I think it's safe to say I'm in a rut. Or a slump. Or whatever. Let me resume:
First of all, I feel like crap. My skin is awful, my hair is greasy, I haven't showered in two days, I feel fat, and I've chewed my nails down to stubs.
IES is worthless. It is a complete and utter waste of my time. I can't remember the last time I even listened to an interesting discussion during one of my mind-breaking, hour-and-a-half-long courses. It's torment. I would rather be at Whitman getting my ass kicked by ridiculous reading schedules and lit papers than here, banging my head against a wall for no reason. The pain is physical; I can feel myself dying as I sit in class and stare at my mocking watch-face as an eternity of suffering passes every minute. I tell myself, "Art history is fun! You like art! You find aesthetics and the artistic movements of the 19th century interesting!" And then I show up at nine A.M. on Monday and Wednesday mornings and fall asleep - that kind of guilty half-sleep where you have to keep pinching yourself, and the teacher is giving you dirty looks anyway, and all you want to do is get out of your desk and lie down on the floor and pass out.
My "Women in Conflicts" class is less painful, because the teacher is interested and occasionally interesting. However, no one speaks French, and listening to that shit for an hour and a half really is pure torture. Perhaps as a function of the language level, no one ever says anything interesting.
And then there's translation. I find it hard to care even slightly about this class, despite the fact that it would probably be the most useful for me if I did. However, it's completely useless as well. All we ever do is translate things - which in theory is fine. However, the only way I ever know whether my translation is correct is when she gives it back to me and I learn that everything is wrong. Seriously, if I just read a goddamned English-French dictionary and a grammar book cover to cover, I could skip an entire semester of torment. I don't know how people know things - I consistently get the worst grades in the class on tests and translations, despite the fact that half the class doesn't fucking speak French. Once again, I'm getting screwed by assholes who know, and play by, the rules; whereas I do shit that I think "sounds right." Well, it's been that way since 7th grade, so I don't see why things should change now.
Basically, I spend 9 hours a week in IES classes wishing I were dead. It is really difficult to explain to people (well, it's easy to explain, but I sound like a prick) that I go to a really good school, and that classes here don't interest me, that the people are unintelligent and unimaginitive, and that my brain has not been this underworked in I don't know how long. Probably ever. Thank god for Rachel and Linzy; if not for them this sea of mouth-breathing heathens would be unbearable.
And then there's my exterior courses. This is where it gets even better.
It is halfway through the semester, and I have been to exactly one of each of my classes at the ICP (Institut Catholique de Paris). I went to one "Epistemology in/of/on History" class, and one "Contemporary Art" class. History was fine; I planned on going back to that. And then it got nice out, so I haven't been in two weeks. Art History was literally the exact same class as my IES art history class. Same paintings, practically the same lecture. I was less than thrilled, and since class is cancelled every other week, I haven't been since. The problem is that I haven't been to the TD either (that's the art history class where you, I don't know, do homework and discuss things, or something). Not one time. I have no idea what's even required of me for the class. This is not a good thing, as another student, Brittany, who is in the same class, told me that three weeks ago when she introduced herself as an American student and whatnot, the TD prof was the opposite of thrilled to learn about her presence. Well, Brittany actually just said she was a huge bitch - to everyone. She had to give an oral presentation last Friday, and the professor wouldn't tell her how. She told me it did not go well.
The problem is that I think I need to, you know, actually do things for these classes if I want to get credit for them. Which, honestly, I don't really care about. It's the IES classes I need the credit from; a sociology class, an art class, and a french class. The situation is likely not a good one. I don't really know how I'm going to explain to the "dean" here that I haven't been to any of my exterior classes. I'm thinking about lying, and blaming my lack of grades on evil French profs.
Well, that's classes.
As far as Paris goes, j'en ai marre. Things go up and down, but mostly I'm sick of the weather, the people, and speaking french. Nothing interests me; I'm bored all the time. I don't know what I'm doing here. Wasting money, probably - I could be working and living here or something, but for some reason I'm in school. The French don't even take school seriously. I don't understand how they turn into human beings; there is chatter throughout every single class, and almost no one shows any interest in anything remotely scholarly. It is the land of the self-motivated; it's not like the teachers give a shit (they tell you as much). And going to the ICP, which is supposed to be better than the Sorbonne, is like being in high school (granted, I've been to two classes, so I'm no expert). I have no interest in going to classes, or doing much of anything else. I wouldn't mind eating really good food all day or something.
What really bums me out is that I have no idea what to even look forward to. The end of the semester? Then what? Back to Walla Walla, to find a job. Definitely not Colorado. Live in a house that I'll rent for a year while I struggle through classes and try to think of things to do with my life. Another semester of English and French? I don't know what to do with either. More school, I suppose. What a thrilling prospect.
I think that everyone, at some point, dreams of dropping out and being a rock star. I'm definitely there right now. Unfortunately, I don't even know how to play the guitar. Which is why I'm going to buy one at a pawn shop this summer, along with a sewing machine. I might as well teach myself some shit.
I wish I could think things into existence. I have all these fucking fantastic ideas for books, comics, operas, movies, songs, and every other thing ever. The thing is, I have no idea how to do anything. I haven't got a single useful skill. What am I supposed to do with a brain that never shuts off, and a body that won't turn on?
Speaking of which, as soon as I get back to the states I'm getting on anti-anxiety meds. There are some days I can barely even function from invisible stress, and I can't remember the last time I relaxed. Even my friends here have noticed it. I'm sure I'm terrible to be around - in an awful mood all the time, constantly bored but unwilling to do anything - I'm a peach. All I really want to do is ride motorcycles, sword fight, fly spaceships and listen to metal. You know, have adventures. Like, if I were a steampunk assassin in a dystopian victorian neo-past and got caught up in some grand, fantastical conspiracy. Or a rough-and-tumble space pilot disovering new planets and saving the universe. Or a knight. Or anything. Back in the 1840's, Baudelaire called for a portrayal of the Heroism of modern life (somehow he ended up with Delacroix, who, while suitably romantic [read: epic], was hardly a portrayor of the vie quotidienne. There's a definite disconnect between Baudelaire's later poetry and his continued championing of Delacroix. I suppose his endorsement of Constantin Guys does something to remedy that, but Guys wasn't all that heroic. But none of that's neither here nor there), and I think that's what I'm looking for. There's no romance in life any more; no heroism, no grandeur. Nietszhe killed god, and the Author was dead by the seventies. What else is left? I know I'm not supposed to complain about the lack of the sacred, but then where do you turn for refuge? I don't know if any of this will ever make any sense to anyone else, but that's alright. There's no mysticism. All the corners of the map have been filled in. There's no excitement. I haven't been excited for anything in ages. I think people mistake excitement for anxiety. Either that, or I have way more problems than I thought I did.
This is why I don't think I should be allowed to read or watch anything, or even listen to music, because inevitably I end up comparing my life to fictions. Like, I couldn't sleep tonight (probably because I slept from ten in the morning to six thirty at night. Now it's six AM, and no signs of crashing), and so I stayed up and thought. That can't be healthy. I'm tempted to reference Baudelaire again, and wander out into the pre-dawn rain looking for the fleurs du mal. I'm always lured by the thought of taking on a second personality that only comes out at night - like Jekyll and Hyde. I want to go out and be evil. Not street-thug evil, more like passively evil - Not helping old ladies, picking up people's dropped items and keeping them for myself, not reporting thefts. You know, being evil in the Silent Observer's capacity.
Maybe I'll go into the sewers and look for the elder gods; try to get involved in the arcane arts and summon a demon. Stumble into a cult meeting and fight off mindless hordes with a manhole cover. Really, I'm up for anything at this point. I play out bizarre daydreams in my head almost constantly ; I zone out on the phone and even in the middle of conversations.
Something else I'd like to mention: I am constantly terrified of/thinking about knife fights and getting stabbed. I think I've mentioned this before. It's not really even a fear, it's more of an expectation. I lie awake in bed and image what I would do if someone attacked me with a knife. When I'm walking around at night, I'm always expecting that someone's going to come at me with a dagger.
On what I hope is a final note, I hate accordions. What I hate even more is when people play them directly in my ears while I'm on the metro, and then want me to give them money. They should be giving me money for putting up with their shit. Seriously, I don't even care if they're the fucking Mozart of the accordion, I can't stand it.
Friday, March 27, 2009
It's Been a While...
...Since I wrote anything.
Kim left this morning (yesterday morning?) at 9:20, so we were out of the hotel at 5:30 AM. The RER was uneventful and the airport was empty, so we had time to "enjoy" the greasiest quiche lorraine either of us had ever eaten before she headed off to her gate.
It was a fun two weeks. Upon arrival, Kim fell in love with the Greek sandwich. And she fell hard. I think we had six in two weeks. That's a lot of greasy meat.
We decided on a favorite: The pita at "Maison de Gyros" in St. Michel hits all the right notes: the spicing on the juicy meetz is delicious, the tzatziki is thick and rich and legit, the salad and tomatoes are generally crisp, and the fries are hotter and more satisfying that the fries of the competitors - although the last pita we ate was quite a bit saltier than usual. The "restaurant" is also comfortingly filthy. There's salt all over the floors so that you don't slip in grease, the upstairs seating area hasn't been cleaned in...ever...and on Thursday we were accompanied by a stray cat AND a deformed pigeon as we ate.
Kim didn't want to see most of the touristy schtick - of course, you end up seeing most of it anyway - just the Eiffel tower and the Sacre Coeur, which were both duly admired - as were the Arenes de Lutece, where we ate - believe it or not - a Greek Sandwich. We spent most of our time rambling about and eating. I forget how much Kim eats; it's terrifying, especially given she's 5'6" and 113. I ate more in the last two weeks than I did the first month I was here, easy. It was good, actually - I never eat anything more gourmet than a panini; so hanging out with Kim was an excuse to eat food that I actually wanted. She discovered the joys of the pre-dinner kir, the three-course meal, and the Confit de Canard - I think she was more upset to leave the Foie Gras than she was to be leaving me.
The first weekend she was here, we headed over to Linzy's to eat dinner with Rachel and Katie. Rachel and Linzy had been in Amiens that day, and had picked up veggies and whatnot - Rachel also bought Bar for us all to eat, and I'm proud to say I didn't fuck it up. I cooked it in a pan with butter, oil, and white wine, then made a wine/garlic/shallot sauce. It tasted really, really good, if I do say so myself. We all had a great time; the only casualty Linzy's white tablecloth, victim of an energetic Kim and an unstable candlestick.
We did make it to La Duree, the macaron house on the Champs Elysees. I can safely say that the Rose Macaron is one of the most delicious things I have ever eaten in my entire life. It tastes like love. It is incredible. If everyone ate rose macaroons every day, there would be no war and no hate, the economy would be back on track, and we would have a settlement on Mars. It is that good. I crave more; I fiend after them like a crack addict.
Those are the first things that come to mind. I should have done a better job keeping up with posting, but as Kim was very fond of saying, c'est la vie. I'll probably add more as it comes back to me - a busy two weeks is a lot to fit into a single post.
Kim left this morning (yesterday morning?) at 9:20, so we were out of the hotel at 5:30 AM. The RER was uneventful and the airport was empty, so we had time to "enjoy" the greasiest quiche lorraine either of us had ever eaten before she headed off to her gate.
It was a fun two weeks. Upon arrival, Kim fell in love with the Greek sandwich. And she fell hard. I think we had six in two weeks. That's a lot of greasy meat.
We decided on a favorite: The pita at "Maison de Gyros" in St. Michel hits all the right notes: the spicing on the juicy meetz is delicious, the tzatziki is thick and rich and legit, the salad and tomatoes are generally crisp, and the fries are hotter and more satisfying that the fries of the competitors - although the last pita we ate was quite a bit saltier than usual. The "restaurant" is also comfortingly filthy. There's salt all over the floors so that you don't slip in grease, the upstairs seating area hasn't been cleaned in...ever...and on Thursday we were accompanied by a stray cat AND a deformed pigeon as we ate.
Kim didn't want to see most of the touristy schtick - of course, you end up seeing most of it anyway - just the Eiffel tower and the Sacre Coeur, which were both duly admired - as were the Arenes de Lutece, where we ate - believe it or not - a Greek Sandwich. We spent most of our time rambling about and eating. I forget how much Kim eats; it's terrifying, especially given she's 5'6" and 113. I ate more in the last two weeks than I did the first month I was here, easy. It was good, actually - I never eat anything more gourmet than a panini; so hanging out with Kim was an excuse to eat food that I actually wanted. She discovered the joys of the pre-dinner kir, the three-course meal, and the Confit de Canard - I think she was more upset to leave the Foie Gras than she was to be leaving me.
The first weekend she was here, we headed over to Linzy's to eat dinner with Rachel and Katie. Rachel and Linzy had been in Amiens that day, and had picked up veggies and whatnot - Rachel also bought Bar for us all to eat, and I'm proud to say I didn't fuck it up. I cooked it in a pan with butter, oil, and white wine, then made a wine/garlic/shallot sauce. It tasted really, really good, if I do say so myself. We all had a great time; the only casualty Linzy's white tablecloth, victim of an energetic Kim and an unstable candlestick.
We did make it to La Duree, the macaron house on the Champs Elysees. I can safely say that the Rose Macaron is one of the most delicious things I have ever eaten in my entire life. It tastes like love. It is incredible. If everyone ate rose macaroons every day, there would be no war and no hate, the economy would be back on track, and we would have a settlement on Mars. It is that good. I crave more; I fiend after them like a crack addict.
Those are the first things that come to mind. I should have done a better job keeping up with posting, but as Kim was very fond of saying, c'est la vie. I'll probably add more as it comes back to me - a busy two weeks is a lot to fit into a single post.
Friday, March 13, 2009
More Snips
I was under the impression that I spoke pretty good French; that I was past the point of being unable to communicate and well into the land of the annoying but inconsequential grammar mistakes. It turns out that getting your hair cut in a foreign country is really difficult.
I found "Celine for Rachel Benaicht: RB2" on the internet through the bumble&bumble "salon locator" doohickey. Since I know absolutely nothing about salons in Paris, I figured that would be the safest thing to do. Anyway, after I made my appointment (over the phone, which encouraged me) I sat down to look up haircut terminology. I made a great big list, with words like "thinned out," "faded in," "split ends," and "It's too poofy, could you flatten it out?" Of course, as soon as I got on the metro I realized I had forgotten it on my desk. So I showed up at "RB2" with naught but hope.
When I walked in, I was put in my robe and made to sit around uncomfortably for half an hour (they had to move me once or twice to less in-the-way locations) while they finished their current coiffs. Finally, after feeling incredibly out of place for a very long time, my hairdresser walked over and asked me what I wanted. My hair, after two months without a cut and about a week and a half without a wash (I decided not to wash it until I got it cut, as some way of motivating myself to make an appointment or something - I ended up with really nasty hair), was frizzy and ratty and disgusting. Embarassingly so. I tried to stick to terms I knew, but basically everything I said boiled down to these two sentiments: "Shorter, but not too short," and "longer, but not too long." At one point I tried to bring up David Beckham as a reference, but that was unfortunately a bust. I guess he changes his hair too much. Celine, the salon owner, came over to try to translate, but she didn't do any better than I did. "You 'ave a lot of 'air," she finally said, and walked away. Anyway, I just told the girl to start cutting. I did manage to transmit that I wanted my hair thinned out as well as the sort of basic style I was going for - and she definitely came through.
Making small talk during the haircut was much easier than describing the haircut itself. My hairdresser was a very nice, younger French girl in her mid-twenties who was part Cantonese. She asked how much university cost in the States (answer: a lot) and other things of that sort of vapid nature. The salon was uncomfortably silent - no music, and basically no talking. It was fairly odd. I'm used to the Beehive (and to my homie Shelly, who basically just starts cutting as soon as I walk in - ask for her if you're in WW), which is very young and trendy and loud.
All in all, I was at the salon for an hour and a half, which is long even by Beehive standards. I think we were both glad when it was finished, even though I have to give props to the girl -whose name I never learned - she definitely performed admirably for having no direction other than "no, shorter," and "yes, good." It was definitely a humbling experience, and I encourage everyone to try it some time; thankfully now if I ever need a haircut again I don't think it will be quite so traumatic.
I found "Celine for Rachel Benaicht: RB2" on the internet through the bumble&bumble "salon locator" doohickey. Since I know absolutely nothing about salons in Paris, I figured that would be the safest thing to do. Anyway, after I made my appointment (over the phone, which encouraged me) I sat down to look up haircut terminology. I made a great big list, with words like "thinned out," "faded in," "split ends," and "It's too poofy, could you flatten it out?" Of course, as soon as I got on the metro I realized I had forgotten it on my desk. So I showed up at "RB2" with naught but hope.
When I walked in, I was put in my robe and made to sit around uncomfortably for half an hour (they had to move me once or twice to less in-the-way locations) while they finished their current coiffs. Finally, after feeling incredibly out of place for a very long time, my hairdresser walked over and asked me what I wanted. My hair, after two months without a cut and about a week and a half without a wash (I decided not to wash it until I got it cut, as some way of motivating myself to make an appointment or something - I ended up with really nasty hair), was frizzy and ratty and disgusting. Embarassingly so. I tried to stick to terms I knew, but basically everything I said boiled down to these two sentiments: "Shorter, but not too short," and "longer, but not too long." At one point I tried to bring up David Beckham as a reference, but that was unfortunately a bust. I guess he changes his hair too much. Celine, the salon owner, came over to try to translate, but she didn't do any better than I did. "You 'ave a lot of 'air," she finally said, and walked away. Anyway, I just told the girl to start cutting. I did manage to transmit that I wanted my hair thinned out as well as the sort of basic style I was going for - and she definitely came through.
Making small talk during the haircut was much easier than describing the haircut itself. My hairdresser was a very nice, younger French girl in her mid-twenties who was part Cantonese. She asked how much university cost in the States (answer: a lot) and other things of that sort of vapid nature. The salon was uncomfortably silent - no music, and basically no talking. It was fairly odd. I'm used to the Beehive (and to my homie Shelly, who basically just starts cutting as soon as I walk in - ask for her if you're in WW), which is very young and trendy and loud.
All in all, I was at the salon for an hour and a half, which is long even by Beehive standards. I think we were both glad when it was finished, even though I have to give props to the girl -whose name I never learned - she definitely performed admirably for having no direction other than "no, shorter," and "yes, good." It was definitely a humbling experience, and I encourage everyone to try it some time; thankfully now if I ever need a haircut again I don't think it will be quite so traumatic.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Snips and Snails
I seem destined to never be able to wake up for class. I set two alarms every night: one in my phone, and one on my computer that's generally loud enough to wake the entire apartment building, if it goes off.
Today, neither did. I'm sure I'm losing credit in my translation class or something - I've never missed my 9:00AM class, but somehow waking up at 10:00 on Tuesdays and Thursdays is incredibly difficult.
Classes have been getting more and more painful. Each class is an hour and a half long - which is only ten minutes longer than the twice-a-week classes at Whitman - but somehow that hour and a half seems to drag on for eternity. I have to restock my gum supplies this weekend - it's sometimes the only thing that keeps be going.
I finally went to my courses at the ICP this week - they're both fine. Epistemology of History meets once a week for an hour - I'm amazed they can get away with giving it a 3-credit status. Art history turned out to be essentially the same art history course that I'm taking at IES - so on Tuesday night we looked at the very same paintings that we had been staring at on Monday morning. Apparently, the teacher is putting together make-up classes on upcoming Saturdays to account for...something. Brittany (the other IES student in the class) and I have decided that we'll be unavailable on Saturdays. The grades they give us at the university (or at IES for that matter) don't actually count towards our GPAs, so essentially we're just trying to get credit for completing them. And the only ones I technically need to complete are my IES courses, which is hardly a problem - so yes, it's turning out to be what amounts to a semester off.
This past week was Fashion Week in Paris, so everyone was out in their most interesting plumage. Linzy somehow made it into the Gareth Pugh show, and hence the Gareth Pugh after-party, which sort of blows my mind a little bit. Anyway, it was sort of amusing to see the metro fill up with models for the weekend - even if they're terrifyingly skinny and sickly-looking. Rachel also just managed to pick up some internship at Vivian Westwood, and Linzy's working at some little dress atelier (along with another internship at a photography studio) - so I feel like I should be doing more with my life. The truth is, though, that I really like just wandering around the back streets. On Tuesday I walked from Hotel de Ville into the Marais, and got myself utterly lost. It was beautiful out, and it was probably the best lost I've ever been. I've also decided that if I ever move here I want to live in the Marais.
Tuesday night (after art history) we all showed up at Linzy's apartment to celebrate her birthday dinner with her host parents. They were a funny little couple; very French and more conservative than I'm used to (more religious, too - the mother kept calling me Gaspard and asking me if I knew what the name was from, among other things), but they made a fine dinner for Linzy, including what had to be some of the best cake I've ever eaten. According to the mother, it was essentially half butter and half chocolate, but hey - that's what birthdays are for, right?
Today I'm off to the Marais again to try to find a salon. My hair is out of control, and I'm getting incredibly sick of it. I just hope that whoever I go to doesn't absolutely ruin me. It would be nice to be incredibly rich and have a traveling stylist, but I suppose that's a dream I'll have to try to fulfill later in life.
Today, neither did. I'm sure I'm losing credit in my translation class or something - I've never missed my 9:00AM class, but somehow waking up at 10:00 on Tuesdays and Thursdays is incredibly difficult.
Classes have been getting more and more painful. Each class is an hour and a half long - which is only ten minutes longer than the twice-a-week classes at Whitman - but somehow that hour and a half seems to drag on for eternity. I have to restock my gum supplies this weekend - it's sometimes the only thing that keeps be going.
I finally went to my courses at the ICP this week - they're both fine. Epistemology of History meets once a week for an hour - I'm amazed they can get away with giving it a 3-credit status. Art history turned out to be essentially the same art history course that I'm taking at IES - so on Tuesday night we looked at the very same paintings that we had been staring at on Monday morning. Apparently, the teacher is putting together make-up classes on upcoming Saturdays to account for...something. Brittany (the other IES student in the class) and I have decided that we'll be unavailable on Saturdays. The grades they give us at the university (or at IES for that matter) don't actually count towards our GPAs, so essentially we're just trying to get credit for completing them. And the only ones I technically need to complete are my IES courses, which is hardly a problem - so yes, it's turning out to be what amounts to a semester off.
This past week was Fashion Week in Paris, so everyone was out in their most interesting plumage. Linzy somehow made it into the Gareth Pugh show, and hence the Gareth Pugh after-party, which sort of blows my mind a little bit. Anyway, it was sort of amusing to see the metro fill up with models for the weekend - even if they're terrifyingly skinny and sickly-looking. Rachel also just managed to pick up some internship at Vivian Westwood, and Linzy's working at some little dress atelier (along with another internship at a photography studio) - so I feel like I should be doing more with my life. The truth is, though, that I really like just wandering around the back streets. On Tuesday I walked from Hotel de Ville into the Marais, and got myself utterly lost. It was beautiful out, and it was probably the best lost I've ever been. I've also decided that if I ever move here I want to live in the Marais.
Tuesday night (after art history) we all showed up at Linzy's apartment to celebrate her birthday dinner with her host parents. They were a funny little couple; very French and more conservative than I'm used to (more religious, too - the mother kept calling me Gaspard and asking me if I knew what the name was from, among other things), but they made a fine dinner for Linzy, including what had to be some of the best cake I've ever eaten. According to the mother, it was essentially half butter and half chocolate, but hey - that's what birthdays are for, right?
Today I'm off to the Marais again to try to find a salon. My hair is out of control, and I'm getting incredibly sick of it. I just hope that whoever I go to doesn't absolutely ruin me. It would be nice to be incredibly rich and have a traveling stylist, but I suppose that's a dream I'll have to try to fulfill later in life.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Photo Dump
I realized that I have not been so great at sharing photos. Here are several. I apologize in advance for being a shite photographer:
Here is the sandwich I ate this morning. It was huge. And also delicious
At the Ecole des Beaux Arts. A statue who isn't going anywhere. Linzy and I explored a lot. Rather, trespassed.
Here is a pretty fountain and tree at the Ecole de Beaux Arts
The awesome hallway at the EBA
EBA entrance
Art installation? Hallway graffiti? Really big cards? I like.
Dessert: A chocolate thing and a rasberry thing.
Scallops, foie gras, vinaigrette sauce, asparagus. BAM. It was already mostly gone by the time anyone thought to take pictures. But pictures of food never really look that appetizing, do they?
This is a cat. He is friendly.
Katie devouring a delicious Greek sandwich sometime during our first week here.
Here we have Katie and me looking adorable in aprons. Notice my choice of black and brown; it's the combination du jour here in Paris.
Here is the sandwich I ate this morning. It was huge. And also delicious
At the Ecole des Beaux Arts. A statue who isn't going anywhere. Linzy and I explored a lot. Rather, trespassed.
Here is a pretty fountain and tree at the Ecole de Beaux Arts
The awesome hallway at the EBA
EBA entrance
Art installation? Hallway graffiti? Really big cards? I like.
Dessert: A chocolate thing and a rasberry thing.
Scallops, foie gras, vinaigrette sauce, asparagus. BAM. It was already mostly gone by the time anyone thought to take pictures. But pictures of food never really look that appetizing, do they?
This is a cat. He is friendly.
Katie devouring a delicious Greek sandwich sometime during our first week here.
Here we have Katie and me looking adorable in aprons. Notice my choice of black and brown; it's the combination du jour here in Paris.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
Really Good Chips
I suppose you could say that a lot has happened since that last incredibly moving entry, but mostly I've just been eating chips. They have these roast chicken-flavored chips here that are going to be the death of me. They're so good. I can't stop.
So that's why today I have to go jogging.
Friday I ended up at the gigantic agricultural salon/expo, and it was incredible. It's where all the farmers and food/cheese/meat/wine producers come to show off what they've made/grown/recently slaughtered. You pay six euros to get in, and then you basically just sample food and drink for hours on end. It was pretty great. We walked away with a couple of things - some bottles of this delicious berry/peach spritzer stuff that we figure we'll save for a spring day in a park, and we also got bullied into buying ten euro's worth of tapenade. Tasty stuff, so it's not such a waste really - plus, I think we're going to stuff it into a whole Bar and make a really good fish.
The one thing that I hate most about Paris is dealing with the coins. They're an unbelievable pain in the ass. First of all, everyone at every store expects you to have exact change for everything - something I never have. Then, when someone gives you change, they give you as many coins as possible. Yesterday, I needed 38 euros and 80 cents in change, and I got 8 euro 80 back in coins. What am I supposed to do with these? It's no wonder everyone who comes here is broke, because you walk around with 8 euros in coins and think, "Hey, this [whatever I'm about to buy] is only 2/4/5 euros!! I can just use coins!" And everything's great and easy until you realize you just spent 7 dollars on some thing you found on the street. It's an impressive scheme. So I've entered, as of Saturday, the no-spend zone. I'll see how long I can make it.
Last night, I ran into my host sister, Ann, on the very last metro from Opera. Which isn't really that weird, but the whole time I was waiting for it to come I was thinking, "Man, wouldn't it be weird if I ran into Ann sometime in the middle of the night on the metro?"
So that's why today I have to go jogging.
Friday I ended up at the gigantic agricultural salon/expo, and it was incredible. It's where all the farmers and food/cheese/meat/wine producers come to show off what they've made/grown/recently slaughtered. You pay six euros to get in, and then you basically just sample food and drink for hours on end. It was pretty great. We walked away with a couple of things - some bottles of this delicious berry/peach spritzer stuff that we figure we'll save for a spring day in a park, and we also got bullied into buying ten euro's worth of tapenade. Tasty stuff, so it's not such a waste really - plus, I think we're going to stuff it into a whole Bar and make a really good fish.
The one thing that I hate most about Paris is dealing with the coins. They're an unbelievable pain in the ass. First of all, everyone at every store expects you to have exact change for everything - something I never have. Then, when someone gives you change, they give you as many coins as possible. Yesterday, I needed 38 euros and 80 cents in change, and I got 8 euro 80 back in coins. What am I supposed to do with these? It's no wonder everyone who comes here is broke, because you walk around with 8 euros in coins and think, "Hey, this [whatever I'm about to buy] is only 2/4/5 euros!! I can just use coins!" And everything's great and easy until you realize you just spent 7 dollars on some thing you found on the street. It's an impressive scheme. So I've entered, as of Saturday, the no-spend zone. I'll see how long I can make it.
Last night, I ran into my host sister, Ann, on the very last metro from Opera. Which isn't really that weird, but the whole time I was waiting for it to come I was thinking, "Man, wouldn't it be weird if I ran into Ann sometime in the middle of the night on the metro?"
Friday, February 20, 2009
What it's like to read a really good book: I warned you that something like this might happen
I don't think masochism is the right word for it. It's not pain, really. It's a sort of ache that I've always found hard to describe. A dull thud, the sort of thing that comes from the weight of several realizations washing over you at once. It's like death, and drowning, and coughing and sputtering for air and when you finally come up for breath, the world is gone. Like you're standing on a mountain, watching the old gods die.
And then, when you finally recognize it, like some familiar face in a memory that you thought you'd lost or maybe never even had, it makes you cry, it makes your face hot and your breath ragged and when you finally look up and realize that nothing and everything has changed, you're overcome by the urge to do it again, to seek out the rough, blunted razor and cut yourself dumbly on it because you know that the sensation of getting torn open again will really just get you closer to feeling something, something that feels so good while it sucks and squeezes the air out of your lungs and leaves you half-drowned and gasping for life.
And once you step back to think, you're only dragged off further; into the death of the text, into its own rebirth as you begin to own it, and into the ways it starts to build itself into you; until it becomes something completely new - a post-text, a fictional memory, a bricolage of random, disconnected laughter and wailing and dissociated faces and symbols and words and feelings, until you think about it and all you can sense is the shadow of an emotion, a hollowness and a distant prick that you know that you really did feel, and how good it felt, and how terrible.
And then, when you finally recognize it, like some familiar face in a memory that you thought you'd lost or maybe never even had, it makes you cry, it makes your face hot and your breath ragged and when you finally look up and realize that nothing and everything has changed, you're overcome by the urge to do it again, to seek out the rough, blunted razor and cut yourself dumbly on it because you know that the sensation of getting torn open again will really just get you closer to feeling something, something that feels so good while it sucks and squeezes the air out of your lungs and leaves you half-drowned and gasping for life.
And once you step back to think, you're only dragged off further; into the death of the text, into its own rebirth as you begin to own it, and into the ways it starts to build itself into you; until it becomes something completely new - a post-text, a fictional memory, a bricolage of random, disconnected laughter and wailing and dissociated faces and symbols and words and feelings, until you think about it and all you can sense is the shadow of an emotion, a hollowness and a distant prick that you know that you really did feel, and how good it felt, and how terrible.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
I have been having the worst food luck.
There are very few foods that I hate. Generally, I'm the kind of person who will eat anything, but I feel very strongly about my list of dislikes despite its reasonably short length.
The Top Five Foods That I Do Not like:
1)Beets
2)Cabbage
3)Mustard (unless it's in a salad dressing)
4)Ketchup (No.)
5) Pickles on things
So, the other day, I was right in the middle of this crazy-hard cheeseburger craving. I have never craved a food before like this. I was jonesing for beef patties and melted cheese. So, finally I gave in and went to McDonald's - granted, not the best decision in itself. But come on, I really needed a burger. Right after I ordered, I thought: "This damn thing is going to have pickles and mustard and ketchup all over it." My friend told me I was wrong, that No, They have the condiments around for you to put on the burger yourself. This was not the case. The thing was slathered in McDonald's-grade condiments. Sad, I know. I ate it anyway, and threw away the pickles. Little did I know, this was just the beginning.
When my host mother asked me (the night I arrived) whether there were any foods I disliked, I couldn't even think of any. That's how rarely I have problems with food. And, of course, I was being too polite. Keep in mind that I do eat everything; I'm not an ungrateful jackass.
Madame does not cook. Ever. Even when she cooks, she doesn't cook. And somehow, in less than 3 weeks, she has managed to hit four of my top five dislikes routinely. Keep in mind that I only eat here three times per week.
Madame's dressing of choice is equal parts mustard and ketchup mixed in a bowl. She is always insisting that I dip anything and everything in her adored sauce. I cannot comprehend a bowl of ketchup and mustard. I would rather put mayonnaise on my french (freedom) fries.
I loathe beets. I hate beets more than anything else, ever. They taste like dirt, and they look like someone spilled purple nail polish all over crystallized blood. Did I mention that beets taste like dirt? Only children eat soil, and even they don't often enjoy it. What did we have the other day? Beet salad. It sounds like I'm whining, but wait for the end of the story.
I had forgotten that everyone in France is loco for beets. It's some sort of genetic defect, I swear. The only places I have ever been where beets are a regular feature on restaurant menus are France and Quebec. It must be some sort of thing that the French teach their young at an early age - how to enjoy the delicate nuances of sod.
Cabbage is another substance that I dislike. In all of its forms. A few days ago, we had a lovely salad of red cabbage. I don't understand why anyone would ever make a salad consisting of nothing but red cabbage. It's...inconceivable. At any rate, once again, cabbage is a hit around here.
So, after the cabbage salad, there was also the Fish. Fish pieces, wrapped in plastic and then boiled to taste. Delicious. First of all, I don't trust the idea of cooking anything in plastic. It can't be good for you. Second, who cooks fish like that? I don't know. Third, when it's done, your fish tastes like plastic, which is arguably the worst part. Thankfully, we also had a vegetable "ratatouille" whipped up by the cleaning lady. At least it was strong enough to mask the plastic.
And then we had raclette, which is fun, but unfortunately does not contain all the ingredients of a balanced meal, and is certainly not cooking. What it is, is boiled potatoes covered with melted cheese (and accompanied by raw cauliflower and ketchup/mustard dip) . You melt the cheese yourself in a cute little cheese-melting tray. It's fun, but not really a meal.
And then we had crepes: Hurray, crepes! No. Store-bought crepes, reheated with melted cheese, packaged ham and scrambled eggs that madame had made earlier (she has only one pan).
And then today. As I was walking down the Rue de Levis on my way back from the metro this morning, I passed a little charcuterie that specializes in "Northern" foods.
Alright, look. I have to get this off my chest before I continue. I have a problem with Belgium. No, I have a problem with eating in Belgium. The only things there worth eating are the mussels and the french (freedom?) fries. The beer is great too, but that's because the food is awful and the inhabitants need something they can stomach.
Back to the charcuterie. As I passed, I looked at their sauerkraut stall. You will remember that I hate cabbage, and that sauerkraut is technically a member of the cabbage family, although sorcelated into something that's somehow worse than cabbage. These resemble popcorn machines, except instead of containing movie foods, they are full (like, really full) of sauerkraut and disturbing meats. Like large, strange sausages and fatty, gristly ham. As I walked by, I thought: "I hate sauerkraut. I hope Madame never serves that."
Guess what we had for dinner. I am not kidding. The sauerest of krauts, hot and steaming, covered with big, watery, salty sausages (the kind out of which you have to pick the larger bits of fat and connective tissue), and the very same dubious, fatty pork-meats.
I can't believe it. It's like russian roulette with food. Only it's a fully-loaded gun.
I am taking over the kitchen. By force, if necessary.
There are very few foods that I hate. Generally, I'm the kind of person who will eat anything, but I feel very strongly about my list of dislikes despite its reasonably short length.
The Top Five Foods That I Do Not like:
1)Beets
2)Cabbage
3)Mustard (unless it's in a salad dressing)
4)Ketchup (No.)
5) Pickles on things
So, the other day, I was right in the middle of this crazy-hard cheeseburger craving. I have never craved a food before like this. I was jonesing for beef patties and melted cheese. So, finally I gave in and went to McDonald's - granted, not the best decision in itself. But come on, I really needed a burger. Right after I ordered, I thought: "This damn thing is going to have pickles and mustard and ketchup all over it." My friend told me I was wrong, that No, They have the condiments around for you to put on the burger yourself. This was not the case. The thing was slathered in McDonald's-grade condiments. Sad, I know. I ate it anyway, and threw away the pickles. Little did I know, this was just the beginning.
When my host mother asked me (the night I arrived) whether there were any foods I disliked, I couldn't even think of any. That's how rarely I have problems with food. And, of course, I was being too polite. Keep in mind that I do eat everything; I'm not an ungrateful jackass.
Madame does not cook. Ever. Even when she cooks, she doesn't cook. And somehow, in less than 3 weeks, she has managed to hit four of my top five dislikes routinely. Keep in mind that I only eat here three times per week.
Madame's dressing of choice is equal parts mustard and ketchup mixed in a bowl. She is always insisting that I dip anything and everything in her adored sauce. I cannot comprehend a bowl of ketchup and mustard. I would rather put mayonnaise on my french (freedom) fries.
I loathe beets. I hate beets more than anything else, ever. They taste like dirt, and they look like someone spilled purple nail polish all over crystallized blood. Did I mention that beets taste like dirt? Only children eat soil, and even they don't often enjoy it. What did we have the other day? Beet salad. It sounds like I'm whining, but wait for the end of the story.
I had forgotten that everyone in France is loco for beets. It's some sort of genetic defect, I swear. The only places I have ever been where beets are a regular feature on restaurant menus are France and Quebec. It must be some sort of thing that the French teach their young at an early age - how to enjoy the delicate nuances of sod.
Cabbage is another substance that I dislike. In all of its forms. A few days ago, we had a lovely salad of red cabbage. I don't understand why anyone would ever make a salad consisting of nothing but red cabbage. It's...inconceivable. At any rate, once again, cabbage is a hit around here.
So, after the cabbage salad, there was also the Fish. Fish pieces, wrapped in plastic and then boiled to taste. Delicious. First of all, I don't trust the idea of cooking anything in plastic. It can't be good for you. Second, who cooks fish like that? I don't know. Third, when it's done, your fish tastes like plastic, which is arguably the worst part. Thankfully, we also had a vegetable "ratatouille" whipped up by the cleaning lady. At least it was strong enough to mask the plastic.
And then we had raclette, which is fun, but unfortunately does not contain all the ingredients of a balanced meal, and is certainly not cooking. What it is, is boiled potatoes covered with melted cheese (and accompanied by raw cauliflower and ketchup/mustard dip) . You melt the cheese yourself in a cute little cheese-melting tray. It's fun, but not really a meal.
And then we had crepes: Hurray, crepes! No. Store-bought crepes, reheated with melted cheese, packaged ham and scrambled eggs that madame had made earlier (she has only one pan).
And then today. As I was walking down the Rue de Levis on my way back from the metro this morning, I passed a little charcuterie that specializes in "Northern" foods.
Alright, look. I have to get this off my chest before I continue. I have a problem with Belgium. No, I have a problem with eating in Belgium. The only things there worth eating are the mussels and the french (freedom?) fries. The beer is great too, but that's because the food is awful and the inhabitants need something they can stomach.
Back to the charcuterie. As I passed, I looked at their sauerkraut stall. You will remember that I hate cabbage, and that sauerkraut is technically a member of the cabbage family, although sorcelated into something that's somehow worse than cabbage. These resemble popcorn machines, except instead of containing movie foods, they are full (like, really full) of sauerkraut and disturbing meats. Like large, strange sausages and fatty, gristly ham. As I walked by, I thought: "I hate sauerkraut. I hope Madame never serves that."
Guess what we had for dinner. I am not kidding. The sauerest of krauts, hot and steaming, covered with big, watery, salty sausages (the kind out of which you have to pick the larger bits of fat and connective tissue), and the very same dubious, fatty pork-meats.
I can't believe it. It's like russian roulette with food. Only it's a fully-loaded gun.
I am taking over the kitchen. By force, if necessary.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Hypothetical (and Fictional) Violence
So help me god, I'm going to murder someone tomorrow. I'm going to stab someone in the fucking eye. Or maybe I'll stab myself. I'm staring at the "exercises" in this pitiful excuse for a grammar book with which our teacher sought fit to punish us over the weekend. This is, of course, on top of the journal entry that we're to write each night - Katie has told me that we were only required to write one entry over the weekend, and I'm going to believe her, although I don't know whether that's true or not. Anyway, these grammar exercises (tonight's menu offers five scrumptious morsels) are difficult precisely because of how stupid they are. I'm not kidding, just figuring out what the fuck this devil-bound packet actually wants me to do is about one thousand times harder than doing the menial exercises that are lodged, filthy and maggot-like, in its stapled and barely legible pages. Once you've cracked their code, the real meat of the exercise is often something like "ask the question in a different way." No, not any way. A specifically different way that none but the most unbelievably close-minded sycophant could possibly understand. There is no reason to do any of the torturous exercises in this aborted hack of a workbook. None of it means anything. Let me make this clear: I don't give two good goddamns about any of the five different ways of posing questions using "Ne...Que" and "Ne...Jamais." It doesn't matter. You can only use one at a time. Writing the same sentence five different ways works for eighth-graders, not fucking French Literature majors. Here, I am imagining the repeated scrawling of inane phrases on the proverbial chalkboard, and as I look at the three exercises I have already completed on a ridiculously cramped and unusable piece of their fucking omnipresent graph paper, I feel like bursting into tears. Tears of hatred. I am in hell, and this book is Satan. I am going to need to clean myself after working with this thing. As in it needs to be burned, and my hands need to be scrubbed with lye and bleach to rid them of its vile, putrid stench.
As a side note, work on "Alastor Sinncraft: Manfist's Revenge" has been put temporarily on hold. Now, wait. Before those of you contemplating suicide at the thought of its delayed arrival do something drastic, I can at least offer you several juicy tidbits. You will notice that the story is extreme, but also tender. It's like Romeo and Juliet, only set in a futuristic Post-Apocalyptic desert-world full of Darkness and Danger and populated by Future Witches. I hope that you await with bated breath the release of what I am sure will be one of the biggest and most successful instances of outright plagiarism and that the internet has ever seen. I do fear, in my heart of hearts, that the tidbits I have extracted may be too juicy; that in showing them to you I doom my own creation to failure, and you will be left with no desire to read the rest of the thing - a sentiment with which, despite my status as author of the blasted text, I can commiserate:
If you are not aware of what, exactly, a Magnabike is, I urge you to google it with all available haste:
“Alright, Xerian,” said Alastor Sinncraft to his Magnabike, for that was the wild creature’s name, “it’s time to take it off the hook.” The panels of the Sandcycle fell away to reveal Extreme Flame-Red flanks and a cockpit that extended to wrap around Sinncraft. The bike elongated and lowered to the sand. Fire shot out of six massive chrome exhaust pipes at the back of the cycle, and as Sinncraft revved the million-beastpower Devil Motors, the Magnabike roared and shot into the darkness howling like a warthog-banshee. He grinned darkly, the thrill of the speed lifting his spirits as almost nothing else could. But then he heard a noise behind him. Another Magnabike! That could mean only one thing: The presence of a bandit Sorcelator, with enough Power to reign in a techno-beast as fearsome as a Magnabike. The night had just gotten Extreme.
Here, we see a glimpse of Alastor Sinncraft's arch-nemesis, Lieutenant Manfist:
Alastor Sinncraft looked at the man’s six robot arms, each clutching a lit xyberwand. He was half-man and half-machine, and all Badness. His totally Extreme persona was underlined by the Rad biker boots he was wearing, and the Totally Sweet way that his cloak was flapping in an invisible breeze. He had ammo belts strapped across his chest, and a Big Ass Gun was slung across his back.
“Lieutenant Manfist,” said Alastor Sinncraft in his gravely voice. The cyborg chuckled. “In the flesh,” he replied, in a totally Mysterious way. “Or at least...partly,” he smirked. “What the hell have you done to yourself?” Asked Sinncraft, darkly.
“Unfortunately for you, Sinn, I have been totally Pimped Out. As you can see, my power and awesomeness, as well as badness, have increased Megaly since the last time we crossed paths. I’ll admit, it’s my new master – not me – who had the interest in you, but you see…I owe him for these.” Lieutenant Manfist flexed his robotic arms. “You Rad Bastard,” said Alastor Sinncraft, broodingly, “That’s totally off the Hook in badness.”
Alastor Sinncraft ponders the best way to defeat the cyborg before him:
Alastor Sinncraft knew that his Megaly Rad foe was wicked sweet, and he also knew that to defeat him he would have to do something totally Off the Hook. His manly mind ticked over darkly, pondering the best way of defeating the cyborg before him, as he continued to Light It Up with both wands. He knew what he had to do. He was going to have to take it to the Limit Extreme. He began concentrating, feeling the Awesome Power in him growing to Totally Extreme levels. He could sense the Extreme being channeled out of the living earth and into his Hot and Toned body that was Throbbing darkly and dangerously with Rad Magical Badditude.
And one of my favorites:
The bartender, who was struggling to crawl towards the door with two broken legs, cried aloud as Alastor Sinncraft’s Merciless Boot stomped down on his back and forced him to the ground, mercilessly. “Now,” said Alastor calmly, “you’re going to tell me where to find Rex Brustar.” “I…I can’t!” Yelled the bartender, “I don’t even know, I swear! No one does! I’ve never even met him! He sends a guy who takes his cut and drops of the drugs and leaves! That’s all I know!” He howled in Pain and Agony. Alastor Sinncraft ground his Merciless Boot into the small of the barman’s back. “I believe you,” he said, his gravelly voice making a sound like manly gravel in the quiet bar. “When I leave, you call this guy and you tell him that you have a message for Rex Brustar. Can you do that?” “Yes, yes, anything!” cried the man. “What message?” “You tell him,” Said Alastor Sinncraft, “That it’s time for Rex to pay for his Sinns.”
I felt pretty good about that last line. And that's only from the first twelve pages. This story is going to eat your face off. Badical.
As a side note, work on "Alastor Sinncraft: Manfist's Revenge" has been put temporarily on hold. Now, wait. Before those of you contemplating suicide at the thought of its delayed arrival do something drastic, I can at least offer you several juicy tidbits. You will notice that the story is extreme, but also tender. It's like Romeo and Juliet, only set in a futuristic Post-Apocalyptic desert-world full of Darkness and Danger and populated by Future Witches. I hope that you await with bated breath the release of what I am sure will be one of the biggest and most successful instances of outright plagiarism and that the internet has ever seen. I do fear, in my heart of hearts, that the tidbits I have extracted may be too juicy; that in showing them to you I doom my own creation to failure, and you will be left with no desire to read the rest of the thing - a sentiment with which, despite my status as author of the blasted text, I can commiserate:
If you are not aware of what, exactly, a Magnabike is, I urge you to google it with all available haste:
“Alright, Xerian,” said Alastor Sinncraft to his Magnabike, for that was the wild creature’s name, “it’s time to take it off the hook.” The panels of the Sandcycle fell away to reveal Extreme Flame-Red flanks and a cockpit that extended to wrap around Sinncraft. The bike elongated and lowered to the sand. Fire shot out of six massive chrome exhaust pipes at the back of the cycle, and as Sinncraft revved the million-beastpower Devil Motors, the Magnabike roared and shot into the darkness howling like a warthog-banshee. He grinned darkly, the thrill of the speed lifting his spirits as almost nothing else could. But then he heard a noise behind him. Another Magnabike! That could mean only one thing: The presence of a bandit Sorcelator, with enough Power to reign in a techno-beast as fearsome as a Magnabike. The night had just gotten Extreme.
Here, we see a glimpse of Alastor Sinncraft's arch-nemesis, Lieutenant Manfist:
Alastor Sinncraft looked at the man’s six robot arms, each clutching a lit xyberwand. He was half-man and half-machine, and all Badness. His totally Extreme persona was underlined by the Rad biker boots he was wearing, and the Totally Sweet way that his cloak was flapping in an invisible breeze. He had ammo belts strapped across his chest, and a Big Ass Gun was slung across his back.
“Lieutenant Manfist,” said Alastor Sinncraft in his gravely voice. The cyborg chuckled. “In the flesh,” he replied, in a totally Mysterious way. “Or at least...partly,” he smirked. “What the hell have you done to yourself?” Asked Sinncraft, darkly.
“Unfortunately for you, Sinn, I have been totally Pimped Out. As you can see, my power and awesomeness, as well as badness, have increased Megaly since the last time we crossed paths. I’ll admit, it’s my new master – not me – who had the interest in you, but you see…I owe him for these.” Lieutenant Manfist flexed his robotic arms. “You Rad Bastard,” said Alastor Sinncraft, broodingly, “That’s totally off the Hook in badness.”
Alastor Sinncraft ponders the best way to defeat the cyborg before him:
Alastor Sinncraft knew that his Megaly Rad foe was wicked sweet, and he also knew that to defeat him he would have to do something totally Off the Hook. His manly mind ticked over darkly, pondering the best way of defeating the cyborg before him, as he continued to Light It Up with both wands. He knew what he had to do. He was going to have to take it to the Limit Extreme. He began concentrating, feeling the Awesome Power in him growing to Totally Extreme levels. He could sense the Extreme being channeled out of the living earth and into his Hot and Toned body that was Throbbing darkly and dangerously with Rad Magical Badditude.
And one of my favorites:
The bartender, who was struggling to crawl towards the door with two broken legs, cried aloud as Alastor Sinncraft’s Merciless Boot stomped down on his back and forced him to the ground, mercilessly. “Now,” said Alastor calmly, “you’re going to tell me where to find Rex Brustar.” “I…I can’t!” Yelled the bartender, “I don’t even know, I swear! No one does! I’ve never even met him! He sends a guy who takes his cut and drops of the drugs and leaves! That’s all I know!” He howled in Pain and Agony. Alastor Sinncraft ground his Merciless Boot into the small of the barman’s back. “I believe you,” he said, his gravelly voice making a sound like manly gravel in the quiet bar. “When I leave, you call this guy and you tell him that you have a message for Rex Brustar. Can you do that?” “Yes, yes, anything!” cried the man. “What message?” “You tell him,” Said Alastor Sinncraft, “That it’s time for Rex to pay for his Sinns.”
I felt pretty good about that last line. And that's only from the first twelve pages. This story is going to eat your face off. Badical.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
After the overwhelming frustration that characterized yesterday's brutal charade of a french class, I actually had a fairly enjoyable day today. I woke up nice and late (around noon), and took a lovely walk down the market street. I bought a baguette, some croissants (chocolate and non), a demi de reblochon (which is one of my favorite cheeses) and a handful of litchis, which I happily carried back to my apartment in my adorable, sky-blue envirosac. There, I had the pleasure of a truly leisurely breakfast; the first I've had since I got here - although I really have got to figure out how to get coffee in the mornings.
Post-p'tit dej, I went with Bryndis to meet some of her friends (a Russian girl and a Mexican girl) at the Parc Monceau, and from there we walked over to the Museum Nissim de Camondo. Everyone raves about this place, but I'm going to tell you the truth: It is boring as shit. It is a large house, in which there is a lot of stuff. Like, furniture. And a large oven. As far as mansions go, I'm sure it was the bell of the ball in its heyday, but I positively loathe the "decorative arts." However, there were plenty of (old) Parisian couples wandering around with beatific smiles on their faces, so the problem must be on my end. And I'm sure that, as far as places to live are concerned, having the kind of operation that requires fifteen manservants probably wouldn't be so bad. Flaubert would have ravaged it with irony.
This is the kind of thing that my mother adores.
After such a mentally stimulating exercise, we decided to walk towards the Champs-Elysees, where we did a little bit of shopping. I bought a shirt. It was on sale. I was trying it on, when a kind young woman came over and told me that I was changing in the infant's changing room, and that I would have to go somewhere upstairs if I wanted to try any more shirts on. Mercifully, as I was struggling mightily with the buttons, she didn't throw me out onto the shopping floor. I don't know why there wasn't a sign, or something. God damn, I didn't even know infants needed changing rooms. I thought they just ran around naked and everyone dealt with it, but apparently french infants are held to higher standards.
Bryndis and I dined with Madame and her friend, Bernadette, who is an artist. We had a beet salad. I hate beets. It's the only food that I cannot eat. I had three bite-sized cubes, so as not to be rude, but each bite was akin to dying a thousand deaths. Thankfully, we also had a quiche that Madame had made out of yesterday's ratatouille. And a slice of ham.
I'm afraid I may have offended Madame a bit, because when she pulled out the cheese and saw the reblochon, she asked me quite sharply "What, you were afraid that there wouldn't be enough cheese?" I hastily assured her that no, it was merely because I love reblochon, and that everyone was welcome to it.
I have already dutifully completed my grammar exercises and written out my nightly journal entry; hopefully after Teacher Teacher reads them this weekend I'll be spared the agony of the indicative tense. But I fear that tomorrow is lost, alas.
Post-p'tit dej, I went with Bryndis to meet some of her friends (a Russian girl and a Mexican girl) at the Parc Monceau, and from there we walked over to the Museum Nissim de Camondo. Everyone raves about this place, but I'm going to tell you the truth: It is boring as shit. It is a large house, in which there is a lot of stuff. Like, furniture. And a large oven. As far as mansions go, I'm sure it was the bell of the ball in its heyday, but I positively loathe the "decorative arts." However, there were plenty of (old) Parisian couples wandering around with beatific smiles on their faces, so the problem must be on my end. And I'm sure that, as far as places to live are concerned, having the kind of operation that requires fifteen manservants probably wouldn't be so bad. Flaubert would have ravaged it with irony.
This is the kind of thing that my mother adores.
After such a mentally stimulating exercise, we decided to walk towards the Champs-Elysees, where we did a little bit of shopping. I bought a shirt. It was on sale. I was trying it on, when a kind young woman came over and told me that I was changing in the infant's changing room, and that I would have to go somewhere upstairs if I wanted to try any more shirts on. Mercifully, as I was struggling mightily with the buttons, she didn't throw me out onto the shopping floor. I don't know why there wasn't a sign, or something. God damn, I didn't even know infants needed changing rooms. I thought they just ran around naked and everyone dealt with it, but apparently french infants are held to higher standards.
Bryndis and I dined with Madame and her friend, Bernadette, who is an artist. We had a beet salad. I hate beets. It's the only food that I cannot eat. I had three bite-sized cubes, so as not to be rude, but each bite was akin to dying a thousand deaths. Thankfully, we also had a quiche that Madame had made out of yesterday's ratatouille. And a slice of ham.
I'm afraid I may have offended Madame a bit, because when she pulled out the cheese and saw the reblochon, she asked me quite sharply "What, you were afraid that there wouldn't be enough cheese?" I hastily assured her that no, it was merely because I love reblochon, and that everyone was welcome to it.
I have already dutifully completed my grammar exercises and written out my nightly journal entry; hopefully after Teacher Teacher reads them this weekend I'll be spared the agony of the indicative tense. But I fear that tomorrow is lost, alas.
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