Monday, 2 August 2004
Bother
It's been hot and sticky today - 32 degrees at the moment, certainly having peaked at a higher temperature. While it doesn't begin to approach last year's canicule, I still had to leave the office early. ("Early" here defined as "6:30 PM.") I just couldn't focus enough to warrant sticking around any longer.
"Bother," as a favorite prognosticator would have said.
"Ils ont annoncé de la pluie," my neighbors told me as we crossed in our apartment building's stairwell. You've got to love that Cartesian certainty: "They've announced rain." As if such a thing could be programmed, like a football match or a day off.
But little matter: I'll just use this time to catch up a bit in my blog, after having been absent from it for some time. Various reasons and all that, none of which really matter.
I'll let you know how that rain thing worked out.
Le Squat
Many weeks back, an artists' squat took root in a building down the street from our office. Nothing really remarkable about its arrival, to the extent that I never really gave writing about it more than brief consideration before forgetting about it again. Then, a little over two weeks ago, brawny security guards and metal-wielding (and welding) workers converged on the place like flies.
Squats are an interesting part of life in France, especially Paris. With real estate so overpriced, it's hardly surprising that there are unoccupied spaces - sometimes, whole buildings. Their owners rarely seem to be in much of a rush to do anything about it. And why should they be, considering that many of the owners are insurance companies. These are, after all, people who've built their business on waiting for you to keel over and die.
Of course, in the meantime, people need a place to live. So those who can't afford to rent one of the high-priced spaces will sometimes swoop in and occupy one of the vacant properties. Often, this seems to be done by artists collectives, mixing their own brand of political and social protest for a pragmatic answer to the question of, "where should we create our art?"
Once in place for 48 hours (or thereabouts, I don't know exactly), squatters cannot be legally evicted until the property owner has gone through a relatively lengthy legal process. In wintertime, no eviction is possible at all. This is a side-effect of laws passed to protect renters.
Like any law, tis one can be abused. For example, someone who stops paying rent stands a good chance of being able to stay put without a legal eviction. Smaller owners (for example, one person renting out the one property he owns) typically won't go through the hoops required. That doesn't mean that there will be no eviction: Large, muscle-bound men sent a-knocking on "your" door are a high probability if you sufficiently annoy your landlord.
Large, muscle-bound men (daytime incarnations of bouncers, from the looks of it) are also handy to enforce legal evictions, such as the one I witnessed the other week (or at least, saw the end of). I'd be hard-pressed to decide where I stand on artist-squatters. On the one hand, they provide a certain amount of lively chaos to a sometimes gray and over-planned city. After all, what good had that empty building done these last three years?
On the other hand, "art" is in the eye of the beholder, and the urban guerrilla ethic that drove these artists to occupy the building also seemed to have a hand in their creations. Give me graffiti any day over pretentious found-object art, please. Spilling out onto the sidewalk like a yard sale, this group's work was more a curiosity than interesting.
So, after hours of cutting and grinding and welding, a metal barricade covered the two-story entrance to the building. All the other weak points, like the window above a neighboring awning, were also secured. The workers, as well as the temporary wall of muscle, moved on.
Within hours, "everyone is innocent" was spray-painted - in English - on the front of the metal-gated entrance. Indeed, everyone must be. Hmm. But was it just "everyone" who had been there, or "everyone" in general? In their a so-very-artistic way, only "no one" was left to explain.
And yet, someone (surely an innocent?) was camped out behind the metal grate less than a week later. I stole a glance, unsuccessfully, through the pattern of holes in the metal. Though I couldn't see far enough into the dark, I did hear a very clear, "leave me alone!" shouted out.
Some trick: a commandeered space, visible from a public area, becomes the de facto private space of its illegal occupant. Sounds like someone needed to pay more attention when studying "negative space"...
Tuesday, 3 August 2004
Blech, On So Many Levels
So, as promised: the skinny on the rain.
It did.
Unfortunately, as is common with summer storms, this one took all night to build up and lasted all of five minutes. So much for the scheduled cooling rain. I guess it decided that it had unfinished work, because it slowly swung around and took a second go at it around lunchtime.
Which, of course, would have been perfect had it not been that Véronique, Heather and I were having our lunch outdoors precisely under the gap between the restaurant's two awnings. No worries, thanks for the wash down, then.
Véronique, by the way, is leaving tomorrow to live in Barcelona. This was a going-away lunch of sorts, and a catch-up of other sorts (as it'd been about a year since I last saw her). I'm sure the rain will make for fond memories.
Despite even now being in the normally comfortable low-20s (mid-to-low 70s in Fair-en-hite), the dewpoint is just a bit lower. So then, clammy skin and clinging sheets tonight, it is - and not for any particularly good reasons either.
A real page-turning, seat-gripper today, eh? It'll be better soon, promise.
In the meantime, it's up to Mr. Nice to keep you entertained.
Wednesday, 4 August 2004
I Used to Have Hair
ready for action
This has been a long time coming, so I'll make it short: I used to have hair. Long hair, to be precise. "Long" like "down to my ass" kind of long. Long.
I had it a long time. Thirteen years, if you count from when I started growing it out. More than eleven years, if you count from the time that I had something that could reasonably be called "long."
really ready for action
Then, in January, I finally got it cut.
Now, it's short. "Acceptable for business" short. "Won't scare away clients" short. And, so I've heard, "sexy" short. Sometimes it's even Heather who says that. (The last comment; I don't think she'd really care about the others.)
Anyway, you want pictures. Well, I've got pictures. From the first to the last, almost every minute of that landmark winter evening was captured in photos.
Preemptive replies:
- Yes, I was smiling like an idiot for the whole time. I really don't know why.
- No, I wasn't drunk.
- No, no one made me do it. I finally just got tired of having long hair.
- No, it doesn't "feel weird." Neither the haircut (process) nor the length.
I might eventually get around to adding comments below the photos. For now, the sequence can speak for itself.
(updated Wednesday, 25 August 2004)
I've added comments to several of the photos, as well as a contact sheet that shows all the pictures. Also, each image is now available in a larger format, besides the medium and thumbnail sizes.
Nothing special, but I thought I'd mention it.
Thursday, 5 August 2004
Blech, Part II
I woke up this morning feeling sluggish, a general malaise. It's been dogging me for a while now, though I never was able to put my finger on it.
Sure, it's been hot lately, and I don't sleep soundly when it's like that. But last night was cool, so that wasn't it.
Work's been tough, but not drive-me-out of my mind insane. So, that's not it either.
Everything else is pretty much in place, so... But wait - there is something. I haven't exercised regularly for something going on two months now. Hmm, that makes sense.
I came across this particular entry when it first came out, and it definitely sounded logical to me (as did its follow-up. Nodding my mind's eye's head (does that make sense?) in agreement, I never expected that I'd actually feel it myself.
I figure that just about everyone would agree that there's a correlation between exercise and feeling good. But John Fleck proposes that, after exercising regularly and then stopping, you'll actually feel worse. Makes sense, at least in an anecdotal way.
At least, it works for me: For the last few weeks, I've felt like this. Lax, sometimes even sullen. After Heather and I saw Super Size Me, I realized that the same thing that happened to Morgan Spurlock was happening to me on a smaller scale. No exercise and questionable eating habits (though not nearly as bad as his) have done a lot to drag me down.
Hmm. Now I have a choice to make: Look for a way to start exercising again (everyone's on vacation, so my regular place is closed), or have a McDonald's-fueled euphoric high.
Er, on second thought, maybe I won't let you know how that one comes out...
Thursday, 19 August 2004
On the Couch
I woke up this morning to David Bowie's voice echoing in my mind: "My mother said, to get things done, / 'You'd better not mess with Major Tom'." Already repeated several times in a row in the song, my brain kept replaying that block, mirrors upon mirrors.
I have been pretty lax lately. Maybe that's what I need: a bugaboo breathing down my neck (the lines refer to the titular Major Tom of another Bowie great). Something wicked this way comes, and all that. Unfortunately, the lyrics may prove all too prescient.
On the up side, my mind threw into the mix: "I'm happy, hope you're happy too." And I am happy. Unfortunately, the words in their original context aren't as simply innocent as that. Hmmm.
Tuesday, 24 August 2004
There's No Such Thing as a French Baker's Dozen
I recently had the opportunity to get a roll of film developed. Normally, I haven't done that in France because I'd heard how expensive it was. Time was pressing, as I meant the photos to be a gift, so I dropped the roll off. I was pleasantly surprised to find that the price wasn't too much more expensive that what I'd expect to pay in the U.S., &euro 11.36 for 24 double prints.
But therein lay the problem: I only paid for 24 photos. My camera, old though it may be, regularly gets 25 images from a roll of 24. Following typical French Cartesian behavior, the last, perfectly good negative - snip! - was cut right in two.
What, you want to pay us for an extra photo? Silly American! You only get the options that we decide you get!
Looks like I'm back to hording my rolls for developing during my visits to the U.S.
Wednesday, 25 August 2004
Phone Fun
It's raining again; this August has been more like April, as far as "A" months go. In that spirit:
My phone has been in for repairs for over a month. The resident idiots at my local Phone House (a retail chain) sent it to Bouygues Telecom. This despite the fact that I'm an Orange customer, and my phone isn't tied to any particular company; it should have gone to the Phone House service center. Obviously the quintessential "Friday job": the guy who took my phone was leaving for vacation.
So, when I got an invoice from Bouygues several weeks ago, the woman at the store told me to decline it. My phone would be sent back, then (correctly) sent out to their own repair people. Problem is, three weeks later and I still don't have it back, despite several phone calls to the main customer service number and visits to the store.
On one of my later visits to the store, the same woman who told me to decline the invoice had a very insightful comment. "Oh, that's normal. It's vacation time, you know." Gosh, thanks for nothing. I'd maybe expect a slowdown, not a full month with no news at all. Of course, the guy who took my phone hadn't thought there'd be any problem in getting it fixed within two weeks.
I finally called Bouygues directly. After telling the woman there my situation (practiced at it as I am, after reciting it several times to Phone House people), she asked me for my Bouygues number. She hadn't listened to a word I'd said. One small earful from me later, she started listening. My phone should be back at the Phone House by early next week.
I'll have to send it out again for real repairs, seeing as how absolutely nothing was done this week. Obviously all my calls and visits to Phone House were in vain. Despite their promises to follow up with Bouygues, no record of that showed up when I called directly.
Sometimes, I really, really can't stand the French.
Thursday, 26 August 2004
Cagey Entry
This morning, around 9:15, I took the tiniest of first steps in a new journey. It could potentially be very rewarding, but the only sure thing is that it'll be long.
I Can Hardly Contain Myself
Last night, on a whim, I decided to defrost my freezer. What's that? Feh, keep your snide comments about what normal people would do on a whim, clever person.
I've been meaning to do it for some time, but my usual stock of frozen meals makes it hard to clear the whole thing out. Even being a small appliance, my freezer holds a lot of meals. At 105 liters net capacity, I'd guess it's half again the size of the freezer compartment in a full-sized American refrigerator. Which are built for families of four, so you do the math.
Anyway, it was actually pretty impressive. I did a bit of judicious and gentle coaxing for the better part of the ice. The last piece, however, unceremoniously fell of its own volition about a half an hour after I'd pulled the shelves out.
Warming up fast may not be the best attribute for a freezer in the event, say, of a power failure. But considering that I'd pulled out all the drawers, and the shelves are very thin metal sheets, I'd say it's deigned to do just that in the event of defrosting jobs like this one. Besides, normally it doesn't have any problem at all keeping things rock-solid frozen without much humming.
Well, that was exciting. I'll be sure to keep you in the loop when I scrub clean my bathroom grout.
Friday, 27 August 2004
Might as Well Throw in Some T&A - Oh, Wait...
So, it looks like Taxi - one of the few decent French action/comedy films ever made - is being "treated" to an American remake. That much I already knew.
What I didn't know is that the taxi driver would be Queen Latifah. I'm sure the male (and/or French-culture) chauvinists will have something to say about the very masculine main role being taken by a woman. (Though she is pretty kick-ass, despite some recent blah movie roles.)
Or maybe not. The chauvinists - and myself - will probably be very distracted by the supermodel bank-robbers. Yum. That's almost - almost - enough to forget that Jimmy Fallon is co-starring. (And I'd say it's pretty telling that I know enough to say that - despite his star rising well after my move to France.)
Mood-Altering Substances (Comma, Legal)
It's been years since I last bought breakfast cereal of my own volition, despite its stranglehold on my breakfast habits all the way through high school.
Tonight when I picked up some milk and a box, the crowned cereal was Chocapic. It doesn't exist in the U.S. and I couldn't find any French links. (Here's one from Nestlé Argentina that'll have to do. Bless those wonderful multinationals in their benevolent bounty.) In any case, filled with sugar an chocolate as it is, it probably would have been a childhood favorite had I gotten the chance.
Of course, being as long as it has been since my last cereal meal, I ate the Chocapics for dinner. Two bowls' full.
Calvin, getting on his buzz with Chocolate Frosted Sugar Bombs, would have been proud.
Tuesday, 31 August 2004
Turn, Turn, Turn
As I would have already written (had I actually gotten around to writing about the Tour de France), there are certain events that I go to every year. These serve as markers of a sort, representing how long I've spent living in Paris as well as how I've used that time. Like a birthday, these are little, staggered "New Years" that are scattered throughout the calendar.
Today marked the fourth time that I went to the Apple Expo keynote (it would've been the fifth, had the event in 2001 not been canceled after the 11 September bombings). Usually, this is hosted by Steve Jobs, who - along with his reality distortion field - is the main draw for me. Sure, it's cool to see what nifty new toys Apple has come up with, but Paris almost always takes the back seat to the U.S. and so they're almost always a repeat from some prior event. No, this is much more about seeing the computer industry's one true rock star.
This year, Steve didn't attend because he's resting after a successful operation on a cancerous tumor in his pancreas. Which was apparently successful, and his type of pancreatic cancer is curable by surgical removal. He's very fortunate; I hope he might bring some of his considerable resources (not necessarily monetary) to helping others who are less fortunate, and have incurable forms of cancer.
Anyway, this wasn't meant to be a morality play. It's interesting to use these sorts of event to see how I've evolved, as well as for what they offer. On tap today: a the new third-generation iMac. For once in a long while, Paris was the chosen launch pad for a whole new product. Pretty nifty, though no digital snaps because my phone is still in for repairs.
Not much evolution for me: I found that I still don't like standing in the massed crowd, waiting an hour to get into the auditorium.