molten gold in my youthful sunset

Wednesday, March 30, 2005


Still Golden Tunes, after all these years...

Woke up and listened to Pavement for the first time in ages. Cut Your Hair, from Crooked Rain Crooked Rain... damn... still so good. I found myself bopping along, and humming happy on the Metro...screaming inanities about a career! a career! did you see your drummer's hair...

Darlin’ don’t you go and cut your hair
Do you think it’s gonna make him change?
I’m just a boy with a new haircut
And that’s a pretty nice haircut
Charge it like a puzzle, hit me wearin’ muzzles
Hesitate to die, look around, around, the second drummer’s drowned
His telephone is found

Music scene is crazy, bands start up each and every day
I saw another one just the other day
A special new band
I remember lying
I don’t remember lies
I don’t remember what
But I don’t care, I care, I really don’t care
Did you see the drummer’s hair?

Advertising looks and chops a must
No big hair!!
Songs mean a lot
When songs are bought
And so are you-
Bitch, rant down to the practice room
Attention and fame so
Career, career, career....

Had lunch with Queenie, Julie and Joseph, the sexy european mf. It looks like he died his floppy ringlets in something darker... like oak or something. Anyways, with his half open sweater and shabby pirate shirt underneath, he did look pretty scrumptious. Unfortunately finally noticed a very keen ambitious artist edge within... It's strange... I'm not at all attracted to people who are interested in a career... but I'm dreadfully attracted to people who are interested in excellence. So far, this hasn't landed me any millionaires, but I'm looking for posterity... dare-to-be-great situation... My mother just says that this will make me posthumously famous... aka, unhappy while living. What a zipper she is.

less drama


more love



Some of my old work from 2002, which I found lurking on a dusty cd. I have been trying to put together a comprehensive catalogue of my work, and find it disheartening. Obviously, I'm not becoming a better artist.

Happy Easter!

Tuesday, March 29, 2005

karol wojtyla
Karol Wojtyla

He deserves better than those horrible images they've been showing all day. Once upon a time, he was a man, a vigorous active man, who liked to go for boat rides, long walks, play football (he was the goalkeeper), and read theology in his spare time. This is the Pope I choose to remember.

The Procrastinator and the Haruptian Decoder

Monday, March 28, 2005

Did I tell you that I was a fucking black belt master at procrastination? Did I? Well, I don't think I did... and anyways, my god, I'm gonna be up all night as it is, so I might as well spill the beans.

How many times a day do you check your statistics?

Hmmm, maybe 5 times? Maybe more, maybe less. Depends on the day, depends on whether I'm at home for work... depends...
Actually, that's bullshit. I probably check my stats around 10 times a day, regardless of whether I've actually posted anything, or if there's a giant red-eyed bull eyeing me from the corner of the room... still checking... I know some of my faithful readers's IP addresses by heart. Sick? You bet!

Why do you check your statistics all the time?

Hmmm, because I have nothing better to do but see if anybody registers my existence on a larger plane... Craving for false celebrity, random pieces of free love, making connections from nothing and nowhere, or finding out that the guy who really likes to ping pumpkins for fireman sex digs the fact that you have a gay boyfriend. I like friends...

Do you really have that much time in the day?

I know a lot of my family and friends assume that I have a lots of spare time on my hands and that I'm a slack. Actually, it's part true, part false. I work my ass off, thinking, reading, writing proposals, drafts, sketches, researching, teaching, general brainwork, when I'm not out cruising for vintage porn, vintage 70s handbags and rabid rebus people.

Seriously, I don't. I have way too much stuff to do. I freelance, therefore I manage my own finances and schedule, which is harder than you think. I multi-task, between laundry, internet and buying stationery. I make art, which I sometimes force myself to schedule into the day, because nothing comes more painfully than slow dripping blood... actually, my work tends to be conceptual, which works in my favour because I don't really have to make much... just think... However, there's always some making at some point, writing/documentation/potatoes, and that's when I suffer. It's hard for me to acknowledge my body is real, except when I'm on drugs, in the sun, dancing, or fucking.

I work roughly 28 hours a week on real work, and roughly 15 hours a week on art, which, add it together, means I work more hours than the average person. But that's the life of every artist I know, except french ones.

Why do you do when you say you're working on your art?

This is the biggest question of all. Well, most of the time, when I say that, I mean my brain is drifting on some internet sea of dreams, where random futures and presents crash in one eternal thunderous clay turtle crash... I dunno... I write, I write, I write... I think, I eat, I do laundry, and then I write... Occasionally, I draw, and sketch, and take photographs, to get some sort of framework into the thing... but mostly, it's words and words and words... eventually transformed into objects with images/sound... occasionally just a piece of toilet paper or potato skin can suffice...

lighthouses... I started a story the other day about a lighthouse. This nephew of Donald Crowhurst, he lives in a lighthouse, and from his lighthouse he watches all the various vibrations and movements of the sea. One day, he notices to his strange delight, that in the evenings, the play of the lighthouse beam on the water creates strange patterns, patterns he could almost think of as letters. These letters he begins to take down. Each day there are a series of letters, never more than 20, never less than 10. He writes them down and, in the day, he compares them to the notes of his uncle, who also saw these strange word manifestations in the sea.

At first the letters make no sense. They are a jumble of consonants and vowels but laid out almost in a pattern, as if in another language, if he could just read it. Then, one day, the little girl from the village who comes to give him his daily bread takes a peak in his book and solves the riddle. "Oh, but it's Haruptian! My old family is Haruptian!" This being the most ancient and blessed of the lost tribes of Chile, and the child having learned the language from her grandmother, long since lost in the ancient bloodletting that the British troops inflicted on their island, covered up by the death of the two officers who swore to tell.

And so the Haruptian princess begins to tell the story she sees from the letters, the letters that appear in the sea... and lo and behold, it is a tale about a ship that cannot be sunk, whereupon live a family of rats, guinea pigs, mice and beetles. The whales know this ship well... it is the ever-constant floating universe of detritus and filth. The story is narrated by a captain who has so withered away that he is represented only with a yellow cloak. And so the Haruptian continues...

meanwhile, the nephew of Donald Crowhurst is flabbergasted and dismayed to find that the secrets to his nightly recording reveal themselves in nothing more than animal porn and incest. He throws himself into the sea in a fit of grief, only to be swelled upwards by a school of whales... the joking school of whales, who, after suffering years of grief from the Japanese sailors, have developed a very refined sense of humour... and now write Haruptian jokes for their friends, the night gulls.

ok, I really must get back to work now...

food porn ... aka I got my lazy ass to the market this morning

Friday, March 25, 2005

It's a foursome...






baby radishes





emo hairstyles, maeve quinlan's shaved pussy, nature porn, mummies dirty panties, quizzes and dingbats, elongated penis...

and the ever popular Marat Safin's girlfriend. In the last two hours 23 people have navigated to my blog using either google/yahoo/aol search engines using those queries.

Which leads me to a very interesting conclusion: for a sweet Catholic married girl living in Paris with her husband, I seem to be having a rather outré lifestyle... that and obviously this blog is becoming some sort of cultural sewer. Long live the gutter!

I know I swore I wouldn't but it's springtime!

Wednesday, March 23, 2005

Ha! My finnish ex-roommate is going to hate this post. That's right! It's a FOOD post!

You might hate me for this but I've never been one of those girls that watches what she eats. I eat everything, for pleasure, for fun, for hunger. I've had double dinners, and non-stop snacking days.

But, because of inordinate amount of time spent in front of the computer not moving, I actually gained weight this winter... 2 kilos... strange, I haven't gained weight in 10 years! Must be the lack of exercise and all those industrial cookies Dacnar has been buying. Where are these two kilos though? Why they're sitting on my belly! Egads! I'm off wine/beer/whole fat milk/pastries for the whole week, and I'm cutting down on the starches. Water and ginseng tea!

Yesterday, for example, I ate a lovely lunch of steamed broccoli, tomatoes, cukes, smoked mackerel, served with a light 6% M.F. La Faiselle cheese-green peppercorn dipping sauce. Very summer. And for dinner, I scarfed down steamed chard, more broccoli and a giant piece of steak. Ok, in between I did have three slices of bread with tons of cheese... but how can you say no to cheese? I figure that I can survive a reduced amount of cheese as long as I cut off the carbs. And, later, when I got hungry, I ate an orange, some dried figs, and tons of orange juice.... plus 3 tablespoons of nutella.

Yes, I'm not exactly cutting the fat out. Damn... I've never tried to diet before so this is weird. Tomorrow I'm going for a bike ride and then using my bean jars as weights while I tummy crunch.

Tonight, though, on my way home from work, I picked up a glistening piece of perch, two mini soft cheese (rocambour and a pichon???), two artichokes, more broccoli, a basil plant, some tomatoes, and a gorgeous hunk of spiced orange bread. Dinner was buckwheat crepes, stuffed with perch, artichoke and capers, sided with a fresh tomato and basil soup. Lovely... I nibbled on the cheeses, but to be honest, the crepes were so yummy on their own I didn't feel like mixing cheese in afterwards.

Tomorrow, for lunch, I'm having steamed perch with tapenade, sided with sweet potatoes and some green salad. Then for dinner I'll make a cheddar cheese souffle, sided with broccoli and watermelon, with green peppercorn dressing.

Friday, we're going out in the evening, so I'll probably just eat lightly, maybe some leftover rice with a tomatoes/cukes and avocado. But for lunch, I'm making a cold rice bowl with arugula, natto, ume-shiso, wakame seaweed.

I'll be at the market on Friday morning to get my goodies... it's springtime now, so one must be extra-diligent and get produce right from the farms! Maybe I'll spoil myself for a yellow free-range chicken for Sunday!

second day, and my skin already feels/looks better!

Syksy Räsänen

I’ve just spent the better part of my lunch hour reading an excellent blog. Truly, one of the better written and more well-thought out political rantings I’ve come across. The perspicacity and detail in the analysis is really shockingly good. But, of course it should be. The man is relentless in his attention to detail and he’s a committed warrior to his good cause. Normally I shy away from political activists, because they tend to be misguided and extremist, or spout off facile, idealistic, shallow or twisted political analysis. But not the case here. He's grounded in research, individual cases, and concrete action. And while he may have his PhD and teach in Oxford, it’s not for Political Theory, but in Physics. Young Finnish Scissorhands is certainly a force to be reckoned with.

I really hope he moves to Paris in September. It will be refreshing to have someone like that in France.

tastes like burning

Monday, March 21, 2005


I almost forgot to mention, in that unreadable list of read books, that I read William Golding's The Inheritors, a second-hand dollar buy. I always wondered why one never hears about Golding aside from Lord of the Flies. Well, Golding, at least to my opinion this day, was not a great writer. The Inheritors, a story told by a Neanderthal on the eve of their extinction, is contrived and weak, though the "trick" has its moments, such as the touching of the Ice Lady deep in the cave. But it is specifically that there are not enough of these gracious moments that the book fails. You can't have a whole book that relies on a trick, or that's too clear in purpose.

When I read a book, I don't want to be tricked but I don't want to be led by the hand. If the thought and imagination isn't there, it can't be covered by technique. If the technique isn't there, it can't be covered by wild imagination, though, for me, it will be a more pleasurable read.


Cro-Magnons were logical, efficient and agressive. We can't be sure of their poetic soul, but we can be sure of their superior technique. Neanderthals lost out. Really, that's the sum of it. They had broad flat brows, rather sad and anxious looks in the re-enactments. I'm rather fond of these Neanderthal re-enactments. Their sudden look of rage and disappointment when the fire goes out, or the oblivious flattened expressions when they are occupied in day to day life. There seems to be the soul of the Neanderthal deep inside. Lo, there he glances up with his bruised and empty look, hinting at what could be desired if he could just figure out where he put his stick.

Neanderthals, creeping gently through a cave, trepidation ice thin through their veins, a naturally modest lot. Searching for a pointed object in the dark, or sitting face forwards in a moist sunny fall. The spirit of the Neanderthal is the darkness of the soul in emptiness, a blind desire, eyeless as the worm, that answers itself each time in failure. The eternal failure, the big loser, Neanderthal. Known for being inefficient, lesser, the giant oaf of blankness.

Last night Dacnar asked me if I felt close to the Neanderthal, if I have the Neanderthals spirit within me. At first, no. I said that I've always felt closer to some sort of feline than hominids, which don't impress me with relation. He laughed, and said he felt close, he has always felt close, to the Neanderthal. But when I consider how much I detest our group nature, our hunger to succeed, our lack of grace in failure, I fall back into my dark way of thinking: our species is really a barrel of rats. The road not taken, the Neanderthal road, would we have been any better? Probably not. Doom is a universal inheritance.

Last Night... somebody turned 30 and nobody cried

Sunday, March 20, 2005



I wrote yesterday's pining book post in a state of frenzy and anxiety. It was a hurried, pull out of your back pocket write, because I spent most of the day stressing and sweating while making Scoub's 30th birthday present. You know, it's not everyday your best friend turns 30, so I actually got all manual and made something. I had previewed another kind of project at first but styrofoam is a very ugly and difficult product to work with. So, went rushing around town to pick up various polyester bits for signage, and then found the right kind of mirror... and then finished the bugger. All of which made me late for the party.

Les filles had been there at the apartment since late afternoon, tippling, munching on snacks, and getting the place ready for Scoub's excellent 30th birthday party. She knew there was going to be a party. She just didn't know what size it would be. Well, it was a good size... just enough to pack the apartment, to dance, to squish in the kitchen, to slide overtop of earnest conversations, to sabotage people in the bathroom because the door does not close properly.

Everything is like one big blur, but I do remember Mathieu getting a little too frisky with me at the end, and some new conquests: having nice chats with a blond american boy who grew up in Paris who looked a bit like the Mudhoney* guy, a funny skinny moustache guy with stringy artboy hair... I think you only find this type in France, a charming south american-ish (Benetton) looking boy who I met at another party who stole me some smoke, and then... jumping up and down with Elodie, les filles, not getting any cake, sticking the 24 candles in an apple pie, the stereo being a bitch, and endless rounds of champagne that ended with a really sweet knockout jab of apple liquer at the end.

I'd like to give you more details, spin you some stories about the boys and girls I danced giggled, flopped and screamed with, but I'm feeling relaxed, and thinking about taking a walk in our 25 degree Celsius early Paris summer (plus, to be honest, I can't remember too much right now)...

So only one story: I was packed in the kitchen with 5 boys, trying to tell jokes and open another bottle of champagne. The music was muffled in there. However, being graced with a very excellent ear, I immediately picked up the opening strains of The Pointer Sisters's I'm so excited.. whereupon I suddenly stopped stock still, and screamed... "I'M SO EXCITED! AND I JUST CAN'T HIDE IT!" and then I shrieked instead of singing the follow up, and threw both arms into the air (dacnar had to remind me of this part). In France, where this song is not popular, or well known, the boys just thought I had lost my mushroom cap, or that it was some kind of North American way to add a punchline to any joke, so they laughed. Dacnar, who was one of the five, said it was the best part of his night... "spontaneous and very amazing"... but, what's funny was that it was true... I was that excited! The party was that good!

*I just had to google "Mudhoney" to make sure the guy did actually look like him, and, if you Google image that, you have to check out the photo on the third row to the right. That's an amazing photo!

The Sporadically Voracious Reader

Saturday, March 19, 2005

I am a sporadic reader, a sporadically voracious reader. I can go two or three months without touching anything besides magazines, newspapers, and the first 15 pages of any book, to gobbling up series of books within two days. Sometimes, when my attention span is weak, I go through short stories, never failing to delight in how complex and tight miniature tales can be. Since Paris, August 2004…

Les Echecs: c’est facile! Objectif MAT R. Bertolo et L. Risacher
Men in the Off Hours Anne Carson
House of Incest Anais Nin
Hello My Big Big Honey: Love Letters to Bangkok Bar Girls
Dave Walker and Richer Ehrlich
Elizabeth Costello J. M. Coetzee
Salmon of Doubt Douglas Adams
Adventures in the Skin Trade Dylan Thomas
The Master of Saint Petersburg J. M. Coetzee
The Model Millionaire and other Stories Oscar Wilde
“The Fly” Katherine Mansfield
Bonjour Tristesse Francoise Sagan
The Basic Kafka (collection of works): Metamorphosis, A Report to an Academy, The Truth about Sancho Panza… Franz Kafka
Tour de France: The history, the legend, the riders Graeme Fife
America and Americans John Steinbeck
How to be Good Nick Hornby (hated this book)
The letters of Abelard and Heloise Abelard and Heloise
The Plot Against America Philip Roth
The Wind in the Willows Kenneth Grahame
100 years of Solitude Gabriel Garcia Marquez
The Green Mile/Langoliers/Insomnia Stephen King
Selected short stories Richard Brautigan
Oblamov Ivan Goncharov (never finished)
Disgrace J.M. Coetzee
Haroun and the Sea of Stories Salman Rushdie
Ballad of the Sad Cafe... and short stories Carson McCullers
Fanny Hill John Mclelland

I might have missed something out between the last little moments and so, forgotten paltry paperworks I gnawed through rapidly from the library. I’m sure, actually, there’s something by J.G. Ballard that I’m forgetting,a couple of potboilers somewhere, a Tibor Fischer maybe, my encyclopedia of underwater sea creatures, a do-it-your selfer on fixing windows, some books I took out from the library, read the first 15 pages, and left underneath my bed to gather dust gremlins.

I choose my books… I’m bored easily so they really have to bite me hard in the bottom. But, out of the list above, for example, I didn’t fully get through The Wind in the Willows despite liking the stories quite a bit. I raced through fanny hill, solitude, tristesse, haroun and disgrace, and plundered and dundered all over Dylan Thomas and the Master of Saint Petersburg. That doesn’t mean I don’t like them… in fact, the problem with Dylan Thomas is that one story is often enough to satisfy for awhile. But really, when it comes down to it, I have mundane banal taste, nothing particular. A little bit more literary than the potboiler crew, but not far... I mean, you know practically every name on that list. I'm not adventurous in the end. I'm classic.

So why this list? Well, I’m running out of ideas, my local public library is running out of english books, and I want something good to read… I want fantastic stories, mad tales… horseheaded lion tamers and torrid brain eats… so give me a list… give me books and things. And while you’re at it, to get a better idea, you could check out my Amazon Wishlist… and buy me a present!

Happy St. Patrick's Day!

Friday, March 18, 2005

After the fact, but who has time to blog on the official day of Irish inebriation... it's just mad drinking as far as I'm concerned, and last time I checked, drinking and computers do not go together. I have only one bonafide Irish friend, and he has some good irish jokes for you, in case you need a short dose of Cork humour.

But, that's all the Irish I can summon up for my day... sad, but St. Paddy's Day ain't a big thing here in frogland.

What did I do? Well, I woke up a little less chipper than usual, and had a rather nasty email from the mother, which stung and bit like a forty foot millipede. After brief weeps, made like the hills for the last of my easter chocolate. After chocolate came to good realisation that maybe internet umbilical cord needs to be sliced and diced, into fishhead scramble.

So went to the other end of the apartment, to talk to myself, and the bright blue sky. Then people phoned, translation job, had to go back and check email for work, and so looked at other emails, all of which were much more encouraging and productive. Email, what a terrible and horrifying thing it can be. I think I'm turning into a type of vegetable, grey and silvery, with eight fingers and one hump for the spacebar. Somebody suggested "how often it seems we fall in love with a picture of someone we have in our heads and not with the actual person... so nardac thinks: we may as well just dispense with the person." At which I went swishing out of the apartment, with a sexy german shepherd t-shirt, white pants, audrey heels and preppy greenish blue sweater draped over the shoulders. Enough is enough. Time to feel my flesh and blood.

So there we were, at the Russian Waterlogged Palace, with darling Voin. Running mad in what can only be described as a thirty-something's idea of artistic paradise. But, in between the shenanigans, met the Russian Overlord, who was actually very sexy and scruffy, not Mafioso. Small chat. Tomorrow, will know for sure if I can have the space. Then met another guy, who was making a darkroom, sawing wood, dust flying all over in the afternoon sun... gorgeous and wide eyed. We spoke for seconds, after which he invited me to his living space on the fourth floor. Delicious... but that's dessert.

Voin was desperately trying to find a door for his space. We sawed at wood, drilled holes, chipped fingers, twisted two screwdrivers out of shape, and hammered the hell out of hinge, all for nothing. There still isn't a door and there's nothing to be done. I had to laugh though, for more than the half of this whole episode, we ressembled none other than Paris Hilton and that whole Simple Life nonsense. Two stupid fashion victims (I was in heels and white pants) trying to do the afternoon Home Hardware Special.

Then went to art opening at the gallery of BLES. Don't ask. I didn't want to go. But, hell, Voin thought it was a good idea because then we could steal as many bottles of free Ricard as we wanted. Which was what transpassed, except I had to stomach several grotesque moments watching monsters smile falsely and stiffly in my direction. I don't know who these people actually like because it seems there is no reality in their connections. Art openings. What a racket.

I asked this guy why the drinks weren't green. He said St. Patrick's Day was like Halloween, a commercial holiday. Then I laughed prettily into his open face and said, no silly, you just squirt green food colouring into whatever drink you happen to be quaffing and then drink more than expected. I can't see that as commercial so much as purely moronic and drunk. He raised an eyebrow. Then I laughed prettily at him again and said, well, where I come from Halloween is really fun because we saw rabbit's heads off and burn the pants of hairy nuns. Devil worship day!

No, but seriously, this whole anti-Halloween nonsense, so holier-than-thou, comes from some massive misconception of what Halloween really is. Where I come from we make our own costumes. Then, after dressing up like a doorknob, triangle or whatever household device you chose, you leave the house. If you're 14 and under, it's candy on the menu. If you're over, it's booze. Either way, only the candy or beer companies are making money. But in France, they buy all those plastic doodads, and costumes of witches, ghouls or aliens, and then make fun of North Americans for their dumb holidays. Go figure.

After which, headed to Leo's place for the party. The Lacombite, her BF, was there, along with my husband. There was a new girl, Maggie, a Ukrainian San Franciscan who rules my books as sexy mamma of the month. Even the Lacombite attempted some lame shark bite about his Ukrainian ex-girlfriend. Good boy. It's always useful to try.

Finally, instead of breaking loose to the disco for some hype minimal electronica, took the train home with my husband, and we frenched on the number 2 line.

The End.

last night in the waterlogged russian palace

Thursday, March 17, 2005

the scoubs

the queenie

the princess of nothing
princess nothing

voin and me

What happens when you get a rock dropped on your head?

Why you just get right back up and walk around with your brain exposed.

No seriously, this post is a comment on my ego, which certainly took a serious knock a couple of hours ago. Nevertheless, Bulgarian Connection has reminded me that there are things in life which are more important and dire, such as convincing a half-lunatic Russian why you should take his gorgeous 50m2 loft off his hands.

So, prost... I'm on a 8 hour broccoli detox tomorrow, in preparation for St. Patrick's Day orgy. Wish me luck. Oh my god, must totally chill out because am sure this weekend will kill me again, what with the summer weather and all.

Btw, Gaelle, that girl and her scooter just gave me a taste of what that kind of life is. Scooters are the only logical way to move around Paris. Now if only the Russian guy had a scooter for free... wait... do I need to do something illegal on the internet for all this Russian love? Jaysus... stay tuned for more half-baked hijinks.

the floating brain tank.

How to control your dreams...

Tuesday, March 15, 2005

Somebody has just accused me of being the "carver of carousel beasts" with my dreams. A striking line... from a striking person. Tis true... I am building a mighty fantastic, if contained, bestiary from the dreams of late. But, probably a product from recent emotional earthquakes, coupled with hobby of the last 3 months...

... the half-asleep waking dream that takes 2.4 hours. It's a funny way to wake up. You hear something, you pop your eyes open, but you're still thinking in the dream, and so you convince yourself of a new storyline and keep going.

It's not new, you know, techniques for dream control. When I was a wee thing I was an avid reader of OMNI magazine, the science magazine put forth by Bob Guccione, the Penthouse editor. And I remember, in one issue, they had a complete 8 page linen paper pull out on how to control your dreams... complete with Xaviera like illustrations.

Aside: Penthouse in France is pronouced PONT-HUSE... if you run around saying... penthouse fucking rules naked chicks everywhere, people will be confused... but pull out Pont-Huse, and watch your mother-in-law blush her pants pink.

2nd Aside: OMNI, I really loved it. And apparently, I wasn't the only one. OMNI took on science fiction and fantasy, technology, cultural speculation and crack-pot weirdoes, all in one glossy arty little package. If you were to smash the Globe with Wired and Science Fiction Weekly, you'd have it. There were the Delphic Polls (will Russia ever be non-communist 83% said yes in 1984), to the UFO sighters, William Gibson's Burning Chrome in 1982, to people speculating about the internet, to what people see in Near Death Experiences (NDEs), all in the early and mid 80s.

So... technique, because it's always about technique.

Sleep... and make sure you have enough time between when the first alarm hits and when you actually have to be in action... count out maybe 2 to 2.5 hours. If you're a strange sleeper, like me, you won't even need the alarm... you'll just pop up a little ahead of your time. Then, just as you feel the pull outwards from the dream, focus on what you want to happen in the dream, and make it happen. Focus on one kind of action... usually that works. At that point, it's more an emotion than rational wish... so it works well to just give way to your desires... but the key is the almost awake almost asleep bit. Obviously, falling back to sleep is really easy, but what most people ignore is that it is precisely in this moment that you can dictate what is next in the dream.

A couple of days ago I had a really nice dream... I dreamt I was a bandleader... and I said to this kid in front of the drums to tap a little rhythm on his hi-hat...then switched to the tuba guy and told him to play a thumping c note with a g and b progression in between... and then I started to sing... and hot damn... I did me an amazing Dolly Parton 9-5 rendition. The power of desire, I always wanted to belt and boogie with a padded 80s power suit.

coming together...coming apart

Now my throat is going insane and I have some kind of grumbling grenouille burling away in there. Gosh, being sicky is icky.

On the other hand, in spite of it all, have managed to run over the high seas and go out, albeit not very far, only to Herbie's place. Herb's got this very nice apartment, which he shares with his girlfriend, just two steps away from the Lacombite. No, they don't know each other. When we got there, a monster raised himself from the couch and called himself Gasp. It's Scoub's boyfriend, here from Switzerland, where he now lives. The first thing he says to me is "I'm ripped!" Which should have been warning enough for all of us.

There was a shitload of alcohol sitting on the table, but, now in my reasonable and less self-destructive mode (this usually lasts for a couple of weeks, being sick and all), I only tippled moderately, sipping wine and at the end, tossing back some cognac.

The conversation, usually sweet and fluid between all parties concerned, Scoubs, me, the Herbs, and Dacnar (yup, he was there), was stilted, constantly being serrated to a halt by the Gasp, who, when he's this drunk, is a liability. Eventually, poker was proposed... and of course, it was a miserable failure. You can't play poker with unruly cheating drunks.

coming apart
Rip Torn and Sally Kirkland in Coming Apart

Watched Coming Apart again, then the DVD bonus... which was pretty lame. Apparently, though the director made a really good film about 36 years ago, he still hasn't had enough time to work out something modest to say about himself. Still, I love the movie... unqualifiably. Rip Torn and Sally Kirkland are amazing! It's a lot of Lee Strasberg method acting though... take it like it is... it was 1969.

Lobster Organotron spotted on Ping Island

Sunday, March 13, 2005


I watched La Vie Aquatique (The Aquatic Life with Steve Zissou) on Thursday night. It was a little underwhelming; the story was all over the place and many characters were completely wasted. Like Owen Wilson is so flat out normal...What is this? Behind Enemy Lines? From his Wildcat manoueveurs as Chad, dishy hot spaghetti western, in the Tenenbaums to Ned??... the Kentucky pilot who is little more than the foil for Bill Murray's almost characterless dad? Terrible. What a waste.

I've seen old-school Cousteau films that guard their salt better than this mess. And I'm always a fan of pirates, especially Filipino new-age pirates, but those pirates?... Not enough flavour, cardboard and chewy pirates. I mean, look, they could have just made a film that was all magical undersea wildlife and jaguar shark, with underwater sketches and stuff like that, all delicate and mystical slow motion, and it would have been lovely...they could have dressed Owen Wilson up in a camouflage flourescent dolphin suit and the film would have already been better... or hatch an octopus head gear for navigation...But, ahem, yes, I am a undersea wildlife aficionado.

Despite all this griping, which is really besides the point of this post, I have to give a shoutout to one of the elements of an Anderson film that never lets me down: the music. There's something about the little tinny lute and harpsichord like melodies that run through them, like the counterpoint to his delicate colour scheme. I'm such a fan of the Rushmore soundtrack: Margaret Yang theme, The Hardest Geometry Problem in the World, Pirahnas are very tricky... or Snowflake music from Bottle Rocket. But this film has a certain ditty that just pummels and fripples: the Ping Island Lightning Strike Rescue song. It's all 70s moogy melody, electro dirty beat base, with a great little tapping hi-hat.

This is not a surprise to those who know who the composer of Anderson's films is. Why... it's Mark Mothersbaugh. The little guy with the big glasses, legally blind, and front row centre in one of the greatest 80s bands ever, DEVO. DEVO, of the monkey head, of the pyramid hats, a college art project gone right. DEVO, of Penetration in the Centrefold, The Mongoloid, Jocko Homo, and Devo Corporate Anthem fame... and of course Whip It. The electro-artpunk masters, the kings of proclamatory pop song, DEVO... too good to be anything else.

Mothersbaugh, when Devo was going through the 90s and thus was uncool, started his own production company that scores films, tv shows and commercials. I believe it's something called Mutato... But, hot damn, this guy along with Francois de Roubaix stand as the two best film composers of all time. Funny, when you know that Francois de Roubaix was a mad scuba diving passionnata, and died while exploring coral. Maybe there's some secret coral/undersea fish thing that sings in a baroque 70s way... and we just have to catch it.... Lobster Organotron!

Part IV- the Wasteland...

Saturday, March 12, 2005

...where your humble knight finds herself swept on an evening quest, with faeries and hobglobins lurking in the fabulous Milanese woodwork, Bulgarian storm raiders flying strongly at side, and finally expulsed from the floating pirate ship by a bloated pig-curr

I'm finally sick. Like real sick. Not the wiggly toe, toasty in bed, day off sick.


Last night was a killer... I think I left the house at 4pm, to meet Voin at the Pompidou and stray around like heart-broken love-birds. Born 4 years, 7 days apart, but might as well have been the same day because the same emotional whirlpools seem to show up at the same time for both of us.

Eventually, we pop over by Yvonne Lambert, and my favourite gallery attendant, the scrumptious little muffin who had the knitted tie last time, is working. Voin and he have a work appointment, and the third musketeer in their project is an extremely yummy blond boy, apparently Nan Goldin's assistant, who is straight! A straight gorgeous hunky(but like off the Gap Ads gorgeous) art boy? Where does that happen. But, said assistant, after some minutes of talking, is obviously ambitious and not a master-fuckup, thus ruling him officially out of my books, unfortunately. (I know myself too well and trouble finds trouble, whereas successful winners find successful winners).

So, we get invited to the back, which is all hush and art-serious, the way the posh ones are, and sit on the lovely dutch designerish grey couches. They proceed to talk, while I fiddle with my bag and an invitation, occasionally tossing jokes and sly sassy questions to my muffin. The muffin, who for the record is quite gay and practically married to a very sweet and lovely puffin, answers in his typical weighted fashion, underneath of which I can feel the laughing and the thigh-slapping.

At the end, they ask me what I do...
-Well, I'm an artist, a contemporary artist. Isn't everyone these days?

Which is really, think about it, really the best exit line you can have with cute posh art-fancy boys.

Then I head over to the bloggers meeting, which, for obvious reasons, I am NOT going to spill the beans on except that there were soooo many women, and it was a thorough pleasure to meet Vivi, Petite, Auntie M, Chocolate & Zucchini, Antipo, and Coquette... I mention those names because those are the blogs I caught onto before, and could thus place more of a person behind the name. Oh, and also a new person, someone whose blog I didn't read before but who I was quite charmed by: Bienvenue à mon monde by Sarah Wooden.

Eventually parted, where made food pit stop at the Bulgarian Palace, watching the little Pepe looked all folded and cute on the couch. I didn't blog about Wednesday night, when I went out dancing and met this other Bulgarian, the Pepe, teenage friend of Voin's, who is now a fashion designer in Vienna. He's really cute, in a floppy blond hair skinny tall eastern european way, and wears his clothes so finely over his tallish wide-boned rack. Not hunky, more just impressive... like a young count in his salad days. The whole time, we were listening to Bulgarian pop songs from the 60s, and I was eating a hamburger. The new 60s for the 2000s...

Jump in the car and run off to party at PointFMR, which has a ridiculous lineup. Peaking through the windows, it's obvious the place isn't packed yet so why are we waiting at all. Pepe disdains waiting of all kind, and Voin, really eager to get in, tries his best Mafioso way to squeeze in... but none of us are really that keen, since there was another plan already in place before.

Then, we head off to the other plan... with the cavernous space, hanging island bedroom loft, old-school eighties rare vinyl, and our two hosts, a man and his fashion designer wife. Talking, drinking, smoking, and other stuff (which is not sex), ensue. Two hours later, we saunter out of there...

to got to some mad party hosted by a man dressed up as a 18th century lute-player, minus the wig, which is really the best part, who yells, he and all his other bushy haired friends, the moment we get through the door. Everyone is looking slinky... it's another fashion party... this is turning into fashion night. But, sick... 5 minutes after getting through the door, the guy starts yelling about how if we have 5 euros we can get some cocaine... the price of course slipping between 5 and 20 euros then back to 7 euros in the space of seconds as he gets confused and then freakish when his dealer doesn't pick up the phone. This city is full of white dust and it's mad to see it up close.

Crawl onto a couch with Pepe and chat. We giggle about technology, stuff, people... I like his diffidence, his idea that work is more important than partying, his valor and his uprightness without the ensuing preachy conservatism. A man of his own words, and own fashion label!

Quickly the party dissipates, with the white stuff being of short supply. We pack up and accompany Pepe to the street, where he gets a cab and goes back to the apartment. The poor boy is exhausted from 4 days of looking at fabric. And so...

...Voin and I head over to David and Marly's. I know I dissed Marly in an earlier toss, but, well, just at home, with her feet in the air, and a nice glass of wine, she's cool. I like her then. David, who I have seen always and forever in all those art/fashion parties, is a rather eccentric looking man, with great glasses, an orangey moustache, skinny, rocky, tough and funny. He reminds me a bit of young Jean Rochefort, if Jean Rochefort ever wore jeans, and was gay. We all start drinking, dancing, listening to all our favourite freshly downloaded tunes, and talking about a shitstorm....

David, who has an impeccable english accent, is really actually french. A fact he didn't cease to emphasize the whole night. And then, in a rare moment of Gallic honesty, he said: "We like you non-French, in Paris. We like it that you're here and we're very nice to you. But we will crush you. I am from Paris, I am French... we may like you, but as we are french, and you are not french, we will do everything in our power to stop you... from becoming more successful, than us." I start laughing madly, and tell him that he's a ripe ole goon because in fact, what he's saying comes as no surprise. What actually is the surprise, I tell him, is that China is coming over to kick his sorry ass, and me, being 75% Chinese, will eventually one day be his warlord. In fact, I would be willing to save his ass by lying about his asiatic origins, if he agreed to be my serf right now.

But, we are taking the piss out of each other... I like David, and he likes me. Thank god I'm not in graphic design, where I can see him waiting round some Dutch corner, with a machete ready for my back.

Finally, after extreme messiness, we get around to heading for the Batofar, for the last stretch of the night. As usual, Voin is on the list, but under a different name. Something strange happens at the door... David was messy drunk, and something gets passed between himself and the security man. They yell and push and we try to change outfits to sneak in again, but it doesn't work. All the security hates our guts, all because of something, probably a nothing, that David said. What's with all the Davids I know and their sharp biting tongue that almost always lands them in hot water.

After 10 minutes of squabbling and pushing, we head back to the car.

The sun is risen over the grey city. Paris looks terrible and awful, in her aging steel armour. I love this city. I hate this city.


This afternoon, just waking up, I was finally outrun by the flu bug that has been chasing me. The pain is deep in my throat and sinuses. A fine reward for an epic journey. Dish rag slumped and head like a thunderbearing cloud. This girl is on official party hiatus.. that is.. hiatus from going out.

Which is all fine because I think I need to start seriously working... too much running around and Pepe sets the good example for us all.

Finally... a happy ending: The gloves, those glorious gloves, are in the possession of a crazy lesbian couple, that left a wonderful and warm message on my phone. The gloves always find their way home.

and so it falls...

Friday, March 11, 2005

sometimes, things that become weakened to such an extent, eventually crash and burn.
everything that once was golden and beautiful is cinders and dust now.
I suppose I should just steady up and figure out things, bit by bit.
but it's a crisis... I feel so sad and terrified.
I am now, officially, alone.
what kills me is less the event, than the words that passed.
words... only something that comes out... almost meaningless
and yet the gutting
a 6-day old fish ready for the gutter.

I'm sorry... that's just the way it is right now.
maybe things will get better...

In case you missed the greatest football game of the year...

You can now read it. The Guardian's Barry Glendenning had the most amazing task of writing down the minute by minute action for the Barcelona-Chelsea game. One can almost see his chittering and chattering as he struggles to keep pace with the end-to-end rapid fire action. Of interest, while it contains the action with good concise Glendenning wit, there are nice side tastes of the coach's benches, and a good dose of the suspense.

In fact, reading the match all over again, I remember several key moments. Duff's little slip between the leg goal, Ronaldhino's swish leg pug hit, Lampard's indefatigable attack... but most importantly, the missed goal by Eto'o on the 72nd minute, that was really the true death knell of Barcelona. He should have scored. It was an almost clear and open shot with the goalkeeper obviously committing low... That's a shot that's gotta hurt to miss, especially in a League of Champions Game as legendary as this. If he had scored, Chelsea would have been K'O'ed. But, obviously he didn't and two minutes later, the logical conclusion to failing to close the door.

But, don't trust me... read it yourself!

I haven't flown in about a year and half... so bear with me

Thursday, March 10, 2005

But what a fine thing those e-tickets are. You just show up the day of your flight with your passport and off you go. Another lovely convenient thing thanks to technology. I'm always deathly afraid of losing those strange carbony papery tickets so this, for me, is a super plus!

Of course, knowing my luck, I'll probably lose my passport right before the flight.

All herald the Snowgoon!

So... with the upcoming blogmeet in just over 24 hours, I decided to do some brushup... well, not reading expat blogs per say, but cleaning up certain aspects of the blog, namely the commenting section. The new blogger comments sucks the donkey's weenus so hard that I suddenly pulled myself out of my lazyhole and got into haloscan comments. What can I say? It's gorgeous, it rocks, and it's so much faster than the geriatric right hand lane that was blogger comments.

On the site, while bruising the help forum, I came across the Snowgoon, aka Gordon McLean, an excellent and well-known blogger from Scotland. The design of his website is so beautifully clean and elegant, that it makes me realize how much I need to get off my ass and get that WPress thingie and hammer out a new template. Not that I'm not fond of the present one... it's just time to stop looking so 2000.

Speaking of ancient... with regards to my old post on video games... found a website, through the Snowgoon, where you can play all the old video games you thought you never wanted to play ever again. But who's got that much time?

they even have Zelda... but it's not the N64 version.

When you lose something valuable and symbolic...

I have had a pair of dark brown fitted leather gloves, lined with cashmere, for the better part of 6 years. This pair, bought for me by my then boyfriend, has managed to escape the usual curse of forgetfulness and intoxication. Sometimes, I leave it at bars or houses, and always, inevitably, the owner of the bar or house finds me again and gives them back. I suppose much of this good will could be due to the fact that they are quite fitted, thus small, gloves, and being a lady of very skinny hands, there are not many to whom these gloves could be passed onto.

One time, when I lived in Roubaix, in the north of France, I was walking across the main square, in broad daylight, when a giant barrel-chested man starting running in my direction. He had a flat steak-like face, stringy John Waters moustache, and his greasy ponytail glinted in the sunlight. When it became clear he was heading to me, I froze, in terrified anticipation.

-You forgot these a couple of weeks ago at the bar.

And he suddenly does a little bow and pulls out my gloves, the mythical gloves, the gloves I cannot be separated from. I suppose it's just superstition after all, the weight I put on these little gloves. But, in the last couple of weeks, I have been becoming increasingly paranoid about losing these gloves, sometimes checking my bag in mid-conversation to make sure they are there. And last night, well, the inevitable happened....Too much beer and spirited talking. 10 minutes on the way home, I realized that I had left them behind.

But, I didn't turn back. I couldn't turn back.

Sometimes these things are symbolic. I mean, sometimes you have to let go, especially of possessions. Perhaps losing these gloves means I no longer have to hold dear to what the ex gave me, or that, whatever is precious can be lost without fear or pain. What I would prefer to think is that sometimes you must let go and just throw the weight and baggage of what things are supposed to mean out the window. You just have to live in the present and be happy.

Or it could just mean that it's time to move to a warmer climate, a place where I don't have to worry about gloves for the better part of the year. Florida perhaps?

The Grumps Strikes Back... NO to PARIS 2012

Tuesday, March 08, 2005

Ok. Regular readers of my blog know that I am a rabid sports fan... all kinds of sports, from tennis, to football, to hockey, to sailing... even dressage (hey, horses dancing... dancing with horses! Weee...). But, even with all this glib blathering on jumping around and working a sweat, I have reservations about professional sports.

One of the biggest ethical problems, personally, is the whole idea of the Olympics. I really love watching the Olympics and I always get Olympic fever. You know, where you watch the first broadcast, then, 4 hours later, you watch a rebroadcast of the same sport, and then 6 hours later, you rewatch the commentary you've already seen twice. Then you think of nothing else, and you bounce of the walls at work, and drag your face around the carpet, dreaming of hurdles and backstrokes.

But the Olympics, as an event, in a city, is a mega-billion dollar thing. It's business. It's not hididdlyho everybody win-win and get the new stadiums built. It's a lottery with serious results, not unlike that Monkey Paw story. What am I getting hot about? Well, it took Montreal over 25 years to work off the deficit from their 1976 games. They lost a significant amount of their economic vitality, that they've never really regained. Salt Lake City's games temporarily damaged some formerly environmentally protected land. No doubt there was major damage to surrounding wildlife, but one doesn't hear of those things. Neither does the fact that the Olympics doesn't bring long-term economic growth. Beijiing will no doubt set the standard for unethical behaviour. Isn't this the city where there's so much surrounding deforestation that there's dust-storms every summer and winter? I guess the Olympic committee had nothing to reproach them because they'd already destroyed their environment.

The fact of the matter is, welcoming such a large number of people to sporting activities, to showcase the city and what the surrounding areas have to offer, almost inevitably brings with it all the trapping of staging such a large event. Massive pollution, unenvironmental expansion in infrastructure, and great deficit... deficit the population pays for for years. And, maybe I am simplifying the issue a little, but how can you really analyse the full scope and impact of such a major international event? I can't get jump on the bandwagon without getting more facts. Sorry.

And, while Paris still looks good in photos, we, the Parisians, know that things are shit here economically. (Unless you happen to be an aristocrat, socialite or a rich housewife, in which case you don't see nothing). There's massive unemployment, and stagnant growth. Businesses are wary and expansion is hesitant. France is in a slump. So why shoot itself in both feet?

I'm against this. I'd rather just stage the Olympics in one non-political space, non-political arena, every year. Confine the damage to a justified space and maybe get different countries to host the different events. Maybe create a space that could be renewed, installation rebuilt and changed every 4 years, but have all athletes together, on safe and common ground. It's the athletes and their achievements that count for me, not whether they get some silly ethnic touque at the end of their gold medal. Hell, I don't really know anything more about Greece since the Olympics... except maybe that it's too hot to run a marathon properly.

Paris 2012? That's one competition I'd prefer we lose.

crackers!... and water...

attn: UEFA (football) post


Mourinho did it. Chelsea is through... 4-2, over Barcelona.
Crushed, like a beer can on a frat boy's head.

... but hey... those old Portuguese men I shared my screaming with were a riot... especially the guy with two warts on his nose, the bartender... good commenting all round, and I start to crack... Mourinho is one damn fucking good coach. He makes his players believe. RESPECT!

The Game for our Peter Pan Generation

A couple of weeks back, I was browsing through Jermunn's Blog, and he posted about how the old video games are really shitty compared to the new ones. In particular, he mentioned how Bubble Bobble had really lost its edge. I think the last time I played that game was two years ago, and I don't remember being bored, though I didn't play it for very long. This sparked a whole line of memories... Frogger, Star Wars, Spiderman, Q-bert, Tetris, Pitfall, MarioKart, Tony Hawk 1, 1080, DonkeyKong, Tank, Joust and Pac-Man. While I have to admit Pac-Man still really freaks me out, stress beyond normal bounds, the rest remain fairly warm and fuzzy for me.*

Out of all of those games, the Legend of Zelda - Ocarina of Time, remains my favourite. Between bouncing around the innards of a giant fish, or swimming for amulets, making weird forest creatures play flutes, or catching chickens, this game was packed with the type of small games that were beautiful and occasionally challenging to fulfill. Just a great game, good visuals, intricate story, comprehensive layout, side games, etc etc...

And the music... Complete and utter leaky camembert, but the type of cheese that still eeks out a meagre tear when your friends suddenly shoot off into the dustbin. On my little search, for the Zelda music, I found all the original midi's, which are, in themselves quite zany and moofy, hardly the thing to stick on anyone's playlist. But the theme! What a theme! It's been translated into so many different versions, with piano, with spanish guitars, violins, voices, the dubious John Williams orchestral tribute and, yes, even Nine Inch Nails did a cover version! By golly, and what a tribute it is... you can actually hear a guy yell out during the concert "Hell Yeah!" probably some cranny getting his nipple ring twisted

But really, when I think of that game, I remember the Orange Pop Studio Boys, the giant loft they converted from a cinema, where we would hide out under a giant plastic blown up Chef Boyardee can, in front of a telly, and watch Jonno flip out crazy on the game, all the while surrounded by the detritus of his metallic bug sculptures, wild pieces of art and photographs strewn helter kelter everywhere, on copious amounts of various mind-altering substances, and more than 70% of the main space converted into a jamming studio. It was the perfect 20-something's playground, and this was the perfect game for us, the children of the Peter Pan generation.

Where have they gone now? Those types of games? Have we all finally grown up? Can I just raise my sword and turn back the clock... to the Temple of Time?

* wait... actually Frogger is really frustrating, Star Wars is boring, Spiderman is intolerably tedious, Pitfall is pitifully retarded, and Q-bert??? What was the point of that game?

Famous ex-Classmates: Chapter 2

Monday, March 07, 2005

First it was the Poker Champion of the World, and now it's my John Fahey-esque-lockermate.

There's something wiggy in the air, either that, or, as I have always feared, everybody in highschool was talented save me. Turns out, my grade 10 locker-mate, the boy who I used to slam into his locker playfully, the playfights of young teenagers, he pushed me many times too, into my adjoining locker... hormonal billy fights, has become a musician. Yes yes, everybody's a musician. But he's a very good musician... an excellent one... finger-pickin' guitar and all... of the Fahey Prekop genre. You like that kind of stuff? You should check him out. His name is Harris Newman.

Either this means that laziness is the lodestone of my paralytic non-fame, or that really, it's a question of time... ok... in that case, I choose to annihilate the first option with work... back to the scratchpad!


have just had life-like dream, and have woken up empty and lonely, and slightly terrified, the way I did for months after he broke up with me… it is the mean reds.


It is the end of school, the beginning of summer. We are in some suburban town, near the city core, but empty. I walk through the school, with it’s giant hallways, and somewhere, before the end, near a white draped installation, Yuri, my ex, gives me a letter, and then he walks away. There are people all around, international young artists. I open the letter. Inside, from the first couple of words I know what this is about. He is breaking up with me, all over again. I cannot bear it. I turn, and rip the letter quickly and set it to flames. The letter is actually written in a wedding card. At the bottom, before the flames lick it clean, is his phone number, which I fail to memorize.

I go back to my apartment, which is almost empty now, everyone having left for other places. Only another man, someone who looks like Greg Kinnear, someone who looks like Mathieu Amalric, stands there, shirtless, in front of his computer, near my bed, looking at something and discussing. He asks me if I want to follow him.

I follow him to a movie/fashion video shoot where hundreds upon hundreds of cool fashionable kids are milling about. The camera passes just before us. I hear voices of people I have known. Then, the camera passes again… They need four or five takes before it is done. Then, there is a great push. I am pushed backwards violently. I crawl over someone to take a look, and inside the crowd is a square, where seven men are in a row, seven Chicano-ish/Japanese-ish men with bandanas, the movie directors, raise their arms. Somehow I am clapping with everyone, though I am horrified.

I am in just a blue towel, wrapped around my body, and us the crowd lets me down, it comes undone. I pull it back up, but I have lost this Greg Kinnear guy. As I jump down, into the open square a woman calls my name. I turn, and it is a tall angelic blond boy with a rugged brushy beard, in a black dress and a woman's voice, beckoning me forward with a sympathetic smile. We climb up the stairs, because the movie shoot was in a giant square surrounded by apartment buildings. At the top of the stairs, with people milling everywhere, he says he has to go.

I am plagued with loneliness… eating desperate loneliness. I hold onto his arm and beg him not to go… then suddenly go limp and say that a friend lives up the street and that I will be ok… I am lying.

I walk back home. I would like to phone Yuri, as I walk by the pine furniture, but I have burned his card. I think of phoning his mother, and finding out his new number, but the clock reads quarter to midnight. I try to close my eyes, but I'm too sad to fall asleep.

In the hallway is the Mathieu Amalric/Kinnear guy, and he is tearing up sheets, naked. He says, he has to work on something but first he must help the cleaning lady. However, he has spread paint all over the floor. I look at him, possibly my new lover, possibly not, now convinced that there is no hope and that I am unloved, by everyone. I bend my face down to cry, in the hopes that he will come over. But he continues to tear the sheets, and talks about the future of the fashion industry.

I wake up.

Today my brain turned to caboodle... but some Basset Hound Cheetos dog came sniffling round the corner

Spent the last 14 hours buried deep in Mancunian accents... but was nothing fun... just stupid transcription job. I hate transcribing... I hate listening to other people, or writing down what they say, especially when they don't say anything for 2 hours in garbled marbled voices.

But, before I check out, something amazing has happened. He has updated. But, get guilty feeling, when reading the entry, that it was a reluctant and reticent finger pull, to appease my unhinged wrangling. It is a little bit cramped and hobbling.. the sad entry. Sorry guy, and hope you don't run around the marshes with your tail between your legs. You must point.. Pointer! Hunt, noble beast!

If I was a dog I would be...

Sunday, March 06, 2005


I took this what kind of dog are you? internet test... (yes, that begs for a fine put-down) and this is who I am... lovely, and cute, with just the right kind of poker stare! Originally bred as a ratcatcher in Paris, the French Bulldog is now a favourite among princesses and fashion designers. Intelligent and playful, she has been known to sulk on the rare times when she is socially clumsy.

Eurotrash Birthday Night

Saturday, March 05, 2005

I must write this in one unfailing stretch...Just woken up, and head feels like porridge... just had idiot problems hooking the stereo up to the computer, just so that I can listen to Wimoweh, the Burt Kaempfert version, over and over again... where in the monkey's dong is the power cord?

Maybe you picked this up last night, but this girl was in full party mode, ready to tear up the town and wiggle in her sexy duds. While I stopped posting at around 8pm, it wasn't till 9:30 that I took off, high-tailed, from the house. Let's just say that Ana and I may be very wonderful cute girls, but we are most definitely impaired when it comes to navigation. I remember standing at the door seeing this grey car doing the most skidding impatient reverse, all the way up my street! It's a one way narrow street! Holy Cow! It's Ana... and so I wave her down and run, which, in the monster cream boots is quite a thing.

Outfit Rundown: I went for full Eurotrash lineup (this should please you Mike). Black Unitard (is still cool), tall ruffled neck collar piece attached with a Simpson's "DON'T HAVE A COW MAN" Bart button, Green and Yellow New Wave long sleeve t-shirt, white paint splattered jean mini-skirt, the boots, my Eton-ish vertically striped red and grey cardigan.

So I jump in the car, and the poor thing is all frazzled and giggly from being lost for the better part of the night. We chipper chatter. Scoubs isn't back from Geneva and nobody has any news. After Ana tells me that she too thinks something is wrong, we decide to phone Herbie, instead of Scoubs (logic!), and the fact that he's not home leads as confirmation that Scoubs is kidnapped somewhere in Switzerland, tied up in melted cheese strings, or hanging on top of a gondolier? This speculation continues till it becomes obvious that we are lost lost lost, and then, the usual thing with me, I give bad directions, we almost head straight into the drink, reverse just in time, and manage to keep on course... and magically find Julie's house, which is next to the Canal L'Ourq, near the Villette.

We buzz the door, walk up the stairs, a thump all the way to the fourth floor, where the chocolate door is slightly open. Just as I put my hand on the door, it swings broad and wide, suddenly showing a screaming brunette. FUCK! I start screaming too! It's Scoubs! She's BACK! ahahaha, she really got me good, I was so scared and then ridiculously happy! So happy, she's back. We had a quadruple kiss, and I pile into the apartment. Les filles sont toutes là, with the exception of Gaelle. Kissing, birthdaying, spreading the Quality Street Love, endless flowing bottles of Cremant d'Alsace, eurotrash music, and two men! One of them is this scruffy guy, whose name I have already mostly forgotten, Flemant? Pas sûr.

At first, things are civilized. We are having Cremant, yes. And conversation is smooth and warm. Then, started to get toasty, and the tiramisu was delicious, as was the Charlotte, and cake is taking edge off alcohol, so like a smart girl, I switch to Zubrowska, Vodka, swished with Cremant. (Basically buffalo-grass-vodka and almost-champagne, mixed). Julie looks up at me, with her little curly moppet head and says,

-You're gonna be sick
-no I'm not
-Yes you are
-I'm not sick now
-So there!

And hobble back, and suddenly the intercom rings and I'm closest so I run to buzz them in... somebody asks for Julie... NOPE! NO JULIE HERE! And then Julie takes the intercom from my hands and lets them in. The door pops open and guess who it is? VOIN! ahahahaa... circle is complete. Voin comes complete with his own entourage, as always, especially fresh from a fashion show. There's some skinny guy who always looks nervous and nice from Nantes, but he's the type of guy I always inevitably forget his name. There's Marushka, the sexy diva fashion-artist... she's the dark Archbishop of this outfit called the Andrea Crews. There's also this guy, Jozepf, a sexy MF, all messy curly haired and vaguely pudding like face. He's one of those guys who's sexy from interaction, not from vision. In a little over 15 minutes, all the girls are swooning from this guy, who looks really close to a Russian Mama. Same way of dressing as Voin, this gypsy-ass black pants and skanky black t with vague layers of nondescript yet patterned sweats over.

So, finally, after the swooning from the other girls, I myself am NOT affected but enjoy watching the spectacle as it is, I ask Voin what the deal is with Jozepf, and why he has all the girls on the milk van.

-What's the dealy-o avec Jozepf?
-He's cool.
-But look! All the girls are going mad crazy! What is he?

Nice one Voin. We both cackle madly, because, as we both know, only Scorpios can really understand what "everything" really is. For those not in the know: EVERYTHING means super extra meltdown on the creampie front from extreme stinging star in the eye because the smooth inky flow is forever on his side and he never falls out of bed clumsily and his ass is probably hotter than mercury... or something related.

Christ, we have an EVERYTHING on our hands! But, not to worry, this girl is with her man, the Voin, so everything is delicious and lovely. The cake is flying and suddenly there's modern dance! Julie is hoisted in the air and it's all last flying scene from Dirty Dancing. The calisthenics continue... and strangely enough, at some point I am pushed onto the couch and more girls fall on top of me. And then I get up, and it repeats itself. Eventually, while I'm standing, I see Scoubs smattering kisses all over Voin while he under... so fall on top! Then we're all kissing Voin, and he ends up burying his head in my chest... he's sad... he loves me and he doesn't want me to leave, even if it's just for a vacation. He thinks I'm not coming back. We embrace. The boy will never leave my heart.

After we scramble off the couch, Guns and Roses comes on, and suddenly there's all this mad dancing in a circle, and I get pulled in, and then the heel pulls out of my foot halfway through and the whole friggin circle in arms piles on top of me, on the g'damn couch again. The couch is now broken. I'm sure.

When I get up, and have more Cremant, I take some time off to talk with Scoubs, by the balcony. Intense talk, about love and people, and time, and place. I feel gutted. I am gutted... if I'm going crazy and mad storming around, it's because I can't bare it anymore... emotionally, the hurricane is taking it's toll. But, I'm also mad drunk, so being weepy is the same as screaming and jumping on a rabbit's head.

So we head back in... and lo and behold, there's cake smashed all over Voin's face... I run over and he dares me to lick it off, and I start eating his face (I know somebody has photos of this because I saw the flash), and then somebody pulls me off and smashes cake in my face... There's still cake stains on my unitard, and I was still scraping bits of it off my face at the end of the night... was subjected to same licking procedure.

Finally, it's time to leave. Apparently there's a party to go to, at Cabaret Sauvage. It is Manue's birthday, so we go where she wants. It's just on the northern point of the Villette, and being on the midpoint of the canal, decide to walk. So begins the most delicious evening snow walk I've ever had in Paris. There was a nary a soul outside, by the canal, and there was snow lining the edge. We laughed and stomped and Jozepf threw the first snowball... after which there was infernal retribution and the slush/snow and ice went flailing around all over the place. While my throw is strong and fast, it has little accuracy with my fitted coat, which impedes my curve. However, still manage to nail Voin and Jozepf with intermittent regularity. I'm Canadian... I've grown up with snowball fights (though the last one did leave me with a black eye).

We battle and flop in the snow all the way up... Ana tossing some good ones in. We mount the bridge to cross the canal, and it's magical... the lights are all low on the snow, and our faces glimmer from the reflected light... then on the other side, there's a fairy path, little snowy hills and a winding road, all lit up with gnome candles, all the way to the door. All the girls have dates, men on their arms, we picked up randoms on the way, and we're ready to get in.

But it's 20EU at the door! NO WAY! I never pay for a party, let alone 20Eu. I check the old money-holder and there's a wee 5Eu30Centimes looking back. Nobody else wants to pay to get in so we mill about aimlessly in front of the door. Vague talking, laughing, because all of us are mad hammered. And Voin and Marushka talk their way in to find the organizer of the party. Ten minutes later, Voin comes back... he says he doesn't know. I'm ready to turn around and catch a cab home but NOOOOO.... Marushka pops her head out, Voin screams my name, and suddenly we're inside.

A cavernous slightly art-decoish like place... and it's deeply clippy electronic on the front, and, like most french crowds, hardly anyone is dancing. Then there's a backside... and when we head back, it's like a mad circus ring, with the dj at the head. The music was shit, but we drank our beers, and laughed and talked, and ate saucisson sandwiches. Soon enough, I was spinning and tip tapping around the dancefloor... and the legs and hips still know how to wiggle... somehow. But, the DJ sucks too hard... SUNSET! and so we leave... and I walk all along the snowlined bridge, with Ana and Scoubs, who take me back to Stalingrad where I catch a cab and in less than 10 minutes, I'm home... in bed.

It's a girl thing... and I'm a girl!

Friday, March 04, 2005

summer shoes
Today, I tried to clean up the house, and stuff... organizing wardrobe, pressing, washing, and shoe stuff. So, finally unpacked my summer shoes, in the dead of winter snow here in Paris... and it made me feel excited and weary. What good friends they are. The nardac may be a party panther in her tomboy scruffs, but when summer shines through, she spins in sweet skirts and Audrey heels. I can't wait to moult.

But, for now.. .am going out to massive girl party with Les Filles... tearing up the town with Champagne and Quality Street... full report... LATER!

Sebastien Tellier: Montage Hommage

sebastien tellier: montagehommage
Politics/ full scale post, complete with discourse and discussion, to follow.

This is Sebastien Tellier, one of the most intriguing musicians/personalities to pop out of the prehistoric frog womb in the last twenty four years. He's a magician of the fourth degree. I will tell you more, but first you must listen. He's playing tonight, in Toronto, for CMW, at the Reverb... Midnight.

the wait is .... almost.... over

In a desperate attempt to conquer shame and embarassment, I dug out the proofs today. Here, we are, the grandchildren, minus one... from 2003.

So, it's coming... the long awaited family photographs will be scanned and prepped for printing in the next couple of months. The sister has been kind enough to fund this belly-flopped project. Two years later, we've all aged a little... but like a fine cheese...

and hey! doesn't the granny look like the Pope?

Calico Aunts in Ecstatic Mortal Relations

Thursday, March 03, 2005

more snow
more snow

It's like some secret conspiracy. Now he's controlling the weather too! All for my delight and fear.

So, what's to say. I have been listening and relistening to Bach all morning, all evening, with smatterings of Animal Collective, Joe Meek stuff, Syd Barrett, Coco Rosie and the old standby, the mighty Zep. Cycling through my head... first it starts all ecstatic mortal relations, magical equations and floating crystal palaces, then it descends into cranked furry mossy calisthenics, calico aunts, Caberet pink octopuses, feather laden chimpanzees, and finally, just me, in my jeans and German rock shirt, drinking a glass of wine and reading Polish recipes.

Now I have to work on some stuff, so bye. Oh, and FYI, my finnish ex-roommate has updated. It's about how his porn shoot went. Sounds good... the project is funded by my old school, and Fuck for Forest, a Swedish Norwegian company that sells porn for the Amazon. Now if only the Painfeeler would update... my link list would seem less mesozoic.

Like the Passenger Pigeons of yore, all things take their given course

Wednesday, March 02, 2005

It comes as no surprise that Reality TV has now come to the art world.

Given the right kind of steering, artstar will probably vomit out as much dirty water as American Idol and Survivor combined. This kind of thing is so dishy it even makes it to respectable rags like the NY Times.

Gosh, if they had this in Europe, my guess is that I already know half the fame-hungry artists who would feast on this sad corpse.

Ours is a doomed generation.

Don't attack the Grumpasaurus when she's down

-Don't eat your priss porridge now... save it for later
-Don't tell me when to eat my priss porridge. Priss Porridge Hot. Priss Porridge Cold.

What actually happened starts like this. I alternated in between the sheets and the television all day long. Being hungover, and that hungover, plus having really nothing better to do, I whiled away the day in bed, reading magazines, writing a touch, and watching some very bad telefilms where Radha Mitchell plays an angel who goes to earth to pair up a girl with her true love, but ends up falling with the true love instead. At one point, the music was even Gone with the Wind, but on synthesizer.

Finally, around 6, made plans with the Ana and Voin to meet up at a cafe around Chateau D'Eau. Slung out in sexy new coat and tall white boots (The look is similar to something you might see on Ali MacGraw on Love Story), and tottered over to said meeting place. At the cafe, meet Marly, a very beautiful brunette, horse-like gait and flying brown mane, she'd be in Dynasty easy. Apparently, from all the details spewed out in the ensuing 30 minutes, she's some kind of artist/model/designer/sculptor from Holland, but living in Berlin. That's it...that's the CV of the cool kid right now in Europe. She fills it to the toe, including the rich daddy, waittressing/modelling job that fucks her over, trying to start a collective, and djing on the side.

Of course, in two seconds, she's flopping all over Voin... Voin this... Voin that... and look our boy is in the current H&M magazine! Incredible, and he looks the way he looks everyday, in his gypsy black pants and ripped Bulgarian muscle chic t-shirt, holding onto a fire extinguisher. Baby, put out that fire!

So, Marly goes on and on, about shows she's worked at, agents she knows, cool kids, publishers... like everybody and nobody at the same time. I have no idea what she's rattling on about. The overly serious way she asks me what I do for a living makes me cringe. I get the feeling I'm about to be stuffed into some bottle and slipped under the couch. So I make up some stuff, about eating food and chewing lip gloss, because, hot damn it, you never know if lip gloss is really toxic! Then I told her I do nothing professionally, because that makes you a whore. And she raised an eyebrow (a well-formed eyebrow!) and Voin and I huddled in laughter. ARRIVISTES! That's what we are, and we're not going to get upstaged by horse-legs over there!

Then we try to find something to do... which takes us to Mains D'Oeuvres, which was shit. Apparently the DJ was Canadian. My bet is that he was Quebecois. What the hell! Who still listens to Jazzy Dub... yuck... I can just imagine a bunch of Whitey Dreads already... or even worse, the normal looking guy in his workman's pants, who reels off an encyclopaedic list of obscure dub bands all the while haughtily grilling you on which dub label you prefer. FUCK! We leave fast... with tons of droopy eyed normal guys giving us the one over... especially to our resident model/arriviste HorseLegs.

Then, pull over to Ana and Scoub's place (yes, Ana is Scoub's roomie) and tuck in for some TV, music, pickled herring, pistachios, olives, bottled water and designer beer. Voin and Marly kept going on their "what chic party will we go to" banter, alternating between some Brazilian party and the Vivienne Westwood Diamante party. While they are goofing off on this, my allergies are going haywire with the two cats. I spend the better part of the night alternately sneezing, dying from boredom, and watching Red Sonja, which is a rocking film. Did you know that the film was directed by Richard I wonder if he's the brother of Alain Fleisher, the head of my school...if we were so close to Arnie Conan cheese, the whole time we were plowing away on serious muthafucking contemporary art. Damn... I should have gone to the Richard Fleisher school instead.

Tapping in vaguely to the kids, I tell them to check the vodkacoca site, and of course, the Westwood party is invite only. Sorry kids...drooping party panthers, still hungry at the gates. So they get all excited about the Brazilian party... "I know this really amazing choreographer from NY, and he's even going to this Brazilian party." I think I'm going to drop dead from allergies.

Luckily, the plan hinged on Ana's car, and since Ana and I had already made a date to drive me home with the scanner, those two party panthers would either have to hike it on the Metro, or bite the bitter home bullet. I kinda felt bad... I mean, they really wanted to go out. But, was getting a bit sick and tired of being dragged around virtual nincompoop wanna-be lists, and fed up with all this pseudo D-List Celebrity material. Fucking hell, I am not sneaking into Westwood's party just so that we can maybe bump into a supermodel at the bar, or maybe have a toast with Vivienne herself. I want to be famous in my own right, with something real to show for it.

But, maybe the real back story is that this girl wants some bonding time... superficial talk is so exhausting at the end. I wanted to corner Ana so we could tell jokes and giggle, instead of being steamrolled by the party panthers. Which happened, around midnight.


Currently listening to Doreen's Disco Magic Midi's BORN TO BE ALIVE french cheese and dancing in my puppy dog pajamas... "to be alive... to be alive... I was born... born to be alive." (yes, french people sometimes do miss the subtleties of english...)

It's wonderful... It's marvelous...

night snow
By George and Johnson, how Canadian it looks! Snow! Real snow! It's currently early in the morning and Ana has just left in her car. When we arrived, at midnight, things were still in random flake stage. Two hours later, after warm chummy miso chowder and hot tea, smashing the goose up, talking the soul talk, and planning nefarious deeds, we peaked outside and saw that snow, lovely fluffy white cold snow, had blanketed everything.

And yes...Ana is a gem. AND I just found out tonight that her family used to famous for making sausages. While this doesn't make any sense to most people, those who know Ana, delicately featured and porcelain skinned, find this, well, gosh darn crackin'! I'm going to Stuttgardt with this girl!

Frostbite and the Long Held Kiss

Tuesday, March 01, 2005

By golly what a jolly evening I had. It's now 11:32am in the morning, and thanks to school vacations, I will be highly unoccupied all of today, which is for the best, given the state of this girl's woolly head. I believe I'm still drunk.

I met up with Jane, the sister of my oldest friend, the Nance, at Temple Station. From there, I had indefinite plans to take her to a bar on rue Amelot, but backed off at the last minute because had sudden urge not get barraged by idiot twentysomethings and their friends. So we headed to my secret bar, near Oberkampf and the Canal Saint Martin.

Jane and I popped in around 9:30 in the evening, after wandering like idiots for an hour, since the secret bar must be found by Skywalker vision. She reminded me, because I was muffled in furs and woolens, that the weather was springtime climes for Canada. This reminds me of how idiotically crazy it is to spend 6 months of the year freezing your buns off. Why do people choose to suffer? However, the real jaw dropper is how delicate I have become with the cold. Jane thinks this is a sign I'm becoming french.

Another sign, she said, was that sometimes I have a weird twang in my english, which can only be, sigh, a french twang. She said, "yeah, you have this kind of weird semi-french accent, every now and then. Don't worry, it's cute." WHAT! This is the problem with being a good chameleon. North American friends, this is your moment to save the Nardac from her horrible Continental slide... call the Nardac and give her North American accent lessons! Better still, send over tapes of rappers and their cars... or Flip Wilson... or NBA/NCAA games...

So... we spent the better part of the evening getting sloshed, talking about men and lovers. Getting late in the night, I suggested going to another bar, but then the owner told me to sit down because he was now going to keep us drunk, on the house. Jane looks over at me with a funny look, as if to say, but "we're already wasted you ninny... and if we stay here and drink, we will most definitely fall down, and get ass-fucked"... or was that another look... "oh my god Sam! How do you do it! Everywhere you go, the free drinks follow!" I'm not sure what the look really was... So, lovely old moustache man just readies the beer, winks sweetly, then comes over, tilts his head down, holds my jaw in two hands delicately, then serves me a kiss on one cheek, holding the kiss for several wet seconds. So erotic, you yummy old man!

We get thoroughly hammered, after which Jane and I somehow manage to wander off in the general direction of my home, stopping by the crepe shop to pick up a Bolognaise Panini, which was disgusting, and then good... which is always better than the other way round... Imagine if it's good, than disgusting, and that's the Hamburger Crepe. Then woke up the neighbourhood with mad german accented english about ze rotten Beethoven ninth, Ode to a Lucky Bastard with holes in his pants striking up a line to his swarthy black forest of Triumph!... drooped over my kitchen table with a lovely mug of verveine tea, stare curiously at my big toe and become convinced, from almost lack of feeling, that have frostbite in said toe. Paranoia starts to mount until the moment I put the mug next to toe, at which point screeching pain shoots up everywhere. Yes, I almost had frostbite of the big toe, but luckily saved myself from the lifetime offer of a wooden toe which would make me the favourite for barefoot tapdancer of the year*, by a mug of tea. At the same time, notice that the rest of my body is experiencing some vague numbness. Try to talk to Jane but notice her eyes are almost closed, which is well, because am becoming verbally incoherent.

Tottered off, convinced that I was dying of overall frostbite and need giant man-size mug of tea to ward off possible limbs breaking off... then reptilian brain kicks in and tells me to fall headfirst into the bed because I'm numb from drunkness. But, while bumbling over, amphibian brain hollers out to write the email first... at which point I flail haplessly at the keyboard for several minutes, smashing inanities out in a rabbitted storm, and send the monkey down the chute. I hope that lucky recipient is happy with this great marker of devotion and inebriation.

Damn... I think I'm hungover now. Time for a real steak.

*I always wondered why they've never exploited that angle with peg legs. I mean, I think a Moby Dick Musical, with a tapdancing Ahab, could be a real good thing. Imagine him singing "Revenge revenge, I'll have my revenge tonight, the whale will be killed tonight, the beast will be done tonight... revenge revenge... I have a peg leg tonight.." after which he clacks off into a solo breakdancing tapdance routine. I will be ready to preview this for the next Berlin Musical Festival, if someone would like to sponsor....