gettin' ripped at the weight room

Today at the weight room (I’m a monitor) I watched Bad Lieutenant, a gritty urban drama. Then, feeling tired, a tried to take a nap. “Too much for you,” I heard. I looked up and mumbled something. I thought, someone’s trying to be sharp with me. But then I realized that the guy was just awkward and nervous. He asked me if I could spot him on the bench press and the leg press. I told him no, on account of my recent surgery.

I tried to nap some more, but it didn’t take. I found a tennis ball and bounced it around. I thought to myself: I wonder if my eye-hand-coordination would get better if I did this for a really long time. I restarted my computer to update vista. In the background, the same guy was grunting and sometimes yelling “fuck!” as he used the leg press. Some other dude with a really long, blond beard and weird big pants was spotting him. It takes all kinds, I guess. Then a little while later the bearded guy left, so I was again asked to spot. “What kind of surgery did you have?” he said to me. I looked at him for a while. There was silence. Finally, I said, “I saw what that other guy was doing, and I can’t do it.”

feelin' good

Today I met with my two new roommates Wade and Gina in Northampton to sign the lease. They both seem like good people. Wade, by the way, is kind of a granola hipster. Maybe I’ll learn a thing or two brewing my own beer.

Afterwards I went to the Green Bean for brunch. I put my name down to get a table for me and my friends. While I waited for them to meet me I sat outside with a cup of coffee and a cigarette. I looked at people walking past through my sunglasses. I was feeling good. I was feeling self-satisfied. It was kind of like being in Paris again, but the people were not dressed as well and the women were not as attractive.

Then I started to feel kind of guilty, and speculated that god was going to smote me with some new malady, like the swine flu or a thrown-out back.

wired cafe

I was at Wired café today with my old high school pals and one of them, my friend Sam who goes to Bard, remarked that people in Bethlehem are starting to look and dress more like Bard students. Yeah, I said, they’re starting to look like Hampshire students, too.

And it’s true. When I go back home, I’m supposed to feel cooler than the other people I see, except maybe my friends. We go to schools like Bard and Hampshire. We’re articulate and clever, we talk about things like Klaus Kinski and our frustrations with irony, and we wear interesting-looking glasses. We have complexes.

But the locals are catching on, and quick. It wasn’t so long ago that I could walk in the street and get harassed by middle school-aged kids. But pretty soon in Bethlehem it’ll be just like up at school, and when I’m there I’ll be busy making sure I’m out post-cooling those upstarts, drinking their coffee at Wired. What is Bethlehem coming to?

The post-cool grind at media services/arm-chair sociology

Today at media services a young, impressionable first year came in and took out Bergman’s The Seventh Seal. I can’t take Bergman seriously, especially his post-Persona cinema, it’s too metaphysical and earnest. I thought about making a remark to this fresh-faced girl, but I didn’t. I guess it’s an important movie to have seen, but I just hope that she doesn’t like it too much.
Right after this, my co-worker Abe and some other similar looking dude came in and started listening to George Benson, a much maligned smooth jazz guitarist. The whole thing is emblematic of the postmodern’s appropriation of low culture for its own purposes, usually ironic ones. Anyway, I feel as if they’re just making sure that we all know that they’re more post-cool than we are, because that girl for instance just took out a Bergman film…and even me, I’m guilty, I like some French art cinema sometimes…

A little later this girl Sarah Marshal that I actually kind of dated in my first year (I had to forget Sarah Marshal, ha ha) came in with a guy that was probably her bf. I realized that in addition to the people that come in and talk about post-cool shit like George Benson or animé, there is also this kind hipster, Sarah’s bf. He’s the kind of guy that probably has the same interests as us (I guess I ambivalently include myself in that category…), with a few important differences. These types look more earthy…they’re granola hipsters. They look more natural and less ironic in flannel, and maybe they wear boots. They definitely have a full beard, like this dude at media services.

I suppose that in my boredom at work, I start to get thoughtful, and more cynical. But if you smile and say hello, you’ll leave nothing but a good impression!

adventures at cooley dickenson hospital

I had surgery at cooley dick yesterday (turns out I had a second hernia to have repaired…). They were backed up, so I had to lie in bed for a good three hours before they got started. Despite the long wait, they still put the I.V. in first thing, and all that fluid was coming in the whole time, and I had to get up and pee constantly.

I tried to banter and make conversation with my surgeon Dr. Miller and the anesthesiologist. The latter told me about how he and my surgeon went biking in France together (this was why I couldn’t get in for the operation sooner…) when I told him that I was a French major. I asked Dr. Miller if he was ready. ‘We’ll see,’ he said. One of the nurses asked if I had taken off my underwear. ‘Why would you have him do that?’ Dr. Miller asked. I appreciated his sense of humor. In the operating room, once I was on the various drugs, they started talking about some show one of them watched on discovery channel the other day.

I woke up in a haze, still in the operating room. It seemed to me like they were still talking about the show on the discovery channel. I tried to make conversation again. Then I realized they were in the middle of cutting into me. That was weird. Eventually, I realized that they weren’t paying attention to me. Well, I guess that was for the best, I wouldn’t have wanted them to make a mistake.

thanksgiving dinner at hampshire

Well, I finally saw Antichrist last night at the Pleasant Street Theater in Northampton. It was well shot. The way the forest is filmed, it seemed like it could swallow the characters up. I appreciated that, but I didn’t like how charged with meaning the film was. One can only take so much meaning before it gets to be too much. I guess it was shocking at moments, but I wasn’t especially moved to think about the thematic significance of the torture…my mind started to drift to more practical questions, like what the trial would be like if Willem Dafoe were charged with murdering his wife. Hopefully that will be in part 2.

Today Dave, Paolo, and I went to the Thanksgiving dinner at the dining hall. All those people milling about getting their food and talking, the harsh lighting, familiar faces that I don’t want to see…it provokes a mild disgust.

As we were eating, all of the sudden a wad of squash appeared in my cup of orange juice, and than on the sleeve of my sweater. I turned around, and a group of first-years were about to start a food fight at the table next to us. Dave and I, without any hesitation, stood up and reamed them out. That put an end to it. We felt good about ourselves. I rarely yell at people. It’s nice.

the daily grind

I’m sitting here, working on my resumé, because my other work bores the hell out of me and I can’t bring myself to look at another article. I certainly don’t want to start writing. I’m technically working on a thesis—a ‘Division III’ as Hampshire calls this year-long project—but both of these terms are just a euphemism for a big homework project, and homework is the worst.

At media services today motherfuckers were annoying. Sometimes I enjoy talking to customers, if they smile, or crack a joke, or something like that. A professor came in and didn’t get it that we didn’t have the film she wanted, and she started to get short with me. Then some guy came in and just walked past the desks and started collecting the microphones he had reserved. ‘Just help yourself,’ I said. I guess he didn’t get it because while I was doing something else I heard Matt tell him that we would get his things for him.

The other day I screened Claire Denis’ L’intrus. Three people showed up; one of them left twenty minutes before it finished. One of them said that she came because she had been in France for a year and wanted to hear French. That was a shame, because the movie has almost no dialogue and much of it is in Russian or Korean.

adventures in scholarship

I have found that, for the most part, scholarship is pretty dull. I’m writing a thesis about some things related to film noir. The only thing enjoyable is that I get to watch a lot of movies. The secondary literature is tiresome and makes me depressed because I have to look at so much of it. What really gets me is when some scholar starts to think that he or she is clever, and writes in the first person and invokes more than necessary people like Derrida or some other shit like that. I just looked at this article by David Wills about Breathless and its remake. (I googled the guy: he got his doctorate from the Sorbonne Nouvelle, where I can only imagine that they’re jerking off to critical theory).
He begins the article: “I am not, it seems, in the cinema. Not even in the video. This all comes at a complicated series of removes. At some point I could have said ‘I am in the cinema’ and left the ambiguity at play between the theater room and the film on the screen.” I don’t know what he’s talking about, but I know it’s annoying. Later he says, talking about the subtitles that appear in the English version: “they show the film ‘in process,’ in production if you will: in the process of being exported the film explicitly reveals its supplementary structure, its iterability, its (de)recontextualization.” It is times like these that I’m ashamed to be a student, and I just want to go to the bar and shoot billiards.

post-op

"On drugs…you’re so nice on drugs" - Nick Lowe

I’m at one of those turnings points in my life. I’m thinking about the serious things. I also had my surgery Friday morning. I’ve been lazing around, watching movies and sleeping. I stupidly took out all serious, depressing French movies and equally depressing Nicholas Ray movies. I also watched Tarkovsky’s The Mirror and it made no sense at all. Maybe that is because of the pain killers I’m on. At any rate, they’re not cheering me up. The drugs do go a long way in cheering me up, though. The fourth installment of my film series is happening tonight. Hopefully a lot of people will show up. That will gratify me.

Katrin’s been here for the past week. This morning I saw her off at the bus stop in Amherst. When we woke up it was still dark outside. It was cool outside, but pleasant, and as the sun came up I could tell it would be a sunny day. As I pulled out of Hampshire onto West Street, I remarked that the sky looked beautiful. I haven’t been up this early in years, I said.

On the drive back I looked to my left at the rolling fields covered with mist and the mountains in the distance. I was reminded of that morning in Nice, nearly six months ago. Today when I woke up Katrin seemed a little troubled. It was gray and rainy outside. We had a talk. From the balcony we could see the port and there was a big cruise ship standing in the water. I scoped it with the binoculars.

Since it was still early when I got back, I went to bed for a few hours.

out of the past and Jewish revelries

I’ve been in Baltimore, visiting my friend Dan Marans at Johns Hopkins. Getting away for a bromantic weekend in Charles village was just what I needed. Dan is involved with the Jewish student community, including the fraternity, so I’ve been going to several of their functions. Friday night I had the pleasure of going to a Shabbat dinner. Last night Dan and I drank vodka and then went to a celebration where they dance around and read passages from the Torah. I danced around, too, and even tried to chant and sing along with them. Since it’s an orthodox event, there’s a divider separating the woman and the men; while dancing, I knocked it down by accident, but no one seemed to notice it was me.

Earlier that day I went to an all day frat party going on for the young alumni weekend. Thirty thirty racks was the theme. Dan had told me about a guy named Gavin, a recent alum, that could easily drink 30 beers in a day, or even in a night. When I saw him he had already had at least 15, apparently. He seemed…volatile, but was somehow reigning it in. He did take a beer can, shake it, and pierce a whole in the bottom with his teeth so that he could shot gun it; it sprayed everywhere. I was afraid that at any moment he would force me to shotgun one with him, or just push me off the balcony.

Also last night I saw a figure from out of my past at a party, this guy Michael that was my roommate at Middlebury my first time there. It was so disconcerting. He had transferred to Hopkins. I don’t want to go into it.

Well, one thing that is strange in all of this is being around these high achievers. Gavin, for instance, despite his habits, is an investment banker. I’ve met no small number of math, engineering, or international relations majors. You get the idea. Perhaps, at another point in my life, I might have had feelings of inferiority in this kind of situation; now, I hardly care. The only thing it seems to do is highlight my lack of drive and ambition, something which doesn’t especially bother me right now.

adventures in northampton

Last night I went to Northampton again to go to a birthday party above Pop’s liquor store. First I drank beers at Dave & Paolo’s place. I felt tired and listless and a little indifferent towards the evening. My hernia was causing me some pain because I’d been running too hard. We sat around on the porch and told jokes; I told the one about the three men on the beach and the brick they throw up in the air, and Paolo told the one about the old woman and her parrot and the businessman and his cigar on the airplane. Beryl couldn’t keep her mouth shut though and she ruined the whole damn thing.

At the party I felt cerebral. Again my hernia was bothering me. Finally I had to lie down on the dirty bathroom floor to make it feel better while Dave stood outside and made sure no one walked in. When I got back out I started to wonder if I could dance and make people believe that I was actually having fun. I approached two girls that were dancing together next to Jackie and Dave and asked them if they were convinced that I was enjoying myself. They said yes but that I should move my arms more and make other gestures. Pretty soon I got bored so I walked home. I’ve had worse nights.

Hugo's

On Friday night Dave and I went to a bar called Hugo’s in Northampton that our friend Ella suggested to us. It’s kind of a dive, but not like the dive bars in Bethlehem. We ordered a beer and played pool. I won pretty easily. A guy put money down on the table to claim the next game and I realized that his friend is the guy that works at Sam’s pizza on Main Street. You’re the guy from Sam’s pizza, I said. We were just talking about that, he exclaimed. He’s the kind of guy that exclaims, not says. He is very friendly. In his role at Sam’s he brings a little too much personality to his job and it can be annoying. But at Hugo’s it was amusing. We asked where we could get pizza and he said that everywhere was closed, but he had some slices with him from Sam’s; he had just closed the place. We said we’d by them. First he wanted us to buy him two beers, but I brought him down to $4 for two slices. He told us that he had been an art student, then for whatever reason he started working at Hugo’s and then he got into ‘the doorman scene,’ whatever that means, and now he finds himself working at Sam’s. I asked him and his friend if I could bum a cigarette; his friend gave me two and told me to give the other one to a lady. I did go outside and smoke one of them, but there weren’t any ladies to give the other one to.

september issues

This morning I went on a nice long run in the rain and as usual reflected about the serious things. I didn’t figure anything out. Maybe tomorrow.

This afternoon I went downstairs and soft-boiled an egg. While waiting for the water to heat up I smoked a cigarette with Ezra out on the balcony in the rain. We surveyed the faux urban landscape of prescott. It seemed slimy and dirty.

This evening I was feeling gloomy so I decided to go with Perrie, Sibba, and Beryl to see a movie, The September Issue. I don’t know why the hell I did that, because I feel more depressed now than I did before.

Oh yeah. My contemporary French film series is starting next weekend. Sunday @ 7 in the evening in the new film & photo building. The film is Coup de torchon. Come. You’ll make me feel like I’m doing something worthwhile.

trouble every day

So it’s been a while since I last updated. The sentiment I experienced when I did sound for that intro talk has waxed and waned. I’ve been going on nice, long runs, where I reflect about the serious things. Unfortunately, however, I found out that I have a hernia, and that renders exercising problematic. Initially I thought it was something I should be embarrassed about, as if it was something I caused through lifting improperly or some shit like that. The doctor tells me, however, that it was probably there since birth, and that it gradually got worse throughout my life. I guess I just live too hard in general. It’s sort of like driving a car that makes a weird noise; you know something isn’t right, but the thing still works…yet there is the sentiment in the back of your mind that it could break down at any moment.

I went to see Coppola’s new movie, Tetro, the other day. Though not perfect, I enjoyed the experience. Coppola is inspired by several different looks from the history of cinema, but it wasn’t too much of a quotation, if you know what I mean. One thing was a bit odd: whenever Vincent Gallo kissed his girlfriend in the movie, I thought about his role in Claire Denis’ Trouble Every Day. I expected the girl to start screaming from the pain of him ripping out her tongue with his teeth, and then him to pull away with a blood all over his face and lips—which is what he does in Denis’ film.

adventures at mt. holyoke college

I went to Mt. Holyoke college today, the distant land of my ex-girlfriend, for the first session of a class I’m going to take there. I came early to talk with my old elementary French professor, and I was there over the lunch hour so I ate at their campus center. I found myself in a contemplative mood, ruminating over the past. I was also reminded of how strange some Mt. Holyoke students are.

At one point, I returned from checking to see if my food was ready to find a girl I didn’t know sitting at my table. She hadn’t noticed my book bag under the chair, apparently. I didn’t really know what to do, so I just said that I had been there first, but that she could stay if she wanted. She left for some reason, but her stuff was still there, and I noticed that she had horse back riding gear—something which I regard with a great deal of suspicion. She didn’t return throughout the whole time I ate, and I wondered if maybe she found the situation too awkward to sit there with me, or something like that. Some MHC students are very awkward and socially sensitive. I was relieved; what the hell do I have to say anyway? Well, I sat there and ate; the only interruption was that another MHC student I know from Middlebury saw me and we said hello. Then I left and went to class.

welcome back

I’ve found myself at Hampshire for the past week or so, acting as ‘orientation staff,’ working with media services to do the sound for the various orientation activities that require a P.A system. I happened to be working during the talk for all of the new students and parents that are on campus that the president and some other staff do the very day that new students arrive. It was the fourth time I’ve heard this talk, because I was once a first year, and after that an orientation leader my second and third year.

I’ve been in generally good spirits, but the feeling of depression, malaise, and distaste that this talk aroused in me was…acute. The optimism and the energy struck me as artificial and irritating. The director of admissions always has a bit that she does, which has been the same every year: she talks about the unique qualities of the incoming class, based on interesting things she read or heard about in the applications. It’s the same basic thing every time, with a bit of variation (something that is also true of the new students…). This year, I remember two of them. For the first, she quoted from the student’s application essay, which was a sort of metaphor, a double entendre that suggested the student’s love of Hampshire was something more than intellectual. It was a amusing ‘love letter’ that he wrote addressed to the school. I admit that it was clever (though histrionic). But I couldn’t help but ask my self, ‘how the fuck can someone care about Hampshire that much?’ Even before I started here, I wasn’t nearly that enthusiastic. Well, I see disappointment in his future.

The second student that she talked about was one who was a fixed gear bike mechanic, or some shit like that. That brought up certain associations. At any rate, the point is that I’ve found something new that evokes a sentiment of malaise in me that I can blog about.

the knife

Last night I watched J.S.A (joint security area) by Chan Wook-Park (Old Boy) and drank beers with Ezra, though Ezra was lame and left halfway through to go to bed. Then Nicole, an R.A from the building next to us who is friends with the third years in this mod (and now me I guess), came by because she was bored. First she went over and talked to Carl in his room, than she sat down to watch part of the movie. For some reason the role I was playing just then—that is to say a guy drinking beer and watching a Korean movie by himself benevolently conversing with a visitor—was pleasing to me.

Later I was waiting for Carl outside so we could go see some people in mod 17, when a small group of second years called out to me and invited me to join them for a smoke. One of them was in my orientation group last year. Carl and I decided to join them. As we were sitting and talking, one of the girls got up to make some food, and she started to talk about the knife she was using with one of the other girls. I think they were resuming an earlier conversation. She said the knife was wonderful, and that when cutting onions her eyes didn’t tear up. I demanded a scientific explanation for this. She explained to all of us that the blade was so thin, it could cut between the cell walls or membranes. I said that cells are microscopic, so that would probably mean that the blade would have to be microscopic, and therefore invisible. An invisible knife might be dangerous, I said.

Well, I tried the knife, and it was a lot of un. Clearly, it was a good knife.

sons of bitches

Yesterday I went to the Walgreen’s by the Westgate mall, a drug store I had not been to since I was in middle school. I remembered how one time I was outside of this store with my friends Troy and James. James had some packets of mustard and ketchup and he squirted them onto the handle of the pay phone, to piss of the next person who used it, I guess. I remembered thinking it was a stupid and petty gesture.

Today I was on a run in the old neighborhood and a fat, adolescent boy with a crew cut and glasses riding his bike called out something that sounded like ‘Dwight’ or even ‘blight’ or 'blike.' The first makes more sense but I’m not sure if people that age are watching The Office. I guess I have to check out the demographics. At any rate, I was more insulted than usual by this comment because I was in athletic gear, running—and I didn’t have weird glasses.

As I continued to run, I wondered, why are people at that age such sons of bitches? I can understand why they’re that way with each other, but I’m an adult to them. I could’ve tackled those motherfuckers, or even just yelled at them and scared them.

reflections

Last night, after having a drink with a group of students at Mr. Ups from the French school to celebrate Rosa’s birthday, I went to the Two Brothers to try and find some excitement, whatever that would mean. As I pushed myself through the crowd to get to the bathroom, spilling my beer several times over American strangers speaking in Spanish with bad accents, I realized that all I really wanted to do was smoke a cigarette, and that moreover, I wanted to smoke a cigarette with someone who could banter with me. Then I realized that this sentiment is, in fact, one I’ve felt quite often. That is to say, sometimes the best thing that can come out of a night of drinking is smoking a cigarette with some who can banter. I met with Ben later that night, and oddly enough we both saw Bachir, my film professor, returning from who knows where at 3 in the morning. I told him what had occurred to me, and he agreed.

Tonight, I went outside to try to find someone who would bum me a cigarette, thinking that perhaps I would find Bachir, who would probably make the 5 minutes or so it takes to smoke one down enjoyable. Instead I found my friend Clayton with a group of people I’d never met before. I bummed a cigarette. First, they wouldn’t admit who they really were or where they were from. I acted as if I was insulted that they would treat me with such an attitude, and eventually they did start to be a little more earnest, though I still didn’t take them seriously. The banter continued, me acting insulted and pointing out the inconsistencies in their story and the silly nature of their attempts at an ironic joke, and them accurately pointing out that I was guilting them so they would admit that they liked me, etc. Well, this continued for some time, until I decided to go back inside the student center. I admitted to them—though I’m not sure if they took it ironically or in earnest—that it had really been quite a pleasure bantering with them, probably one of the highlights of the evening. Later I saw Clayton inside and he told me that they had all thought I was very amusing, which flattered my ego to no end.

Have you ever gone back and looked at the old photos of yourself on fbook, or the photos of people from your past? It evokes a bit of melancholy in me.

Well, these are the two significant sentiments I felt tonight: the simply pleasure of bantering with people while smoking a cigarette, which goes a long way, and the mild sense of loss in seeing photos from one, two years ago.

coup de torchon

Today I was listening to Carl Orff’s short piece ‘Gassenhauer’ used in Badlands in a sequence that I posted a few months ago. This made me think of Betrand Tavernier’s Coup de torchon, which uses music in a very charged, kind of impressionistic way. Here is the opening sequence.

fragments from my past

A couple of days ago my old friend from middle school Dave Smith added me as a friend on facebook. We stopped being good friends because I thought that he stole my Magic cards. I lost track of him during high school.
On the left is Dave. On the right is a girl named Taylor. If I remember correctly, in the fourth grade I asked one of my friends to ask her out for me, whatever that would've entailed. She said no. Voilà the beginning of my tragic romantic life, filled with rejection and jealousy.

On the left is a girl named Erin who was in my eight grade science class. Our teacher Mr. Litner frequently became enraged with her because she perpetually chewed gum and generally expressed a glib attitude. If you can't tell from the photo, she is very small. Dave and I often harassed her from across the street while we walked home. Dave is there in the background, with the red shirt. Next to Erin is someone I don't know, but the caption indicates that his name is "Ballin J."

billiards

Today there was a billiards tournament at the grille and I watched a couple of the matches. There are at least three very good players in the languages schools who can clear the table in less than three turns. I found it discouraging to see how much better they are than me. I’d like to be good at billiards, I’d feel masculine and authoritative, etc. But when I set out to improve, I reach a point where I don’t care anymore (which seems to be a recurring theme in my life…). This sentiment was very keenly evoked while I watched the match between Anthony, the champion of the French school, and the Russian school champion. The guy from the Russian school was tall, well-built, and generally serious looking. He wore a special kind of glove, to help the cue slide more smoothly over his hand, I imagine. He looked to me like a seedy villain in a mediocre spy film, and I actually found him kind of scary, like he could kill a motherfucker in one stroke with one of his exclusive cues that he brought with him to the grille. If you end up like that when you get to be very good at billiards, then I’ll pass.

llorando

This afternoon I went into the town of Middlebury and searched in vain for a place where I could get an eggs benedict sandwich. I found it acutely disappointing that I couldn’t indulge in this exceptional breakfast sandwich that ranks among the finest pleasures of my life. It occurred to me that this is something that warrants chagrin and malaise, and not all the other stupid shit I write about. Anyway, I settled for a chicken salad sandwich and a coffee, which in the end wasn’t so bad, but all the same a certain empty feeling stuck with me.

While sitting outside, I realized how closely Middlebury resembles the town in Blue Velvet (obviously my entry from last night was in mind). If the parties were a little crazier and lasted a little longer and if people used obscure drugs, and most of all if some of the characters here sang Roy Orbison songs at the karaoke nights, it’d be really damn close. I wonder if there is a French version of “Crying”?

which david lynch character are you?

I admit that I often read the quiz results that appear on the fbook feed. What annoys me is that no matter what the answer is, it is always ultimately positive. For example, the model seems to be something along the lines of: “What Bill Murray character are you?” Let’s say you’re Bob, from What About Bob? “Perhaps you have some problems and you’ve been in therapy all you’re life, but at heart you know what counts and people respect that…essentially, you’re endearing and people love you…etc. etc.”

I want to see a quiz like, “Which David Lynch character are you?” Frank Booth—“you have lots of very serious issues and you probably should be in prison or a mental hospital. You fashion yourself to be a cool guy, but what that really entails is pushing other people around in an insecure way and using strange drugs and then performing weird sex acts. You’re fucked up.”

My point is, do people really take these quizs so seriously that they’d be offended if the result wasn’t overwhelmingly positive? I have some ideas for quizes: What kind of annoying person at a party are you? How much do you abuse alcohol? Which character are you in Caddyshack? Which Keanu Reeves character are you? Etc. etc.

translations

Today I tried to translate one of my entries, 'days of new england.' In doing this, I realized that if I gave it to a professor here, I would probably seem like an asshole.

Well, I stand by the sentiments I expressed in that entry! but I decided to translate a more innocuous one. After all, I don't want to alienate anyone...

Another dissapointment…part 2

Have you ever confronted the banal quality of your life? You can’t escape it. If you try, you’re just playing a game with little risk, and you’re probably annoying other people while you’re at it.

click to empower

The non-profit my cousin works for is up for a $100,000 grant if it can win this internet poll. If it's not too much trouble, please vote for Safe Horizon with each of your email addresses. You can do it once a day, and you won't receive any mailings from them. http://www.clicktoempower.org/

guaranteeing boredom

"He claims that electronic texture is the only one that can deal with sentiment, memory, and imagination." - Sandor Krasna

The other day I experienced an unpleasant sensation at dinner. I arrived too early, and I found that my usual crew of friends was not there. I noticed two people that I regularly dine with; next to them was a group of people that looked familiar, so I decided to eat with them. I was mistaken: they were not familiar, they were strangers. Two of my friends were there, this is true, but I could not talk to them because there were unknowns at the table, blocking a line of conversation. I search for words. I am not prepared to embark on such an endeavor, I adore complacency. There is a line in the narration of Chris Marker’s film Sans Soleil that sticks with me. Pardonnez-moi ces pensées désordonnées. Je vous laisse une image mélancolique, mais au fond de moi
je suis heureux. J’ai parlé franchement. Excusez-moi.

trouble every day

It is true that I wrote about Antichrist a month or so ago, and about how all the hype around it at Cannes had made me want to see it. People were leaving midway through, people denounced it, etc.

Despite being allured by this kind of reaction to a film, I’m going to say that I regret seeing Claire Denis’ Trouble Every Day, a film that was similarly received at Cannes. I feel traumatized. Do not see Trouble Every Day. It depicts things, in a sensitive, unhurried, stylized, thorough way that should never be depicted. I’ve seen Pink Flimingos. I’ve seen Realm of the Senses and Audition. (Though I admit I haven’t seen Salo). Anyway, don’t see it. Maybe my days of watching tough art films are over. My new favorite film is Marley and Me. Also, I’m not sure if I ever want to have sex again.

echoes of Florence#2 + fragments of an inane conversation

Today in my Maghrebian cinema class we watched an Algerien film called Viva Laldérie. It’s a melodrama of sorts inspired by ‘80s Almovodar about a women living in Algers with her mother in a hotel room. Anyway, about an hour until the film, this woman goes to some sort of fortune teller. The fortune teller was played by none other than Florence, my old host mother. Of course I knew that she had played in several films, but this came as quite a surprise.

Later the same day, I was walking to dinner. I overheard the following conversation between two Middlebury students who are here just to work on campus over the summer, thus they’re allowed to speak in English.

Girl 1: It’ll be like a foreign film.

Girl 2: But foreign films are French, with subtitles, and well thought out.

Girl 1: It’s Japanese, so it’s foreign.

Girl 2: Yeah, but they’re not the same, they’re not as well thought out, etc.

Girl: You’re right. Actually, though, there are some French movies that aren’t very good.

awkward moment (among many)

I’m at Middlebury now where I can only speak French. This leads to many awkward moments. I often feel uncomfortable. Today at the gym while I was passing by the back entrance I noticed three girls outside about 15 yards away. I knew that when they got there, they would find that this entrance is locked. Since I’m a nice guy, I decided to stand there and wait so I could let them in, knowing that it would appear overly polite and awkward. When they came in one of them said, ‘merci,’ either because they just wanted to say thanks, or because they recognized that I was also in the French school. I saw this as an opportunity to explain that one has to enter by the front of the gym. I asked them if they were indeed in the French school, and one of them said yes. Then as I tried to explain the entrance situation to them, they just walked away…

"Tapeworm plastron" by Cory Reid

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butane incest

spreading the word

Last night I drank the night away with Sieglind and Linda, from my young writer days, and this guy Matt who has a place in historic Bethlehem. We talked about a range of subjects, but Sieglind and Matt kept returning to the subject of arrogance, and how it is different from confidence. We shared a lot of anecdotes about our love lives; Matt asked us each to define love in one word. I think Sieglind said ‘goat,’ I forget what Matt said, Linda said ‘unconditionality,’ and when pressed, I said, ‘someone who indulges my selfish tendencies.’ Matt made some remark about the distinction between making love and sex that could’ve been considered arrogant, and this again brought him and Sielgind back to the same discussion. I said several times that I was tired of all this heavy stuff. Matt has a wall where people sign and write down something, so I wrote down something to this affect, that is not wanting to talk about all this heavy stuff anymore. Then below my name I wrote the address of this blog.

chix with dix

Northampton does have a lot of weird posturing going on, and like I said before a lot of goofy people, but when I got back I began to realize that Bethlehem has a lot crazies/annoying people too. I was out for drinks at the Your Welcome Inn and on the way back I stopped in a gas station to pee. A guy that looked like a typical Lehigh Univ. bro approached me. You like transvestites right? he asked. Like girls with penises, he explained; he seemed to think that I didn’t know what a transvestite was. What makes him think that, I thought. He continued to explain to me what a transvestite is. I said, what is it? Is it the skinny jeans, the glasses, the Las Vegas coat that changes color depending on how the light hits it (pictured in the previous blog post and discussed in an entry from December)?

Finally I said, you got me bro, I just dig those chicks with dicks. He gave me a hug and said, I was just kidding.

days of new england

I was in Northampton last weekend visiting all those people up there. I picked up Ezra, Jo and Dave along the way. Dave documented much of the trip with his new camera. Here’s me with a bothered look on my face.

We went to Target and Dave and I bought the same shorts; then we played Sam Tilley and Ben ? in badminton. We may not have won, but we said a lot of obnoxious, insulting things. Sometimes that's all that counts.

We went to brunch both mornings. I find brunch endlessly satisfying. Downtown I was reminded of all the goofy ass people in Northampton: colored hair, dreadlocks, stupid pants, cargo pants, piercings, etc. etc. We were walking and I made this remark to Jo. Watch out, she said. Sure enough, when I turned around there was a frumpy looking girl with dyed blue hair and stupid cargo pants. Then a few steps later we passed by a white guy with dreadlocks.

echoes of Florence

Last Saturday night Sarah, Stacey and I went to several bars in Bethlehem. At Joe’s Tavern we learned how to play darts and drank two dollar beers with a Liberty High School drop out and his friend from New Jersey. The guy from New Jersey stuck with us for the whole night and at The Brew Works it somehow came out that he is an audio/videophile and we had a long interesting conversation about stereos. Then Stacey brought up Matt Popolardo (sp), who was a big asshole when I was in boy scouts with him and who later was my editor-in-chief when I edited the entertainment section of Liberty Life. His dad was also kind of an asshole, and went on a real power trip in his role as assistant scout chief (or whatever the hell they’re called) when he took away our gameboys and walkmans when we were at boy scout camp. I suppose earning merit badges was important if I wanted to advance beyond tenderfoot, but I just wanted to play Pokémon. Mr. Burgermister, the real chief, was a great guy, but my dad suggested to me that Mr. Popolardo and his wife were trying to get him out of there, and I think they succeeded sometime after I quit. Well, there is no justice.

I wish the people who follow this blog and have their own blogs would update more often so I have something else to do when I go on the internet other than look at fbook status updates of people I don’t really care about. I’ve been going through and hiding a lot of them. Pretty soon they’ll be hardly any left.

I watched That Obscure Object of Desire today, Buñuel’s last film. The object of desire, played by both Carole Bouquet and Angela Molina, had an accent and way of speaking that at many times (especially when moaning or complaining) was uncannily similar to the way Florence spoke. When she would say, c’est pas possible, it brought me back to Paris and the days when she walked in and started talking to herself.

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I find it awkward and difficult to reconcile my liberal arts college/douche bag identity with Bethlehem. For example, at Porter’s pub last night I experienced this vaguely disconcerting sensation. I think this sensation is exaggerated by my new jeans, which are still unbroken in and rather tight. My old music teacher Dave Smith, who plays saxophone, flute, and guitar, was playing with my friend Jessie Horning’s bf on guitar and two other guys on bass and drums. They played really jammy funk/jazz fusion that reminded me of Miles Davis in the ‘70s. Dave really hammed it up, and took really long extravagant solos on his guitar, although all the solos were long. It devolved into a really loud jam session. Even though I enjoyed it, this dissonant, even experimental music seemed really out of place in a bar that caters to middle-aged people who like micro brews.* It kind of reminded me of how out of place Bill Pullman seems playing free jazz saxophone at a dance club in Lost Highway. Whenever Dave took a sax solo, the people at the table in front of him got up to go to the bar. Also, we noticed that there were a lot of really fat guys.

*Looked at from a different angle, this could be a “stuff white people like” kind of thing (jazz and micro brews, etc.) but I’m not going to go into it.

5th ave

The other day I was walking on 5th Avenue with Ben and an overweight girl with glasses walking in the other direction with her friend said, ‘hey how’s it going?’ I said ok, how about you? I had to repeat myself several times. Then she asked me how old I was. 21, I said. How old do you think I am? she asked. I didn’t think about it very much and said, 17. She seemed surprised and laughed. She was not attractive. Really? she said. Well, maybe more like 15, I said and she said that I was right, she was 15. Congratulations, I said. Then she admitted that she was 13, and I congratulated her for that, too. I didn’t hear it, but Ben said that as we walked away she said ‘nerds’ under her breath.

new sidewalk

We're getting a new sidewalk in front of our house so there are guys out there laboring throughout the day. (I was tempted to write the address of my blog in the wet cement but I decided that my parents wouldn't appreciate it). I find that often when I walk outside these guys say something funny or witty, but for some reason I always have to ask them to repeat themselves, and this just ruins what would be pleasant banter. For instance, one time one of the guys said, 'want to help out?' This would be funny if they said it to anyone, but I think it's even more funny directed at me, since I probably look to them like a douchey college kid unfamiliar with hard labor (which is essentially true). But I had to ask the guy to repeat himself about two times, because it was difficult to hear him over the noise of the radio they have playing.

au revoir

I think maybe this blog has run out of steam, or at any rate I’m not feeling particularly inspired lately. It’s not because I’m back in Bethlehem. It’s something I’ve felt for a while now. I don’t know what is worth writing about anymore.

I binged more than usual my last week in Paris; on three or four occasions I won beer chugging contests, and I now have a new found confidence in this department. On Tuesday night Dave and I, after drinking heavily, insulted a group of people that claimed to be Spaniards, but sounded and looked like Americans to me. I asked them if there were any bars open, and they gestured in a couple directions and I said thanks. Then they said, ‘yeah, thanks for everything.’ It seemed to me that they were implying that I had been useless to them, as if they had asked for something and I didn’t have an answer. I told them that I was the one who asked if there was a bar open nearby (and they didn’t really tell me anything useful) so their sarcastic reply didn’t make any sense. I don’t remember how they responded, but in any case I told them they should go suck a dick, and Dave yelled insults at them in Spanish. Then Maddie tried to ask a French couple in a roundabout way the same question about open bars, and I interjected and said, ‘franchement, on cherche de la bière.’ It seems to me like more amusing things happened that night, but I don’t remember very well, and like I said I’m not sure if any of it is worth recounting.

Katrin accompanied me to the RER station Thursday morning. We didn’t say very much. She tried to calm me down a little. I find flying stressful. I was reminded of a scene at the Philadelphia airport when I was catching my flight to Paris in January. An eastern European family was going through the security checkpoint leaving the rest of their family behind. One of them was a young girl with tears swelling up in her eyes as they said their final goodbyes. The whole thing seemed very final, like they were never going to see each other again. My family was there too of course and my mother and sister were crying, but I just paid attention to this little girl.

antichrist

On Sunday night I saw the new Star Trek film with Sebastian. I don’t understand why people in the future put so many narrow bridges without hand rails over deep chasms in their spaceships. Yes, it can make for suspense, but there are limits, and I have to wonder why safety isn’t considered a little bit more.

The best thing about the movie was that before it started I saw for the first time the trailer for Lars Von Triers new film Antichrist. It looks like some pretty freaky shit happens in that film, and from what I’ve read the trailer only scratches the surface. It’s making a huge splash and dividing critics right now at Cannes (that bloated phony Roger Ebert said something about it being offensive to society), and it hits theatres June 3 in Paris—which is after I leave, much to my chagrin. I’m not sure if it’s going to get picked up for US distribution, and if it does chances are it will be recut to accommodate the MPAA.

A somewhat similar fate befell Bernard Tavernier’s In the Electric Mist. It didn’t have problems with the MPAA, but the American producer didn’t agree with Tavernier’s cut, so Tavernier left, found another editor, and released the version of the film I saw throughout Europe. In the US, an inferior version with little of the narration featured in the European cut was released directly to DVD. All of this makes me believe that as far as cinema goes, Europe and especially Paris are far ahead of the US.

a different kind of malaise

I admit that in some ways I appreciate Florence, but there are limits. She reached that limit the other day when she had the refrigerator moved out, in addition to the two chairs in my room. On the bright side, the center gave me a tidy sum of food vouchers, which are good just about anywhere you can buy food, to compensate.

Last weekend in Katrin’s room I bumped my head against the wall that slopes down. It was a pretty hard blow but eventually the pain went away. The next day though it came back, especially when I chewed. I felt out of sorts and I started to feel as if something were amiss. How would I know if I sustained brain damage? I thought. I saw Tati's Jour de fête with Katrin and enjoyed it but then a feeling of malaise started to come back, as if something was subtly putting pressure on my brain. The people in the metro bothered me. It was a disagreeable, nondescript kind of sensation. Katrin innocently suggested that I might have sustained a concussion; this only sent me on a new wave of malaise, as I can sometimes be a bit of a hypochondriac.

This brush with insanity passed by Sunday, but for all of Saturday I was in this other zone, troubled and irritated.

movies

Last week was a great week for the movies. I saw The Big Sleep, Key Largo, Band of Angels, Badlands, Nothing Sacred and l’Autre. Band of Angels is a curious film about a white woman who discovers that she has a black mother and so is sold into slavery—to none other than Clark Gable. Clark Gable is one of those kind slave masters; there were many very disconcerting scenes where masses of slaves follow him around singing gospel songs. Hollywood has a long history of handling race relations indelicately, crudely, and often tastelessly (and this is a trait that I would argue we still see, in movies like Crash—not the Cronenberg film). Anyway, the film has very offensive moments, but I’m not sure what the whole thing adds up to.

Badlands was the highlight. Seeing it on film, even if the print was a little scratchy, was infinitely better than seeing it on DVD. I realized how carefully composed every frame is. Terrence Malick uses Carl Orff’s piece ‘Gassenhauer’ throughout the film (this was before True Romance, I should add): one sequence with this music, I think at any rate, is easily one of the best sequences in film history.

florence

The events of Friday night prompted me to do some research on the internet about Florence. Much to my surprise, she even has a French wikipedia entry, which indicates that she is 65 years old. I asked Natalie, the residential adviser at the center, about this and she confirmed that Florence is that old, and that she probably had many face lifts. I experienced another sensation of surprise, but this time mixed with mild discomfort, when I went over to google images to confirm that I was reading about the right Florence. On the very first page, there are images of a nude scene she did in the ‘80s.

adieu, adieu, remember me

I find that bus rides are often punctuated with feelings of pointlessness or, alternately, waves of optimism. Yesterday on the bus I put this down in the memo function of my phone so I would remember it and I noticed that I had another memo written down. ‘She is like a Bridget Bardot knock-off,’ it said. I could not remember why I had written this down—or who, where, or when it came from, for that matter; all I knew was that it was something I thought should go in my blog. Finally, I figured that it came from last Friday night, at Jackie’s birthday party.

At Jackie’s, we binged excessively. I somehow managed to break two glasses, although this was before I was even very drunk. I asked Michael, Nicola’s French bf, if he had heard of Florence. He googled her and to my surprise, there were several different websites with bio pages about her and even filmographies. Michael said that he didn’t know her personally, but that his family probably does. When Simon saw her picture, he remarked that she looked like a Bridget Bardot knock-off.

On the way home, Katrin, Tobias and I stopped for a Greek sandwich, which was just what I needed. Some people there were being obnoxious to us, so when they walked away, I said, ‘aideu.’ I am pleased that I found an occasion to use this word.

still moaning and groaning

The other day Florence came home and was moaning and groaning more than usual: ‘Oh la la la, c’est pas possible.’ I’ve learned to just ignore it and stay in my room. After a while I did go into the kitchen to get something to eat, and she brought up Still Walking, which I had recommended to her. She detested it; it actually made her angry, and, according to her, all of her friends shared her sentiments. I didn’t really know what to say. She said that it had nothing in common with the Japanese classics like Ozu’s films. In retrospect, I should have told her that she was just wrong there, considering that the plot is nearly identical to Ozu’s most famous movie, Tokyo Story. But at the time, none of this came to mind, and I was even left doubting my own opinion. After our conversation, she left the kitchen and apparently noticed something that caused her to recommence her moaning and groaning. In fact, she even said something along the lines of, ‘I’m starting all over again.’

At Bercy Park today we met Stacy from Bethlehem. We got Greek sandwiches and ate them outside, and then we walked around and talked about Stacy’s plans to work in international relations and battle the evils of terrorism/globalization after she graduates. We were looking to see a crane, and eventually we found one. They always seem out of context in Paris. We witnessed it catch and eat a goldfish in one quick movement. I remarked that that was the stuff of nature documentaries.

Interesting aside: according to Google analytics, my blog is getting hits from a wide variety of cities around the world. One of them is called “Paradise.”

Today I booked my flight back for the 28th of May. I’d been avoiding it a long time. Florence told me a while ago that she plans on moving in May, so I told her when I was leaving, wondering if I’d be able to stay up until my flight, or if I’d have to stay with a friend. She told me that she’s moving as early as the 15th, but that I can stay. I will be completely alone, as Sebastion is leaving this Friday.

However, she’s taking the washing machine and more importantly the refrigerator with her. When she told me this, I didn’t really know what to say. She said she would leave a few plates and utensils around. She hasn’t thought it out very well, I can tell. As far as not having a refrigerator for potentially two weeks—well, I can put my things outside the window, she told me. I asked her, what if it’s nice out? She explained that it has been nice out but the weather is so unpredictable…winter one day…hot summer the next…essentially, my rather pertinent question became an occasion for her to complain about the weather. Then she invited me to a party at the theatre where her husband works. Then she asked if I can find someone to help move my bed out, which would mean that I wouldn’t have it to sleep on my last night.

I have exactly a month left in France. Today when I woke up Katrin seemed a little reticent and troubled. It was gray and rainy outside. We had a talk. From the balcony we could see the port and there was a big cruise ship standing in the water. I scoped it with the binoculars. In the rain we walked to a nearby patisserie and got breakfast. Back at the apartment we put on some music and started cleaning and packing our things. I started to feel overwhelmed. The act of organizing and packing gradually calmed me down, but I still feel it.

Right now I’m on the train back to Paris (though I won’t be actually posting until later tonight). Train and bus rides are often an occasion to reflect. Somehow, I feel that like the last vacation, this one too has been a kind of dividing post. The landscape to my right outside the window is flat and cultivated, with mountains in the distance. The sky is a light gray color, except just above the mountains, where it is a dark blue. In about five hours I’ll be back.

would your blog get an A?

The spam I get in my Hampshire webmail account is always getting more interesting. Yesterday I got this one with the subject line "would your blog get an A?" (keep in mind while reading that it's viagra spam, though the text makes no mention at all of viagra):

all the sudden im 30 i thought id be driving a mini van full of kids and happily decorating my own home but life has shown me again that i am not in control and as i wait for more children and a sense of being settled
grant and i listened and danced to his music on valentines day
i have been laying in bed sick since monday it seems to be getting worse by the day not better i am so irritated and antsy i miss my family and i want to clean my house
refined sugar will be your enemy till you die
but the pattern is still available
again happy things
do you have to be obsessed with yarn and needles and hooks like i am to think that is the most inviting little space youve ever seen
hey my little family
let me explain Buoy
cate what did you play on the computer then
from the spring/summer 09 toast catalog
say hi to gilbert and the kids with love km
and that made me think of all the insomniatic nights that she stayed up with me and mirrored my every move and snuggled me right out of my anxiety into dreamland long after grant and cate had drifted off
acre of land is my favorite song of his
i thought id live there forever one day when i was 12 my dad quit his job and we moved to lake tahoe it rocked my stable world
i really really need my bedroom to be simple and uncluttered and white for calming purposes you know what i mean
we gave the universe one out- if grant found a job he loved before springtime wed stay put even though we wanted to go to cali really bad and even though grant had been looking for a different job for a long time
the deal with pcos and carbs
like this one for instance my older brother uploaded it while reminiscing about the old buggie he rebuilt in the 80s
project 31 is rolling along i have donations for every single item i need for the 31 newborn kits and lots of fabric donations and i will sew until there are 31 baby quilts too thank you SO much i was overwhelmed by the awesome response packages are starting to arrive i will be sure to post some pictures when i get it all together and ready to take to the humanitarian center my heart is happy

Being away from Paris in Nice leaves me doing a lot of introspecting. I introspect about the same basic thing, with subtle variation. Today we walked around near where all the celebrities have vacation houses. Earlier we went to the Marc Chagall museum. I wanted to go swimming, but it was cold and rainy. Tonight on the way back the sea was the same dark blue color of the sky.

I’m thinking of how I can continue to cultivate my internet personality. Any suggestions? My friend Anna tells me to get a twitter, but Dave thinks they’re wack. The other day, Jackie, Amanda, and I were walking around near rue moufftard talking about the impossibility of me becoming a fashion photographer. True, I don’t know anything about fashion or photography, but this guy’s blog/website—he’s a fashion photographer/curator and Jackie’s interning for his publication this summer—makes me think that I ought to work on some new talents in order to increase my blogging cred. Maybe it’s not economics and Penn State that I should’ve done, but lots more drugs and art school. But you have to have rich parents for that.

Am I being presumptous?

still walking

“I’d love to be like me if I can feel like you.”—Gary Numan

Kore-Eda’s Still Walking was excellent. It really hit me where it counts. It’s the kind of movie that almost moves me to tears, not because it’s especially sad, but because it just gets to me. I have a real soft spot for meditative, slow paced cinema, preferably with little dialogue. If anyone cares, and they’re interested in the kind of aesthetic I’m talking about, they ought to see Maborosi by Kore-Eda.

I’m in Nice right now. I find the landscape very agreeable. It makes me wish that I knew how to make money, so I could afford to do shit like this all the time, and not incur lots of debt. Paris does that to me too. Whatever Hampshire has done for me, it hasn’t given me a sense of confidence about making money. Maybe I should’ve gone to Penn State and studied economics. Instead I went to a small liberal arts colleges so I could pursue my unique interests and deconstruct things like Chris Marker films and Seinfeld.

nice guy?

Even though I’m a nice guy, apparently, I went back on my word and turned down the housing offer I mentioned before. But am I really a nice guy, after all? The other day, I sent Jared a text message asking him where he’d been lately, and he replied saying that he was still a little pissed about something that I’d done…and that in addition, I probably didn’t know what it was, and that was part of it. My mind went over all the possibilities. I couldn’t really think of anything, but I still had a guilty conscience, as if there was a latent and mean spirited tendency in me that inadvertently was made manifest without me even noticing.

Come to think of it, this must be exactly what these girls I wrote about a few entries back are responding to. Well, as Céline points out, being hated is sometimes what happiness is all about. I know I enjoyed writing that entry, and I’m enjoying this one, too.

going to the movies

“I don’t like the film, I don’t like the film, play it all back, play it all back”—Gary Numan

Last night I saw Robert Aldrich’s classic noir Kiss Me Deadly. It was showing in some random theater in the 10e that smelled like a hardware store and generally wasn’t very cosmetically appealing. Also, the sound frequently made that buzzing noise that one hears when a cell phone receiving or making a call is placed near a stereo. The guy in the projection room was probably using his phone. The same guy was working the booth; he seemed out of sorts when we bought our tickets, in an endearing sort of way. At any rate, all of this was fitting, considering the sleazy quality of Aldrich’s film. The day before I saw In the Electric Mist with Tommy Lee Jones, a neo-noir that should be released in the states pretty soon. It was just I needed; a bad-ass, hard-boiled cop beating up motherfuckers and bending the law. Today I’m seeing Hirokazu Koreeda’s new movie Still Walking. It’s been a good week for the movies.

nice guy

The past few days I’ve been sending it seems countless e-mails to people who responded to an ad in the daily digest saying that I’m available to fill a space in an apartment. This has been frustrating because none of the offers stood out. I either got replies from second years, gamers, or the type of people that you see around all the time (maybe you are even very loosely connected) but for some reason, you just never talk to*. I decided to accept an offer in a nice apartment with a group of 4th years that fell into this last category, but it was too late. Then I received an offer from a second year girl, and I realized that one of her friends was in my orientation group last fall. I jumped on that, and it looks like I’m living with this guy I know from orientation, and four of his girlfriends. I’m not sure if I made a mistake. Today, I got an offer from one of the Frisbee guys, and it pained me to turn it down. I’m a nice guy, and I don’t want to fuck over the other group.

On that note: I’ve always considered myself a nice guy, and my mom holds the same opinion, but I’m never sure if others see what she so perceptibly notices. Well, it turns out, I really am a nice guy. ‘I've seen you around and you seem like a really nice person,’ pac07@hampshire.edu told me today in another housing offer. I don’t even know who he or she is, but I guess I made an impression.

*Interesting side note: for some reason, a lot of the people from all of these categories are named Audrey.

“I’ve been round the world several times and now only banality still interests me. On this trip I’ve tracked it with the relentlessness of a bounty hunter.”—Sandor Krasna

Nearly every time I’m hungry here, I think of eating a Greek/Turq kebab sandwich. A good kebab sandwich goes a long way. I used to think that all of these sandwiches were created equally, so I was very pleased to find the other day a place that sells them for only 4E. To good to be true. Tonight I had one at place in the 11e. Instead of in a roll, they put the meat in a pita and grilled it. This shows potential, I thought. I was let down. Katrin, who was with me, agreed.

the life machine

“I know, I’ve had my time”—Gary Numan

I went to see Sunset Rubdown tonight with Katrin and Andrew, my friend from Middlebury. Often I find concerts like these to be an occasion for my mind to wonder around. I felt inspired. I’ve also felt inspired lately by the landscape around the bibliothèque nationale and Bercy Park. But inspired to do what? Certainly not to jump headlong into my paper on Sans Soleil.

Some interesting things occurred this week. Thursday night I made a salad for Tobias’ weekly dinner, and everyone loved it. The same night, walking to a bar by the Pompidou, we noticed a huge crowd outside of a neighborhood bar/tabac. There were many plastic glasses and skinny jeans. It seemed out of the ordinary. Turns out, Vice magazine was hosting a party there. On Friday night, Katrin and I saw a guy doing coke while waiting for the metro. Then when we got outside, we saw four young guys remove a manhole from the street and climb into the sewer.

Lately I feel very conscious of the shortness of my stay in Paris.

"Only police ever see night time for real." - Gary Numan

Monday night, I take line five to get to Gare du Nord to meet Katrin. A few seats away there is a man with many dreadlocks who seems to be looking at me. Céline says in Journey to the End of the Night that we should never trust strangers approaching us in the dark. I think the same goes for people with dreadlocks staring at you in the metro, especially if it looks like they would offer you a spliff in other circumstances.

Thoughts while running yesterday:

- Maybe after college I should disappear and move to a small town in the Midwest and become an amateur body builder. But I don’t have the right body type. And I probably wouldn’t be able to afford therapy.
- Next to the Seine, there’s a huge Cujo kind of dog being pet by a woman that doesn’t appear to be its owner. Why can’t people have huge cats for pets, like leopards or lions? Katherine Hepburn has a pet leopard in Bringing Up Baby, and it’s really damn cute. Besides, that dog could kill a motherfucker just as easily as a leopard could, if it wanted to.
- Are people that wear flannel more approachable than people who wear track jackets? What if it’s a pastel flannel? I was wearing a flannel the day before walking next to the Seine around the same spot and a man asks me: is my friend up there ugly? Is he ugly and black? I say I don’t have an opinion, and fortunately (I imagine) he doesn’t persist.
- Should I blog about defriending people on face book who have annoying status updates? Gary Numan was ahead of his time when he asked: are friends electric?

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“I must confess, I cried.” – Gary Numan

On Thursday night I had to go to a contemporary classical music concert at a venue near the Pompidou so we can theorize about it in one of my classes at the center. Like a lot of things that are considered experimental, contemporary classical music is good for theorizing, if nothing else. Before the concert started, a young French guy struck up a conversation with John and Jared, who were sitting next to me. After the concert we stuck around for a while to chat with him. Apparently, the girls in my program who were there felt left out. I don’t know how one is supposed to integrate six new people into a conversation.

When I was outside waiting for Jared, all of the girls gave John hugs to say goodbye. A few of them nodded in my direction. Apparently, I inadvertently offended them, and it wasn’t the first time. Or maybe they just don’t like me. Well, what are you going to do? Somehow, my reticent and reserved nature around them has gone from agreeable and inoffensive to judgmental and derisive, or something like that. I can’t win them all. Or perhaps what is more likely is that I’m simply overstating my significance in their lives (although I was implicitly mentioned in one of their blogs—that’s got to count for something).

this is my complex

"You're just a viewer, so cold and distant." - Gary Numan

I think I've lost the ability to pay attention in class. When I'm not struggling to stay awake, I'm wondering what the hell we're talking about, and pretty soon I'm back to struggling to stay awake. This makes me think I'm not cut out for academics.

On another note, I got some very interesting spam today:

Greetings,

to learn how those
Gervasio said.
hear if you would

Sincerely, Sebastian Hill

Greetings,

texts. If you've read a
as a requirement
grant us the sloe

Sincerely, Rod Bradford

me, i disconnect from you

"It's the only way to live, in cars." - Gary Numan

This past weekend I went to La Rochelle with the other students in the critical studies program. I started out with good intentions, I wanted to reconnect with people. I'm not sure if this happened.

I did, however, enjoy myself. I smoked a couple of times and I felt like I was vomiting poetry every time I opened my mouth. We had some great laughs. On Friday we all went out to dinner, then we separated and found different bars. I was with a large group of girls. Across the street from us was another small group sitting outside, and I joined them later on in the evening.

After joining Jared and Dan for a smoke, I went back to the table outside and asked myself if I should get another beer. James told me I should manifest my destiny, and I liked that, so I got myself a pint and then joined Jared and Dan again. Brittany was there, too, and they were giving her shit for one reason or another. I decided to go investigate the other group again. As I approached their table, I noticed a group of about four English-speaking tourists lined up, pretending they were sitting in a car. One of the said, ‘we need a driver.’ They look at me. ‘There’s our man!’ they said. I was feeling pretty fresh, I had my track coat on, so I figured I was up to the job.

I got in front of the line and told them that I was driving a six-speed, and that we would be doing some serious racing, and that they would have to give me good sound effects. I proceeded to narrate a drive, so to speak, which entailed me describing what gear I was in, how fast we were going, and any obstacles or sharp turns that came our way. They were really into it. After reaching about 150MPH and several hit and runs, I ended the joyride. We shook hands and said our goodbyes, and I spent the rest of the night recounting the tale. Finally, in the hotel room, I wrote poetry and Jared acted as my enthusiastic audience.

Other than that, we spent our times going to museums, touring the town, etc. I walked around a lot by myself and introspected. On Sunday we went to the aquarium. I wanted to see a giant squid kill a whale, or the piranhas rip up a motherfucker, but even without these things it was entertaining.

On the train ride back, I felt reflective and drowsy, and relieved that my paltry attempts to reconnect were finished.

every day i die

“You know I hate to ask, but are friends electric?”—Gary Numan

Last Wednesday, I decided to walk to the center because it was a pleasant spring day. I had my sunglasses on and my faux Adidas track jacket. I was listening to my ipod. A man approached me and asked if he could ask me a question. Initially, it was surprising that he would choose me, because after all I was listening to music and cutting a fast pace, too. I always cut a fast pace.

I don’t know how to reply to this kind of thing. Sometimes I ignore it, sometimes I’m indulgent. He didn’t look unsavory, so I told him sure. Do you have a soul? he said. Maybe, I said, but I’m in a rush. That was the end of it.

In retrospect, it makes perfect sense why this guy approached me: I was looking really fresh, my perception of the world was mediated by various technologies (ipod, sunglasses), and in general I probably appeared alienated, etc. How could someone like that have a soul? This seems like a safe assumption.

my love is a liquid

Today I was taking the 5 home, listening to Gary Numan’s Tubeway Army. In the song ‘My Love is a Liquid,’ I am always struck by the line, ‘I could talk to me for years, I can’t speak to you at all.’ I think I’m going to start every entry now with a quote from Gary Numan, until I run out.

I am well. Florence came back today; she had been gone for about ten days. In the kitchen, she explained to Sebastian and me that she’s been very sick, and where she was she couldn’t get in touch with us. She explained that her skin and eyes are reacting very strongly to the sunlight, and that in general she’s not doing very well. It was awkward. All I could really say was sorry. Maybe Florence and I are like the twins played by Jeremy Irons in Dead Ringers, where if one is doing well, the other is doing badly. But if I remember correctly, it gets pretty ugly for the both of them by the end.

Tonight I went to see Roman Holliday in the 5e. I really enjoyed it, and I was reminded how much I like Audrey Hepburn. I think I like her the best in Sabrina, before she goes to Paris, but she was looking pretty good in this one, too, especially after she gets her hair cut.

when's the cut off?

Yesterday I saw Watchmen with Jared and Sebastion. The theme of the movie seems to be: you have to break some eggs to make an omelet. I wasn't thrilled by it. The movie finished at around midnight, and when I got out I saw that I had a text from a friend from an hour or two earlier while I was still in the theater. I called her back, and the call woke her up. I felt very bad.

When's the cut off time for college students? I always thought there wasn't one, because I just turn off my cell phone or put it on silent when I go to bed; the alarm will still sound in the morning. Jared informed me that not all phones do this, and that you have to leave them on (this would explain why I've woke Jared up several times in the morning--I always thought he left his phone on because he was neurotic about missing calls, but actually he has no choice if he wants to have an alarm).

;lskdjfsd

Today I met Katrin at St. Michel and we walked next to the Seine and around the Jardin des Plantes. I was reminded of the scene from La Jetée, but I didn’t say anything.

Later, I went to see The International at the MK2 Biblioteque. I really enjoy seeing international motherfuckers fight against the evils of globalization.

After dinner I met Jared for a drink at the Motel. We talked to the bartender for a while. He’s a good guy. He gave us each a shot for free before we left. On the way home, I debated over how I should spend the rest of my evening. I have not been productive as far as school work goes, so I said to myself, I should just stay up later than usual and watch Sans Soleil—I have to do a sequence analysis for it that is due Tuesday. Finally, though, I decided that I would just work on it tomorrow instead and get to bed earlier.

When I got back home I felt hungry and decided to make myself a sandwich. At first, actually, I was just going to eat a piece of toast with cheese, but I decided to go all out. Something about making this sandwich inspired me anew to just stay up and work more.

However, as I ate the sandwich, which was good, something about it made me decide that it’d be better to put off the work. Now I’m writing in my blog and talking with people on facebook instead.

safe

Lately I’ve been noticing how often my nose runs and I have to use a tissue. I’ve always had to use a lot of tissues, that’s no surprise, but I’ve never paid much attention to what seems to trigger it. It seems like anything can trigger it. I eat an orange, and I need to use one. I cook dinner, and I need to use one. I go to the bathroom, and I need to use one. I eat a sandwich, go outside, brush my teeth, wash my face, watch a movie, smoke a cigarette, etc, and I need to use one. Maybe I’m just allergic to the modern world, like Julianne Moore in Safe.

Last Wednesday I went out to dinner with the bros for my birthday. We sat next to three friendly Italians. They bought us drinks at the end and the whole table sang happy birthday. I felt appreciated. It was a damn good night, in fact the whole day was pretty solid.

On Friday I went to another party with Swedes, although this one was smaller than the first one. The Swedes are probably our only real European friends. I really talked up my blog, and I said that Ingmar Bergman was too metaphysical and that I never liked him very much. They didn’t take that too well, but I stood my ground. Azeaza (forgive me if the spelling is incorrect) said that some of them thought I was a little obnoxious. I think they took me too seriously, especially when I was talking about my blog. I thought it was amusing, though, that they did think of me that way.

Last night, Jackie, Amanda, Nicola, and Maddie treated me for Thai food in the 13e. I really appreciated it. I also appreciated the card they gave me, which they wrote together when they were drunk, by each writing a line and then passing it to the next person. I feel oddly compelled to read it very closely, to see if I can glean some insight.

shit happens

On Thursday, I attempted to get up early enough to take a run before class, but I was still about 15 minutes late, though part of this was due to the metro running slow. As I was waiting for the 8 at Bastille, an attractive woman approached me as if she knew me, and I thought, what attractive French women do I know? I quickly realized that it was actually Nicola, and I had a pleasant conversation with her the rest of the way to Bonne Nouvelle. I asked her if she was ambitious, and she said she was, but quietly.

Saturday was good, with some qualifications. I saw Manhattan at the Action Ecoles with Jared and then afterwards we got sandwiches nearby. We were talking about our difficulties with women, and I made analogies about dealing with lower back pain. One of my favorite Japanese movies, Cure, was showing in Montparnasse so we walked over there and had a drink and then saw that. Jared got really into it, and that pleased me. It was bromantic.

Jackie and Maddie convinced me to go to this club near Belleville, so after the movie I met them there. In line, I ran into John and his Polish friend Anaya. They’re good people. When I saw Anaya, I said to myself, this is Maddie’s kind of girl. Unfortunately, while we were in line, a lot of money was stolen from my wallet. I don’t want to say how much, because I feel stupid about carrying that much with me.

After this, still waiting to get in, I saw Amanda and Nicola. I waited in a lot of lines Saturday night. It seems like that is a big part of what clubbing entails: waiting to get in, waiting for bartenders, waiting for the bathroom. Anyway, these two helped cheer me up. I said to them, shit happens. They agreed. We talked about whether it was acceptable for us to hang out independent of Jackie, for instance if Jackie weren’t around. It was something that was on all of our minds. I think we agreed that we could, but I’m still not really sure. Nicola mentioned that she had been thinking about my question that I asked her on Thursday, about being ambitious. It was nice to see that what I say is reflected on after the moment has passed. She said that she realized that she wanted to somehow give birth to the next Christ, or have a virgin birth, something along those lines, my memory is a little cloudy. The gist seemed to be that she wanted to have a kid. I said I did too, and that her kid will be the next Christ, and mine will have mental health problems. They decided to peace, which was a shame.

Inside, I introduced Maddie to Anaya, and I think my intuition was right. I felt good about that. It was a gay theme that night, and I could feel all those mens’ eyes on me. I’m half serious when I say that. I spent most of the night talking to Maddie’s friend Molly, who was visiting Paris for spring break. I can’t think of a good adjective to use, but I liked her.

Steve Fertal V

The other day I went to see Max Ophüls’ Madame De…. I understood the basic plot, but without subtitles, I couldn’t pick up the subtleties of the film’s comedic moments. Afterwards I met Jared for a drink. He told me things about Nietzsche. When we went outside to smoke a cigarette, I looked down at the curb and noticed all of the butts.

I was reminded of my old friend Steve Fertal V from middle school. (Of course we didn’t actually refer to him as ‘Steve Fertal the fifth,’ but in the year book his name was written this way, and when I asked him about it, he informed me that in fact he was the fifth Steven Fertal). When Steve and I and the rest of his unsavory crew used to walk home from school, we would stop by at this office building and look for smokable cigarette butts in the ash tray outside. We didn’t know anyone over eighteen, and asking people outside of gas stations always felt uncomfortable, so it was the best we could do. Unless of course Steve’s little brother Jared, who probably warrants his own entry, stole us cartons from Sim’s (where I worked all throughout high school). He would go in there, quickly get behind the ice cream freezers where the cartons where, and grab one or two and hide them in his big coat. Then we were set for a while. I remember many nights sleeping over at Steve’s house, which was only a block away, staying up smoking these cigarettes and drinking cans of A-Treat cream soda.

Steve was the local badass, at least among kids his age. I think maybe Ricky Murphy was the senior bad ass because he was older. He was 4 years older than us, my sister’s age. When I was just a toddler and my sister was five or six, she and Ricky Murphy used to collect cigarette butts at Fairview Park across the street from our house. Cigarette butts seem to be a theme of this entry. I also remember Ronnie Gaffney and Josh Weaver, and Johnny. I don’t remember Johnny’s last name.

Frequently, the police where at Steve’s house, either because of something Steve did, or because of something his brother Jared did. On the surface perhaps, Steve was just a typical neighborhood menace of sorts, getting into fights, smoking cigarettes, and in general sticking it to the man. When I first got to middle school, I was vaguely aware of him, and probably vaguely frightened of him, too. As it turns out, he was in my homeroom, because although he was a year older than me (exactly a year older, in fact), he had to repeat the sixth grade due to failing grades. So we made friends, and I was quasi-integrated into his crew, although mostly I just hung out with him.

Steve had a dynamic and precocious personality. Although he was small kid, relatively diminutive in stature, he was nonetheless incredibly cocky about his fighting prowess and his general street cred. He was also somewhat of a ladies’ man, at least among 12 to 14 year olds. He was not a stupid kid, either, and I really believe that he had a more sensitive and articulate side that in different circumstances might’ve flourished. In fact, I remember times when he got really frustrated with the idiocy of his other street friends. He probably was drawn to me because I was more cerebral, or at any rate less likely to want to do things that would get us in trouble with the police. In addition to the kinds of things he did with his unsavory crew, Steve also did things like read books, play computer games obsessively, play Magic the Gathering and D&D, and watch Charlie Chaplin movies (when I think about it now, it seems kind of odd for anyone that age to watch Chaplin).

In other words, he was an interesting mixture of qualities. He had a distinct, confident way of speaking, and he often introduced phrases with ‘in all honesty,’ which meant, my friend Jeff and I noted, that whatever he was going to say would be total bull shit. Two proclamations he made that I remember were, ‘Ninety percent of all Afghans are terrorists,’ and ‘calculators are smarter than people.’ Steve’s dad also made proclamations like these, such as ‘nine out of ten people abused animals when they were young.’ That one really stuck with me.

Well, I suppose I drifted apart with Steve after his parents separated and he moved to Allentown. After that, I only heard stories of him getting into trouble and being kicked out of different relatives’ houses who agreed to let him stay with them. That last time I saw him was my freshman year at high school, after that I think he dropped out. I heard rumors of him from my old friend Jeff, who allowed him to stay at his place briefly, although I think that ended badly. Just yesterday I searched fbook to see if Steve was on it, but to no avail. Now I’m trying to get in touch with Jeff, who also could be anywhere, to see if there is any news of Steve Fertal V.

Steve is somewhat emblematic of the fate of many of my old friends from middle school, although he is probably the most interesting, with the exception of my friend Nick Rohoman, who much more than Steve actually meant something to me. I could probably write entries about several of these people, but the truth is I don’t even know why I’m writing this one.

I’ve been recovering from my recent slump into malaise and listlessness. Alternately, Florence is deteriorating. She told me the other day that she has a serious health problem, I didn’t dare to ask what. The heat hasn’t been working for the past week (this was probably my fault, but that’s another story), although today it was fixed. Two outlets in my room still don’t work, but in addition to that Florence found out that there’s no electricity in her office. Almost every day I hear her moaning and groaning, either to herself or to someone on the phone.

electricity

Ever since I got back from the UK I've felt vaguely out of sorts, and this feeling is slowly turning into a keen sense of malaise. Today after my film class we got coffee with the professor. As he was talking to us, my mind drifted and I thought, someone ought to walk up to me and punch me in the face.

A moment ago, I tried to plug in an American power strip. It made a loud noise and now the outlet by my desk doesn’t work. Florence isn’t here right now because ‘je ne peux plus le supporter. Je vais devenir folle.’ I think she’s slowly, or not so slowly, going crazy. Somehow, the idea of telling her about the outlet when she comes back seems like a big mistake.

athletics

My last evening in Edinburgh I went out with Dave and Christoph to a pub that had some live music. That area of the bar was too crowded, though, so I didn’t hear much of it. Instead, we sat in the back. When I came back with my second beer, there was a group of people standing around this trivia game. The three of us watched attentively. The guy who was playing was doing pretty well. At one point, the question was something like, “Norway is known for what sport: A) Cricket B) Football C) Athletics.”

When Dave and I saw the option, ‘Athletics,’ we lost it. The guy took our laughing as a sign that we knew ‘Athletics’ was the answer, so he selected that one, but it was wrong. To us, it made perfect sense that ‘athletics’ was wrong.

Of course, now I know that ‘athletics’ refers to track & field. But at the time, I think I laughed the hardest I’d laughed all week.

easy acess

In the hostel in Newcastle, Dave and I met a group of guys drinking beers and eating in the kitchen. One or two of them were from Australia, one was from Ireland, and one was from Britain. They were really pleasant and welcoming. They had all just met each other a few days before.

I talked to all of them, but I ended up talking with the man from Britain the most. I think his name was Robin, and he works in a gym in Bristol. Somehow, we got on the subject of Stella Artois, and how in the US it is marked as a classy beer, whereas in Europe it is nothing special. Robin told us that in the ‘80s, it was called ‘the wife beater’ beer because it had some ingredient in it that made guys go a little crazy. Robin himself stays away from Stella, because it makes him feel a bit funny.

We got on to the subject of movies, specifically ‘80s science fiction movies and Bill Paxton. Robin was very enthusiastic about this subject. He quoted several Paxton lines, including, ‘game over man, game over,’ and ‘well why don’t you put her in charge then?’ (both from Aliens). I told him he should watch A Simple Plan. We both agreed, Bill Paxton is good at being pathetic.

Later in the night, this attractive German girl that Robin obviously wanted remarked that the top button on his pants was undone. I keep them that way for easy access, he said. Paramedics are underpaid and I want to save them time should something happen. It could mean that they could move on faster to save another life, he explained. I added: it’s like how I have down on my driver’s license that I’m an organ donor, so I can save lives.

A while later, Dave and I challenged another guy and a girl to a game of pool, but I went upstairs for a while and lost track of time. When I got down, Dave was in bad shape, but I was able to clean things up a little bit. One of the Australians was talking to these two scantily-clad women about a club called ‘club sin.’ I said to the two women, you two look like you must be familiar with club sin. Surprisingly, I got away with it, and they just laughed. When I went upstairs, I told Robin about what’d I said. Oh, those girls? They’re from Essex. Jack the Ripper always went for girls from Essex, and that bastard had good taste, Robin informed me.

When we went out, it was noted by several people that I looked like Napoleon Dynamite. Much later in the night, when we were back at the hostel, I put my head out the window to call to Dave who was outside in the smoking are, and some bro again remarked that I look like NP. Well, I gave him some attitude, and for the rest of the night he was nice to me. I guess my glasses just don’t always translate well. You can’t win them all. That’s what my friend Amanda often says, or some variation thereof.

'the sports'

Very often I’ll ask my flatmate Sebastion what he did with himself over the weekend, and he’ll respond by saying he did ‘the sports.’ Likewise, when I return from a run, he’ll ask if I just got back from doing ‘the sports.’ Apparently, as far as althetic activities go, Germans do not make any distinctions—anything from jogging to swimming to soccer or even going to a sauna falls under ‘the sports.’ We asked Dave’s German friend Christoph about this (who, I should add, refers to his math homework as ‘the maths’) and he confirmed that in German, there is only one word that refers to althetic activity. I did try to explain the difference between playing a sport and exercising to Sebastion, but he continues to use his catch all phrase ‘the sports.’

Scottish bros

Last night we went to a flat party in the apartment above Dave’s. The building has mostly students in their first year—except for the exchange students like Dave—so it was very reminiscent of my early days at Hampshire. In fact, some of them are even younger than the average first year at Hampshire. The party was very loud and rowdy, I was reminded of a party with the Frisbee team, except there was a lot more hair gel. In think they were basically English bros. I don’t understand how English girls put up with all that hair gel.

One the guys with an especially excessive amount of hair gel was talking about his 18th birthday that had just passed. Apparently, his friends took him out to a strip club and he got so drunk he climbed up on the stage. The stripper poured hot wax down his pants and, so these group of guys said, every time his friends yelled out she lit his ass on fire with sambuca. These Scotsman, they rage hard.

Well, not long into the evening, I realized that I was really in no shape to be going out. At the time, I tried to ignore it, but now it is obvious to me that I was terribly feverish, as I was having hot and cold spells, and feeling generally lethargic. Luckily, I didn’t drink too hard.

When we got back, I went straight to bed. I woke up countless times during the night soaked in sweat, but I soon as I got out of my sleeping bag to use the bathroom, I got the shivers. At one point, I awoke from a dream about being alienated in the United Kingdom, and when I got to the bathroom, there was a huge truck tire in the shower. That was really disconcerting.

Today I had a fried mars bar.

golfing

I went to a club again yesterday in Edinburgh. I don’t know why. I was, and still am, suffering from a fairly severe cold. When I wanted to talk to people, I had to yell very loud, and nearly every time my voice broke. That was awkward. Several times, this girl complimented me on my glasses and asked to try them on. At one point, I ran into her later in the night and she took them to show to her friend. This was all very flattering, but I would’ve appreciated being engaged in a conversation. Again, the problem seems to be that I just don’t understand clubbing. I don’t understand clubbing the way I don’t understand golfing. Going clubbing for me is kind of like if I were to enter a golf tournament, except probably worse. Maybe I need to start using drugs. That’s the ticket.

Before we went to the club, however, I had a very nice time meeting Dave’s friends. We talked about v-necks, because I thought Dave’s German friend Christoph was wearing a uni qlo v, but it turns out it was another brand. Also, Dave’s friend Helen has the same v-neck that both Dave and I have, and she wore it out.

Sometimes I wonder if I write about the right kinds of things in here. I wonder if, in five or ten years, I’ll look back at this blog and think, ‘Damn, why couldn’t I have done a travel blog?’

Today Dave and I were walking home and I saw a construction worker using some sort of of vehicle with a jackhammer attached to it. He was using it to break up some stone on the street and for some reason that image was satisfying. I said, "I could have fun doing that for a few hours." I lack ambition.

Florence

When I got home tonight, I noticed that there was still a pot of soup from a few days ago left on the stove—it’s my host mother Florence’s soup, she seems to live off of vegetable soup. My host mother hates living with me and my other flat mate Sebastian. She has told us both on several occasions that she will never again host people. She often says, “It’s impossible (c’est impossible)” or “I don’t understand anything anymore (je ne comprends plus rien)” or “I can’t take it anymore (je ne peux plus le supporter).” Very often I will be alone in the apartment, and then she comes back and I hear her cursing or talking to herself. “Shit” or “fuck,” (in French though) she’ll say to herself. This worries me very much, because I think I’m somehow responsible for whatever she is angry about. One morning this happened, and since I was groggy and hungover, I decided to approach her and find out what was the matter. I found her in the kitchen. Immediately, to try and make myself look good, I started cleaning. Well, she complained about us not keeping the kitchen clean enough and not taking out the garbage, etc. However, she said that in fact I am rather discreet and clean, and she put most of the blame on my flat mate Sebastian. She said that he is “lourde” (which literally means heavy, although I think she meant to say that he is dense) and German. I also mentioned to her that I think the three of us should eat together one night, so that we can perhaps discuss the living arrangements so living together can be more agreeable. She said she does not want to eat with the German. Well, I think I am right in suspecting a little bit of prejudice here on Florence’s part.
Well, what I’m getting at is that, in terms of my own cleanliness, well, I base it on her cleanliness. Today, when I opened up the lid to the soup pot left by her, all I saw was a congealed, moldy substance. What is this supposed to mean? If she can get away with that, I ought to be able to be a little lazy about recycling my beer bottles. Or am I supposed to clean out the moldy pot? I don’t want to deal with that shit.