colon.

He was Yuri's friend... though he was actually just a really fun homeless guy who smelled a bit.

So, since the notorious P didn't have a real home, and he really needed to shower, Yuri thought it would be a good idea for him to cat-sit. So we phoned him, at the health bar where he usually hangs out, and 30 minutes later he was over, checking out our cat, in a very exciting fuzzy dice veterinarian way. Eddie was happy. So was I. We left a note for our landlady about him catsitting, he slept over that night, and then we left in the morning.

The weekend was wonderful, as are all weekends at the cottage. When we got back, the house looked normal, the key was in the mailbox along with a couple of letters, everything looked the same. Started to open the mail, bills bills bills, then what's this? A letter, with our address handwritten but no name. I open it... it reads kind of like this (because I didn't memorize it):

You are a f&*^ng pervert homosexual! I saw you in your backyard! I know where you live! Pervert! Pervert! Pervert! If you ever do that again, I'll call the cops, and burn your house to the ground!

WHAT???!!! What on earth was the notorious P doing? We called the healthbar but they said he wasn't there. I talked to one of our neighbours who looked mystified and said he hadn't seen or heard anything? I was starting to get paranoid about having the house burnt down by raging arsonist neighbour, in the middle night, small consolation that he would at least call the cops, probably just in time to find our charred corpses. Jeez!

Finally, later on in the night, I bump into my landlady, who lived in the top two floors of the house. She gives me a rather funny look and starts laughing. "Your friend was doing nude yoga for 3 hours in our backyard! He's a very nice guy, but he certainly can get excited."

That's the explanation... P going buck naked, getting giant erections for 3 hours... it's true, he is into tantric sex and I'm sure he practises focusing his tantras, or chakras and groinal burning fire, whatever. So the neighbour sees him, freaks out and writes the mad letter. It's a bit much from the neighbour I have to say.

A couple of weeks later we meet the Notorious P on the street and buckle him down for an answer. Turns out, yes, he was doing nude yoga in the backyard, lovely day, with lots of sun and warmth, when suddenly he hears yelling from the alleyway leading out front. There's this bearded guy, standing there, yelling at him to get his clothes on. So the Notorious P, being the amazing guy that he is, walks towards the man to confront him. The bearded guy starts to freak out, telling him to back off, that he knows kungfu or something. But Notorious P keeps walking towards him, asking him what the big deal is, in his cult voice no doubt. That's freaky. Eventually bearded guy picks up a cardboard box and throws it at P's head, at which point P runs him down the street.

If we can just add a fully erect bobbing penis to this picture, I think we can understand why there is a letter in our house, written by some repressed homosexual neighbour, threatening arson. The guy really got his balls clobbered by the Notorious P, a peace-loving, wheat-grass eating nude yoga man.

The strange last voyage of Donald Crowhurst

Thursday, February 03, 2005

Now that the Vendée Globe is over, it's time to revisit some strange stories and facts, regarding round-the-world boat races.

The very first race was held in 1968, the Golden Globe yacht race, where most of the boats didn't top 9 metres in length. During that race, many strange things took place. First, there was Bernard Moltessier, who, just kilometres from winning the race, suddenly stopped, turned back, and sailed 60,000km to Tahiti. Then there was Nigel Tetley, second in the lead behind Robin Knox-Johnston. Upon hearing that Donald Crowhurst was only 3 days behind him, Tetley pushed his boat hard, and capsized. He was picked up by the navy, and, later, was awarded the 1000 pounds in runner-up prize money. However, a year later, crushed by the race, he committed suicide.

Then, there's Donald Crowhurst himself. An ambitious electrical engineer, Crowhurst had built himself a reputation and boat, the Teignmouth Electron, specially for the race. Unfortunately, halfway down the Atlantic, he realized his boat was not mechanically stable enough to finish the race, let alone survive the stormy seas pass the Cape of Good Hope. He cut off radio contact, presumably just after rounding the cape. Radio silence was held for 111 days, after which, Crowhurst reopened contact, to report he had rounded Cape Horn and was running up the Atlantic.

However, in truth, Crowhurst had merely been circling round and round the Atlantic, recording false logs each day, to chart position and movement as if he were actually running the race. He knew his boat was inadequate so he had decided to forge the books, keeping two logs: his fictional log, and a real log.

After learning about Tetley's near demise and capsize, Crowhurst was stricken with remorse. He cut off radio contact again. He slowly started to go insane, writing out a 25,000 word confessional, half of which is gibberish, raving in self-reproach, depression and guilt. His boat was found 3 months later, in a state of great squalor, save the two log books, sitting neatly and cleanly on the table, testimony to his fraud and failure. Somewhere in the Atlantic, Crowhurst picked up his ship's clock, and jumped into the Ocean.

Information gleaned from The Strange Last Voyage of Donald Crowhurst, by Nicholas Tomalin and Tom Hall.

Around the World in 87 Days - Chapter 22 - author passes out on champagne and gets subsequently violated by...

the newspaper article of:


He broke the previous around-the-world record by 6 days!



So last night I hosted a little get together to celebrate the end of this wonderful race. Needless to say, french artists are not necessarily sports lovers. So, an odd collection of anti-sailing fans, who just came for the fake champagne.

A recap of the night...
At 10:30pm, still nobody but Dacnar and myself, parked in front of the tele, drinking Norman Cider.

11pm, arrival of Manue and Vincent, who don't really care about the race, but think it's really cute to have a party, for whatever which way reason. I can appreciate, and support this reason. Especially since they humour my intense sports analysis of the race.

11:30pm, phone calls by Chapoulie and Herbie, warning lack of presence due to overwhelming fatigue. But, promises for dinner and drinks forthcoming, so reasonably appeased.

11:45pm, Riou 1 mile from the finish line, supported by a fleet of small boats. Finally France 3, one of the National TV Stations, gets its act together and starts broadcasting.

11:47pm, Riou crosses finish line. Live broadcast terminates. So much for french television. It sucks, but what else is new.

11:48pm, first bottle of fizzy wine uncorked. Everybody's spirits picks up except mine. Beginning of post-race depression.

11:52pm, Jules comes over, fresh from hanging out with the Voinster on their Icelandic project. She then proceeds to regale us with stories of heinous art tyrants and giant rolls of scotch tape. Bubbly beginning to work

12:21am, Leo and the Lacombite come over. Very happy to see the new lovers though Leo inadvertantly outs herself by saying she doesn't give a shit about the race. So what is this? Wine appreciation night?

The Lacombite immediately begins to speak french, much to my amazement, perfectly... though with an atrocious southern accent. But he's understandable, and even starts rattling on about unlistenable Quebecois rap group Wynock. ewwwwwww

A rift opens between the contemporary artist crew, and the Lacombite/Leo crew. Some people like to talk about Scotch tape, other people like to talk about Quebecois rap bands and Justin Timberlake. go figure. I take no part in this rift... because I like to wax poetic about Justin's crying-a-broken-river-breast-exposing-groin-snaps, while simultaneously sympathising with one of the most abused sectors in the working industry: contemporary art assistants. Ahhh...the histrionics and ego-centrism of professional contemporary artists, that is a ripe and luscious topic.

..... time starts to get hazy, more bottles get uncorked, the room really gets cloudy with all the cigarette smoke.

Sometime after 1:45, Outlaw comes online, so he chats with the Lacombite. They are old and good friends. I start rattling on about other things... Everybody started to look kind of rattly, like is there a train passing under my feet? I think my brain was turning to guacamole. I think my brain is turning to guacamole... oh gosh, shut up! SHUT UP!!! And then people left, late in the night. My eyes were already rolling in my head when Outlaw got kicked off the internet by his evil parentals.

I don't even remember what I said...or how I rolled into bed. I think fake champagne is like lighter fluid, with bubbles injected.

how popular is Marat Safin's "Girlfriend" Pics?

Wednesday, February 02, 2005

Crazy! Ever since I posted on the link to pics on Marat Safin's girlfriend (or supposed girlfriend... who knows, she might an unknown pulling a pretty sweet publicity ploy to jump on the ole Safinator himself), my page went from around 50 hits a day... to a proposed high of 1987 hits!!! What??!! When it was just Safin hanging around my page, didn't get on the Google top 20 pages... now I'm page one under "Marat Safin's Girlfriend Pics" search. So, for y'all who got deported here by google, the post is about 5 posts under... and the link is "this." Have fun, but I'm not corroborating anything!

If I had know it was this easy, I would have written all sorts of obscene things with celebrity names in random turette's way, just to get more hits. Weird, this google stuff. Almost tempted to make a porn site! But it would be nature porn, floating tortoises and fornicating parameciums.

Top Site, January 2005 - The Ring and The Fat Man

Tuesday, February 01, 2005

Well, this is definitely my top site for the month of January. It's hard really to describe how fascinating this site is, beyond the fact that it uses GIF animation in a way I haven't seen since 1995. Basically, it's a very obese man who, in his fight to lose weight, underwent severe gastro-intestinal surgery, followed up by two cosmetic surgery procedures. You remember Carnie Wilson...she had her stomach stapled to stop her from eating so much. Well, he did the same thing, except with a ring.

The photos are incredible, the style of writing very amusing, in forgive-me-for-my-evil-mummy-head-in-a-jar sort of way, and, the pièce de résistance is when the website stops. The horror is implicit. The website is in french.

cul cul la praline, ca ca chocolat

R.I.P. Professor Choron!

"Your pants will last you your whole life... plus: no need to take off your pants when you take a shit"