L'Observateur : Shame Edition
Tuesday (Wednesday) after the show we were standing in the alley next to Le Motel Bar yapping and someone poured about half a bucket of water from a few floors above on top of my head. The message was clear: Shut the fuck up, I’m trying to sleep. Nevertheless, refreshing.
Tonight I met some people from the Parsons photography school at a bar from some beers – a “Meet and Greet” of sorts. I happened to be leaving at the same time as this guy whose name I cannot tell you, but he teaches fashion/portrait photography. Anyway, we were getting on the Metro together and he realized he didn’t have any tickets. I offered to let him pass with me. The flics were right there and busted us to the tune of 50 euros apiece. The worst part was that I had unused tickets in my bag which cost 1e10 per. Cops... they should be ashamed of themselves.
Tonight I met some people from the Parsons photography school at a bar from some beers – a “Meet and Greet” of sorts. I happened to be leaving at the same time as this guy whose name I cannot tell you, but he teaches fashion/portrait photography. Anyway, we were getting on the Metro together and he realized he didn’t have any tickets. I offered to let him pass with me. The flics were right there and busted us to the tune of 50 euros apiece. The worst part was that I had unused tickets in my bag which cost 1e10 per. Cops... they should be ashamed of themselves.
L’Observateur : Bombazine Black at La Scène
Onward Through the Fog: Killing the Smoke MachineOn the way to the show, I saw a reasonably well-dressed woman along the canal pulling hits off a bottle of Malibu. I couldn’t tell if it was a good sign or a bad sign.
La Scène has a lot of sound guys. Which is probably why we only got one drink ticket per person – lots of salaries to pay. On the flip side, it was a very thorough sound check and they managed to put the knobs back where they were supposed to be even after the other two bands had played.
The other two bands were not so great. Kwoon: it was as if seven random dudes met at a Guitar Center and started a band. Dirge wasn’t so bad until the guy stepped back from the microphone and started screaming “MOTHERFUCKER! I HATE YOU!!!” He was trying to be “deep” in English. He failed. It came off like crappy German performance art. He also used the words “says” or “said” in almost every lyric. Then he rode an open E chord for a few minutes, pulled his hoodie up over his head and screamed “HALLELUJAH!!!” Hallelujah is right, because it was their last song.
Both opening bands employed a smoke machine. We forgot our miniature-Stonehenge-and-dwarf set and our Van Halen t-shirts, so I demanded that the thing be unplugged before we went on. If not, I openly stated that I was going to get up in the middle of whatever song we happened to playing when it went off and unplug the fucking thing myself. I had agreement among the band, and I was doubly assured that it would be disengaged.
As this was only my second gig as a full-time drummer, nearly everybody I know in Paris was there, and Matt was all in on this deal, I got a little bit nervous. My heart was beating about 135bpm after the first number.
During the loud part of the third number, the smoke machine went off. I remained seated as I cringed and was reassured that it would be turned off. Plus, my drumming was so hot in that moment it was possible that I’d set the drum riser on fire, so I let it go.
The next song was the quietest number in the set. Halfway through, the smoke machine went off again. After the show, the Dodger said, “That fucking thing was hissing like a snake!!!”, and it was. As the rancid cloud of embarrassment enveloped Jane Tuttle like an outtake from Spinal Tap – and the hissing sound became the loudest thing coming from the stage – I stepped out from the behind the drum kit, walked across the stage, unplugged the smoke machine, and pointed it toward the wall. I missed where I was supposed to come back in at the end of the song, but I gave fair warning about the smoke machine, so whatever – women and children first. It was 1984 the last time I saw one of those things. OU812? Who’s with me?
The rest of the set went great and the people went wild. Backslapping all around. If you happen to be a musician, Paris is a wasteland of horrible bands. Big fish, petit pond, all that. Name five French bands. Good luck.
This dude from the Posies was at the show and said he might want to record some stuff. I’ve never heard the Posies in my life because I find the band name off-putting. It sounds too much like “Posers” or “Pussies.” Stupid reasoning, but nonetheless true. He sometimes works with R.E.M., which is impressive.
Wow, What Are the Chances?
(Tester prepares for the big rematch by reviewingfound footage of the Moscow Mauling of ’92.)
After reading the post regarding the gig at the Australian embassy, old pal Tyler Mallory of Austin, Texas, (who happens to be married to Elli Shoemaker’s best friend Christine Furbish Mallory) sent this email:
Tyler: I was just reading about your Aussie gig and recognized a name you had mentioned, Steven Tester. I went to jr high with a guy of that name. Any relation you think? Just curious. I cant wait to get over there and fuck you guys up!
Taylor: i know he lived in oregon for awhile... more info please.
Tyler: I know he was a military brat and lived in germany for a while. He is the one person who has ever punched me in the face. I’ll elaborate more on that later.
[I had been at the pub having beers with Steven Tester not 20 minutes prior to receiving this email. He plays bass to my drums in Bombazine Black. We met in Paris because we both responded to the same Craigslist posting looking for people to play in a Mogwai/Slint-inspired band headed by an Australian couple. I called Steven. Indeed, he went to junior high school in Moscow, Idaho with Tyler Mallory and punched him in the face in front of the sheriff’s house because some kids were telling Steven that Tyler had said some stuff about him and vice versa.]
Steven: I was a pacifist. I’m not sure how it happened.
[I had been at the pub having beers with Steven Tester not 20 minutes prior to receiving this email. He plays bass to my drums in Bombazine Black. We met in Paris because we both responded to the same Craigslist posting looking for people to play in a Mogwai/Slint-inspired band headed by an Australian couple. I called Steven. Indeed, he went to junior high school in Moscow, Idaho with Tyler Mallory and punched him in the face in front of the sheriff’s house because some kids were telling Steven that Tyler had said some stuff about him and vice versa.]
Steven: I was a pacifist. I’m not sure how it happened.
Tyler: I find this truly bizarre. I remember his braces and bleached bangs, he was a skater or a freestyle biker, something like that. We became friends the year after he kicked my ass, then he moved away.
Tyler and Christie are coming to Paris in March. I can just see it now...
I da ’Ho?! No, YOU da ’Ho!THE THRILLA IN VANILLA
Tester/Mallory II
March 22, 2008 : Paris, France
Under the Eiffel Tower, BITCH!
AFTER SCHOOL
Tester/Mallory II
March 22, 2008 : Paris, France
Under the Eiffel Tower, BITCH!
AFTER SCHOOL
I mean, really. Wow. What are the chances?
L’Observateur : Australia Day!
The Australian Embassy sits nicely in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower. It seems like a high security facility until the guy waves you through in spite of the fact that every light, buzzer, and beeper is going off.According to the Australian ambassador to France, more Australians visit the Louvre each year than people from any other country. She also guesstimates that there are 5,500 Aussies in France at any one time. Kangaroo meat is exported to France, but we already knew that. Blah, blah, blah. In general, she couldn’t get the people at the bar to shut up long enough to get a word in edgewise.
According to Melbourne’s Matt Davis there are 20,000,000 people living in Australia. Wikipedia backs this assertion, estimating 21,200,000. I would have guessed more like 100,000,000. Yes, I know the middle part is uninhabitable desert.
When I asked for a carpet to set up the drums on, the guy brought me “The Red Carpet.”
At least seven different embassy employees walked up while we were setting up our gear and told us that the door to our left was the emergency exit and that we shouldn’t block it. Safety first.
My buddy John Attridge from Canberra won a bottle of white wine in the raffle. Screaming “Yes! John Attridge! John Attridge!!!” and pointing at him seemed to really annoy some people, which I found odd considering no one would shut the fuck up when the ambassador was speaking. It was a classic bait and switch.
The people serving the hors d’oeuvres quickly learned to avoid us. They would duck behind the bar and walk around or lift the tray over our heads where we couldn’t reach. We were starving.
The “fuckwit” who coordinates the events at the Australian embassy walked up before the last song and told us there was a pizza for us in the kitchen. But when we got done playing, it was gone.
Melbourne’s Matt Davis also estimates that the gig at the Australian embassy was the worst he’s ever played. By worst he means no food, no money, no one wanted to watch or listen to us play, the room had stone floors and glass windows, and the drum kit was set up in a hallway that led to a beautiful 200-seat theater that we weren’t allowed to play in ... We wanted a worst-case scenario for our test run, and we got it.
My bike key fell out of my pocket during the evening and I was forced to scour the entire embassy for it as the cleaning crew was sweeping up. Luckily, I found it.
Then to cap off the perfect evening, I witnessed Steven Tester pay the equivalent of $9 for a small plate of french fries – which I promptly ate half of.
L'Observateur : Twilight Zone Edition
There were posters for La Guerre de Charlie Wilson all over Paris in the past week. They got taken down yesterday because films come out on Wednesday... The point of this observation is that Phillip Seymour Hoffman’s character looks almost exactly like my deceased Uncle Charles in the posters. This is the closest jpg I could find on some internets.I hear lots of random tunes on French radio that I haven’t heard since 1984. Lionel Richie’s “All Night Long,” Murray Head’s “One Night in Bangkok,” and Wall of Voodoo’s “Mexican Radio” immediately come to mind.
When you are on the 14, if you stand at the door facing out and stare at the outer wall, the layers of glass create an interesting visual effect on your reflection, which jumps very rapidly – both toward and away from you – at varying distances.
The other night after riding my bike home in a steady rain from halfway across town, I was putting my bike in the unlit bike room downstairs. Some other bikes were piled up in front of the back side of the door. I couldn’t see anything, and I knocked a ladder off the wall. I leaned it up against the wall, knocked all the other bikes over, picked them up, made a huge racket in general, and went about my business. Today, a hand-written note appeared in the elevator. I’m pretty sure it says that the ladder in the bike room belongs to Mme. Albenesse and that it is NOT for communal use.
The other night after riding my bike home in a steady rain from halfway across town, I was putting my bike in the unlit bike room downstairs. Some other bikes were piled up in front of the back side of the door. I couldn’t see anything, and I knocked a ladder off the wall. I leaned it up against the wall, knocked all the other bikes over, picked them up, made a huge racket in general, and went about my business. Today, a hand-written note appeared in the elevator. I’m pretty sure it says that the ladder in the bike room belongs to Mme. Albenesse and that it is NOT for communal use.
Mr. Holland's Opus
As of today, I am teaching Digital Design II (Illustrator, Photoshop, and InDesign) and Design IV: Information Design (basically the work of Edward Tufte) at Parsons-Paris for the Spring semester. I’ve never taught anything but tennis before, so wish me luck.
L'Observateur
Heineken beer cans here have a logo on them of a pregnant woman drinking beer, with a line through it. Reminds me of this classic clip from Mr. Show ... Old baby loves pork rinds.Drumming... Seventeen hours this week alone. My hands are raw. The band is playing a gig at the Australian Embassy on Friday. Interested to see how the “dignitaries” will react to some bashy bombast.
There was a cyclist in front of me with a backpack on that said:
- ONE LESS CAR
- Big Truck!!!
- Small Penis???
and it had a dollar bill stuck to the inside of a cellophane flap.
L'Observateur
Exiting the old city walls of Córdoba, I turned to see them bathed in the golden light of early morning. Doves were nesting in the cracks between the stones. It was a stunningly beautiful scene. I chose not to cheapen it with a snapshot, and instead relegated the image to memory.
Just then, the rising sun caught a thick plume of contrail pollution in the distance and emblazoned it with orange, against the pale-blue sky and the wall’s crowned top. Depressing thoughts about the direction of humanity came to mind.
After touring the artistic and architectural achievements of the Moors, one can’t help thinking that we don’t create or build with attention to detail like we used to. Once, incredibly beautiful and intricate structures – which took hundreds of years to build – were erected on mighty rivers. Today, shoddy apartments and condos rise over receding rivers – available from the $120s.
Staring out the bus window at around 9:15am, the once-clear morning sky is painted with the brush strokes of contrails from the early arrivals into the airport. Outside of town, as we hit another curve in the road, a smoky fog carpets the undulating hills and snakes between endless rows of olive trees. A middle-aged woman sitting next to me vomits her breakfast into a plastic bag. It’s all I can do not to join her.
I wonder what the contrail of the airplane I was in today looked like... Overall, my “carbon footprint” is much abated since I moved to France. I almost never use anything but electric train, bicycle, or regular footprint.
Last night, in dreams, I saw a muscleman spastically swinging a ball and chain inside a small circle – but never letting fly – set against the backdrop of the two halves of my now-divorced family enjoying Disney World together – followed by them eating at separate tables in a cafeteria. They then appeared on The Family Feud at my behest... if only. Most of my dreams are so literal, I’m not sure you can call them dreams.
Somebody should create a game show where two divorcees are the contestants.
The flying dream recurred. Actually, it’s more like a floating dream. I run, flap my arms, and slowly rise, upright, to an elevation of about 15 feet, hover for a moment with my arms outstretched like helicopter blades, and then slowly, gracefully land. Fear keeps me from going any higher or letting my body go horizontal – like a superhero – and flying fast and far. The metaphor of my life can be found in this dream.
For many years I believed it was a scientific certainty that flying dreams were not in my repertoire. Then, waking from the floating dream about a month ago, I realized that not only had I had this “flying” dream many times over, but the idea had somehow floated from my subconscious to my conscious mind that I had – on more than one occasion – actually hovered in the air. Note to self: you can’t hover, you never could.
Sometimes, my mind’s eye creates a vision from the perspective of a speck of dust located on the inside of a human ear or on the side of a coffee mug. The only other time I’ve ever heard mention of anything remotely similar was in reference to the administration of an herb called salvia divinorum by shamans in Chiapas. Somebody wrote on the internet that they smoked some, and then thought they were a paint chip. I tried it once, but nothing happened and it gave me a sore throat.
As there are a lot of fruit trees in Spain, the song “Fruit Tree” by Nick Drake has been in my head for over a week.
European flights descend at a gentler angle than those in North America.
I’m excited to be back in Paris.
Just then, the rising sun caught a thick plume of contrail pollution in the distance and emblazoned it with orange, against the pale-blue sky and the wall’s crowned top. Depressing thoughts about the direction of humanity came to mind.
After touring the artistic and architectural achievements of the Moors, one can’t help thinking that we don’t create or build with attention to detail like we used to. Once, incredibly beautiful and intricate structures – which took hundreds of years to build – were erected on mighty rivers. Today, shoddy apartments and condos rise over receding rivers – available from the $120s.
Staring out the bus window at around 9:15am, the once-clear morning sky is painted with the brush strokes of contrails from the early arrivals into the airport. Outside of town, as we hit another curve in the road, a smoky fog carpets the undulating hills and snakes between endless rows of olive trees. A middle-aged woman sitting next to me vomits her breakfast into a plastic bag. It’s all I can do not to join her.
I wonder what the contrail of the airplane I was in today looked like... Overall, my “carbon footprint” is much abated since I moved to France. I almost never use anything but electric train, bicycle, or regular footprint.
Last night, in dreams, I saw a muscleman spastically swinging a ball and chain inside a small circle – but never letting fly – set against the backdrop of the two halves of my now-divorced family enjoying Disney World together – followed by them eating at separate tables in a cafeteria. They then appeared on The Family Feud at my behest... if only. Most of my dreams are so literal, I’m not sure you can call them dreams.
Somebody should create a game show where two divorcees are the contestants.
The flying dream recurred. Actually, it’s more like a floating dream. I run, flap my arms, and slowly rise, upright, to an elevation of about 15 feet, hover for a moment with my arms outstretched like helicopter blades, and then slowly, gracefully land. Fear keeps me from going any higher or letting my body go horizontal – like a superhero – and flying fast and far. The metaphor of my life can be found in this dream.
For many years I believed it was a scientific certainty that flying dreams were not in my repertoire. Then, waking from the floating dream about a month ago, I realized that not only had I had this “flying” dream many times over, but the idea had somehow floated from my subconscious to my conscious mind that I had – on more than one occasion – actually hovered in the air. Note to self: you can’t hover, you never could.
Sometimes, my mind’s eye creates a vision from the perspective of a speck of dust located on the inside of a human ear or on the side of a coffee mug. The only other time I’ve ever heard mention of anything remotely similar was in reference to the administration of an herb called salvia divinorum by shamans in Chiapas. Somebody wrote on the internet that they smoked some, and then thought they were a paint chip. I tried it once, but nothing happened and it gave me a sore throat.
As there are a lot of fruit trees in Spain, the song “Fruit Tree” by Nick Drake has been in my head for over a week.
European flights descend at a gentler angle than those in North America.
I’m excited to be back in Paris.
L'Observateur : Spanish Tortilla, Ohio Chic
It took the entire two weeks to get into the Spanish groove... After months of trying to adjust to waking up before the Parisian sunrise – suddenly getting into 2pm lunches, napping from 3-5pm, and late dinners after 10pm was off-putting, but mission accomplished... Slept like a baby this afternoon. The trick is to load up on coffee in the morning, drink two beers at lunch, nap, then drink more coffee around 6.Does anyone in this country work except bartenders and bus drivers?
In Spain, a “tortilla” is a potatoey, eggy, quichey thing that one might put on a baguette for breakfast. And for some reason, cafe con leche is better than cafe au lait.
Saw a couple sunning themselves at an outdoor cafe today. From a distance, it looked like her sweatshirt said “Ohio,” but upon closer inspection it in fact said “Chic.” Big difference.
Myth: The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain. Reality: It mainly falls in the hills around Granada when you’re in a time crunch to see the Alhambra.
The inset photo above was taken through beveled plastic from the bathroom window of a hotel in Ronda.
And finally, your 2008 Pre-Season Andalucía Cities-Towns We Visited Rankings:
1) Sevilla
2) Córdoba
-------------- big drop-off here
3) Ronda
4) Málaga
5) Cádiz or Granada
La Mezquita
... and so concludes our tour of ridiculously photogenic Spanish landmarks,
yet again proving that less is not necessarily Moor.
yet again proving that less is not necessarily Moor.
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