Dear T. Raumschmiere: You are too loud! I really do not mean to sound like a fuddy-duddy, but your amplifiers make the entire building shake. The floors are vibrating, and Biggie Smalls looks rather amorous. Coincidence, perhaps, but I will hold you accountable if my leg is mounted by a frisky pug.
Rock shows in Paris are as common as mullets; that is to say, nobody seems to have much interest in them. I caught one band play while in Paris, but I can't remember their name; they were one of those jerky electro-pop bands that seemed to have garnered its rock identity through studying music magazines. I couldn't decide if they were French and trying to sound English, or English and trying to sound French. The odd thing about Paris is that their rock shows are either nonexistent or very deep underground. I looked for shows in Pariscope but found only electro nights or Pedro the Lion. So instead, for the most part, I just went to Cafe Charbon and listened to the music there.
I took a long walk home tonight, rolling thoughts around my head and rewriting memories, and in my inward grumbling I thought of Born Against—specifically, their split 7" with Screeching Weasel, and how I've always wanted to give it as a biting gift to someone but never had the requisite fury to do so. UNTIL NOW. "Go Fuck Yourself" is hilariously sophomoric stuff from Ben Weasel, but Born Against's dark and dirty take on it has made it a theme of sorts lately. Listening to it makes me feel justifiably angry, and the sheer silliness of the lyrics (I would like to crush your pointed head / You fucking puke / I think you wet the bed) makes me grin. I like Born Against for making me think, but I love them for making me feel awright.
On a non-music note: I'm on the telly again on Wednesday's 11am news, later in the broadcast, channel 7. I'll be discussing lofty matters such as the significance of Tadzieu's wardrobe choices in Death in Venice. Or not.
Rock shows in Paris are as common as mullets; that is to say, nobody seems to have much interest in them. I caught one band play while in Paris, but I can't remember their name; they were one of those jerky electro-pop bands that seemed to have garnered its rock identity through studying music magazines. I couldn't decide if they were French and trying to sound English, or English and trying to sound French. The odd thing about Paris is that their rock shows are either nonexistent or very deep underground. I looked for shows in Pariscope but found only electro nights or Pedro the Lion. So instead, for the most part, I just went to Cafe Charbon and listened to the music there.
I took a long walk home tonight, rolling thoughts around my head and rewriting memories, and in my inward grumbling I thought of Born Against—specifically, their split 7" with Screeching Weasel, and how I've always wanted to give it as a biting gift to someone but never had the requisite fury to do so. UNTIL NOW. "Go Fuck Yourself" is hilariously sophomoric stuff from Ben Weasel, but Born Against's dark and dirty take on it has made it a theme of sorts lately. Listening to it makes me feel justifiably angry, and the sheer silliness of the lyrics (I would like to crush your pointed head / You fucking puke / I think you wet the bed) makes me grin. I like Born Against for making me think, but I love them for making me feel awright.
On a non-music note: I'm on the telly again on Wednesday's 11am news, later in the broadcast, channel 7. I'll be discussing lofty matters such as the significance of Tadzieu's wardrobe choices in Death in Venice. Or not.
Obviously, I landed in London in one piece. The flight was all right, but I was seated next to a family of four: Yuppie Breastfeeding Mom, Seemingly Resentful Dad, their kicking toddler Chloe, and the baby, David -- who I referred to mentally as Fang when I thought of his tiny sprouts of teeth. The toddler was a brat, the baby was happy (honestly, he seemed a bit drunk), and mom and dad slept through both children bleating throughout the sleepytime of the flight. Oblivious to the glowering stares from other passengers, the parents snoozed: Mom in her seat, Dad stretched out on the cabin floor. I fear he may have tried to play footsie. When the happy family woke up, Mom decided to clip Chloe's toenails. Horrifying.
Anyway, London is much nicer in September than it is in London [Note: I meant March, but was obviously brain-tired]. Took the tube in and made it to the hotel, where I took a little naparoo. I woke up, unpacked, and then freaked the F out as I heard a key going into my door. It must be the housekeeping service," I thought. But it wasn't. It was a little Englishman stopped only by the chained door (see, Mom, I am traveling safely). "I'm sorry, but this is my room," he said. "Let me put on a shirt," I replied. I looked out at the little old man dwarfed by his rolling suitcase and decided I could easily take him in a fight if necessary, so I opened the door a bit. Before I had a chance to ask him what was going on, he started waving a confirmation slip of paper around. "Room 774!" he barked. "I booked this room in JANUARY!"
Jet-lagged and still groggy from my nap, I took a moment to realize that homeboy meant that he had booked this exact room. He began telling me about his late wife (uh oh) and how today was their anniversary (you know where this is going) and how they'd stayed here forty-eight years ago for their honeymoon and I simply was not part of this plan. "So you see," he was saying, "I have booked this room and there's been a mistake and this just will not do."
At first I felt horror: Is this what they do to the Priceline guests? Make them share rooms? Certainly that couldn't be the case, I thought. I felt sorry for this man, who was becoming more desperate as the story rolled on. I think he thought I was going to fight him for the room, which was not my intention. Finally I interrupted him and said, "I'm sure we can call the operator and straighten this out. I wouldn't want you to miss staying in this room." Well, that changed everything! Suddenly, we were compatriots, allies, a coalition of the willing hotel guests! After a few phone calls, the old man was assigned room 774. Yours truly was apologetically assigned room 212, which turns out to be a suite. With a robe on the bed and two tellies and a separate bath and shower and a nice little room that overlooks noisy Oxford Street. Yay!
Anyway, London is much nicer in September than it is in London [Note: I meant March, but was obviously brain-tired]. Took the tube in and made it to the hotel, where I took a little naparoo. I woke up, unpacked, and then freaked the F out as I heard a key going into my door. It must be the housekeeping service," I thought. But it wasn't. It was a little Englishman stopped only by the chained door (see, Mom, I am traveling safely). "I'm sorry, but this is my room," he said. "Let me put on a shirt," I replied. I looked out at the little old man dwarfed by his rolling suitcase and decided I could easily take him in a fight if necessary, so I opened the door a bit. Before I had a chance to ask him what was going on, he started waving a confirmation slip of paper around. "Room 774!" he barked. "I booked this room in JANUARY!"
Jet-lagged and still groggy from my nap, I took a moment to realize that homeboy meant that he had booked this exact room. He began telling me about his late wife (uh oh) and how today was their anniversary (you know where this is going) and how they'd stayed here forty-eight years ago for their honeymoon and I simply was not part of this plan. "So you see," he was saying, "I have booked this room and there's been a mistake and this just will not do."
At first I felt horror: Is this what they do to the Priceline guests? Make them share rooms? Certainly that couldn't be the case, I thought. I felt sorry for this man, who was becoming more desperate as the story rolled on. I think he thought I was going to fight him for the room, which was not my intention. Finally I interrupted him and said, "I'm sure we can call the operator and straighten this out. I wouldn't want you to miss staying in this room." Well, that changed everything! Suddenly, we were compatriots, allies, a coalition of the willing hotel guests! After a few phone calls, the old man was assigned room 774. Yours truly was apologetically assigned room 212, which turns out to be a suite. With a robe on the bed and two tellies and a separate bath and shower and a nice little room that overlooks noisy Oxford Street. Yay!
Love you. I am obviously a bit chatty and batty, so don't be surprised if you hear from me again. Off to track down something to eat.
When I can't sleep, and even reading critical essays on Faulkner can't do the trick, I like to play the game of fives. The game involves choosing five things, such as the five languages I'd speak (English, French, Japanese, Arabic, Spanish) or, in this case, the five magic powers I'd choose.
#1: Mind control. Note that I do not have the power to read minds. I just get to control them. I get to use this power only once a day, to keep me from abusing my power. I plan to use this power for good, although I understand that mind control is inherently against free will and therefore not so good. It's my insomniac fantasy, okay?
#2: Flight. The next time R. Kelly sings "I belieeeve I can flyyyyy," I will appear on stage to surprise him. I will then one-up him by actually flying, thereby embarrassing the perverted chump in question and forcing him into retirement. I fly very smoothly, for what it's worth; it's more of a glide than a clumsy exercise in flapping.
#3: Invisibility cloak. I would use it to sneak around and visit secret, off-limits places. I would also use it to play pranks on the President and to hide hard-boiled eggs under the mattresses of my enemies.
#4: Shape-shifting. I would be able to hide myself as another living being, but not an inanimate object. That's the Achilles' heel of this power. If, say, I were in a panic and transformed myself into a coffee filter, I would have to stay a coffee filter indefinitely, thereby resigning myself to an unhappy life of landfill decomposition.
#5: I don't know what this power should be. I usually fall asleep by the time I get to this one, and the only thing I can think of is some sort of crazy healing power. I would be able to heal people, but then I think that people might bring the Jesus stuff into it, and I don't really want to deal with anything like that.
#1: Mind control. Note that I do not have the power to read minds. I just get to control them. I get to use this power only once a day, to keep me from abusing my power. I plan to use this power for good, although I understand that mind control is inherently against free will and therefore not so good. It's my insomniac fantasy, okay?
#2: Flight. The next time R. Kelly sings "I belieeeve I can flyyyyy," I will appear on stage to surprise him. I will then one-up him by actually flying, thereby embarrassing the perverted chump in question and forcing him into retirement. I fly very smoothly, for what it's worth; it's more of a glide than a clumsy exercise in flapping.
#3: Invisibility cloak. I would use it to sneak around and visit secret, off-limits places. I would also use it to play pranks on the President and to hide hard-boiled eggs under the mattresses of my enemies.
#4: Shape-shifting. I would be able to hide myself as another living being, but not an inanimate object. That's the Achilles' heel of this power. If, say, I were in a panic and transformed myself into a coffee filter, I would have to stay a coffee filter indefinitely, thereby resigning myself to an unhappy life of landfill decomposition.
#5: I don't know what this power should be. I usually fall asleep by the time I get to this one, and the only thing I can think of is some sort of crazy healing power. I would be able to heal people, but then I think that people might bring the Jesus stuff into it, and I don't really want to deal with anything like that.
Labels: sleep
"Learn how to say 'I didn't vote for him," said my mother. The "him" in question, of course, is Bush; and of course nobody in our family, save perhaps my estranged uncle, voted for him. Sometimes I wonder if we are past the middle of a sea change (no pun intended, really) in American culture and politics, if we're already too far into a shift that's more of a tumble. I am ashamed to admit that before the hurricane hit, I thought, "Well, they'll evacuate the cities and then clean everything up, and everything will be fine." But I was terribly wrong, obviously, and I am again ashamed of our government's lack of care for the poorest of our society. It's not that I'm shocked, exactly. I'm just deeply saddened. And angry.
My grandfather immigrated to this country with very little to his name, and because of the kindness of fellow immigrants and of public programs meant to help people like him, he did very well for himself. He always said that America was the best country in the world. I've missed him terribly since he died a few years ago, but sometimes I'm glad that he's not alive to witness his idealism crumble.
My grandfather immigrated to this country with very little to his name, and because of the kindness of fellow immigrants and of public programs meant to help people like him, he did very well for himself. He always said that America was the best country in the world. I've missed him terribly since he died a few years ago, but sometimes I'm glad that he's not alive to witness his idealism crumble.
Labels: betty
