Socialism is like the generalization I am going to use to describe French people. I don’t really know anything, so keep that in mind while reading my opinions. Ha, just a joke, I know stuff- Americans are really funny. I am learning stuff. I am living in Paris, learning and pretending to know stuff. I say “I understand,” not because I do, but because I am a firm believer in affirmations. I am not a “The Secret” kind-of-person, but a “positive mindset feels better” kind-of-person. When living in a new country and learning a new culture, it’s hard for me not to see how America is superior, as an American. Funny how all the parts of it I lamented are actually what makes it pretty awesome. Things, that if tempered, could serve everyone quite auspiciously, but now seem to just piss people off by pissing all over the majority (poor people)(eew). Capitalism is one of those things that isn’t really in practice here. It is really a Socialist country, France, and that tends to breed laziness, but more importantly doesn’t promote a true Joie de vie (I said that wrong, but spelled it perfectly). I am an expert on joie de vie because I grew up poor, but still laugh a lot.
Capitalism gives incentive to create something that will not only set you apart, but reward you greatly. Unfortunately, the spirit of ingenuity in American business seems to have turned in on itself and manifested in ways to fuck over people to take what isn’t earned. This is sanctioned by the government to keep them in power. The issue has become the reward for trickery instead of innovation. However, there is more of a freedom to recognize it and speak against it in America, than there is likelihood for protests against Socialism here. That isn’t out of gratitude to a benevolent government, it’s out of indifference, which is the latent undertone to everyone working their mandated jobs, with their standards 6 weeks off and free health care. Quality of life is as relative as what's considered funny by anyone.
At an early age, kids in France are encouraged to not use critical thinking skills. They are given the answers and expected to memorize them, because over half of everyone that works in France, works for the government. Artists are paid by the government and therefor must create something along the lines of everything else, even if they don’t know it (of course they don’t). They learn that being different is not a quality that is impressive. Take Lady Gaga, for example, she could finger bang a goat all day and call it a skirt (only in America).
If you have ever seen “Exit Through The Gift Shop” you would know a bit about street art and a lot about a French “artist” named “Mr. Brainwash” (ou “Monsieur Tête de Propre”). The French man, was trying to do what he saw independent-thinking-creative-types doing, but ended up creating something that fell so incredibly short of inspired, it drove the thousands of people who saw the documentary to despise him. However, he is a product of a socialist upbringing, just as Americans tend to be chubby. Do you hate fat people for operating on a level they have been raised to? Me too- yucky!
So, the thing about not wanting to be different, to the point that you fear it, makes you a little closed off to things like “spontaneity” and “friendliness”. The French (yes, another round of generalizations) can barely stand having their English corrected, where as an American is kind of raised to laugh at themselves, unless they were raised religious (then it’s rare, but still celebrated). I was having a nice exchange with a clerk here (oh, I am in Paris), who wanted to speak some English with me. He seemed friendly and fun, so when I told him that I live in Paris now, and he said “you’re welcome,” I thought that he would see how funny that was. I explained to him that it would just be “welcome” and translated to him what it would be in French. I expected (always a mistake) him to see it as ridiculously funny, because it sounds so patriotically self-important. Instead of chuckling, he immediately emanated a shameful contempt for his error and, through gritted teeth, thanked me for “learning him something.” I didn’t stretch the limits of how hard one could slap a knee, by telling him about grammar, mainly cause I don’t give a fuck if people mess up English. I mess it up on purpose, on a regular basist. However, most French people will go out of their way to point out that you are saying something wrong, even if you are saying it the same way they are (“oui” “no, OUI!”). I am not sure if that makes them hypocrites or absolutely hateful (either way, it doesn't look good, French people). Are they trying to inflict the same amount of shame that they would feel if the tables were turned? If that’s the case, the only reason the French are thinner than Americans, is because they don’t really eat and French Cuisine is designed to fuck everyone up. No wonder they are grumpy- low blood sugar!
I really relish (hot dog joke) making an ass of myself and hope that it is contagious so that I can have some more fun here. I actually like Paris, despite my criticisms, but that is only because I work hard on those “affirmations” I was telling you about. I wish I could affirm a tighter stomach, but there is too much fucking bread here! C’est la vie! “Non, C’est la VIE,” “shut the fuck up, sheep!”
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Holy Gay Paree, LGBT Community
It’s Gay Pride in Paris and let me just say that “Gay Paree” is not just an expression- this place is FULL BLOWN HOMO! It was a lot of fun and even though, it seriously slowed down what I was trying to do with my life (you’re reading it), I loved seeing throngs of people gathering to celebrate their lifestyle. Makes me want to have a GIGANTIC tupperware party, because I LOVE making large vats of food, I always have. I didn’t get it from my Mom or Dad, maybe my Dad... the point is, I was born this way, much like gay people. Nobody is telling me I can’t be in the kitchen all day, but you guys- it’s no longer the 50’s and now I am expected to have life experiences. Thanks, feminist movement.
I was eating in my apartment and all the sudden, it was like the club just opened up down the street, except it was really appealing and I wanted to go! I rushed through my salad, would have just stored it, but I don’t have tupperware (fucking feminists, I am pretty sure). I packed up my lap top and walked down my six flights of stairs to the street one block from St. Germain and St. Michel, where the party was AT! There were thousands, maybe over a million people out celebrating diversity and I liked it. I saw some carpenter types standing on a terrace of an apartment right on St. Germain. They must have been renovating it. I hope they weren’t being paid hourly, because those guys were just slack-jawed and unproductive. I got the impression that they couldn’t believe their eyes and were asking how, in all the reality they know, this sort of phenomenon can exist. It was truly amazing, gay as far as the eye can see. I don’t know how effective rainbows are to getting your voice heard or fairy wings are to getting a point across, but this is gay culture... I guess. I always thought it was like same sex/ sex change stuff, but apparently there are way more colors than that. If I dressed up as a sandwich and demanded to be taken seriously, do you think starving nations would even consider respecting my demands for public masturbation? Is it not the same thing? OH REALLY? Oh... okay, maybe you’re right. I may have inhaled some glitter on my way here.
I am not sure where America is at with regards to allowing gays in the military, but one hypothetical benefit to them not allowing gays, and me being a lesbian who works for them, would be; calling in gay to work- just once! However, I would never risk my life defending a country that didn’t honor my right to live my life the way I wanted to (fatigues would pretty posh, though) That being said, if it ever came time to fight for those rights, there is a huge chance that we would win... "we" being gays/ gay supporters. I consider myself a gay advocate, even though I show a general irreverence to many institutions. I say a lot of "bigoty-type" things, but I could see not getting legally married until everyone had the same rights... unless I fell in love with a conservative, then he would call the shots, really. However, I would throw fabulous dinner parties.
I was eating in my apartment and all the sudden, it was like the club just opened up down the street, except it was really appealing and I wanted to go! I rushed through my salad, would have just stored it, but I don’t have tupperware (fucking feminists, I am pretty sure). I packed up my lap top and walked down my six flights of stairs to the street one block from St. Germain and St. Michel, where the party was AT! There were thousands, maybe over a million people out celebrating diversity and I liked it. I saw some carpenter types standing on a terrace of an apartment right on St. Germain. They must have been renovating it. I hope they weren’t being paid hourly, because those guys were just slack-jawed and unproductive. I got the impression that they couldn’t believe their eyes and were asking how, in all the reality they know, this sort of phenomenon can exist. It was truly amazing, gay as far as the eye can see. I don’t know how effective rainbows are to getting your voice heard or fairy wings are to getting a point across, but this is gay culture... I guess. I always thought it was like same sex/ sex change stuff, but apparently there are way more colors than that. If I dressed up as a sandwich and demanded to be taken seriously, do you think starving nations would even consider respecting my demands for public masturbation? Is it not the same thing? OH REALLY? Oh... okay, maybe you’re right. I may have inhaled some glitter on my way here.
I am not sure where America is at with regards to allowing gays in the military, but one hypothetical benefit to them not allowing gays, and me being a lesbian who works for them, would be; calling in gay to work- just once! However, I would never risk my life defending a country that didn’t honor my right to live my life the way I wanted to (fatigues would pretty posh, though) That being said, if it ever came time to fight for those rights, there is a huge chance that we would win... "we" being gays/ gay supporters. I consider myself a gay advocate, even though I show a general irreverence to many institutions. I say a lot of "bigoty-type" things, but I could see not getting legally married until everyone had the same rights... unless I fell in love with a conservative, then he would call the shots, really. However, I would throw fabulous dinner parties.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Parenting In Paris, Also Hitler And Stuff
I got on the Metro going the wrong way today, so I am in an unfamiliar arrondissement resigned to make the best of it in Paris. I am still waiting for a waiter (more like “wait her”, I am so right!) to come serve me. The leniency they show themselves in helping patrons in this city never ceases to annoy me. I like the idea that I will finish what I am writing and then, my waiter will show up and do his fucking job... [keep in mind, I have been sitting here longer than I've been writing] If I were the president I wouldn’t have to deal with this... why can’t I be different than who I am- like be the President?
I work for a family with three boys, the oldest is five and totally into muscly super heros, another is four and adores princesses. He has princess shoes, purses and jewelry. He always speaks with his hands in such a way that leaves his nails in grand display. His mom brought him home some press on finger nails and he was thrilled- his father- not so much. [my waiter just took my order, let’s see how long it takes him to bring it around]
The dad is concerned that his son is going to get picked on in school for "this" (the horror of a boy in lavender) and so he gets short with his wife and tries to discourage "this" (sparkly butt-holes) from happening. I understand his concerns, but kids will make fun of the cheese in you lunch box and it can destroy you if you don’t have a strong sense of who you are and that it’s okay to be you. If this boy can’t wear press on nails at home, where is he safe to express himself? I don’t think we need to worry for our young friend, the mom has a strong enough voice and knows what’s right, the boy will be fine, but definitely a bottom, when the time comes. [my coffee just arrived] I mean, she’s no Britney Spears, but she does what she can.
There is almost nothing we can do for boys fashion in Paris, they will likely all grow up thinking that a popped collar and embroidered pockets are reasonable things to wear. That, or they will be incredibly dapper. I say this while I am wearing running shoes, leggings and a scarf. My hair is in a pony tail and I feel helpless to confectionery during this time of the month. A lanky Japanese woman sits down with her friend beside me in a very well thought outfit and I shrivel inside because I don’t know myself. If I did, I would be happy and, I am convinced, incredibly fit/ rich.
I gave up on making a long-term life in Paris less than a month ago and I continually day dream about going back to America. I am doing stand up again this week and have likened telling jokes to people with English as a second language to what it would be like if the entire audience were Benjamin Franklin, but in 2011 and he doesn't know it. I may have to prepare more oil lamp/ calligraphy jokes and NEVER mention how France folded under the slightest pressure of Hitler’s thumb, like a over-ripe peach. With that, all the integrity it bore died with millions of others... Hey, I didn’t say that, I channelled it.
I like the idea of being harshly critical of people/ places and rebuking all responsibility by claiming I am just a clairvoyant channelling something else. How special I am to bring this news to tens of people! [just paid the check]
I know there are people that love Paris and I don’t blame them. It’s beautiful and distinct, maybe that brings out a feeling of being that when you're here. However, in comedy I need a home, a place where I can tuck my balls, put on my princess shoes, press on nails and say whatever I want to say and that it is not only accepted, but celebrated. I am moving back home to Denver when I get back, where ball-tucking is as notorios as cross-dressing... that's not really the issue here.
I work for a family with three boys, the oldest is five and totally into muscly super heros, another is four and adores princesses. He has princess shoes, purses and jewelry. He always speaks with his hands in such a way that leaves his nails in grand display. His mom brought him home some press on finger nails and he was thrilled- his father- not so much. [my waiter just took my order, let’s see how long it takes him to bring it around]
The dad is concerned that his son is going to get picked on in school for "this" (the horror of a boy in lavender) and so he gets short with his wife and tries to discourage "this" (sparkly butt-holes) from happening. I understand his concerns, but kids will make fun of the cheese in you lunch box and it can destroy you if you don’t have a strong sense of who you are and that it’s okay to be you. If this boy can’t wear press on nails at home, where is he safe to express himself? I don’t think we need to worry for our young friend, the mom has a strong enough voice and knows what’s right, the boy will be fine, but definitely a bottom, when the time comes. [my coffee just arrived] I mean, she’s no Britney Spears, but she does what she can.
There is almost nothing we can do for boys fashion in Paris, they will likely all grow up thinking that a popped collar and embroidered pockets are reasonable things to wear. That, or they will be incredibly dapper. I say this while I am wearing running shoes, leggings and a scarf. My hair is in a pony tail and I feel helpless to confectionery during this time of the month. A lanky Japanese woman sits down with her friend beside me in a very well thought outfit and I shrivel inside because I don’t know myself. If I did, I would be happy and, I am convinced, incredibly fit/ rich.
I gave up on making a long-term life in Paris less than a month ago and I continually day dream about going back to America. I am doing stand up again this week and have likened telling jokes to people with English as a second language to what it would be like if the entire audience were Benjamin Franklin, but in 2011 and he doesn't know it. I may have to prepare more oil lamp/ calligraphy jokes and NEVER mention how France folded under the slightest pressure of Hitler’s thumb, like a over-ripe peach. With that, all the integrity it bore died with millions of others... Hey, I didn’t say that, I channelled it.
I like the idea of being harshly critical of people/ places and rebuking all responsibility by claiming I am just a clairvoyant channelling something else. How special I am to bring this news to tens of people! [just paid the check]
I know there are people that love Paris and I don’t blame them. It’s beautiful and distinct, maybe that brings out a feeling of being that when you're here. However, in comedy I need a home, a place where I can tuck my balls, put on my princess shoes, press on nails and say whatever I want to say and that it is not only accepted, but celebrated. I am moving back home to Denver when I get back, where ball-tucking is as notorios as cross-dressing... that's not really the issue here.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Fab Moretti Approved My Friend Request And I Almost Had A Stroke!
Fab Moretti, the drummer from the Strokes has a Facebook page and approved my friend request! Yes, I am sure it’s him, because he’s got a photo of himself up; Legit much? It’s so funny, though, he only has 284 friends and I have almost 900, maybe I should be a drummer for the Strokes... if ticket sales ever aren’t doing well, because his inability to connect, I mean. It feels really good being so socially superior to a famous person. I am sure that I am because of the friend tally, plus I have been tagged in way more photos. Maybe he hasn’t been tagged because he’s always hidden behind people. I dated a drummer once, didn't like his face, but he used to hand drum on my back after sex and I liked that. Nothing like being a bongo to make you feel substantial.
Fab Moretti dated Drew Barrymore for five years, so that’s follow through. I think that says something about the guy, not sure what, but I am pretty sure it means I am a shoe in if I could just dumb it down a bit. I don’t want to say that. Why did I say that? Drew Barrymore isn’t a dum dum, she’s actually pretty savvy, but she talks with elongated “ums,” which is indicative of stupidness. That doesn’t make her stupid, just like if someone has a large forehead, doesn’t mean they have fetal alcohol syndrome. However, it’s a safe assumption that their parents don’t love them (look at that forehead). I do yoga and have full breasts that I used to flash all over the place, so he might love me for 3-7 years.
Uuuuuuum, this all reminds me of the time I sent John Mayer a friend request on Myspace and quietly believed he would recognize that I was his soul mate from my profile pictures. He approved my request right away, so I was pretty hopeful, although he didn’t read my message- ever. I thought that I should try dumbing it down a little, so he might like me. I rewrote the letter with lots of “likes” and very little punctuation. A year later he started dating Jessica Simpson and I gave up on me and him- I couldn’t dumb it down THAT much. That isn’t fair, I shouldn’t say that about her, she clearly has some proclivity towards canniness... her clothing line is doing really well. Also, she is getting married to an athlete- take that John Mayer. Seriously, though, call me- I have such a stupid voice.
I wanted to write about travel and living abroad everyday, but the reality is after two months in Paris, there is nothing left to say. I don’t think it’s the same city it used be, and if it is, people are really stupid- like Jessica Barrymore stupid for building it up so... I mean, it's pretty, but ah, uuuum, I shouldn’t say mean things like that, like it doesn’t count. I am excited to travel to Spain next month and Greece the month after that. Other than that, I just kind of take it day to day, meeting people and trying to keep an open heart and mind, except when I am walking places. When I walk places I am all tank-like, because I get riddled with meaningless compliments by men who don’t seem to realize that the mere fact that they are flattering me negates the act by the assumptive intention they use. They seem to have it that stopping me might just get them somewhere. If I was truly beautiful, you wouldn’t approach me, now would you greasy fatso?
Speaking of greasy fatsos, I am mad at my ex, who isn’t a greasy fatso, but would really hate that I used that descriptive. He was my best friend on the internet, maybe in the world and all the sudden he just stopped talking to me. I don’t know if it’s because I was like “look, stop acting like a fucking loser” or because I slept with his brother... that’s not true, but it could be if he doesn’t get with it. I will fly to where his family is and seduce his brother while wearing a disguise and using a fake name. Yeah, don’t let me get away, asshole. My ex spent half the time we talked, telling me how he likes that I don’t let him get away with anything and one day I say something about how he’s once again escaping reality by doing mushrooms on a monday morning in his dank apartment... and I’M so fucked up?! I guess I should consider it a blessing, because I am now free to date Fab Moretti with out feeling guilty. I mean, I don't have to worry about how that might make my ex feel or that it might make him drink. I have felt a little helpless with regards to losing my ex as a friend, so I was like “how can I get my power back?” and I thought that I might block him from Facebook, so I don’t have to be reminded he is on the internet, not keeping in touch with me. I wont do that though, for obvious reasons... I want to win the friend spread competition I’m having with Fab Moretti. Uuuuuum, totally.
Fab Moretti dated Drew Barrymore for five years, so that’s follow through. I think that says something about the guy, not sure what, but I am pretty sure it means I am a shoe in if I could just dumb it down a bit. I don’t want to say that. Why did I say that? Drew Barrymore isn’t a dum dum, she’s actually pretty savvy, but she talks with elongated “ums,” which is indicative of stupidness. That doesn’t make her stupid, just like if someone has a large forehead, doesn’t mean they have fetal alcohol syndrome. However, it’s a safe assumption that their parents don’t love them (look at that forehead). I do yoga and have full breasts that I used to flash all over the place, so he might love me for 3-7 years.
Uuuuuuum, this all reminds me of the time I sent John Mayer a friend request on Myspace and quietly believed he would recognize that I was his soul mate from my profile pictures. He approved my request right away, so I was pretty hopeful, although he didn’t read my message- ever. I thought that I should try dumbing it down a little, so he might like me. I rewrote the letter with lots of “likes” and very little punctuation. A year later he started dating Jessica Simpson and I gave up on me and him- I couldn’t dumb it down THAT much. That isn’t fair, I shouldn’t say that about her, she clearly has some proclivity towards canniness... her clothing line is doing really well. Also, she is getting married to an athlete- take that John Mayer. Seriously, though, call me- I have such a stupid voice.
I wanted to write about travel and living abroad everyday, but the reality is after two months in Paris, there is nothing left to say. I don’t think it’s the same city it used be, and if it is, people are really stupid- like Jessica Barrymore stupid for building it up so... I mean, it's pretty, but ah, uuuum, I shouldn’t say mean things like that, like it doesn’t count. I am excited to travel to Spain next month and Greece the month after that. Other than that, I just kind of take it day to day, meeting people and trying to keep an open heart and mind, except when I am walking places. When I walk places I am all tank-like, because I get riddled with meaningless compliments by men who don’t seem to realize that the mere fact that they are flattering me negates the act by the assumptive intention they use. They seem to have it that stopping me might just get them somewhere. If I was truly beautiful, you wouldn’t approach me, now would you greasy fatso?
Speaking of greasy fatsos, I am mad at my ex, who isn’t a greasy fatso, but would really hate that I used that descriptive. He was my best friend on the internet, maybe in the world and all the sudden he just stopped talking to me. I don’t know if it’s because I was like “look, stop acting like a fucking loser” or because I slept with his brother... that’s not true, but it could be if he doesn’t get with it. I will fly to where his family is and seduce his brother while wearing a disguise and using a fake name. Yeah, don’t let me get away, asshole. My ex spent half the time we talked, telling me how he likes that I don’t let him get away with anything and one day I say something about how he’s once again escaping reality by doing mushrooms on a monday morning in his dank apartment... and I’M so fucked up?! I guess I should consider it a blessing, because I am now free to date Fab Moretti with out feeling guilty. I mean, I don't have to worry about how that might make my ex feel or that it might make him drink. I have felt a little helpless with regards to losing my ex as a friend, so I was like “how can I get my power back?” and I thought that I might block him from Facebook, so I don’t have to be reminded he is on the internet, not keeping in touch with me. I wont do that though, for obvious reasons... I want to win the friend spread competition I’m having with Fab Moretti. Uuuuuum, totally.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
I Nreed Some Brinds
I live in a chambre de bonne next to Sorbonne University, in Paris. A chambre de bonne is a make shift room, at the top of buildings and it’s where the help used to sleep back when people kept servants. My room is about half the size of the smallest image I have seen on the internet. There is a dorm room fridge, a sink and a toilet. My toilet is electronic, so when I flush, it stalls for about 7 seconds before loudly announcing it’s function to anyone within earshot, which is everyone because my walls are as thin as the servants who lived here used to be. As if a frightening noise weren’t enough, it’s process is different from a traditional toilet that flushes into a sewer. I am not entirely sure about the exact logistics, but when you flush, it grinds whatever you did into everything else that’s ever been done. It doesn’t matter if you pee, poop or vomit, you will smell a lifetime's evidence of all these things. It’s like a little movie I would call “Shaw-Stank” Redemption, without the ass rape (although, the movie's not over yet). It’s basically a movie that goes on for 11 months and is set in the sewer Tim Robbin's character had to crawl out of, in the original movie, to know freedom (myself).
My toilet is right under my window, which is helpful to flush out the flush smell, depending on the temperature outside. My window faces into a bunch of other windows, of wealthier homes, which I have only recently discovered, has made me quite a spectacle to some old man’s grandsons. I got a formally written complaint asking me to get some curtains. I thought I was being discreet, but assumptions really do make an ass out of... and visible to obtrusive teenage boys. I avoided hanging blinds because my window is slanted with the roof, that tops my tiny little space. A hung curtain cuts off half of my room, unless I pin it and then the air flow is obstructed making bathroom time noxious, but hey, I’m in Paris and in my own, imaginary movie!
Like I said, the walls are thin (or athletic by today’s standards) and my other neighbors, who share my walls/ are poor, are also Asian- Vietnamese- I think... I’ve never been good with that sort of thing, but wanted to convey that I know a specific country over there. My neighbor is up late and when his girlfriend comes over at the end of her restaurant shift (I assume at a Chinese place),they catch up on their day- Of course- they haven’t seen each other all day! It is ridiculously loud and bounces out their open window, and off of the glass of the horny French kids and every other spectator’s window who can’t smell my toilet, but know it’s there. I wonder why their talking hasn’t gotten a complaint and my sloppily discreet wardrobe changes have. I thought about what complaining about them would sound like and I'm pretty sure it would sound racist. The thing about their native tongue, is that it’s a tonal language, so me making a noise complaint is like a hate crime. I hate that I have to wake up at 6 in the morning and they want to communicate. However, if I did voice a complaint, it would be a lot like being in America and complaining about my Mexican neighbors not speaking English to their 7 kids. “It’s really awful because I hear them and then I think it’s early May (Cinco de Mayo).” So I have ear plugs and one of those plants that dances when it hears noise, super hypnotic.
Poor Asians, so easy to pick on linguistically. My French friend and I were at a grocery store here and it was after the cut off time the store would sell alcohol. We got to the counter after some disgruntled party people, frustrated they couldn’t get some more beer into their expanding guts. I decided it would be fun to fuck with an already disgruntled clerk. We put our stuff on the counter and I leaned on the counter with the kind of swagger a handsome oil tycoon has in the movies when he approaches a cheap blonde at a bar. In French I say to the clerk “good evening, this [signaling the food] and [pausing for affect] one bottle of Smirnoff.” He humorlessly explains that they aren’t selling alcohol at this time, to which I throw my hands up in mock defensiveness, then respond in French “okay, okay [pausing again, for the same reasons] TWO bottles of Smirnoff.” He hears me and thinks that I am just a stupid person who can’t understand what he’s saying, but I clearly need booze, so he let’s me in on a little racist secret. In a French/ English combo he explains that there is a shop on the corner that sells alcohol late, then he clarifies (in French) “a Chinese man," as he says this, he takes his fingers and pulls his eyes apart. I know that he was just frustrated with my inability to understand, so instinctively did what he could to survive the communication jungle we were now hacking through. To let him know I clearly understood, I said “CHINESE!” and put my hands together over my head, making a triangle of my arms, mimicking a Chinese rice hat and started saying “ah ah ah ah thank you very much,” in the most offensively racist Chinese accent I could muster. My friend and I had a good laugh and were off with our food. We weren’t going to buy alcohol anyway, which is fine, because I wasn’t home and that’s the only place I would NEED to drink anyway.
My toilet is right under my window, which is helpful to flush out the flush smell, depending on the temperature outside. My window faces into a bunch of other windows, of wealthier homes, which I have only recently discovered, has made me quite a spectacle to some old man’s grandsons. I got a formally written complaint asking me to get some curtains. I thought I was being discreet, but assumptions really do make an ass out of... and visible to obtrusive teenage boys. I avoided hanging blinds because my window is slanted with the roof, that tops my tiny little space. A hung curtain cuts off half of my room, unless I pin it and then the air flow is obstructed making bathroom time noxious, but hey, I’m in Paris and in my own, imaginary movie!
Like I said, the walls are thin (or athletic by today’s standards) and my other neighbors, who share my walls/ are poor, are also Asian- Vietnamese- I think... I’ve never been good with that sort of thing, but wanted to convey that I know a specific country over there. My neighbor is up late and when his girlfriend comes over at the end of her restaurant shift (I assume at a Chinese place),they catch up on their day- Of course- they haven’t seen each other all day! It is ridiculously loud and bounces out their open window, and off of the glass of the horny French kids and every other spectator’s window who can’t smell my toilet, but know it’s there. I wonder why their talking hasn’t gotten a complaint and my sloppily discreet wardrobe changes have. I thought about what complaining about them would sound like and I'm pretty sure it would sound racist. The thing about their native tongue, is that it’s a tonal language, so me making a noise complaint is like a hate crime. I hate that I have to wake up at 6 in the morning and they want to communicate. However, if I did voice a complaint, it would be a lot like being in America and complaining about my Mexican neighbors not speaking English to their 7 kids. “It’s really awful because I hear them and then I think it’s early May (Cinco de Mayo).” So I have ear plugs and one of those plants that dances when it hears noise, super hypnotic.
Poor Asians, so easy to pick on linguistically. My French friend and I were at a grocery store here and it was after the cut off time the store would sell alcohol. We got to the counter after some disgruntled party people, frustrated they couldn’t get some more beer into their expanding guts. I decided it would be fun to fuck with an already disgruntled clerk. We put our stuff on the counter and I leaned on the counter with the kind of swagger a handsome oil tycoon has in the movies when he approaches a cheap blonde at a bar. In French I say to the clerk “good evening, this [signaling the food] and [pausing for affect] one bottle of Smirnoff.” He humorlessly explains that they aren’t selling alcohol at this time, to which I throw my hands up in mock defensiveness, then respond in French “okay, okay [pausing again, for the same reasons] TWO bottles of Smirnoff.” He hears me and thinks that I am just a stupid person who can’t understand what he’s saying, but I clearly need booze, so he let’s me in on a little racist secret. In a French/ English combo he explains that there is a shop on the corner that sells alcohol late, then he clarifies (in French) “a Chinese man," as he says this, he takes his fingers and pulls his eyes apart. I know that he was just frustrated with my inability to understand, so instinctively did what he could to survive the communication jungle we were now hacking through. To let him know I clearly understood, I said “CHINESE!” and put my hands together over my head, making a triangle of my arms, mimicking a Chinese rice hat and started saying “ah ah ah ah thank you very much,” in the most offensively racist Chinese accent I could muster. My friend and I had a good laugh and were off with our food. We weren’t going to buy alcohol anyway, which is fine, because I wasn’t home and that’s the only place I would NEED to drink anyway.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
New Coffee Shop, New Ways To Alienate Myself
I have found a new coffee shop. I have been here before, but now I am really here. It’s the only place in Paris to get a decent latte and that makes me happy to return. Also, there are a lot of attractive, english baristas. I am about 4 lattes away from meeting my soul mate and his name is going to be easy to pronounce (on my list).
After being stalked by some old French guy at my regular cafe, I decided it was time to switch it up. So, I didn’t write very much last week- what a shift! It wasn’t just that guy, the service started getting real slow with me, taking me for granted. I yelled that they were acting just like my LAST boyfriend. So, here I am, a new cafe that takes an hour to walk to, but has a patronage I wouldn’t mind stalking me and... good coffee/ comfy chairs. I met a young man today, from America. The barista mixed up our lattes and accidentally gave me his soy latte, but that started dialogue because I recognized him from yesterday, when another latte mishap occurred. It seemed he forgot all about it, but I didn’t and I reminded him of every detail, making me look like a very lonely woman. I don’t think he was mad at the service, but he is a young 23, so he probably doesn’t know when to get pissed off, like I do. Anyway, a new Facebook friend later, I am writing about knowing how to talk too much to strangers. The biggest part of growing up, is learning how to talk to strangers. I have to remind that little girl inside of me that it’s safe now, so lift up your shirt when you eat too much sugar- we’re in this together.
Before I could write a pivotal story, like the one I am writing now, I had to write a French comedian and apologize. I was referred to him by an American comedian, so I sent a friend request with a brief introduction. His profile picture was a thumbnail of a poster with him on the front, wearing a jester hat and a confident posture “yeah, I am comfy in this hat and maybe even a little tough, come see my show”. Comedians often times use show posters as profile pics, in America it’s like saying “I’m not here for validation- I’m an artist”. The French comedian wrote back with a sentence asking how I was. I was happy to hear back because I am eager to get on stage and thought he might be able to direct me to some open mics or something. I asked him about stage time here, assuming that there has to be something, but I don’t even know if they call it “stage time”, they might call it “a shower” or “muffin tray”. The next day (that’s today for all you history buffs), I am taking the metro to my new favorite coffee shop to cut out the hour long walk and hope that the new found 45 minutes will prove useful to the creative process. That’s when I see a large billboard in the metro station with this guy’s profile picture on it. So, the one connection I had, I may have completely alienated by asking about open mics. I should have asked him if he knew any solid street corners I could pan-handle at, I mean, we’re both artists, right?
At least I am going to a party tonight. The Facebook invite said 193 people are attending and 136 people are maybe attending. I am definitely in for a meaningful time. However 311 are not attending and the event is waiting for a reply from 2,046 people, so it’s possible that the music will be stupid and only lonely people will be there. What if I am spotted at the lamest party of the season, will people recognize me and refuse to be my friend in the future. It could be one of those parties where everybody looks at one another like the other is stupid for being there. What if that comedian is there and recognizes me and doesn’t like what I am wearing, but he’s wearing that fucking hat. I hope I pack a cool enough lunch and meet my soul mate or a chair. I love sitting down sometimes, especially with a good lunch.
After being stalked by some old French guy at my regular cafe, I decided it was time to switch it up. So, I didn’t write very much last week- what a shift! It wasn’t just that guy, the service started getting real slow with me, taking me for granted. I yelled that they were acting just like my LAST boyfriend. So, here I am, a new cafe that takes an hour to walk to, but has a patronage I wouldn’t mind stalking me and... good coffee/ comfy chairs. I met a young man today, from America. The barista mixed up our lattes and accidentally gave me his soy latte, but that started dialogue because I recognized him from yesterday, when another latte mishap occurred. It seemed he forgot all about it, but I didn’t and I reminded him of every detail, making me look like a very lonely woman. I don’t think he was mad at the service, but he is a young 23, so he probably doesn’t know when to get pissed off, like I do. Anyway, a new Facebook friend later, I am writing about knowing how to talk too much to strangers. The biggest part of growing up, is learning how to talk to strangers. I have to remind that little girl inside of me that it’s safe now, so lift up your shirt when you eat too much sugar- we’re in this together.
Before I could write a pivotal story, like the one I am writing now, I had to write a French comedian and apologize. I was referred to him by an American comedian, so I sent a friend request with a brief introduction. His profile picture was a thumbnail of a poster with him on the front, wearing a jester hat and a confident posture “yeah, I am comfy in this hat and maybe even a little tough, come see my show”. Comedians often times use show posters as profile pics, in America it’s like saying “I’m not here for validation- I’m an artist”. The French comedian wrote back with a sentence asking how I was. I was happy to hear back because I am eager to get on stage and thought he might be able to direct me to some open mics or something. I asked him about stage time here, assuming that there has to be something, but I don’t even know if they call it “stage time”, they might call it “a shower” or “muffin tray”. The next day (that’s today for all you history buffs), I am taking the metro to my new favorite coffee shop to cut out the hour long walk and hope that the new found 45 minutes will prove useful to the creative process. That’s when I see a large billboard in the metro station with this guy’s profile picture on it. So, the one connection I had, I may have completely alienated by asking about open mics. I should have asked him if he knew any solid street corners I could pan-handle at, I mean, we’re both artists, right?
At least I am going to a party tonight. The Facebook invite said 193 people are attending and 136 people are maybe attending. I am definitely in for a meaningful time. However 311 are not attending and the event is waiting for a reply from 2,046 people, so it’s possible that the music will be stupid and only lonely people will be there. What if I am spotted at the lamest party of the season, will people recognize me and refuse to be my friend in the future. It could be one of those parties where everybody looks at one another like the other is stupid for being there. What if that comedian is there and recognizes me and doesn’t like what I am wearing, but he’s wearing that fucking hat. I hope I pack a cool enough lunch and meet my soul mate or a chair. I love sitting down sometimes, especially with a good lunch.
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