More of the SameVersailles, France
30_4_2008
30_4_2008
The Bicycle Thief 4 : Earth Day
Riding a bike is fun, and it’s the best way to get around a city like Paris, where there are loads of bike lanes, small cars, and slow-moving traffic. As previously stated, it’s loads better than riding the Metro, the bus, or walking – and these are only a few of the reasons why I’m sad to report that yesterday, I had myFOURTH BICYCLE IN
TEN MONTHS STOLEN
from a rack at the corner of St. Roch and Rivoli. They cut the iron lock – without irony – on Earth Day. And now, whatever lingering, dangling dingleberry of faith I have left in humanity is officially one hair from a permanent home in the sewer.
L’Observateur : Bizzaritz Edition
Armed with a Tsingtao and a Leffe tallboy we headed over to the Tuileries to sun ourselves in the freezing-ass cold of the seemingly endless northern European winter. There was a gigantic metal spider in the middle of the jardin and the Tsingtao can featured what might have been the planet’s last flip-top lid.The word baguette can mean “drum stick” or “baguette.” This word refers to a specific shape, not necessarily bread.
ATAC is a large grocery store not unlike a Hyper Casino. Except it’s two stories and the spices are well hidden. I asked the stocker, “Ou est l’épicé?” Or: Where is the spicy?
There is a raging debate in France regarding the appropriate hour to begin saying “bon soir.” Similarly, the Mexicans debate “buenas tardes.” No matter, the concierge and I ran into one another on the neverending staircase:
Me: Bonjour.
Her: Bon soir.
Me: A quelle heure c’est bon sois?
Her: [Undecipherable]
Me: [Struggling]
Her: Arrêt! [Followed by a French-language lecture justifying her certainty that the “bon soir” hour had no doubt begun.]
Two hours later, I went out to get a baguette and a random woman in the foyer greeted me with “bonjour.” The debate continues...
One of my students at Parsons was captain of Iceland’s U-21 Women’s soccer team a few years back. When she talked about it, she got that “eye of the tiger” look and I was a little bit scared. (Speaking of Iceland, the Sigur Rós documentary/concert film Heima is a triumph.)
The Badger snail-mailed me a copy of “Memoirs of Montparnasse” by John Glassco. To mark the occasion I treated myself to a steak lunch at Chez Paul and started reading:
Wherever the limelight is, you’ll find Ernest with his big lovable boyish grin, making hay. Balls. We’d better go to the rue de Lappe. I crave genuine depravity.
One of the cool things about living in Paris is reading old novels and actually knowing some of the streets and places they are talking about. In this case, the Rue de Lappe sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it. As I was pulling the Paris Practique out of my bag to figure it out, I glanced at the street sign across the way. It said “Rue de Lappe.” What are the chances?!
A Stroll Through the Symmetry
Most people go to Père Lachaise to smoke a joint at Jim Morrison’s grave or kiss the tomb of Oscar Wilde. I go there to wander around and make sure a certain mime isn’t, in fact, a zombie. No matter, it’s around the corner from the apartment, so strolling around over there is taking hold as a thing to do. When we moved in, the concierge referred to it as “the green space” of the neighborhood.
L’Observateur : Le Basket Edition
One day in October, I went in search of Gilbert. His studio is across from a big barn-like building with a sign on the side of it that says “Gymnase Japy.” I remember thinking, “they must do gymnastics in there.”As luck would have it, Gymnase Japy is now about 100 meters from my front door. It’s a beautiful old building with a sky-lit roof, glass backboards, wooden floorboards, and elevated bleachers. Probably the nicest gym I’ve been in since that time Chris Kirt and I slipped into Cameron Indoor.
A few weeks ago, I walked over and inquired about hoops. I had what is probably the longest French conversation I have had to date, and left with the vague notion I could show up on Monday, Tuesday, or Wednesday from 8-10pm, and possibly get into a game. But for all I knew, the attendant was one word from hypnotizing me. At any rate, I relayed this information to Matt and the decision was made to case the joint.
We rang the bell, strolled past the security desk like we knew what we were doing, dressed out, and started shooting around. Matt struck up a conversation which opened with, “Bonjour.” The response was direct: You must pay to play in the gym, you need insurance, more French rules, and blah blah blah. We were blackballed. Minutes later, a 4-on-4 full court game broke out with us standing on the sidelines. As you may have heard, basketball in its purest form is 5-on-5.
About then, a man walked up and asked us if we wanted to run with him in the next game. We accepted, and he chaperoned us past the French resistance. Which – like WWII – was weak due to the presence of cheese-eating surrender monkeys. [Ed. Note: I’m kidding. Je t’iame.]
The game itself was like 1950s hoops without the three-man weave. A peculiar proliferance of the set shot. Two-three zone defense. International lane and three-point line. Lots of passing. Inbounds from the baseline. No free throws. No contact.
On three separate occasions, I hit a shot in the lane which hit the rim, then the backboard, and ultimately dribbled in. Each time, a member of the other team shook his head in disgust, rolled his eyes, and said, “oooh la la la la la la.” Later, one of my teammates lucked one in, rolled his eyes, shrugged his shoulders, and then apologized to the other team as the ball was going through the net. I guess it’s like that unwritten rule in table tennis where you demure after the ball dribbles over the top of net, rendering it unreturnable. At home we call it “shooter’s roll.”
At one point I stole the ball, and caught the tip of an opponent’s ring finger as I swiped. About three seconds later, I heard “faute!” as I was leading a well-formed 3-on-2 fast break – and weighing the odds of a successful fake-behind-the-back-pass and opposite-hand finish. This late call wreaked of hurt French feelings – the bitter aftertaste of being ripped by a ’Merican.
A few minutes later, I made a guy eat the ball. Stuffed him – again catching the lesser half of one finger. When I didn’t call a foul on myself, he looked at me like I had just raped his sister. I held my hands up in confusion and said “um, faute?” Oui. Foul. Where I come from, finger calls wear name tags and hand is part of the ball. No myth.
Then I hit my only three-point attempt of the game, even though I wasn’t even close to squared up to the basket. A lucky shot.
The worst player on the floor (regrettably, a teammate) would not stop bitching that there wasn’t enough passing going on in the game. Especially after missed shots, he would make the “passing” motion with his hands and then shake his head at one of us in disgust. This went on for about 20 minutes. At one point, I heard him say, something like “le basket c’est une joue à cinq-a-cinq.,” and I’m thinking “where was that sentiment when I was watching you play quatre-a-quatre?
So, after I missed my second two-foot face-up jumper in the lane within a short span, I was sad. In a league of higher repute, another pass I would not have seen. Then Mssr. Passhole again made the “pass” motion at me and grimaced.
Passhole: [“Pass the ball” mimicry]
Show Pony: Pass? Off a two-footer in the lane?
Passhole: [talking some French blah blah]
Show Pony: Fuck off.
The game halts.
Passhole: [Facing mostly away from me.] You say ‘fuck?’ I don’t say ‘fuck’! Oh no. [Finger wagging à la Dikembe Mutombo] I no say fuck...
Apparently, that’s a deal-breaker in France – though it’s mostly par for the course in Texas.
I passed Passhole the ball a lot after that, to see if he could put his monnai where his bouche was. Trop mal. Like myself, he missed short jumpers, blew layup after layup, dropped passes, and – to top it off – wantonly threw the ball to no one, out of bounds. At this point, he was incensed – with himself. After the game, I told him, “I’m sorry about all that.” He said he was sorry too, and a peace accord was signed. Then another guy confided in me that he thought Passhole was really just “angry at himself on the inside.” I clutched the hem of his shorts and cried like a baby. Not really.
There was a kickboxing class going on at the same time as all this action. One of the dudes looked exactly like Crispin Glover and I found it most amusing.
Rock chalk.
Monroe Mustang, The Imaginary Band, Regretfully Declines
Today marks the release of Monroe Mustang, The Imaginary Band, Regretfully Declines, the first album by Monroe Mustang this century. Keeping with the times, this “record” is a digital release – you can purchase the 1s and 0s here on the iTunes music store. Thanks go out to the kind folks at JagJaguwar who helped make it possible. We are going to play some shows this summer in Austin, Texas and continue forward at the glacial pace you’ve come to conveniently forget about and not expect.
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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