Talk No Evil... Do No Evil...

He cooked me dinner. He made salmon with sauce oseille, coupled with steamed leeks, and sided with frisée and smoked duck. We were like strangers. He talked to his best friend almost the whole night. I oscillated between calm and hysteria.

There are things better left in the dark. When the lights come on, the earth trembles. The bodies seem unreal and the story becomes legend. The legend creates fear.

But my tongue is loose.

Sunday night I ruined my most favourite of all white jackets with an ill-advised rainy scooter ride, and splashing around wine. It's ruined. There's nothing, not even bleach, that can work wonders for it. The white will never be white again. I wore it in the dark night. Drunk, stoned, stumbling, and disgusted at politics, the stains were bearable. This morning, the thing is a disaster.

It's early now and the sound outside is of someone hammering a roof, cars passing, and the occasional motorbike. Everytime I close my eyes for a few more minutes of sleep I get a panic attack.

Does it really happen?

I was a queen on Friday, a deflated dinghy on Saturday, a melancholy giraffe on Sunday, a bat-winged terror-stricken ant on Monday. It's Tuesday now. When will the shrinking stop?

Heartbroken

I should recount the last couple of days of fun, the parties, the going away crew, the love. But instead, before all, I should tell you that I have been crying all morning. Very emotional. Hard to leave, impossible to stay.

As for last night...Thanks to the kids who were there: Voin, Thibault, Kim, Joachim, Guillaume, Anabelle, Henrik, Julia, Marussia, Puppy and Eve.

I'll be back, but it seems so far away.

blink* blink*

The Real Money Shot

The Money Shot

It's not easy being a model in Paris, but it's certainly one of the most ego-exploding jobs available. A steamy humid evening in the greenhouse, packed with young fashionable types, all screaming and cheering as we ... *walked*. You know, it sounds easy, but I practised my walk all thursday night. It's harder than you think, but done right, there's nothing more simple, and more sexy. Bizarre. Here's some pics, care of Danger Boy, Stephane D. Thanks dude!

And great thanks and glory to Marussia and her gang at the Andrea Crews Project. You guys all rocked hard!


Dacnar after the show... so bored he was


Voin, buried in clothes, buried in champagne, buried in boy SMS love


The Money Shot

Happy Birthday Holy Smokes!!!

One year annniversary special… I promised I would answer your questions, and even though I'm feeling icky, I did it. I keep my promises. So, here we go...
___________________________________________


Hey not to be nosey... but I'm so curious... husband is French right? How did you guys end up here? I wanted to live in France and it just worked out that the love of my life was French and from Paris. Perfect. :) Heh.

I moved to France because I was running away from Toronto. I was proposed a place in a prestigious artschool in France, and I took it. I met the husband there, and the rest just fell into place quite naturally. It’s not that I was ever particularly enamoured of France, but now that I’m here, it’s fine. He makes me laugh, with his frenchy moustache. My husband is a very special boy, and it’s just extra that he’s french.


You want us to ask you questions. So, here is mine and let it be known : which cyclist will you support on 2005 " Tour de France " ?

This is a very difficult question. In the past I supported Jan Ullrich, because he was such a fat lazy dumb oaf who made me laugh. I loved the Tour 2003, when he shit in his pants. But this year, nah, not possible. Ironically enough, I might end up going for Ivan Basso, despite his pretty-boy face. I like Bjarne Riis and I think he’s just the man to orchestrate a strategically interesting tour.

I get the distinct feeling that this year will be a transitional year. Lance will falter but still win. What will be interesting to see is how the string of new racers animate the tour, like Cancellara and Cunego. I highly doubt either of them are in a position to win, but I’d like to see how much Cancellara has worked on his climbing.


What do you think Parisans think of you?

A very silly but chic girl who’s off the rails. Fascinating but slightly scary. There's a small number that hate me for my capriciousness, and another group that like me for my chutzpah.


Do you recommend Paris for strangers?

For living or for visiting? This is a great city, with tons to do and see. There’s so much fun to be had in Paris. I would recommend finding somebody, a Parisian, to take you around. Paris, as a tourist, is all monuments and dead culture. To really get into it, you have to ask the natives.

As for living, I love living in Paris, despite the fact it’s ridiculously expensive. But I’m not your typical expat. I don’t visit cultural monuments half the time, nor go on mad searches to find my hometown food. I think too many expats make hardly enough effort with the language. There’s nothing that depresses me more than hanging out with a group of expats and hearing them whine about french people being stupid and not speaking english. You’re living in France for fuck’s sake. Learn the language. Make friends.


Is your life all you hoped it would be?

Not yet, but it’s getting there. Most of all, I’ve never really appreciated this but it’s true that I’m volatile, unpredictable, and my worst liability. But, I know that I like who I am and how I think. Coco Suaudeau, the old coach for Nantes, once said that he trains his players to play without control. Always in motion and looking for the next available space.


Is Paris romantic?

Yes. Unbelievably so. Especially at night.


How many siblings do you have?

1 sister who is exactly what I’m not.


How many times have you been in love?

Hard to say. I have a hard time knowing the difference between love, and love of attention.


What is your favourite movie?

Fischli and Weiss’s The Right Way (der Recht Weg)


Who is your favourite celebrity?

Don’t have one… maybe the closest is Keanu Reeves, but that’s old now. I’m currently watching the Rafael Nadal-Richard Gasquet game at Roland-Garros. I think they are both amazing… going through my regular 3-day crush.


What is your favourite colour?

Red or Fuschia


Do you dress to suit your look, or wear what you like? Is there a difference?

I dress for how I feel, at that moment. Sexy, cocky, mad, bored, tired… you read it in the way I dress. It changes, everyday. I’m fashionable, but I believe that fashion is just wearing your clothes to suit your personality…but everybody knows that.


Do you hate questionnaires?

No. Duh.


Do you recommend marriage?

But, kind of…


Do you believe in God?

I believe in something… I’m not sure it’s God.


If not, what made you realise God wasn't real?

I can’t prove it one way or another. It’s a question of faith. There is no proof for God. And there is no way to judge or rationalise something that might operate for reasons beyond human comprehension. I can’t wait to be old and find my faith. I think it’s easier to live with faith.


What is the saddest thing you've ever seen?

People giving up on indulging their madness. It’s like mass suicide, everywhere.


What is the funniest?

Gosh.. I don’t know. Perhaps my marriage. I practically damned pissed my pants trying not to laugh.


Have you ever been to Ireland? Do you ever plan to come?

I haven’t been to Ireland yet but I’ve always wanted to visit the Emerald Isle. I once toyed with the idea of living there because it’s tax free for artists.


What makes you mad?

I’m grumpy. Everything makes me mad. Perhaps inefficiency, distrust, and conservatism the most… yes, definitely conservatism. People who don’t do things or who make decisions because of their fear of the unknown piss me off.


What scares you about life?

How fast time flies.


Are you a romantic?

Of course.


Would you kill for love?

No. (touch wood… this would be a nightmare)


How many children do you hope to have? Do you want children in your future?

I want 3 children, all boys.


What is the 12th digit of Pi?

Piss off.


What do you regret in life, so far?

Being the lazy bastard that I am and missing out on opportunities because I was too retarded to fill out a form.


Have you ever been arrested?

Yes.


If you could be one person for one day, who would you choose and why?

Ramanujan. He’s dead, but if I could one day dream in higher math, my life would be fulfilled.


What time is it now?

4:17pm


Have you ever said something mean to someone and then regretted it?

Yes


Who do you hate, that you're friendly with?

Nobody. I don’t put myself in those kinds of positions.


What are you plans for the future, beyond moving back home?

I’m going back to the US and Canada for 3 months to unwind and prepare my next film. Then I’m coming back in September to rock hard with the Parisians, and prepare for my next exposition. Long term future… I want a book deal and 21 million dollars… and all my sanity and health to profit from it.

like a bull in a steamy china shop

Obviously it was only a question of time before my next social misstep. What I didn't anticipate was the violence. Things seem to happen in my life, outside of me. Inside, I feel the same. The tremblings of the earth, the loud voices, they rattle around like swinging chandeliers on a storm-blown ship. But inside, my voice is still the same. Sometimes though, things make you sick to your stomach.

Puppy is loved by her. Puppy and I are new friends. She is unhappy. I am without her now. I am unhappy.

It's hot today. The air is humid and the weight is down. I just woke up, my eyes are sore. Paris is steamy. It makes you wait for the night. The coolness that keeps the night air close to the skin.

Still, as the delicate menagerie tumbled smashedly around me there was a strange sense of self-satisfaction. A glory in the horror of it all... like a law of the jungle poking it's hairy head out of the window. That we can eat our relations into bare skeletons faster than they can be grown. The horror of a blind destruction sucking itself dry.

They deadly stinged daggers a friend can throw are more fatal than charging down a highway drunk.

I'll have you know one thing: I am not guilty. I cannot be responsible for something not of my control. I cannot control other people. You could not change anything just as you cannot believe me. And in faith, what you imagine is worse than the real daily activity which is life. I will not hold back who I choose to spend time with out of fear for your spite. There is the present, and we must live in it.

But how actions have consequences. If only we could break the line of time just once.

Not time for sadness... run.... run with me.

Between girlfriends

You! Don't be paranoid YOU! Everything is fine.

SMS - understandable but overreaction.

F*CK... can't make anybody happy today.

The Magnetic Bed

It never ceases to surprise me that despite all sorts of strange and delirious experiences I put myself through, I always find a way to sleep in my own bed. Now, North Americans may find this statement strange, but no, here in France there is a great tradition of friends crashing over at friends. Everyone I know has a fold out couch/futon, and every time I've hit that special point in inebriation/fatigue/smoked out/or just being stuck somewhere far away and the metro has stopped, I've been offered accommodation.

But, no matter what is proposed, how attractive or terrible, I always deny the options, and crawl my sad way back. There has been two times, in the last 9 months, that this wasn't possible, but one was sleeping at Scoubs, and the other was a party that got way out of hand. But considering all the conditions, this statistic is a miracle.

Last night, after the dress rehearsal for the fashion show, I got a little drunk on the free-flowing rosé and two very cute boys. Then, stumbling out of the building, I met Danger Boy, his messy blond bangs framing well his sleepy face. Funnily enough, he's the first friend I've met who actually reads my blog regularly. None of my other friends do, and certainly none of my family. We had quick laughs, exchanged numbers, and then I moseyed off to a bar to watch the end of the football game.

Football game: in the mess and excitement of this fashion show, I almost forgot about the League of Champions Final. Suffice to say we managed to catch the end of the game, and the penalty shoot-out. Incredible! The Ballon D'Or, Shevchenko, misses his shot at the end of the game, giving Liverpool their Golden Cup. How beautiful was it? Well, I watched the rest of the game this morning and Moses Mary Malone, that's one helluva strange game. How Liverpool managed to come back, in the second half, after letting 3 goals go in, let alone make it look easier than Sunday Pizza Takeout, is one of the mysteries of the universe. One can only hope that this won't be the type of thing that haunts Shevchenko's career.

Back to me!
Ok, so I run out of the bar with Ana, and we head to my now regular hunting ground, Point FMR. We went there for some concert, but the concert was over. Puppy Boy was there, being puppyish and very silly. I love it when men lavish attention on me, but he really knows how to give compliments. Of course, I did spend most of the dress rehearsal, in a very tiny bathing suit, next to his Yellow Tennis Guy outfit. He had a very good look.

Drank more... smoked more... talked more... at some point felt the eyes doing slow shutter clicks. Puppy boy offered to give me a lift home. We both live in the same arrondissement and he has a wicked little scooter. But first we stopped at his place and watched his short film, which was definitely about sex, strange almost Jarmusch-esque moments, and shot on 16mm in a cemetery. The end line is really great. Not bad... the acting is kind of shit at points, but not bad at all...

And then, just when I thought I would just pass out on his couch, I made some mumbling sounds about catching a tacos, but was practically instantly whisked away, back home, on his scooter again. Merci, Puppy. And whaddaya know... the magnetic bed was there again.

______________________

afternote:

Oh, and I almost forgot to mention but Puppy Boy is in a band called Metallico! Wack. His band mate's brother, a Stephen Jasso look-a-like, was so cute during the rehearsal, dressed as he was in a blue polka-dotted 80s skirt that was reworked as a windbreaker. Something bizarre yet adorable on his frame. Chatting him up, while the TV cameras rolled, I made a small mental note not to descend below the 22 years old perving line.

The fashion show is in the giant warehouse at rue du General LaSalle in the 19th, between Pyrenees and Belleville. Come at 9pm, on Friday, if you want to see this silly girl do her ostrich walk, Grace Jones style. It's for Andrea Crews, this art/fashion collective run by Marussia. They rework vintage clothing and rework them for new pieces. Most of the work is far from being finished, but it's fun and silly to pretend to be a model.

And tonight, don't forget, I'm showing my film at Le Cube, in Issy-le-Moulineaux. There's going to be an overload of personal exposure before I make my grand departure.

red hot, idiotic and furious

Warning: upcoming extreme rage

I hate ebay. I hate the people who use it and I hate for the most part the general idiot scammers/spammers who troll in that vicinity. I started using ebay about 5 years ago, buying camera equipment, film equipment, a gorgeous Alexander McQueen dress, a bikini. I was disappointed various times with the items, but, on the whole, I found that as a trading place, ebay had enough stopholds to make an online auction work in the end. Today, these stopholds are not functioning.

In the last 3 months, I purchased a digital camera, for the insanely low price of 90EU. A half-decent camera I might add. After jerking my chain, sending me payment details, names, bank accounts, the seller promptly fled after the payment went through. Of course I immediately filed complaint. The complaints department is now grinding through the formalities, and I should be getting my cheque in the mail sometime next year.

Yesterday, the auction ended for my phone, the Nokia 9300 I'm trying to sell. Now, while getting an auction backfire is obviously less costly than getting ripped off, I might remind you that it's around 8 EU down the drain. I am severely irritated. Plus, I was hoping to finish this piece of business before flying off. Looks like the husband is now going to have to take care of this... if he remembers.

Oh, and this is how the auction backfired: The bidding went up to 500EU, which surprised me. The highest bidder was a first time bidder. No comments, yahoo/gmail/hotmail type email, location only listed as France. That alone I find alarming. Then, 30 minutes before the auction ends, another first time buyer bids. This time, it's worse. Not only the same kind of anonymous email, but no proper address. Needless to say, there has been no mail/contact made since the auction ended. This doesn't surprise me. Obviously what we have is a fucking idiot who chickened out of a bid.

Now, I don't know who they have working in ebay, but this has got to stop. There has to be proper address and identity verification. It's an auction, for goodness sakes. Money changing hands. If I don't get some serious action from ebay on this, I'm going to fucking close the whole account down and never use the bugger again. Ebay is too slack to conduct business.

drunkeroooo

glug... went for a drinking bout last night.
Started at Fernando's, with a glass of red and a Super Bock (beer).
Moved onto Zorba, where I hooked up with Julie and we talked about boys. Drank a Leffe.
Moved onto the Cherie Bar and 3 beers... (whatever was yellow, fizzy and coming out of the tap)
And then, just to make my night perfect, I had 2 JBs at the end. I'm a silly goose, and I couldn't walk straight.

Today I feel like spongehead.

Since my phone is selling on ebay for a very attractive price, I've been looking at doing two things:
1. buying a ticket on a freighter boat for a transatlantic cruise back to France. That way I can bring more shit back and get all my Moby Dick fantasies fulfilled.
2. buying tickets to Roland Garros. I want to go on Sunday or Monday. And I want to see the two hot new tennis sensations of the moment: Rafael Nadal and Richard Gasquet. I suppose people will be cheering for hometown fave Gasquet, but me, between the two, there's no competition. I go for the fiery Nadal. Plus he has a cute little fighting ferret face... but now that I'm 30, start to feel guilty about perving on 18 year-olds.

Film-making is glamourous...

This is one of the most popular lies in the world.

Yup. I am now of the firm belief that movie-makers, and those who actually think this is a glamourous and attractive activity, should have their heads crushed at birth out of sheer stupidity. I can't think of a more horrific way to spend a day than to be a crew member of a film shoot. Long long hours, dreadful amounts of logistics, burning heaps of money, giving everything only to see one or two little things make everything worthless, watching the amount of pain your friends have to go through, yet not being able to stop.

I love the husband, but today was an exercise in patience, and unselfishness. I didn't scream... I didn't blow a fuse... I had one very near meltdown... and I almost cried several times because of how much Darius suffered. Darius is Dacnar's fetish actor... his actor of choice... you know, a bit like how Bill Murray is to Wes Anderson. Except Darius is quite strange: very gentle, loveable, and all in all very naive and childlike even at the age of 58. Last night, the producer, who hadn't booked him into a hotel, simply threw him into a flea-bag hotel in one of the nastiest areas of Paris. Darius, who hadn't even slept much the night before out of nervousness, went through a horrible night. His bed was broken.

So today was a nightmare. There was one shot that needed 15 takes, and still it was never perfect. That's nerve-wracking. Tonight, he's sleeping in the same hotel because the shoot went too late, everybody was too busy, and despite my pleas, the producer didn't take care of it... again.... but luckily, Darius is off tomorrow. As am I. I'll be taking him out in the afternoon, to see Dalida's house, and then tomorrow evening, he'll be getting a good night's sleep at a proper hotel. I'm seeing to it personally. You can't make a good film when your best actor, one of the sweetest guys around, is breaking his heart because he's too tired to remember his lines.

Testicule Crushing and the Camera D'Or at Cannes

I can't write much right now... I'm too tired. Dacnar is shooting his film right now, and since I am officially part of the team, asst. decorator besides general ball breaker, that means early early mornings and late late nights. It's bloody hard and complicated to shoot real films... on 35mm.

And when I say ball breaker, I mean ball breaker.

Today's testicule crushing activities included:
1. yelling at the sound guy, at 9am, not to smoke cigarettes where we will eventually shoot because of the possible murky atmosphere, and the definite probability that should he light up, the rest of the crew will follow suit. "No, you, go upstairs to the make-up and lounge area and smoke yer butts there."
2. yelling at the gaffer guy not to smoke his joint at 10:30am because the smell goes through the apartment building. And while we're nice, our neighbours are still putting up with enough. (WTF!!! Who needs to smoke a joint at 10:30 in the morning! Nobody should be that macho about their addiction.)
3. yelling at one of the actors not to take a puff from the joint

Good things done on the shoot:
1. Keeping a close watch while the actors were prepping, and helping them out when I can.
2. Moving my whole apartment into the kitchen so that it can be replaced by the decor requested, with Scoubs, my boss.
3. Installing said decor with Scoubs.
4. Suggesting lunch places and supplying papers and pens.
5. Taking pics of the table so that we can get a fix on the where the props are each time.
6. Kissing and boosting morale... for the husband
7. Running errands for the props tomorrow
8. Talking to everybody on the crew who was waiting, and getting cheap laughs. Distraction is good when people are bored.

Bad things I did:
1. Complain to Scoubs often.
2. Sulking while the director, a.k.a. my husband, was babying the tense actress

Good things done after the shoot:
1. Not bugging the husband about getting the apartment back into ship-shape order
2. Cooking a smashing dinner
3. Getting the dissection of the day and giving him tons of support and help.

Why? Because I love him and I really do think he's a great artist. Plus, the script is funny and anything that makes me laugh needs to be known.He's destined for greatness and I'm ready to be the Gala to his Dali, or would that be the Chloe Sevigny to his Harmony Korine... oh bother... the Nardac to his Dacnar.
_____________

I jumped out for 3.5 hours in the afternoon, when I wasn't needed, to meet up with Petite Anglaise, pick-up props, and go to my fitting for the fashion show next week.
_____________

In other daily news, our classmate, Vimukthi Jayasundara from that horrible mind-fuck school we all went to, Le Fresnoy, just won the Camera D'Or at Cannes. Way to go you sly Sri-Lankan fox you! And to think, if he gets even more famous we'll be selling tapes of our wedding, where he pulled down his pants at the party. (Kidding, but he was there, trying to seduce an actress and we got it on tape.) And yes, that mind-fuck school will probably go trumpetting around that he came from there when really they kicked him out of his second year and pulled the budget on his film.

not just a ditzy voice...

but a pretty face!

I'll be modelling in a fashion show on May 27th. Who said your career ends at 30?

Blowtorching a Chicken

Well, actually it was a pheasant.

I forgot to tell y'all this, but yesterday, when I visited my "volaille" butcher, I ordered a very plump and happy pheasant. He asked me if I would like him to prepare it. Now, I don't particularly like chopping off the heads of dead animals so yeah, chop that head off for me. While I was off paying, he was prepping and trussing the bird.

When I returned I noticed something very pleasant. He had pulled out a mini blowtorch and was burning the fluffy little feathers off the legs. I mean, maybe this bird is a little too fresh for me.

Things I'll miss when I'm in North America:
burning bits of feathers off dead animals because then you know you're keepin' it real.

Running on Empty

So last night went to party to celebrate the upcoming production of Dacnar's film. Considering that this is just a short film, the crew is extremely large. There is an assistant director, an assistant to the assistant director, a camera man, an assistant to the camera man, a lighting guy, his assistant, a sound guy, his assistant, a guy to hold the boom, a decor person, her assistant, her assistant's assistant, a make-up artist, a costume designer, 8 actors... blah blah blah. I mean, this is just for the shooting. Afterwards the film has to be edited and so on... so the crew is going to get even larger.

This is just for a short film you know. Strange.

Anyways, the crew seems alright. Very serious. I'm getting paranoid about the actress hitting on my husband. But, that's the job of an actress anyways, to find a way of advancing one's career through evil emotional manipulation. She seemed nice enough in person, but I did notice her little giggle when I let Dacnar take her home (completely my doing since I decided to stay on at the party and flirt with guy who had the joint).

Speaking of drugs, I've smoked some fairly strong stuff in Amsterdam before, but this stuff was horrible. I only had a couple of puffs and suddenly the top left part of my brain was singing. At least I wasn't like the actor next to me, who, from the 7th floor, ralphed out the window onto a passerby. The guy screamed at us for 5 minutes... hell I'd burn the building down if someone puked on my head.

Afterwards we went to find les filles, who were having dinner at The President, some swank Chinese restaurant in Belleville. The entrance alone to this place is worth a gander. The luscious octagonal lobby is replete with Chinese cherry oak bric-à-brac. You climb up the swooping central staircase, which then splits into two, hugging the wall and meeting up at the landing, directly above the entrance. The walls are mirrored on every angle so you get the impression you're in some sort of Chinese Escher stairway puzzle. Very Dario Argento.

Anyways, those girls were eating fried springrolls and other sundry false chinese crap. I hate Chinese food in France. It sucks.

We left soon after to go to Zorba and drink beer. I'm high as a kite, and the overall red lighting is making me feel like I sipped too many at the Moloko Milkbar. People start talking about something extremely boring and I concentrate on holding my head at an attractive angle, while delicately blinking a bored expression. It's an art.

The Dude, who we haven't really seen since he crashed and burned with Queenie, swings by, after a pitstop at McDo, with his new girlfriend in tow. She's a horrorshow. I mean, maybe she's a nice sweet girl, and I'm missing the point because I'm a vicious superficial bitch, but what's up with that look! She's like Pat Benatar run over by a Drugstore Cowboy cruiser. She looks nasty and her pants are so heroin addict. Heroin chic is definitely not happening. She has this kind of swingy short Benatar haircut with bleached white bangs, and while this is normally exactly the type of thing I go for, on this girl, it's downright hair-raisingly scary. They did some smackeroos in front of us, and I exchanged looks with Scoubs.

Then, who should come creeping by but the guy who hates me... let's call him Scruff. So Scruff, of the pyramid style hair and velour jacket, who hates me after I laughed in his face at his sexual proposition, takes one look at me and steels his glance. He spends the rest of the night cooped up at the far end of the bar. I now have four boys in this city who hate me. But this one, he should definitely get off of it because I actually thought he was sweet and funny before this overly-dramatic turn of events.

Suddenly, I notice Queenie from the other side of the road. The Dude has his back to the door, so he doesn't see her.... doesn't see her bored tired look, go to laughing anticipation, go to confusion, go to comprehension, go to quick back heel turn in other direction. She's been around him since, but this time she is without her new lover, and he is.

Drama.

That's all. Today there's two art parties, tomorrow there's three.... and Saturday....

Too busy

I've been too busy to have a proper social life or to blog. Preparation for Dacnar's film, preparing for my trip to Toronto, making money, and private sales is eating up all my time. I'm sorry for being a bad blogger, but them's the breaks folks.

*oh, and I've also been too busy posting on an OC Forum. Jeeps... brain is turning in guacamole after all.

This blog is almost teething

Yeah, it's almost the 1st year anniversary of this here blog. In honour of its readership (thanks mom!), I would like to extend a little digital handshake of sorts. On the birthdate, I will post the answers to any questions you might have. Just email me your question, and come back May 27th for all the answers to everything you could possibly ever want to know about me, or life as I know it.

In honour of the upcoming desert of responses, I managed to connect a little guestbook service to the old blog. It's on the side, under the very auspicious name "guestbook." It's a nice little service hosted by Dreambook. Together with Blogger, Haloscan, Flickr and Sitemeter, I take care of business the free and easy way.

He tried to order dessert but John Peel died beside him

Going through the britblog roundup, this was No.1 on the list. It's a very strange and disconcerting thing, the sudden death of someone. I think Randi Mooney documents his reaction exceptionally well, without delving into emotion, with the incomprehensible shock still palpable. All this done 6 months after-the-fact only emphasizes how strange death is, still.

The Answer to the Universe and well, everything else....

I'd much rather be happy than right. Wouldn't you?

oh, whoops, sorry.. that's the answer to the third most annoying conundrum.

yes, the answer is laser beam headdresses for everyone, in the Pocahontas style.

bye.

Crying Jag

Had an unpredictable night. Cried non-stop for three hours tonight upon discovering that half the stuffing I had made for the perogies last night went off sometime today. Around 1kg of stuffing went down the chute. But cried even more when he said that we have too much food. Then cried even more when I tried to reproach him over not taking care of the kitchen and he said he was preparing his film and I should be more supportive. Then cried even more because of perceived lifetime failure to do proper housekeeping. Boiling over with tears and rage when he said he lived to make his films, and nothing, not even love and dirty dishes, would stand in his way.

Stormed to Room 2 in our cookie-box apartment. Cried and cried unconsolably because he wouldn't come over to apologize. Then cried even more when he came over to apologize and I told him I was a loser. Continued vague weeping motions and threw myself face down in the bed. He came over to comfort me. I told him why I was really crying.

I'm leaving in 3 weeks to go back to Canada for 3 months, and he is filming all through the second last week I'm here. Of course I've known this for ages, and of course it didn't mean anything for ages, but now, so close, it means a lot. I'm gonna miss him so much and I don't know how I'll get on without him. I want him to spend more time with me.

Then cried even more, through hiccups and laughs, when I asked him if he thought I was the Dora to his Copperfield. But he didn't know the story and he asked me if she was a supermodel.

Made one last dashed attempt at weeps when I asked him if he loved me and he said it was ok, that one day we will have children and animals, I will have a dog and he will have a monkey.

Then I hiccuped and laughed and laughed.

My film is being screened.

No time for sadness... RUN!!! - 23 min.
A tale told in the tradition of the Brothers Grimm, twin brothers find themselves united after a 23 year separation. A short test with pigs and gold ensues.

That's the video I made last year. It'll be shown at The Cube, Issy-les-Moulineaux, May 26, 20H30.

It's being shown dubbed in french.
I'm not crazy about it, but the pigs are awful.

Transaction

Am reminded today of a funny little Yves Klein project.

10 February 1962. M. Blancfort gives the artist 160 grams of pure gold in 16 ingots in exchange for a certificate for "zone" No.1, Series 4.

The paper is given to M. Blancfort, who burns the paper the afterwards, and Klein, who tosses the gold into the river.

The Truth

The truth is that my little brush in with PH last night was terrible. In one split second I knew that she had more power than anybody else I'd come across, more power, more money, more fame than anyone within kilometres of her. All by being the shallow bitch that she is. She makes money from not working for it. She keeps power by being completely inethical and capricious. Her winning card is her special brand of blondness... I suppose it can't last forever, but I wouldn't bet against her. Horrible.

That's why I just spent the last 4 hours making perogies. Punishment. Of course they're good perogies, but the best perogies in the world ain't gonna change simple truths.

Boring as nuts

that be Paris Hilton's party...

Nobody famous in sight. They've all flown down to Cannes this time of year. Just lots of rubberneckers, with botox, nose jobs, boys with comically side swiped bangs just like you see them in the mags, the token funky japanese guy with a perm, blondes with clothes-pins on their nips, lobotomized giraffes everywhere, a guy with chest long braids. It was funny, and then sad, and then boring.

The red carpet in front of the VIP room is long, and strewn with petals. I am alone to walk it going in and nobody clicks a photo. Normal. I'm not a celebrity. Descending down the pink hole, a very warm and overly musky-sweet entrance. Paris is obviously the prom queen of the vagina parade. Into the rat hole, we amuse ourselves with free pink cocktails and examine the various disasters among us.

All the girls in here are tanned and breasty. 67% are clad in skin-tight low-rise jeans and grabby top. A large number have observed the pink rule. What is this? An OC fashion show? Even more atrocious are the rolls of fat creeping over the hips... if your jeans fit that way you just went from J-Lo nasty to mall-mom nasty.

Thibault and I are checking some girl with her Marc Jacobs double-t top and her way too low-cut pants. White panties are showing. Lucky... I was afraid she was going to do some Aguilera string trick on us. Thibault, totally bored and feeling frisky, decides to, *ahem*, fart in her general direction. While usually I'm disgusted by public tooting, this particularly well aimed missile gets our little blond giraffe a few puzzled looks, before she's doused with the second round of Paris perfume.

Actually, the party was to promote her eponymous perfume. Everybody gets bombed, oops, misted on the way in. This ensures a fart-free zone. But, ironically enough, permits a certain laxity with letting them go since nobody can smell anything else around.

After standing around for a couple of minutes, we head towards the doorway. Everybody else has the same idea. In each corner of the club somebody is perched strategically, every single eye glued to the pink stairway down, waiting for her. You've never seen anything like it. Cellphones, credit card size cameras, watch-cameras, palm pilot cams, everything pointed towards the doorway in a wall of miniature illuminated blue screens. I felt more like I was behind the cordon on a red carpet at Cannes than in some chic Champs Elysees party.

But that's the Champs Elysees these days. Faux lux, North American trash, Virgin megastores, and miles of sweatshop clothing hidden behind stunning marble facades. The crowd tonight was typical. Nobody famous, nobody important, nobody interesting. Just plastic, botox, and tanning. Even the fashion is less than inspiring. Paris imitating California, and doing a wretched job to boot.

So, sometime after the stroke of midnight, the pumpkin arrives. She descends, escorted by large musclemen, in a turquoise top and white tennis skirt. Nothing extraordinary, nothing plus. The cameras go wild for minutes upon minutes, until it suddenly dawns on me that it won't end. That the wall of cameras that surrounds her is permanent. Even Voin's "à poil" cries seem feeble. You don't play hanger-on nor heckler to these kind of mega-bitches. For them it's as normal as... whatever could be considered normal for people like them.

We get a close brush-by as she wangles past to get to the stage. She's exactly like she is in photographs. She's a walking image. She's a candy-dripped cardboard cut-out. She's something else, an anorexic beast fed on camera flash. She's our favourite biatch because she's the richest, dirtiest, best american ever: a real whore. Boring as nuts.

After the brush-by, my curiousity was sated. I really didn't know what to expect anyways. We didn't come here to dance, or have fun, or meet people. We came to gawk with all the other rubber neckers. It isn't anything really worth explaining. It wasn't my fête de Mme Bovary. To be crass, it wasn't anything more interesting than a car crash on a sidestreet. Flat, not phat.

JACKPOT!

YES! What a fucking day!

Today I found out that I'm on the guest list for Paris Hilton's private party tonight....
and....

I picked up a mysterious package from the post office... which was...
a free NOKIA 9300 phone! Hahahahahahahahaha.......

Do you remember when I was whining about giving out my address to mysterious person, and I was worried because I thought it was a hoax? No hoax... In fact it was Nokia that phoned me, and now I have a real bonafide present. A present that retails for 650Eu normally. I win.

The only question now is what to wear to tonight's shindig.

The Bad Daughter

Mother's Day, in France, is celebrated June 8. So there I was, laying low, when I noticed on other blogs a certain "I heart Mum" flurry. So I looked it up. Sure'nuff... Mother's Day, in Canada, where my mum is right now, was May 8. So I missed it. I'm a goon-head. Still... to my favourite dragon lady, Happy Mum's Day, you 'ole witch you! I'll be back soon to remind you why legal abortion is something to support. Love, the bad daughter.


The Original
Mess with the Best, Die like the Rest

éphemère

Not like the Point... but something else.

I'm on the verge of a great discovery, like when Columbus saw a golden red spire sticking out of the water with an arrow attached saying Free Cable TV ahead, and said, hey, looks like we're in the right direction boys!

Or when Tina Turner jumped out of the bathtub after a spider jumped in, screaming in tune with the sound of draining water, and said, Lordy Jesus, I got me some pipes!

I remember hearing a story about Thelonius Monk looking up in the sky from the bushy undergrowth, listening to the distant sound of a church choir singing, and all he could hear was the faint skeleton of the song.

Or Mr. T running on the street while those pimply kids chased him with baseball sticks, and suddenly noticing how aesthetically pleasing the dashed lines are on the street.

These are fleeting but life changing moments.

Wait... what was I talking about?

horrifiant, déguelasse, et pas de tout étonnant à la fin

my comments, late saturday night, on seeing more yucky WWII war archival footage.

dacnar said it's like looking under the bed...
I think it's more like doing a random checkup on some fridge you left in the cellar... stray vegetables have turned to grey goo... that grey goo reminds you of something you have to avoid, but you forget what.

That's what war is... leaving eggplants in the crisper for more than 2 weeks.

I don't know what I'm supposed to remember from WWII because I never lived through it and I'm sick of looking at film footage/reading stories about it. It doesn't make any sense, and does nothing to change the violence of today. Nostalgia is the opiate of the masses.

the short story

wednesday: before leaving I burned myself spending 32Eu on my favourite moisturizer. Loser. actually, I bought two vials because I'll be leaving for Canada soon, and I need to stock up now.

thursday: ate so much pike and roast beef, then played a very bad game of petanque, churned through 160 pages of a hockey book... Ice Time, by Jay Atkinson. Not down with his cloying fatherly moral justifications, but he's damn straight when it comes to hockey. (is it my imagination or are people actually so depressed that children are they only reason they find to live? horrible. rather be dead than bring more people in to be gunned down by small daily horrors.)

friday: nothing much, more of that hockey book... had a meltdown and crying jag over some silly fishing incident. virtual video game fishing incident. am beginning to hatch homicidal plans against the nephew-in-law who never speaks lower than a bugle horn in the morning. played a better game of petanque.

saturday: hockey book finished. start Marguerite Duras's The Lover. Father-in-law goes insane... clapping hands like mechanical monkey in front of french variety show nonsense. Really enjoyed eating tons of jumbo shrimp, but am rewarded with debilitating stomach ache. Take the only walk of the whole trip. Visit sister-in-law's house to give official approval of the new staircase, clip some fresh rosemary and bay leaves, when father-in-law, drunk on rose, confesses in front of the whole family, minus dacnar, that he's so happy I married the SOB because now said SOB is working a real job. Depressed over statement and get drunker myself. But I'm a happy drunk.

sunday: wake up at 7am, with numbness and pain in right arm so persistent it keeps me awake. Am scared of getting a heart-attack. Irrational fear created from too much butter/meat fat/wine consumption over week. Watch F1 and almost throttle father-in-law over "debile" sports commentary, because I am the F1 expert. Excellent scallops, followed by duck, followed by another horrible stomach ache. If I don't die of an infarction, I'll certainly keel over from an ulcer. Finish Duras's book and begin Mishima's autobiography.

N.B. - The Lover is a beautifully written little book, stringent and decadent at the same time. A very french woman's book...

Pick roses with mother-in-law from her miniature rose garden. Catch the end of the Tour de Dunkerque, cycling race, where completely obscure Polish guy wins. Commentators so stunned it takes them 3 minutes to find out who he is. Almost miss train because father-in-law attempts some F1 stunts in the village, trying to find the post office.

Train: try to use my computer to do work, write, and eventually give up and use it to watch downloaded TV shows. Proving once again that my computer is used 99% of the time as a toy. However, manage to annoy everyone within a 2 person radius with amazing staccato machine gun typing speed, for all of 23 minutes.

They tell you not to use the toilet when the train is in the station. This is because you do the business straight onto the tracks. Am severely tempted to leave my mark at Versailles, but am relegated to hold fort for 5 minutes, before train eventually starts moving. Still... that's a future project in mind.

At home, roses have survived journey. As has the lovely jar of homemade quince jam... perfect with yogurt.

Home sweet home.

MARLIE!!!

She's going away she is... and just when we started to be friends. Sometimes I underestimate people immensely. I have a cellphone pic of her, and that's all. Hopefully dacnar will forward it to me and then you can have a gander. Till then, visit her fotolog! (Yes, shameless plug for everyone to see yet another photograph of me.) The boy in the photo is Leo, one half of the lovely Rabus brothers. Smashing artist and a fun guy to boot.

Oh, and if you want to see our Dutch princess's fine handiwork, check out her ProductLove website. It's got some nice embroidered pieces, and one picture of Marlie herself where you can actually see her face. She's the girl on the right with the white hood, when the two of them are djing on their iMacs.

Will write more later... but really... really... must sleep now.

one of my last ditch attempts to say anything meaningful because there's really nothing meaningful left to say when there's too much left to be done

Skee has posted his response and link to a generally unreadable article on Intelligent Design, ontology of chance, and the installing of these ideas in a school curriculum. The introduction of Intelligent Design ideas, something that is being proposed in Pennsylvania (my god! not even the south!) serves as a weak shield for teaching Creationism. Of course we shun Creationism. But why? Do we live in a overly technophilic society where science and its precepts have replaced the heretic idols of institutional religion? Personally, I think Intelligent Design is hogwash, and if I'm teaching science, I'm teaching science's principles... the church of science. If however, through a random morphing of stray molecules, suddenly the subject is metaphysics then yes, the question merits attention.

There's a rather disturbing comment later on in the article by Sellison:

"evolution, akin to religion, involves making certain a priori or metaphysical assumptions, which at some level cannot be proven empirically.'

Further on, he said that one can't just say that evolution is science, creation is religion, period. One has to have some other"

So far so good. I agree. But then... holy crap... deep end ...

"Many people do not realize that the teaching of evolution propagates an anti-biblical religion. But that is what it does, evolution is the anti-god gospel used to gain entry into our schools and convert our children to the religion of Secular Humanism. The First Amendment demands that Intelligent Design be given equal time in our schools to the religiou fantasies of the evolutionists, or better that neither should be taught in our publically funded schools, and children should let their parents help them understand how the glorious world was formed.

"No, I don't know that atheists should be considered as citizens, nor should they be considered as patriots. This is one nation under God."- George H.W. Bush"

crap.

This is exactly my problem with this whole nonsense. Nobody discusses anything these days without creating its enemy, and bringing in religion. Is it still possible to discuss ideas without falling into binary thinking?

So how do we wiggle out of this wormhole?

I was reading a debate between the new pope, when he was still an archbishop of something or another, and a staunch atheist professor. The pope had a hard time excluding the idea of rationalism from faith. The professor said that Faith makes rationalism absurd. They are mutually exclusive and yet coexistant. I would agree that faith makes rationalism absurd, and rationalism knows not of the existence of faith. Faith cannot exist without rationalism, because faith builds its proper logical system from a priori grounds. Rationalism is merely a system of building a structure of logic from material grounds. Materialism seeks to prove the dubitable nature of our material existence. And in the end, faith depends on the completely unprovable nature of the objective world. A priori baby... the freakin' ourobouros.

And you wonder why all I find myself capable of saying is I got drunk last night. Hunter S. Thompson, not long before he offed himself said that "I feel shocked and embarassed to be part of the first generation to leave the country in a worse condition than how it was given to us." I would say "I feel repulsed and horrified to be part of a generation that has no idea how to think a way around its collective suicide."

I'm going to sleep. Off.

Jose falls down the beanstalk

"They could've played for 30 hours and never scored."- Dacnar

So, the invincible Mourinho and his blue Chelsea boys got stoned at Liverpool tonight. It's hard to imagine if this is a good or bad thing so much as it was just. Liverpool, technically weaker, smaller, played a great game. They reminded me of ancient giant-killers of yore, Monaco, a tough little team where each player stepped up their game when the moment counts. That's the funny thing with football. You can have the best team, catch a mediocre team on its great night, and suddenly you've got chickenpoo all over the face.

Actually, if you want a more succinct and precise analysis, especially with regard to Benitez's tactics against Chelsea's patented attack, Mourinho's failure to adapt to Benitez's blocking strategies, I found Angel Marcos's short editorial vaguely enlightening.

A little armchair commentary: Well it became quite obvious that Chelsea was in trouble when we saw the first images of Mourinho projected. Our normally smooth operator, dapper in a well cut suit and always looking impressively dashing, was unshaved, wearing a track suit, and looking, well, like he needed a shower. Last year, when he won the Champions League with Porto, the man was never seen without his charcoal grey suit. Never creased, never crumpled... tonight, he looked like somebody scooped him off the cardboard box he's been sleeping in. Now, when I see a coach look like that I know he's going to lose.

Chapeau for Luis-Garcia, who played a damn fine match, Terry for being one of the toughest sparks on the stumbling Chelsea team, Benitez for orchestrating the coup d'etat. My three stars of the match.

So no luck for Drogba again this year. Losing last year with Marseille in the Coupe UEFA against Valence, against that same Benitez, and now this... And yes, Djibril Cisse has crazy hair a rat could get lost in. I wonder if his wife will get into fractals next. But the best hair in the Champion's League could very well go to Kezman, who has this subtle assymetrical bowl, complete with little top tuft. Classy toff guy!

Coming up next, most probably AC Milan over Eindhoven. And then, the shock at Instanbul, May 25!

the heat is on

ugh... I hate this feeling...fear.

I just gave out my address to somebody, an anonymous person, who said I won a phone. I knew it was a fake, but it took me about 2 minutes to realise it... That's two minutes after the phone call was finished. Obviously, it's someone I know, somebody who has my cellphone number. Worse still, and this is the shit part, they have my address as well as phone number. What people can do with that... my imagination runs wild: arson, theft, stalking.

I always imagine the worst thing, of course, and it would be if it's somebody I know who's really out to get me, and tries to burn down my house. Being most of the time quite selfish, I have to say that this time I am selfless. My neighbours on three sides have little babies and children. Obviously putting their lives into danger would be a very ugly thing to do. Yet, I believe these are quite ugly people...

However, on the bright side, I did contact the police to find out what can be done about this kind of situation and apparently the call can be traced. Whew. If the call happens again, I am asked to report it immediately. Double whew. When did the police become my friends???

southpark'd

more infectious diseases, this time from terse. Me, as a Southpark character.

if you want to get in on the action....

with the taste of the poison paradise...

Holy fried hazelnut macaroons! What the hell is going on. It keeps going, sometimes less, sometimes better. Last night, start at Montmartre, in the small square on Yvonne le Tac, with Kim, diabless extraordinaire. We sally and giggle, like bat-winged crow mags, folding deep into the setting sun. Then when all was assembled, headed off to Zorba, which was dead. Too early. Saw the gang, and then several Bordelais boys from the night before showed up. Went to have dinner with Arnold and William. Chatted about Cheap Trick and Leonard Cohen over a small bowl of shrimpy noodles. Then was ratted out by Kim, her boyfriend and Thibault. Slunk back to Zorba.

Was packed and all the regulars, save les filles and their boyfriends, were in presence. Included in the crowd were the two lovely boys who have been spited. One, when I started laughing in his face when he presented me with his "I don't have AIDS" paper and then asking for some extra-marital interconnection. I suppose I didn't think he was serious, and when I realized it was serious, I nearly passed out. Ensuing night like one very bad french rip-off of Woody Allen film. The other boy, his roommate M, spited himself in general malice and sexual discontent, and apparent sensitivity for being portrayed as a seducing cad (well, maybe he's not a cad to everyone!). Such lovely boys to have against you! Luckily not all the fish that pass by are worth a bite.

Went downstairs to dance to Sylvie's hardcore. No sooner did the darkness descend then the lights were flashed on... ridiculous man who worked behind the bar hollered that it was closed and proceeded to push us out the bar. Horrible.

Went home and chit chatted with Arnold till 4 in the morning. Divulged secrets about cats and wiggling through snake's corridors. Strange night, with giant plump strawberries in the early morning.

Today. Horrible. More work. Worked, and then fled swiftly away to Ana's for coffee. Hélène was there and many featherlight jokes and laughs. She's very pretty, exactly perfect for a hair or pantyhose commercial. Eventually, because it was so warm and summerlike, wound our way to the top of the Buttes Chaumont. Thibault found us there. The sun was so warm, people were almost naked everywhere, lolling on the slanting knoll. Tiny insects swarmed in the fading light, over our heads. I lay, belly down, in the cool grass and thought about nothing. Later, reading fashion magazines in the fading daylight, trading of vodka and beer. Richard arrives. He is a madman in an overlarge scooter helmet. Walking to the Canal L'Ourq, and watching girls play petanque in the almost dead light with Queenie, Manue and their mecs.

Bad news arrives on the phone. It's real, sometimes.

Darkness falls and Kim made her entrance. What followed after but some smooth silky conversations about silverlight topics... flying from tropical amazon fire policies to following the categories in trickery, to getting a phone call from the Voin, who's obviously having a very sexy day in Berlin. Kim wears an overbright red shirt, with patchy white flowers, skinny pants and black high heelsl. I find her very fascinating, if a little scary. She reminds me of myself.

Played ping pong under the glittering canal lights.

Got invited for a scooter ride to the next party, the bar next to Point FMR, with the madman. He rides crazily... very stuntman... had a helmet, and was strangely safe under his care... like with a french Evil Kneevil. Arrive to find others at the Cafe Lafayette...swinging and grooving to the dark clitter clatter hard techno, but it isn't enough. End up at Bagnolet, private birthday party. Ruling the school with scored vodka and bad brazilian music. Various dancing partners later, Ana shows up again. Ana, Kim and Sam, dancing together to Guantanamera, or however the fuck that song is supposed to be written. Try to slip out, hours later... barely can. I think Richard is lovely, if a little too much like a untrained Golden Retriever. Well, he makes me laugh.

Finally, Ana drives us home. I'm tired. And tomorrow there's a champagne a-go-go party. When will the hurting stop.