L’Observateur : Pompidour Edition

Last week I posted about the dream Kim Kight had involving she and I and some helium balloons that made Theremin noises. Well, last night was the aforementioned Monolake concert at the Pompidou Center – the one which promised helium-filled balloons and funny noises in real life – and Robert Henke, from his monodeck with Ableton Live, delivered. The setup was an 8-by-8 grid of white helium balloons with white lights inside of them, which moved up and down tethers – creating 3-D shapes and patterns – while flickering in concert to blippy music. The closest thing I can think of to relate this experience would be to imagine a 3-D Tenori-On. The weirdest moment came when one single, lit balloon floated to the top of the auditorium at the exact moment that the first non-blippy noise came in: the sound of a Leslie speaker slowing down, which sounded remarkably like a Theremin. A weird moment to say the least.

Matt Davis and I have been playing street ball along the canal with random kids half our age. It’s like Rucker, but more like Suck-er. French kids don’t really get the game. Lots of pointless dribbling, hand checking, and traveling. But the last time we showed up, les homies were in la maison. One dude was wearing a Ben Gordon/Chicago Bulls #7 jersey and as Matt pulled the ball up the court the dude started singing “How Deep Is Your Love” in a deep French accent and then said, “Hey Bee Gees!” about ten times in a row. I thought it was funny because I think Matt looks like the lost Gibb brother, but I don’t think he was all that amused. Then the dude started singing “Stayin’ Alive” as we were exiting the court.

One of my students at Parsons has been to Norman, Oklahoma because her parents went to school at the University of Oklahoma. The only reason I find this noteworthy is that her parents are Iranian and she grew up in England.

Patrick Badgley arrived in Paris this week and hand-delivered the ill-fated package his brother Shawn sent me in November – which was returned tout de suite – because it was addressed to “Sr. Showpony.” The French just don’t roll that way – as you can see on the package – where it says “pas de nom sur boite” or “not the name on the (mail)box.” This is the most ridiculous looking parcel I have ever laid eyes on:

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