Thé Pour DeuxParis, France
31_3_2008
31_3_2008
I Like the Oklahoma Sooners, Pit Bulls, and WWE
Taylor, the Monroe Mustang(My best friend loves hot Cheetos)
“yall skanks and hoes dont add me got that ?”
L’Observateur : Fleche D’Or Edition
A few months ago I was hanging out with my buddy Andrew and his girlfriend Laurence. We went out for a confit de canard, and then headed over to the Fleche D’Or to see a DJ set. Except that when we got there, the bouncer took one look at us and denied us entry. We were stupefied by his rejection and I’m still scarred by this incident.About 17 years ago, I was standing in line at the Limelight in Manhattan, and when they let me in I couldn’t believe it. Equal and opposite reaction, I suppose.
Ironically, the day before yesterday, Bombazine Black received a last-minute invitation to play the opening slot last night at (wait for it) the Fleche D’Or. We were the first band on a four-band lineup. We went on at the very rock & roll hour of 8:15.
Yet again, the smoke machine went off while we were playing – in spite of the fact that Elli plead for its’ dismissal. The Frenchman insisted that it made the lights look pretty. It wasn’t nearly as bad as last time – to the point that I barely noticed, so I let it go.
For some reason the club decided to change exactly one word of the online bio that we submitted – “Austin” to “Montréal.” Not sure why someone would decide I was French-Canadian when I’m so obviously Franco-American, but maybe it has something to do with George W.
We played a good show, got a free meal (chicken with pasta), free drinks (whiskey and beer), and some pocket money (euros) – which we promptly blew on champagne. We’ve been invited back to play some shows in late April, which is great, considering that the Fleche D’Or is so cool that you might be denied entry for, say, being me. Or, alternatively, beating someone “to blood” – on site – as is the case with an acquaintance of mine named Florian.
My photographer friend Laurent Zylberman stopped by, but missed the set. He took this photo of us in the bar afterward. I recommend you check out his web site. He used to live in Real de Catorce, Mexico and we met via mutual friends who live en pueblo.
I have fooled a lot of people into thinking that I am a passable drummer. Including a Belgian fellow who happened by during our petanque match last weekend and a multi-million-selling Australian singer-songwriter whose name I cannot tell you.
In other music news, the French beat Edison to the phonograph. They now hold the title on records and films. But something tells me this little tid bit will go the way of the Thor Heyerdahl/Cheng Ho/Christopher Columbus debate. Revisionist history is such a pain in the ass.
Petanquetanque Butt
“The Rumble in the Mumble” did not go down as advertised. In fact, it turned out to be a game of petanque. Twas with steely balls and without the timely intervention of Sheriff Kenny Buxton that the score was settled and Plus Tard miraculously emerged the victor. And so, our two potatoey combatants were more interested in mashing me than hashing it out with each other. Polaroid by Marla Brose.
Passport ¡ tropssaP
Palden MacGamwell, a student at Parsons-Paris, has some incredible portraits he took at the Jamgon Kongtrul IIIrd Memorial Home in India. Thanks to him for allowing me to use a few for this project. 
L’Observateur : March Madness
March Madness is in full effect here in Paris. Thanks to ncaasports.com, all 65 games of the NCAA basketball tournament are streaming to my laptop. This is a treat after years of the first two rounds of the dance coinciding with the SXSW Music festival and not being able to watch for so many reasons. And I love being able to switch between games whenever I want to.My friend Kim Mellen Kight sent me an email this week regarding a dream of hers that I was in:
We were in a big rock band that was part of a contest. We had to improvise music in front of a middle school or high school audience. You and I chose to front the band playing this contraption that involved holding balloons over different sized pots of boiling water. The steam rising around the balloons made Theremin-like sounds. In fact you said it was the real Theremin. Like the man-behind-the-curtain of the Theremin we know in waking life, I guess. That might have been when the baby or the alarm woke me up, because I don’t know the results of the contest. If it was like most band contest movies, we probably came in second but learned valuable lessons along the way and gained the approval of our conservative parents.I didn’t think much of it until later in the day when I got a call from my buddy Andrew here in Paris. He said he got us tickets to see Monolake at the Centre Pompidou on April 4 and that he thought they would have some “floating balloons that make high-pitched noises.” What are the chances?
Lately, Paris has the strangest weather pattern I’ve ever seen. It will be sunny, then the sky will turn dark gray, the wind will pick up, it will rain, it will clear, and then the sun returns. Repeat. Yesterday, it snowed/sleeted/hailed today while the sun was shining.
The Gilkey Guide
Karl’s Guide to Paris
1) Say yes when they ask if you want salt and pepper in your cheese crepes.
2) Go to the super great good Falafel place.
3) Sitting/standing at the bar in most places is cheaper.
4) Bottles of wine are expensive in restaurants – always order a carafe of wine.
5) Olives in Paris are much better than what we get here.
6) Beer can be expensive. Stick with wine.
7) Remember to bring food ... wine, bread, cheese whatever on the train with you.
8) Keep a watch for dog poo at all times.
9) Eat cheese.
10) Have Taylor show you the lion with the big balls. Elli, man that girl can talk French.
11) Learn the turnstile slide.
1) Say yes when they ask if you want salt and pepper in your cheese crepes.
2) Go to the super great good Falafel place.
3) Sitting/standing at the bar in most places is cheaper.
4) Bottles of wine are expensive in restaurants – always order a carafe of wine.
5) Olives in Paris are much better than what we get here.
6) Beer can be expensive. Stick with wine.
7) Remember to bring food ... wine, bread, cheese whatever on the train with you.
8) Keep a watch for dog poo at all times.
9) Eat cheese.
10) Have Taylor show you the lion with the big balls. Elli, man that girl can talk French.
11) Learn the turnstile slide.
L’Observateur : Horseplay Edition
Again with the horse meat. I asked Romain about it and he told me it was delicious. Gamy, like lamb, but different. When I pointed to the ad in the metro and asked him how he liked his horse, Romain just rolled his eyes and said “rôti,” like “does a cheval shit in the woods?” I’m actually dying to try some.
There was a horse race on TV where the horses were running clockwise around the track instead of counter-clockwise. I never really thought about it, but it’s actually weirder that they usually run counter.
It seems that most horse races in France are chariot/buggy races, not the saddled variety. In these races a horse must trot – but not gallop – which causes disqualification. I think that these races are called “trots,” but I’m not an expert on the matter, nor do I care to be.
The other day I temporarily lost my mind and bet three trot races at a PMU. True to form, I lost them all. Two horses galloped and one was beaten by a horse who was obviously high. I had forgotten how painfully thrilling it can be to gamble. I lost 17 euros.
I swore off gambling after I lost a few hundred dollars on this debacle. Colorado and Notre Dame were a pick ’em in the 1991 Orange Bowl, which also served as the de facto national championship game that year. I had Notre Dame. Some 19-year-old kid clipped a Colorado player 15 yards behind the play and it got called back. Watching this clip brings back some bad memories, but what a runback.
While at the PMU we saw an elderly barman punch an almost-elderly customer in the side of the head in a dispute over the payment of a single beer. It was fantastically weird. As an aside to the drama, a drunk Russian told us that he could drink all day and not lose his cool. Then the other bartender told us that the Russian had been drinking all day. Then the Russian muttered something in French about America and we split.
L’Observateur : Juif Edition
Today was the first day I rode my bike from the new apartment to my “real” job. Nice ride through the rotunda at the Bastille, down St. Antoine, past the Louvre, Concorde, Assemblee Nationale, and the Eiffel Tower. As I passed Invalides, I noticed a proliferance of Israeli flags flapping in the breeze, but I didn’t think much of it. On my way home, crossing through Concorde, there were cops everywhere. I happened to be sporting my “Nazi Cop” look and I was fairly certain that the cops were all paying way too much attention to me. As I rolled past the Opera House, I noticed more Israeli flags, more cops, and more suspicious eye contact. Then I realized that there was some kind of state visit going on. And that I was biking through French police barricades in a “German flag” jacket. Jews, Nazis, WWII. Not a good combo. Maus, Art Speigelman, etc.When Karl Gilkey was here we talked a lot about our shared practice of saying random French phrases aloud as we walked down the street. The thing is, because it’s not your first language, or even a language you speak, it doesn’t seem that weird when you’re doing it. But when you wander through the Marais saying “Juif, Juif, Juif,” to yourself, it’s not so good. A few weeks ago I caught myself riding my bike near Ecole Militaire saying, “Ecole Militaire, Ecole Militaire, Ecole Militaire,” loud enough for people to hear me ... daccor.
The photo which accompanies this post was taken in Prague at Château Rouge by Peter Pop, this guy from New York who thought I was a Czech cop.
L’Observateur : 11eme Edition
Riding the #9 Metro, I saw a guy balancing a soccer ball on his head while the car was moving. He lasted three stops with a stone grill, before losing it at Charonne. As the ball fell off his head, he caught it, busted out laughing, and got off the train.This apartment smells like a wet Croatian ashtray.
When you get down to brass tacks, the differences between France and the United States really aren’t all that great. It reminds me of Harry Nilsson’s The Point, where Oblio goes into the Pointless Forest only to find that everything there has one – a point, that is. Humans are humans. End of story.
The notable exception is, of course, the food. There hasn’t been nearly enough coverage in these pages regarding French food. The worst meal here comes close to beating the best meal I’ve had in the United States, and I’m not even exaggerating. For starters, all the produce tastes better in France. And it gets a whole lot better from there.
After moving into the apartment, we found a box in the freezer which contained a dish from Picard, the frozen food store. It was a gynormous fish-shaped croissant with salmon, spinach, and cabbage inside. We cooked it while we were unpacking, and it went down nicely with that bottle of Cahors we’d been lugging around with us all week. The “fish’s” “eye” was a “peppercorn.” It was delectable.
Now that I think about it, the French hate big cars, love bike lanes, and live with a mindset that says “all we care about is eating, drinking, fucking, and taking lots of time off.” They’re a lot more like the Mexicans than I ever would have imagined. Take five, America.
La Photo du Jour 177
Moto Carcass(It’s Oddly Disgusting How Much This
Looks Like a Ravaged Animal Skeleton.)
Paris, France
12_3_2008
Looks Like a Ravaged Animal Skeleton.)
Paris, France
12_3_2008
La Photo du Jour 175
L’Observateur : Homeless Edition
Our “homelessness” continues. For the next three days we’re living at 16 Rue de Birague – off Place des Vosges – in one of Glenn Cooper’s apartments. Life is rough. Sunday will be my last day working for Cooper Paris Flats, when I bid Glenn a fond farewell. Last week we had dinner with him at Chez Gladines and he told us that once upon a time a female client got pissed off, took a shit on a hide-a-bed, folded it up, and left it there for the cleaning people to discover.My replacement is a French guy named Romain who has relatives in Kenitra, Morocco, the town of my conception. He speaks incredible English, which he mostly learned from watching movies. His accent is very New York and reminiscent of Travis Bickle. The other day, he said “true that” and “crazy as hell.”
The other night at a brasserie near Pyrénées, Matt, The Dodger, and I settled in for steaks and potatoes – both roasted and au gratin. After Man U won 2-1 on aggregate versus Olympic Mayonnaise, the French lady seated near us abruptly stood up and screamed at The Dodger, “Ooooh... with a Portuguese striker and a Dutch goalie!!!,” payed her tab, and stormed out.
International students are a real trip. The Swedish guy had never heard of Norway’s Sondre Lerche but the Icelandic girl knew Jóhann Jóhannson. The Mexican girls have tortillas in their freezer.
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