Toxic

yeah... yeah... YEAH!

Things are rockin' and a rollin.' Too much shit going on to blog about... Plus am three seconds short of mortuary tiredness.

Short, last night threw a house-destroying party. I'm sure my neighbours hate me... after hearing Toxic for the seventh time at 4am. Icelandic people drink more than any other ethnic group I've come across. Dressing like Anna Karina gets instant kudos from EVERYBODY. Mountain of cigarette butts on the sidewalk, four floors down from my apartment. I think everybody had fun with wieners on a string... they were strung up like firecrackers from several points in the apartment. The deal was the bite one while passing from one room to the next. Thanks to Vincent and Dave, who ran out at 1:30am to buy us more vodka and beer... Geraldine and Sandra for Carte Vitale fun... Julie, so wonderful and cute as the birthday girl... Scoubs and Queenie and Manue on the food detail, Arnaud for helping me clean this morning and making that tasty tart last night, Thibault for being so loveable and kissable all night long, Icelandic mad folk for serious hijinks at the end of the night... my downstairs and next door neighbours... and Gaelle... for being plummy and having chutzpah.

Lechiam!

Tonight: more free parties, just not at my place, with open bars, magazine openings, Zorba hardcore nights... blah blah blah blah... Kim, my diablesse partner in crime, will co-author tonight's shenanigans. Us two oriental girls are a beautiful and deadly duo.

They've done it again...

Those gun-happy american soldiers may have gone and done it again... killing some journalist with their gunfire. This, on top of the botched military report on what happened to Nicola Calipari, makes it one hell of a week for those G.I.Joes still trapped in the desert. Why are they still there and why have they started shooting their allies?

I hate war. I hate any justification for war. There is no justification for this war.

ma mauvaise éducation, mes mauvaises fréquentations

...whatever... I just erased a lame-ass post...

What is important is that John-Paul Belmondo, in the 60s, was the sexiest man ever in celluloid history.

Hé bah...

Pierrot le Fou

Call me a Godard amateur, if you must. Call me a Belmondo proselyte. Sing me "est-ce que vous m'aimez?" Love, Action, Violence, in short, Emotion, as Samuel Fuller says. One of the best. Your french education is incomplete without it.

Tears and Cockles

We have a houseguest right now. He's an old Fresnoy buddy of Dacnar's. I like this guy, though he seems to have such an upright way of sitting and talking that his sporadic wit always knocks me off my chair. Anyways, he's here now. The last time we met I was to be found weeping like an imbecile in a blackened corner.

Yup, that kind of thing does occasionally happen in the house of horrors that was my personal life. The weeping had to do with some silly art project that I was feeling rather sad over. You see, when you make something that is singular, that you cannot explain why and you know is infinitely uncool, when you can't stand with your back straight and smile in the camera, well then, maybe you've made something you can actually cry about. In retrospect, I suppose that project was like an orphan, in the sense that it feels isolated in aesthetic when seen with my other work.

In truth, I feel strongly that I meant what I made, and I cried because it was horrible to feel that such a piece had no worth. But what we make and what others think are separate, and it is the horror of modern life that sometimes we accidentally bare ourselves in inconvenient ways. Worse still, when you make a piece about a coeur brisé, and all everyone talks about is how outside the piece makes them feel, well then you know something really awful really did happen to you. So awful you can't transfer it's horror onto anyone else.

Anyways, I think Arnaud just said something like he didn't understand blah blah blah... and I bubbled into hysterics at my own sense of failure. It's like that. I am a victim of myself. But it did make things strange for him... he's sensitive... a sensitive guy... and I think he took it really hard when I burst into tears.

So that's what happened then. Tonight? Well tonight we laughed over mutual friends, drank good tea and watched an Eric Rohmer film. Everything given its due time.

____________________

For dinner I made fresh steamed cockles à la marinière, served with smoked tea polenta, and sauteed young garlic, fresh shitake and julienned zucchini. A ripping success, all under 20 minutes. Had to change the salt water on the cockles all afternoon, to get rid of the grit. Cockles are so subtle and fine in briny flavour. Still, the fact they opened with heat alerted me to something quite shocking. Throughout my youth, whenever I stopped in Singapore, one of my favourite dishes was steamed cockles. However, those cockles were always closed and notoriously difficult to open. Did that mean they were raw? Have I been munching, Indiana Jones style, on screaming live cockles all this while? If so, can someone please give met the recipe for that yummy hawker style sauce they serve with them raw cockles?

pink jumpsuit magnet

That would be me.

Am currently going through the closet, sorting out my clothes, and have found my pink jumpsuit. For those who know nardac in the flesh, you're already well acquainted with her sartorial flair and strange hunger for hoarding "pieces." That's right folks, not just getting clothes, but more appropriately, having pieces.

What does that mean? Well, pieces are items of clothings that you can't wear everyday, like a sequined butterfly winged top, or a multi strapped and braided vinyl capri pants. I have a small hoard of these pieces that accompany at every turn, in case call should be made for some fancy dress party, or fashion after-party.

At those fashion parties, there's always the two groups, faced off, Jets and Sharks style. There's the fashionistas, ex and current models, designers, stylists, gay hanger-ons, and general semi-famous types with their wacky fashions and dangerous looks. These people are then sneered or adored by the other gang, those who believe in materials, conservative cuts, and not wearing anything that'll get them noticed at a circus... usually fashion journalists or PR types. (people whose jobs depend on waking up on time) You don't choose which camp you're in. You're born into it.

I can't say I've always been happy being a freak, but then, I haven't actually known any other way so I can't complain either. It's been a long and dusty ride. When I went through my fit of depression, at 27, I went through a serious tomboy B-girl phase. Nothing but hoodies, long sleeve Ts, jeans, t-shirts, sneakers... I was serious boy-style for a whole year. That's what depression and living in the middle of butt-fuck Roubaix will do to you. Kills every whimsical instinct available.

But, since moving back to civilisation, in this case Paris, I have regained a small modicum of my old self. So much so that I've managed to incur new mad friends. Friends who give you pink jumpsuits for your birthday.

Yup, that's right. I'm the proud owner of a pink jumpsuit. It's like a pilot jumpsuit, but in pink. I don't just carry pink, I own it... I own it's mother, it's step-daughter, I work it hard and it's not Gina on me... With a tiny slinky silver hip chain belt, this thing kicks ass.

The punchline? This is the second pink jumpsuit that has been given to me for my birthday!!! The first happened when I was 24. The father of one my Orange Pop guyfriends, himself a nutter, gave me a Hammer-style pink jumpsuit for my birthday. It had tapered balloon legs and a dipping decolletage. I never worked up the courage to wear it in public, though capered about in it privately.

So you ask yourself, how does a girl get to be a magnet for pink jumpsuits? Search me. I haven't a clue. But if I get a third one... (you can complete that thought)

Which Lost character would you like to shag?

You know, I'm always a big fan of those online tests and games. They take maybe 5 minutes out of your life, appeal to your large and consequentially fragile ego, and make for good blank-brained gazing. So far, I haven't been able to locate any of these kinds of online tests for Lost, but I believe I'll just make one up myself.

Because, let's face it, if you're thrown onto a deserted island with the likes of Sawyer, Jack or Boone, I highly doubt you'd be trading intense glances for so long. There'd be action.

So there you are, stuck on a desert island. Do you:

1. choose the man who's responsible, future chief of surgery, with general hero-disposition, despite some rather blind-sided thinking and, let's face it, future paunch-orama.

2. jump on the cute, rich boy, with the beautiful angelic face, somebody you know all the eyes follow when you walk into a club, and who will make all your gay friends cream with envy, ...and who is desperately in love with his sister.

3. seduce the sterling rugged southerner, with a penchant for stealing hearts to steal the money, scary dangerous past, snippy one-liners, and the only man balls enough to bargain his life for a kiss while being tied to a stake after being tortured by Iraqis, ...not to mention a numbing case of hypermetropia.

Well, I'll go through them, one by one.

1. Yes, Jack Sheppard is the man your mom would like you to marry, the one who'll make sure your life is practically storybook and Hallmark worthy for the rest of your life. You'll wear Banana Republic, shop for baby clothes together, he'll appreciate your new Italian coffee machine as much as the fact you've decided to volunteer for a mexican schlerosis foundation. Caveat, you probably need to be well-groomed, stay slim, and expect the missionary, every second night of the week.

Who wants that? There are girls who want that. I'm not friends with them.

2. He's so cute, he's so pretty... ok he's a little daft, and an unrequited love affair with his step-sister has probably done its fair share of psychological damage. But, you don't care. You know that Boone'll take you to the country club to play tennis, but also to a club to go dancing. He'll probably even take drugs and regretfully apologize about his prostitute 4.5 days after. He really should be on another show, like the OC, or something like that. In short, he's ornamentation...and he'll probably try and take you up the back door one day after watching too many Justin Timberlake videos.

I like him, but he's more of a gay boyfriend/ or platonic... wait 10 more years to see if the boy becomes Rob Lowe boy-man style... or maybe not. His job is working for his mom's bridal company... pretty nancy boys carry my champagne glasses. That's their job.

3. He's hot, he's dangerous. Definitely on the wrong side of the law, and not the nicest guy around. Sawyer's a grifter. At home, in the civilized world, we avoid such types because, even if they're fun to wiggle and flirt with, and for occasional throwdowns in the sack, these boys spell trouble... Sawyer's a lone wolf. But... you're forgetting one thing... you're on a desert island. He's not going anywhere, and there's a limited number of things to grift up and down. Plus, underneath that rugged exterior is a melting heart of gold that only the great woman in his life will be able to touch. Challenge? You betcha. And what a prize. Get his heart, and you're the ultimate grifter.

Plus, it's obvious he's steamin' under the sheets. (Oh my god, so it's that obvious! I'd choose sex over security and money... that's the type of girl I am. crap)


Sawyer... what a yummers.
____________________________

Actually, I was going to blog about chicken, and how I've stopped eating chicken because of how gross and tasteless chicken has become. I don't know who can eat chicken these days... industrial chicken, that only tastes like something when it's coated in over 40 different salts and spices and chemicalled oils. I hate chicken. If I was on a desert island, I'd eat sashimi, fruit and lots of spring water. Sounds like the California diet to me. And hello... unlimited supply of Uni (raw sea urchin).

straight to the top

Yup, more of the same shit, endless parties, VIPs, backstages, guest lists, catching stray glances, staying up way too late, waking up Austrian artists at 4am for more shenanigans, it's becoming a pattern. Do I care? No. In one night, I went from the side of the Canal Saint Martin, to the Marais, and then to the Cité des Arts, then up to Pigalle, and then back to Menilmontant, all for an endless stretch music appreciation... if we can call getting jammed with old frequencies music anymore. People are dripping in grey pockets all over this city.

Last night, at Vincent's birthday party, some guy cut off my Snoop Doggy Dogg song to put on some very lame and bad aggressive techno. I looked at him with my patented "what the fuck asshole?!" look. He said the music was old. It was in that split second that I knew we are regressing. Shrugged my shoulders, took his champagne, and drank it all in one gulp... then said thanks. But he was nice and came back afterwards with some excuses. Of course he had to make up.... people left after he took over DJ duties.

Anyways, it's Sunday, and now the only thing I really have to fear is the how slippery dog poo can be when there's rain, and finding out there's no orange juice in the fridge.

On a great note, I have been thoroughly sucked into a new TV series. Lost, on ABC. Yes, count me among the many who suck up this kind of Survivor/Twin Peaks drivel. Still, there is something so delicious and decadent about watching 7 hours of this shit, without break, and never having to hold out for the next week. I suppose, tonight, when I get up to Episode 20, I'll start going through withdrawal symptoms.

more dumb shit

Ok Ok... I'm going to bed now. But, before I keel off, here's a little something I got off Hez


1. YOUR PORN STAR NAME (Name of first pet / Street where you live): Keet de la Chine

2. YOUR FASHION DESIGNER NAME (First word you see on your left / Favorite restaurant): Labrador El Bulli

3. EXOTIC FOREIGNER ALIAS (Favorite Spice / Last Foreign Vacation Spot): Ume Amsterdam

4. "FLY GIRL/BOY" ALIAS (First Initial / First Two or Three Letters of your Last Name): S.RA

5. ICON ALIAS (Something Sweet Within Sight / Any Liquid in Your Kitchen): Chocolate Milk

6. DETECTIVE ALIAS (Favorite Baby Animal / Where You Went to High School): Kitten Earl Haig

7. BARFLY ALIAS(Last Snack Food You Ate / Your Favorite Alcoholic Drink) : Olives Bordeaux

8. SOAP OPERA ALIAS (Middle Name / Street Where You First Lived): Marie Whampoa

9. ROCK STAR ALIAS (Favorite Candy / Last Name Of Favorite Musician): Honey Drops de Roubaix

10. YOUR STAR WARS NAME ( First 2 letters of your first name and the first 3 Letters from your last name makes your first name. Take the first 2 letters of your mother's maiden name and the first 3 letters of the city you were born in for your last name): Saraj Losin

Resurrection!

It's alive! Somehow, he opened the box, gave it a good vacuum, and suddenly it came back to life, proving that vacuum cleaners are more useful when they aren't being used as room sculptures.

In other news, have just finished an incredible sci-fi book. It took me all of 2.5 days to rip through this one. Wolfbane, by Kornbluth and Pohl, published in 1959. It's like a precursor to the Matrix, but so much more! Rippling with ideas, philosophy and lean reasoning, this book kicks so much butt all over so many other sci-fi books I've ever read (ok, which isn't a lot, but I've read all the famous ones, like Asimov, Dick and Gibson). If you can find it, because it isn't a very popular book, I suggest you take an afternoon off and have a good feed.

a death in the house

I just did a very very bad thing... shit. I think I killed Dacnar's computer, by mistake. We work, side by side, on our computers, and since there aren't enough outlets, I usually have to switch plugs around when I want to use by external hard disk, or printer, or scanner. Unfortunately, the glowing red button that turns the bar on and off happens to placed very conveniently. If you need to pull a plug out, or stick it back in, there's no clean way to get a grip on this power bar except by putting your thumb over this button.

So, I was plugging my computer back in when I switched off the power bar. His computer went dead. I turned the power back on. No serious damage done to any of my equipment. But his computer, a fairly souped up old PC, started making odd beep beep sounds. You know the way those towers are supposed to sound: a little clicking and then the whirring begins. Nope... just beep beep. So he turns it off. Then, second time trying, only the fan kicks in.

He has no backup for some of the writing that's on this computer. He's supposed to be shooting a film next month. He thinks the motherboard is fried. I don't even know how much it costs to replace a motherboard. I'm sick to my stomach right now. Oh my GOD! What can I do???

To Toronto, with love, from Paris

I have a visitor from the Motherland this week. Ms. Mac-G is in town and I have to say I was extremely happy to see her. I love my friends, and it’s nice to see them, especially when they’re happy and beautiful, as I remember them to be. (Ok Mac-G was sometimes a grumpy-puss, but we’ve known better times as well). Catch-up was quick, because eventually had to run to work, but it was nevertheless nice. The best part was eating a falafel in the Marais park, just like we had done on my first trip to the city of lights.

All matter of things were hashed, all sorts of good gossip was passed, and all my hazy memories of Toronto were suddenly thrown in harsh and bright relief. It’s been a long time since I’ve been back in my hometown… but wait… can I still call Toronto my hometown?

This is the problem, and the source of a growing trepidation. I have been on the move since running away from that town, living in another culture, getting used to speaking a new language, coming to grips with getting older, growing up. I’m not the same girl I was three years ago, and a lot of things have changed, both in my life, and in the lives of my Toronto compadres. I am both looking forward to seeing everyone, and enjoying my time back there, but also cautiously acknowledging that all my former best friends have gotten used to a schedule that does not include me. I fear being isolated, and being a tourist in a place I used to call home.

Why did I run away from Toronto? I’ve been trying to answer that question for ages. I’m not sure… I think it had to do with drastic solutions for cowardly indecision. I was dating a boy, a wonderful boy, for 6 years, living with him, and couldn’t bring it in myself to terminate the relationship. The next best thing was leaving the country for graduate studies. A couple of months into the new school I cheated on him.

But was it just that? Not really. I love Toronto. I grew up there, and I spent the better part of my later teens and twenties partying in the central core. I knew most of the kids in the scene, I played in a band, I dated one of the most enigmatic and beloved boys in the city, I knew every nook and cranny, every new and old bar. It was old hat, and yet I still didn’t know anything else.

Yes… I think we’re getting warmer now. The truth of the matter is, as the later twenties beckoned, I realised I was deeply unsatisfied. Some call it the urge of the poet…I have no name for a ghost that haunts without face. The jabbing throb of the unexpected, the flight into the dark miasma, it screamed, and I responded in part. I have been a dark angel of the night, seeking adventure and improbable love. A mottled glance from an avenging angel is inside of me, and it eats my heart whole. I run away from problems, I run into myself.

There’s no running away when you’re alone. There’s no running away when fucking different boys leaves you unfulfilled. There’s cold comfort in the embrace of strangers. And still it beguiles… I am finding myself in Paris. A headlong jet engine where I have one finger on a wing, while my dress flaps madly in the violent air. I can’t confess to being wise, but I confess to being more in tune with who I wish to be. I have learned from mistakes, and still it is not enough. How much is enough? My heart is weak with the depth of this question…. And yet, I live!

My heart is in Paris. My heart is at home. Je vous aime.

______________________________

Dedicated to old and new friends, both here, and abroad, without whom…. it is unanswerable.

Message Personnel

{parlé:}
Au bout du téléphone, il y a votre voix
Et il y a des mots que je ne dirai pas
Tous ces mots qui font peur quand ils ne font pas rire
Qui sont dans trop de films, de chansons et de livres
Je voudrais vous les dire
Et je voudrais les vivre
Je ne le ferai pas,
Je veux, je ne peux pas
Je suis seule à crever, et je sais où vous êtes
J'arrive, attendez-moi, nous allons nous connaître
Préparez votre temps, pour vous j'ai tout le mien
Je voudrais arriver, je reste, je me déteste
Je n'arriverai pas,
Je veux, je ne peux pas
Je devrais vous parler,
Je devrais arriver
Ou je devrais dormir
J'ai peur que tu sois sourd
J'ai peur que tu sois lâche
J'ai peur d'être indiscrète
Je ne peux pas vous dire que je t'aime peut-être

{chanté:}
Mais si tu crois un jour que tu m'aimes
Ne crois pas que tes souvenirs me gênent
Et cours, cours jusqu'à perdre haleine
Viens me retrouver
Si tu crois un jour que tu m'aimes
Et si ce jour-là tu as de la peine
A trouver où tous ces chemins te mènent
Viens me retrouver
Si le dégoût de la vie vient en toi
Si la paresse de la vie
S'installe en toi
Pense à moi
Pense à moi

Mais si tu crois un jour que tu m'aimes
Ne le considère pas comme un problème
Et cours, cours jusqu'à perdre haleine
Viens me retrouver
Si tu crois un jour que tu m'aimes
N'attends pas un jour, pas une semaine
Car tu ne sais pas où la vie t'emmène
Viens me retrouver
Si le dégoût de la vie vient en toi
Si la paresse de la vie
S'installe en toi
Pense à moi
Pense à moi.

Mais si tu...
{instrumental}

_____________

The Francoise Hardy version is the classic. The Isabelle Huppert version will break you. Dedicated to myself.

just like Bruce Banner

I have had a hard time posting since Saturday. Not for any reason, mind you, but just suffering the after-shocks of what was surely one of the most infamous nights in all my 30 years... if only I could just remember it.

Was there GHB in the water? Did I somehow manage to ingest some conscience altering chemicals? I know that I was untouched, in any criminal sense, but this has left me with a strange buzzing since random images are starting to flicker back, and while none of them seem embarassing, everything is coloured by the fact that they seem filtered through slitted eyes.

Yesterday, overcome with dread and curiosity, I phoned a witness, the witness, Voin, who was there the whole time. We met up for dinner. He just cooed and looked at awe at me. He said "you were amazing! All the most beautiful boys at the party followed you around. We wanted to leave because you were hogging all the attention." He said it was like a superpower... like a superhero. Of course I asked, "did I look really really drunk?" "No, you looked actually kind of normal and sober."

This is so fucked. I can't remember anything about a pack of beautiful boys. I remember odd faces now and then, and while they were kinda cute, I don't remember them being spectacularly yummy. And you'd think you'd remember things like a pack of beautiful boys following you around.

So... this is my conclusion... and let me lay this stone cold bare. I got drunk. I got drugged, which triggered a major internal transformation. I turned into my superhero alter-ego, Princess Flirt. I pranced merrily through the night, incurring some moppy haired fashion boys on the way. I went home, where I finished my transformation back to normal person, in my sleep, and was left weakened and sapped by the whole experience.

How do I know this is possible? It's because I think I do have an ability to control and overcharge my pheromones. When Bruce Banner changed back and forth into the Hulk, he had no memory of his alter-ego. The fact that I looked sober attests to this as well. This is the only rational explanation I can come up with. Yes, my friends, this is a comic evasion for a very disturbing lacune.

dacnar is my husband.

This afternoon, after he cooked me my hangover special, almost-raw steak with boiled potatoes. Yes, sometimes he can be that cute... but there's also this side...

the day after...

I woke up this morning with terror. I have little to no memory about how I got home, except that it involved a cab...I think I passed out in the cab. Last night is one very very long and big blur. I remember the opening details, but somewhere after the fourth glass of wine was thrust into my hands, and I had completely forgotten to eat after taking one look at what was served at the free buffet, things start to get hazy. I do remember dancing and dancing, and laughing and laughing. So if you saw a chic pony-tailed asian princess twirling and shimmering at the Agnès B. after-party, well that was me!!

Fête ce soir...

Petite annonce: les jumelles fantastiques, Marussia et Voin, performe un concert ce soir à PopIn.

Our favourite sartorial vampires, and yes I am royalty today, will be playing a concert at the PopIn. Whether this is atrociously bad and embarassing, or amazingly bad and experimental, who can guess? I know they haven't practised, and I know they don't know what they're playing. But, knowing those two bat-winged lacy geniuses, something very great could still brew up.... But I'm not crossing my fingers, and I do feel like I'm going to an enterrement.

Le Roi est Nu.

Ok, today's political horse-betting is published on another site. I put up a post on tonight's European Consitutional Debate, starring no less than Chirac himself, on the Parisist. And yes, it's written in french, so get your translation engines ready... though recent evidence has lead me to believe that babelfish is practising some dark and approximate science with my elegant amaranthine prose.

Let's be 'avin 'you!

HOLY MANGOSTEENS!!! Better than an eskimo trampoline championship, this video clip shows British cooking doyenne, Delia Smith, flipping her lid on the Norwich football supporters. Apparently Mrs. Smith got trashed on some bubbly, and proceeded to give us her upper class gutter snipe. Truly, a brilliant moment of obscure A-list celebrity burning its wings in trashy internet way.... the equivalent of Paris's P*rn tape in the culinary world.

... and random entrails

Google has satellite maps, but only for North America. Check it out folks! That yellow dot is where I grew up, in North York. Yay! Just when I thought I'd run out of useless yet fascinating internet toys...


home is where the yellow dot is.

leaving an open trail of blood from the bodies slashed would only work to her disadvantage. it attracted sharks.

Help Help... I'm bleeding! But no, there really are no dead bodies around.

Yeah, so went to the Mouvement magazine birthday party. The usual crew was there, gimme a V! a T! an L! a J! a P! a Q! and an SUV! and that's what we call a turnout. Dressing was down, and mostly black. It's cold and dark, the vibe tonight, like living in a musty run-down palace where the wall is crumbling underneath the paint. There were chandeliers and the theatre itself was the false treasure some wooden-toothed buccaneer had invented in a fabled encounter with rum. I wore my Conan belt again. Yeah... there was music and stuff... yeah... but place had anti-dance electricity on full-blast... so was like pulling teeth after awhile.

Am too tired from continuous string of socialising. Need more bedtime. Either that or the night was really boring.

more ramblings from the emerald fields

So, the ole Painfeeler, haven't had much in the way of reportings for a bit. But, in the ripe tradition of hungover posts, I present a stanza from his song, "ride the scorpion." He provides the exegesis, with lyrics.

He's very good at explaining stuff, I think. Plus, I guess this is a bit of a guest post, and I only accept guest posting from magnetic underlords of the oneiric field of which Outlaw must be the Master Blaster.
_____________________________________________________
Excerpt from "Ride the Scorpion," by Adam Outlaw

hobo scabs on the nitemare coast
the olsen twins at the weenie roast
it's dollar beer nite so I make a toast
i'll be a parasite if you be my host


i had this visionfever dream of all these hobos with skinmange dying
on this weird, desolate beach. Purple, redtide waves and a screeching
electronic hum. I had to dodge the flicked, contaminated flesh flakes
of these derelicts. I did so and finally crawled my way to a
Pyramid...Mayan Style...emeralds and rubies and saphires and
topaz.....and obsidian-sleek narrow stairs......The Olsen twins
high-atop the Pyramid...in fur bikinis presiding...shucking and jiving
with all these handsome, granite-faced sexy hunks. So sexy and
handsome and creamy of studs as to make me whimper. My penis
retracted and I felt like a little boy about to board a roller coaster
for the first time.


Nothing salacious...mind you. Hot dogs on sticks stuck in a fire.


I was largely unnoticed by these hunks and the Olsen Twins. One of
the girls motioned for me to pass her the salt shaker. She didn't
talk to me...but there was some other sniveler, betamales present and
we said to ourselves, "Fuck this shit. Let's go knock back some suds
at the local cantina."

We made our way to the bar and I was the wittiest of all. The barmaid
was impressed with me. I was killing her softly with my jokes. But
she saw through my quicksilver wit...she lasered through my spongeflab
and perceived with thermal vision....a squealing, white grub
larvae...hollering and moaning for venom milk. I asked her for some.
She said, "NO." A firm "no.".....but she was kind of sad about
turning me down. I can sense this kind of thing.




parasite and toast

Grace

1. Seemingly effortless beauty or charm of movement, form, or proportion.
2. A characteristic or quality pleasing for its charm or refinement.
3. A sense of fitness or propriety.
4. 1. A disposition to be generous or helpful; goodwill.
   2. Mercy; clemency.
5. A favor rendered by one who need not do so; indulgence.
6. A temporary immunity or exemption; a reprieve.
7. Graces Greek & Roman Mythology. Three sister goddesses, known in Greek mythology as Aglaia, Euphrosyne, and Thalia, who dispense charm and beauty.
8. 1. Divine love and protection bestowed freely on people.
   2. The state of being protected or sanctified by the favor of God.
   3. An excellence or power granted by God.
9. A short prayer of blessing or thanksgiving said before or after a meal.

taken from that ole standby, Dictionary.com


But...does it count for afterwards as well, when, at 2:45am, you're smoking old butts out of the ashtray, your lips are purple from too much wine, and you're laughing your pants off? Well, yes it does! More later... till then, thank you Queenie (vraiment gros bisous pour la soirée exceptionnelle), Scoubs, Gasp and Dacnar. It was a wonderful evening. Description tomorrow, after a nice long and well-deserved sleep.

Road Rage

Saturday night, on my way to the parties, I was trying to cross the road when something happened. What happened seems to be a typical and an oft-occuring event in my life in Paris. But this time, I wasn't gonna take it. No sirree!

So, there I was, waiting patiently on the sidewalk to cross the street. The lights had changed in my favour and I glanced left, always, in self-defence. Because when you live in Paris long enough, you realize that half the buggers don't know that a red light means stop. So I looked at the twat-face, a black man, in his white van, his eyes half-closed, looking meanly at me below his nose. And then I put one step forward. And then he crossed the line! I mean, he just decided to break the law and go over the pedestrian line, as the light was red! He did it slowly enough that it gave me enough time to yell obscenities and give a very good palm smash into the side.

The palm smash caught his attention. Hitting any vehicule always gets the attention of the driver. Now, this is the most amazing bit. He stopped the van, and instead of checking to see if I was hurt, started yelling at me. So I told him, in perfect french, tu toyais-ing the bastard the whole time, that he was a fucking idiot, that the light was red, and he was too stupid obviously to know that red means stop, something three year olds understand. At which point he went blood furious and started to call me all sorts of sweet names. And then I smiled and called him an asshole who didn't care if he killed people with his van and such irresponsible assholes should be lucky there's no cop around to strip him of his licence, but that I was willing to stay around and chat, if he wanted to call a cop. (I flipped open my cellphone. He jumps back in the van and storms off. I had comic-book steam rising off my head for 10 minutes)

I bloody well lost it. Road fucking rage. Fuck.

But it was interesting. I never scream at motorists, unless from a fast moving bike. And it must have been a sight: this pony-tailed girl in her Audrey Hepburn Givenchy-like outfit, all pale pink and black, telling off some dickhead, in her perfect french. That's why dressing well is important. Because, swearing like a pirate, beating up white vans, and getting a little old lady in a white mink to stare admiringly at you, when you look like princess, is the fucking triple slam- dunk shit!

weekend update

Well, this weekend was like all the other weekends: I went out, I saw beautiful people, I drank myself silly, I talked shite on the shinola, and then I stumbled home at some obscene hour, with small regrets and a secret vow to give up all things toxic to my body... a vow broken at some unappointed hour sometime in the following week.

This time, the Saturday started at Baumet Sultana, a gallery in the Marais. They were showing the work of up and coming drawer Charles Anastase. Reviews were mixed. Some people gushed, others pouted and shrugged. Not an unqualified but moderate success. The unqualified success was the party, though. So many of the sweetness and fashionably wispy-looking-pretty-somethings who could be in some Dutch magazine somewhere, coupled with crisp white wine, a setting sun, and the profane idea that somehow you could talk about the Royal Wedding for over 20 minutes, and still be gorgeously funny and insane.

I think I actually talked about art, and quite coherently to boot! That's a first for these opening things, where usually we blubber pithy nonsense, slip happily into our fizzy heads and jump around in pretty outfits. People were impressed. Some crazy Bulgarian guy named Angel asked me if I was married to my Muffin... and we both simultaneously answered... me-NO, he-YES.

Then wandered like idiots trying to find Stefan's for dinner. Voin, Thibault, that Angel-guy and me... trekking in damp cold up and down the Fauberg Saint-Martin, then the Fauberg Saint-Denis, searching for cheap wine, and chocolate to bring. Get there and Kim let's us in... she's this incredibly stunning Korean girl.... like she could be in Twin Peaks, that girl. Classy. (Turns out she wants to play badminton and watch horror films, so looks like I have a new ladyfriend)

We all crowd round the bar in her designer friend's kitchen... slurping Bordeaux, rolling smoke and gushing like morons on the incredibly well-placed low ceiling. Dinner was a very simple and tasty pasta (creamy mushrooms topped with slivered almonds which had been roasted with garlic, honey and hot chillis). Night wore deep on. Then the Bulgarian guy fell off his chair. He then tried to sleep at Stefan's, but that wasn't happening. Then he asked to sleep at my place, repeatedly, and wouldn't stop pushing me about it...and I asked him why he didn't just go home? He said it was in Vincennes. Vincennes is right on the Peripherique... he could just take a taxi home, or walk...

We walked all the way to Republique, at which point I took advantage of his gawking at a bus schedule, to walk quickly away. The rest of the walk was lovely, by myself, late late Saturday night. People were clustered around on Republique, in drunken groups as taken cabs sailed past like a flood of bloated rats. Then, moving up Oberkampf, pass the usual faded tulips dripping around the security at Cafe Charbon, the lineups for kebabs and hamburger crepes, men, boys, girls, women, looking red-eyed and suitably blank-faced. The climbing of the mountain, where passers-by became rarer and rarer. And then the familiar corner, the Art Nouveau grilling on the front door, my fire hydrant red door, and entry...

...where I discovered, much to my shock, that Dacnar was not at home! He was at another party! But, never fear, as soon as I crawled under the covers, I heard the clicking and lock moving... and he was home. Sometimes he jumps around too...

Today: woke up sick and exhausted, again. Got quickly dressed, stuffed some mirabelle cake in my mouth with lemonade, then popped out to go to Nicolas's place. He's a friend of Dacnar's... more precisely, he's a fan of his blog, and they are mutual fans of cycling. Actually, Nicolas has his own blog on cycling and literature, that's apparently quite good... très pointu et erudite, in the husband's own words. I haven't read it yet, but perhaps you will!

Anyways, so we go over to his place near the Gare de l'Est, and spend a very pleasant afternoon eating meat and tuna tarts, olives, pickled octopus, white wine and clafouti. It was all kind of strange and rubbishy in my stomach, but my stomach wasn't in the mood to play nice. Luckily, the tea solved all these problems.

The race was excellent, Paris-Roubaix, despite the lack of rain. I didn't know it, but this race is older than the Tour de France by one year, and is often called the Queen of the Classics. Anyways, 24-year phenom Tom Boonen kicked ass, and dominated the race, like the future and current champion he is. Really, I assure you, it's a new guard in the sports world. The older generation, the plus 30s, they're going dinosaur faster than a baguette goes stale.

Was incredibly beat, and feeling woozy but chugged along to the Porte de Clichy to see Leo and the Lacombite at the Atelier Oblik. Leo didn't perform, as was promised, but did manage to drink incredibly cheap red wine, eat Mafé (african peanut and chicken curry), and chit the chat with the double Ls, whom I haven't seen in a bit. The place was very squat hippy from the early 90s, and I object to hearing old techno at 6pm on a Sunday evening, especially if it's coupled with acid graphics, but I survived.

Somewhere on the way home, I realized I desperately had to pee, but still had another 45 minutes left before my foot would be through the door. Concentration, determination, walking like a penguin... that helped. But what really helped was Dacnar sprinting ahead to ring the elevator for me, then racing up the stairs so that the moment I left the elevator, I was in direct sight of the toilet. That, my friends, is true love.

Here's mud in your eye!

Le Blaireau (Bernard Hinault)

My back is out... thrown out... pain... owww...
Happened during the making of dinner, which was stuffed mackerel, served over a parmesan polenta and provencal tomato sauce... food was good, but am now out of service....

fuck.

On better news, the weather promises to continue being shitty, all through the weekend. Consistent day temperatures of 6 or 7 degrees, coupled with showers. Why does this fill me with glee? (besides the obvious reason that it comforts my staying at home) It's because this Sunday is the legendary Paris-Roubaix bike race, legendary for being one of the more horrible and difficult bike races. Horrific climatic conditions coupled with riding bumpily on cobble stones for a good latter portion of the race make for lumpy stories some geezer tells by the fireside. I had the good fortune to be in Roubaix for the finish last year, but it was a sunny mudless race, and therefore, less impressive. This year, though, we can guarantee that there will be many "terrible chute!" and muddied faces arriving on the finish line. Cold, rain, mud, slippery cobbles, pain, horror, the horror, l'enfer du Nord (The Hell of the North)... and at the end, one chevalier to stand tall after the crossing of the line on the Velodrome. As if going to Roubaix wasn't bad enough already.

I can't believe I just did that!

Holy crap. I just ate two giant pieces of KFC in under 15 minutes. Hmmm, spicy! I didn't even bother eating anything else, like salad, or potatoes... just that fried chicken. I love fried chicken... I was really missing it and felt lazy, after trekking to the market and bringing home veggies... Plus, deep-fried battered chicken is always one of those things that's better bought from people who can make it fresh, from industrial lard vats. So, market trip ended in KFC... that's Nardac logic for you. And yup, tasted oh so fine!

(in case you're wondering, I'm almost back to summer slink shape... only a small brioche left now... sit-UPs!)

Conte de Printemps

May I kiss you?

Spent today, fatigued and weary, in a state of cerebral brown out. Luckily, right to the rescue were two very lovely films: Conte de Printemps (A Spring Tale) and Perceval le Gallois (Percival the Welshman), both by Eric Rohmer.

Given the night I had, and that we are in the full throes of spring, I had many strange and ironic moments watching the Conte de Printemps. It is a tale, in Rohmer's tradition, of the relationships people have with each other. Filled with suppressed desire, and a delicate touch with dialogue, what is running like a charged electric current underneath the characters is never so much verbalised as kept balanced on a high-tension line. This is exactly the kind of film I love, where so much of what people think of each other is diverted in waves of language and gesture.

I loved the two female leads in this film. The older woman, pictured above, the philosophy professor who talks her way out of the responsibility of talking at a party... she's the intellect as the dominant force over action. Then, there is the younger girl, the red head, capricious, joyous, spontaneous, diabolical. Machiavellic in appearance, and action, but without intention. Immovable object meets unstoppable force.




Perceval

Second up to bat is Rohmer's other film, Percival, the Welsh, a classic bildungsroman. I have to confess that the language, written in some medieval french, contains words that left me baffled... I muddled my way through this film. Luckily, the film is largely visual, and what you need to understand can be understood from the face-making gestures, weepy chorus girls, and spear through knight's eye.

Percival, in this film, is a rather foolish and naive boy whose mother, after losing her husband and two eldest sons to the Quests of the Round Table, hides her last son away in the forest. Percival, having grown up in greater ignorance of knights, girls, and, well, almost everything, meets 5 knights in the forest. He believes they are gods, and thus desiring to be likewise, decides to be knight. So begins his quest, which leads him to violently kiss girls, stare bright-eyed off camera, spout off heroic epithets, watch the Holy Grail go by while chewing on some roast boar, and generally have a rip-roaring time. Not exactly a noble knight, and a touch idiotic, though always carrying a very nice back-up band, these minstrel type fellows who sing proclamatory choruses to tell in-between actions.

I really like the film, in absolute and total... Obviously, the most striking thing is that it is filmed entirely on a set, a round set, with painted castle backdrops and strange metallic trees...not so far from Dogville, but barrels more fun...

cannon shot on the smoky village 4am

I will most certainly erase this tomorrow. But tonight, started evening at the ARC, where I met a whole sea of boys from the Cité des Arts, Hôtel de Ville. There was lots of fun to be had, chowing and chewing with Nico, my muffin from the gallery, and Austrian boy gave me an invite to the free drinks and food party afterwards. By the time the night ended, at Point FMR, I had fended off two serious proposals for sex, the first one completely inappropriate and embarassing, the other one rather bashful yet sodden. Finally somebody suggested that I better get a ring so that people know I'm married. (add-on, I don't think it's really about being married so much as saying no.)


addendum (day after)

Momentarily dismayed at my cavalier attitude towards sex, flirtation.... men in general. But where is the poetry if not in the quicksilver moment where the initial burn of an attraction is immediately sideslipped from action. The other day, I was talking about Un Monde Sans Pitié, the first french film I watched, when still a teenager. It's exactly the type of film that Americans would never be able to understand from the french (Janet Maslin's review was laughable, but how else can she see the world but through those American goggles). The script was co-penned by Arnaud Desplechin, which reveals that maybe my taste hasn't changed a lot since my youth. I loved that film, the nihilism, the faithfulness to a world that only exists because of lightness, the apocryphal battle in your 20s between fantasy and reality, and the absurdity of real compassion when faced with true love. It is for me a truth, that desire is real, that a moment where a glance is passed and the shades are pulled naked from the eyes is a moment of true beauty. I regret nothing.

Jimming the Jive when the old tentacular brain is goin' flatlined

I can't believe how gay that last post was... I mean like geek... not that I'm slammin' homosexuals, because then all my guy friends would slap me up.

Anyways, that's what happens when you spend too long in front of your computer, recovering from two weeks of grant writing to scary french institutions that not only want to know what ants are trickling from your brain, but the size of your panties too. I can reveal the size of my panties but never the style, so I had to be extra creative on that end.

What else... Paris is fun... it will be fun tonight... Voin and I are packing double punch at the Modern Art Museum so come over, if you have a chance... it's the one at Saint Michel. The Andrea Crews crew, lead by archbishop Marussia, will be starring with her own massive wall space, then lame drinks and cocktails at the Point FMR, with fellow artists, where head will resemble turnstile à la Exorcist.

Yeah, kind of chill right now... but workin' on the new project, so feeling icky and flummoxed. I have a security problem with my art. Ok... now off to have tea with my delegate from the Ministry of Culture. Wish me luck girls and guys.

Best of the 90s

I'm getting old. I know it. Starting to get nostalgic about the 90s now! So, in that grand tradition of lists, I present my best songs of the 90s. I believe that this list is probably incomplete, in which case, feel free to complete it for me.

The list is in no particular order. It was already difficult enough to pick them out. Don't ask me to rank them.

_________________________



Boys and Girls – Blur
Quintessential party song, heralding the cool sexually ambiguous identity of the late 90s.

Longview – Green Day
At that time, a staunch brit-popper, I found myself caving irresistably to Green Day’s California Happy Punk. I don't remember any of the lyrics, just the down thrust of his hand.

Cut Your Hair - Pavement (also Summer Babe)
I already blogged about Pavement… I love Pavement. If you don’t, too fucking sad.

I’m in love with a girl – Big Star
Beautiful and perfect love song.

On Such Favours – Sam Prekop
When I moved to France, I took around 10 albums with me. This one was the first one I picked. This whole album is incredible. The whole damn thing. Put it on on a Sunday morning.

She don’t use jelly – The Flaming Lips
The Flaming Lips are still around, and still kicking ass, proving your pop career doesn’t have to end at 40. "I know a girl who thinks of ghosts/she'll make ya breakfast/she'll make ya toast/she don't use butter/she don't use cheese/she don't use jelly/she uses vaseline."
When I hear this song, I remember certain people, especially Rodger, and our trip to New Orleans.

Loser – Beck
His first big hit during the grunge era. Strange, funny and sloppy, and it didn't hurt that Beck was every middle class white girl's wet dream.

No Rain – Blind Melon
Ok, that bee girl video alone merits this entry. But, you know, if you really pay attention, past the carefree summer breeze of the song, is a bottomlessly dark soul.

Lover, You should have come over – Jeff Buckley
This is the song you put on the mixed tape you never sent to the person you loved, and couldn’t have.

Come as You Are and Smells like Teen Spirit – Nirvana
You waited for this one. I hope I didn't keep you waiting too long. I remember Ferzana and I use to scoff at those grunge heads, because I didn’t want to wear long sleeve t-shirts and a toque, but secretly, those two songs made me scream. Kurt was a real golden ponyboy. I was in HMV on Yonge Street when I heard he had died. I remember even which aisle I was in. The icon of that time, and throw out all those other awful grunge records, like Pearl Yuck and Alice gross my Chains out.

Creep – Radiohead
That thunderous guitar broke me in two. Their guitarist had the most amazing fringe in the video, which he flung around… made me love bad teeth, intensely. Like a dam breaking.

Killing me Softly – The Fugees
C’mon, fess up. Mainstream and such a voice. Soul sister and getting the honies together for a emotional bomb shelter music.

She Bangs the Drums – The Stone Roses
I was a young’un, a teenager, and I bought this album on a cassette, to take with me on a road trip, the final road trip, to the Grand Canyon, with my parents. Even they bopped to this song. Dance, rock, obscure, mythological… they made us wait while they self-destructed.

Murder was the Case – Snoop Doggy Dogg
I avoided Snoop for awhile, because, well, I was more emo and brit-pop and he was forbidden fruit. But then I saw him perform on the Grammies, where he came out on a wheelchair to perform this song, complete with rising coffin. Made me cream, those crippled styles, coupled with his dead eye glance. So slick, so smooth. Snoop is still one sexy dogg.

Big Poppa – Notorious B.I.G.
Ooo-waaaa-oooo, another case of being too smooth to resist. “cause I see some ladies tonight who should be havin’ my baby… baby.”

Waltz #2 - Elliot Smith
This is from the XO album, which I played so many times I scratched the vinyl in numerous places, and had to buy another copy. I mean, there are so many songs on this album that can kill you with melody and arrangement… heartbreaking. I cried when I heard he committed suicide. Pure delicate soul.

She Talks to Angels – The Black Crowes
I never dug their look, all bohemian and drippy hippy. But this song… when you love someone who you can’t protect, you can't hold back, you can't change, but you love them, just the same.

Metal Mickey – Suede
Bernard Butler, who only played on their first two albums, was my first full-blown guitarist crush. His guitar rocks all over the first album, which somehow makes Brett Anderson’s whining bearable. In this song, his guitar announces itself in the first run with a shrieking intro, followed by thunderous almost Bach guitar riff. Blitzkrieg! It was also the first real concert I went to, where I was crushed against the stage, could barely play, and was physically moved from side to side by the sea of fans. If you watched the FAX (Muchmusic news program) report on this concert, you saw me and Ferzana, side by side. We didn’t know each other then. Two months later, we were best friends.

Into Your Arms – The Lemonheads
Ok, Evan Dando. He’s a paradox, and a bit of a twat. He has the build of a woodcutter, or a barrel chested mechanic, but in his yellow pajamas, he became the king of indie rock. The Lemonheads wrote some of the most perfect pop songs when they first came out.

Rebirth of Slick (Cool like Dat) – The Digable Planets
One hit wonder, but what a sweet one it is. Nice sampling of Miles and cool as ice rapping. "We be to rap what key be to lock...Yo, Cleopatra Jones." I know y’all forgot this one.

One (with Horace Andy) – Massive Attack
Overcome – Tricky
I feel compelled to add something from these buggers, though they have become so uncool, in my books. The voice of the girl, on that Tricky song, is so cool. Like she’s hiding all her hurt in that breathy steely voice. The music, a masterpiece eaking from the cold air in a subterranean tunnel.
And One is still the song I hold onto with Massive Attack. “I believe in one love.”

Cannonball – The Breeders
I saw the Breeders at Lollapalooza and they rocked. This song rocks. It just fucking rocks! Kim Deal was so cool, and that touching coquette like guitar opening, backed by fuzzy guitar.… Back when Sassy was still the coolest girl magazine.

Track #3 on Selected Ambient Works II – Aphex Twin
I made a photo project a long time ago, where I went back to the suburbs of my adolescence. Those photographs, my empty schoolyard, the bus on the forgotten corner, the apartment complex, the suburban windows all closed with their patterned windows and neat lawns, I played this song to go with it.

Liquid Swords – GZA
“Lyrics are weak like clock-radio speakers.” Bow down to the Genius.

Around the World – Daft Punk
You must dance… robot style. French pop dance… we knew things had changed and the economy was better, computers were better, and something very chill and zipppy was blowing from across the ocean.

Kelly Watch the Stars – Air
More evidence that France was breeding some very sweet stuff. The whole Moon Safari album is as sweet as a slushie on an August afternoon. Made me want to dress more like a french princess and less like an artist.

Windowlicker and Come to Daddy – Aphex Twin (VIDEO!!!)
Yes, I was a huge Aphex Twin fan. But these two, their videos, made by Chris Cunningham, who later went on to do some of Bjork’s videos and that Event Horizon film, rock rock rock. Especially the beginning of the windowlicker video, with the 2km long limo. Tap dancing virus that makes us all look like Richard D. James on drugs. And Come to Daddy, the monster screaming into the granny’s face is the funniest thing ever in a video.

On a side note, Richard D. James actually saved my life, literally. I was a music reporter for my university at that time, and I had blagged my way to getting an interview with him. We were preparing to cross the street across from the Opera House, and, so star struck I was, that I walked right in front of a speeding cab. Richard grabbed my anorak and pulled me back. "watch yourself there!" There are witnesses.

Professor Booty – The Beastie Boys
“Professor, what’s another name for pirate treasure… Why I think it’s booty!…”

Tears are Cool – Teenage Fanclub
Emo kids cream all over this one. But it’s true, a man who can cry, who can see his girl cry and not turn away, that’s cool. Sympathy for the breakable.

Connection – Elastica
Justine! Donna! Matt! Donna! Jabber bullet guitar jag! And the classic dipping bass boom.

Casper the Friendly Ghost – Daniel Johnston (when I discovered him on the Kids Soundtrack… another good one is that song by Folk Implosion, Jenny’s Theme)
Yeah, normally I don’t buy into those whole soundtrack things, which are basically somebody else’s top ten, but this soundtrack kicks ass. Which makes sense. Because the film is a classic. It showed, finally, what we were doing when we wore our extra-flared pants. Should make your parents melt with fear, but whatever.

And after that… I discovered Daniel Johnston, which deserves a whole separate post. He’s in the top 5 of my favourite musicians, right next to Wendy Carlos.

Fantasy – Mariah Carey
So sue me! Fuck off! It’s a shake yer bum and smile sweetly pop song. Watch out everyone… Coming out of the closet! I am a Mariah fan! C’mon, even ODB was down with her!

Shimmy Shimmy Ya – ODB
ODB was a mad genius… roiling around like a drunken man on a tempest-borne tall sailed ship. He bounced his own way, and this song makes you want to get the booty on the move. A real dirty bastard… “ooooh, baby, I like rawwww!”

Don’t Look Back in Anger – Oasis
The Gallagher boys make good on this one. I hate Oasis. I always have… I’m not much up for their antics, nor the over-bearing big stadium sound they like to carry. But credit where credit is due. This song, and that Wonderwall song, have some of the most beautiful and affirmative chord progressions. The real bittersweet symphony with ample reworking of all some classic Beatles chords. Hands in the air… “and soooo Sally can wait… but don’t look back in anger, I heard ‘ya say!” And yes, it is nice that their lyrics don’t make any sense. Even grannies will get their lighters in the air for this one.



Addendums:

Jump - Kris Kross
How the hell did I forget this? Before Lil' Bow Wow, and all that baby rapper nonsense, we had the Mac Daddy, and the Daddy Mac. Explosive, jumpin' and ages so well. You can still listen to this shit! And blew up that whole, "wear your pants backwards" fad.
"Cause I'm the miggida miggida miggida Mac Daddy
Miggida miggida miggida Mac
Cause I'm the miggida miggida miggida Mac Daddy"
How many people tried to say that... tried and died!


Under the Bridge - Red Hot Chilli Peppers
This song introduced us to the genius of John Frusciante. I don't care for Keidis and his crew, though I always loved Flea's pants in that video Higher Ground (no surprise since the Yetis make me scream!)... Anyways, good ole' John was a guitar prodigy, and he caved under the subsequent pressure, heroin, wooden teeth, dressing like a woman from the 40s, an amazing if incomprehensible solo album, suddenly, he's back five years later, having lost all his baby boy looks and jumping straight into the dirtbag 35s. This song is testament to the boy before he lost his virginity.

no R.E.M., no U2, no Bjork, no Pearl Jam, none of that shit… and don’t bother me about it.
whew... lots of work... now I'm gonna listen to my Monteverdi... getting ready for my geriatric styles.

Insanity

Tell me why I love the market... it's because you can get around 2kg worth of strawberries for 1Eu! This was my score at Place des Fêtes market this week... of course they're from Spain but who cares!!! Trifle all week and out with the diet!

I also picked up a most beautiful piece of ruby fatty tuna, 500gm of fresh shitake mushrooms for 2Eu, and some deliciously sweet and perfect tomatoes... among other things... like the roasted rabbit with mustard and tarragon that I had for lunch. It's really worth it to haul ass to this market because it offers the best money to quality offers out of all of Paris, according to food critic Emmanuel Giraud.

Is it possible to arrive too late on a Pirate Ship?

Yes.

First of all, I'm really sad to disappoint all those people who come to my site looking for emo hairstyles. Don't worry guys! I'll get my act together, once my camera arrives, and take some pictures of the current new HOT DOs in Paris! Stay tuned for more of this kind of useful information.

So, last night, had a funny case of cabin fever and phoned Ana up late in the afternoon in full panic. She gave me a rendez-vous for the Russian Palace, in Scoub's space. But, as usual, when it got close to the time, I wasn't ready. So I called Scoubs to tell her I'd be late showing up, whereupon we changed the RV to the Cheri bar.

Do you know this bar? It's one of those bars in Paris where the poor minions who scrape the barrel of the art community converge upon. A mixture of dirty heads and fashionable scruffy wear. Alas, it also has a rather lovely terrace/sidewalk, so we like it... despite the ridiculous clientele (OMG! Am I part of this ridiculous clientele? Please, tell me it's not true!)

So I get there, and Voilà! Scoubs, Queenie looking pretty in the setting sun. Order myself a quick beer and drop straight into my usual performance... random and useless gossip coupled with excited gesticulating and hair whips. We wait for ages, and Ana shows up, with her NEW PHONE! Yah, crazy digital camera attached, which is really easy to access, except for the annoying fact it flips everything upside down. Was going to just have dinner with Queenie, eating chicken, but Ana proposes we head to the Pirates Ginguette for a concert... she's got a plus one on her guest list so I say yes, because I hate to pass up free stuff.

So, after dinner, where Gasp spent most of his time draining Ana's cellphone account and battery watching TV, much to her chagrin, we dip off towards the Pirate Ship...

Ok, as you might guess, if you follow this blog, Ana and I together navigating is a horrifically bad idea. Alone, I can chalk up some serious misdirection. But together, we turn into the fuddle duddle twins. Luckily, we know this, so this time we opted for asking for directions...at almost every turn. It took about an hour to get there.

The Ginguette is located just opposite the Bibliotheque Francois Mitterand, that battery of black ominous skyscrapers hanging over the eastern edge of the Seine. The Ginguette is basically an old wooden boat converted into a club. It actually floats on the water, so when large barges swoosh by, the waves send us a rocking. I have to say I always feel very romantic about boats, let alone Pirate Boats...

When we got there the music was thundering noisy from the outside. An intense roar of noise and feedback.... a wall of sound. I was so excited! We get in there and it's amazing... just raw noise, with a mad drummer and a guitarist squealing away, and massive massive feedback and roar. It was exhilirating... the sound ripped through me. I had to stand stock. This lasted for about 4 minutes, after which the guy announced the concert was over. The group was called Stuntman 5, in case you're interested.

WTF! I'm always getting in late for things... but this is ridiculous. They played a weak encore, Elvis's Blue Christmas, but I was sad... this is the second time in two months that I've arrived to catch the final song of a band. The tardiness problem is getting to be a liability.

Then, after beers, chats, we decided to head home because looks like the night was pretty cooked... I sent some random messages, and everything was just slightly less than appealing so chug-a-lug... sometimes you just gotta cash your chips in before the night bites your ass.

On the way home, passed an absolutely beautiful chair, just lying on the sidewalk. Very 60s cabana mixed with Eames... I phoned everybody who might possibly help me drive it home. Alas, to no avail. I suppose I could've just taken a cab, but, when things aren't meant to be, they aren't meant to be.

Got home and the boys were sitting in front of the TV, laughing and cracking Pope Jokes. Sometimes, Dacnar's humour is so NOT cool. I punched him several times, until he said he had to go to sleep. After which I played with my computer a bit and watched the Sin City trailer over and over again...

__________________

I need to email a certain someone back, about his wonderful writing that he sent to me. The Outlaw gave further confirmation of his sheer genius the other day. Impressed? You bet! If I was a publishing house, I'd sign the bugger up and chain him to a desk, somewhere near some owls, with a permanent parade just outside the door. Of course I can't write him back immediately because, when someone sends you this type of mail bomb, you need a bit of recovery time to sent the appropriate artillery back.

__________________

And to be even more irreverant....

Yes, I know the Pope is dead. It really is a turning of the page... A new generation steps forth.
For example, Fernando Alonso won today's F1 race. He's 25. Tom Boonen won the Tour de Flandres. He's 23 I think. And if Nadal creams Federer's ass, that would be the final nail on my thesis. Hey, the Pope was a big sports guy when he was young. He would appreciate my enthusiasm for physical excellence!

As for the Pope, yes, I thought he was rather a great man... despite some of his more archaic ways of thinking (abortion, women's rights, condoms), he did do some very great things (like his strong anti-communist stance which helped the fall of communism in his birth country). But of course, you're all watching the same documentaries as me... some of those documentaries look like they've brushed the dust off them from 10 years ago... is that how long he's been dying?

another reason why it's hard to be a north american in france

Because you read about things like this knowing full well that by the time you see it, it'll be out on DVD in North America, and, well, even if you luck out and see it in VO, you're still going to be watching it with those stupid subtitles pasted all on the bottom. Fuck... I' cann't believe I'm gonna have to wait to see this baby... and it's definitely something I want to see in the cinema. Check out the trailers for instant creaming.

p.s. I heard that this film alone resurrects the apparently flat-lined career of Mickey Rourke. All I can say is, hell, he makes a great living dead, even when he was young and cute... Btw, can anybody inform me whether that face, the face he has in the film, is his real face... like, I know he got plastic surgery... but dude! That's nutters! He looks like a G.I. Joe character.

Pineapple Surprise

I'm spent... completely spent...
Since sometime late last week, all my spare time and waking moments have been dominated by an impending deadline, that passed at 4:30pm yesterday. Needless to say, after many half-sleepless nights, the bastard is finished and sent off to its appropriate masters, where it awaits judgement.

So what did I do after, because, hell that's more interesting than you listening about me looking at over 30 hours of video footage...

At 5pm I headed over to the Russian Waterlogged Palace. Something strange was happening to my self, not unlike when you put several heavy books on top of a milk carton holding tapioca pudding inside... something weird and brainlike is going to squirt out. Did manage to whip up an incredible outfit, unitard, with graphic op art red and black suedette dress, sinched with a Conan the Barbarian-type hip belt... finished with black Audrey flats. Yup... smashing and delectable, if I do say so myself!

I sauntered over and noticed that the garage entrance was open. Pretending to play with my phone in the hopes of buying time, I saw a lovely looking boy standing by the doorway, all tousled chesnut hair and slightly scruffy shirt. So I gave him a shy smile and said my bonsoirs... he called after me... "hey, do you want to come in?" I mean, he didn't even know if I had any business in the Russian Palace! SCORE! I said, sure. He asked me my name, I gave it, and then he asked if I had been there before, and I said yes, I'm here to see Voin... after which I get the Royal Escort and am delivered to the doorway of my favourite Bulgarian Troublemaker.

Voin takes one look at my sorry condition, remember that at this moment I'd probably slept a grand total of 7 hours for two nights, and offers me some herbal remedies. We leave Ami Sioux, who looks positively MTV folk-esque against the aging white wall, dirty industrial floor and broad dusty window overlooking Paris, strumming her guitar and singing à la CatPower.

In the next room, another broad sunny industrial space with ceilings of glass, is a white table and yellow table. On the yellow table is a red capsule and a package of crayons. On the white table is a black desert-storm style cap. A skull hangs by the doorway and a picture of Christ is propped up against the window. Voin and I chat about future and past... laughing, giggling, he's so sweet and I adore him. I stretch myself on the low white table and look up at the blue sky. Fading spring golden light is still shining through.

Then we smoke a little, and, as this happens, we hear banging and clanging down the hallway. Usually, this whole section of the palace is reserved for us, so Voin runs out to check out what's going on. Turns out there's some Portuguese man, jolly looking with a rather pudgy doughlike face, do you remember the mute from The Heart is a Lonely Hunter... I always imagined he looked something like this Portuguese man, rather fleshy and blank yet amused eyes. And he's taking the industrial floor cleaning machine, but he doesn't have a clue how to work it. So Voin does the initial explanations...

Then we carry the crayons to yet another room, this one with a gigantic white wall, and, as so often happens when I'm sleep deprived and a little intoxicated, my hands act all on their own. We get lost in our sketches and doodles, a giant Marmot for me, with T-Rex fingers, eating a Johnny Halliday deer-man, and escaping octopii, followed by the saddest birdman in the world, his paunch quite turgid while his buttocks sag. I get lost in this....

Then Pedro, the Portuguese blankman, comes back and requests our specific aid. He really can't work the machine... I believe there's an off and on switch... But I like Pedro... he's funny and quite daft, in his Pink Panther-ish sort of way. We're all wobbly and fuzzy from the smoke, but agree to help. The next part is so crazy...

So we head down to the first floor, and enter the kitchen, which is massive, as you could expect from a Russian Palace. And the floor is completely encrusted in dirt... old industrial dirt on yellow tiles next to a chained grilled window. The boys run off in search of a pail, while I stand in the cavernous room, absorbed in the sheer luxury of having such a space to myself. Then they come back, throw bleach into the bucket and throw it in sparkling arcs all over the floor. Then Voin warns us to watch out, and he turns on the beast, which is basically just one round black brush that spins in one direction. He has problems controlling it and it seems to pull him where it wants to go, which is due left without fail. But he regains his edge and starts to move it across the tiles, scrubbing year and years of filth off of it. Then he passes it off to Pedro.

Pedro, who turns it on and is suddenly doing smurf steps to the right as the machine careens steadily towards the wall on his left. BANG... the machine slams against the wall, he does a little jump and lets go. Voin turns it off and moves the machine back towards the center. Pedro steps back up to the mound, turns the machine on, and repeats the same dance move, with smack-up against the wall included. I'm busting my sides laughing. He repeats this over and over, everytime turning on the machine and doing his smurf dance to the left. Finally, in a remarked improvement, he manages to just stand in the centre while the machine does a circle around him. The black beast, which he strains with all his might, spins soberly, round and round in circles, around this fat man on tiptoes. He has no control... an overgrown machine dog malfunctioning while some daft happy Pedro is holding on with all his might to the leash, pulled like a toddler behind it. Pedro had me in stitches for minutes.

We left him to his own devices on god knows how many joyrides he got out of that machine!

I headed up to Pyrenees, to await the Finnish ex-roommate, who was make a cameo appearance for the night. Eventually shuffled home, because was now in terrible shape, with smoke, fatigue and sun. Husband was at home and we giggled over something for a bit, drinking tea, jokes, exchanging sports notes... nice. And then cleaned up a little and the Finnish guy shows up. We jump straight into a vodka OJ, and, then move to brandade, olives, smoke salmon and rice cakes... soon the Malibu is out with the OJ. Getting all squishy on the inside and head foggy... am sure have smile pasted on face as am braindead inside. Fielded two phone calls and then pleaded fatigue and dropped out for a nap.

When I woke up, it was dark... and there was lots of noise. I dragged myself off the bed and peaked out the bedroom door...

-SAM!!!! Oh... Minette!

Swarmed by friends... all happy to see me from my week of absence... and everybody laughing at my sorry condition. Beer thrust into hand and there was a party going on! In my house! Like, people just decided to come over for some reason or another. There were the Swiss brothers, Alain and his Japanese wife, Nicolas, Scoubs, Herbie and Gasp... all of us swishing down beers and listening to music... It stayed that way till the end of the night... where, before leaving, Leopold gave me a Pineapple light. Isn't it the best? Merci LEO!!!!



Love impromptu parties at the house. Then... I watched the OC's Brother's Grim before sleeping... a near-perfect day, if I could say, after the project was finished!