I've kept this blogscursion free from personal sentiment, but in keeping with the New Year's round up theme, please allow me a sort of thanksgiving.
La vie est belle.
I've just come back from Copenhagen, re-connecting with the Danes I love so dearly..I don't think I ever didn't a glass of champagne in my hand for 4 days. And my boys have turned out (well, they're not done growing yet) so so well, and their english is better than most of the French students at Sciences Po. They're 9 and 11, respectively.
London is wicked, and it takes a lot for me to be not depressed to leave Copenhagen. I was, however, not looking forward to going back to my very sad flatmate. Who, to give a sort of cursory update, is just too much of an alcoholic to continue living with. That, and, I have reason to believe he's still working as a male prostitute.
Minor detail.
So, I'm movin' on up to BRICK LANE on January 14- a move which brings with it awesomeness excessive hipsterness, as well as a higher rent. Brick Lane is also home to the only two original bagel shops in London. Spelled "beigel" for authenticity's sake. To best help you understand the glory of the Brick Lane Bagel Bakery, I give you this dude's take on the BLBB.
So, all is well. Je vous souhaite, tout le monde, un joyeux nouvel an.
Jeg oensker jer, alle sammen, et dejligt nytaar.
xoxo
Friday, December 29, 2006
Sunday, December 10, 2006
"Piss Off, Crackheads!"
The following conversation took place this Sunday:
(Young british man and American girl walk down the stairs of an apartment building)
American Girl: "Oh look! Is that a black lightbulb?"
(picks up said object)
British Guy: "Ummmm..."
AG: "Ooh, or is it a small doorknob?"
BG: "Um, sweetie, that's a crackpipe."
AG: (freezing) "I'm...going...to go upstairs and wash my hands."
Ah yes, the apartment building I know and love has a resident crackhead. (The title of this post is literally a sign posted in the common area of the building). There are literally too many ways that I find this humorous...I'll leave the comments to you.
On a completely unrelated note,
Desperate Housewives is a really crappy show. I would use the word "horrible," but that might suggest it might be corrupt or immoral, which would then make it interesting. It involves a few themes which are annoying at best, obnoxious at most:
1. The 4 stereotypes of women:
Slutty, OCD, Goofy, Mothery
These are the EXACT archetypes used in Sex and the City (Samantha, Miranda, Carrie, Charlotte..obvi) and, frankly, I'm sick of them. Not to mention that both Sex and the City and DH are written by MEN. Unsurprisingly, the characters are rigid puppets rather than actual characters.
2. Suburbia
It creeps me out.
3. The "It's not really funny but we call it a comedy anyways" ddea
Yeah, much like Sex and the City, one rarely laughs watching Desperate Housewives. Why are they called comedies? Do the expect a reaction like:
"Oh haha, that Eva Longoria, she certainly likes money! and sleeping with men!" "Oh haha, look at Teri Hatcher do something silly like fall into a bush naked! Wow, we've never seen THAT before!"
Not a theme, but it gets a number anyways:
4. Hypocrisy:
I have watched hours upon hours of this show on www.tv-links.co.uk. And it makes me angry. And yet, I still watch. We always still watch.
(Young british man and American girl walk down the stairs of an apartment building)
American Girl: "Oh look! Is that a black lightbulb?"
(picks up said object)
British Guy: "Ummmm..."
AG: "Ooh, or is it a small doorknob?"
BG: "Um, sweetie, that's a crackpipe."
AG: (freezing) "I'm...going...to go upstairs and wash my hands."
Ah yes, the apartment building I know and love has a resident crackhead. (The title of this post is literally a sign posted in the common area of the building). There are literally too many ways that I find this humorous...I'll leave the comments to you.
On a completely unrelated note,
Desperate Housewives is a really crappy show. I would use the word "horrible," but that might suggest it might be corrupt or immoral, which would then make it interesting. It involves a few themes which are annoying at best, obnoxious at most:
1. The 4 stereotypes of women:
Slutty, OCD, Goofy, Mothery
These are the EXACT archetypes used in Sex and the City (Samantha, Miranda, Carrie, Charlotte..obvi) and, frankly, I'm sick of them. Not to mention that both Sex and the City and DH are written by MEN. Unsurprisingly, the characters are rigid puppets rather than actual characters.
2. Suburbia
It creeps me out.
3. The "It's not really funny but we call it a comedy anyways" ddea
Yeah, much like Sex and the City, one rarely laughs watching Desperate Housewives. Why are they called comedies? Do the expect a reaction like:
"Oh haha, that Eva Longoria, she certainly likes money! and sleeping with men!" "Oh haha, look at Teri Hatcher do something silly like fall into a bush naked! Wow, we've never seen THAT before!"
Not a theme, but it gets a number anyways:
4. Hypocrisy:
I have watched hours upon hours of this show on www.tv-links.co.uk. And it makes me angry. And yet, I still watch. We always still watch.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Travel Snobbishly Awesome
create your own visited countries map
Damn you, grey areas! Still, these are the countries I've visited. BAM!
Friday, November 17, 2006
The legacy of Aqua?
I think the New York Times' new blog, The Lede, is pretty nifty. Although the compiler does a pretty half-assed job, it's essentially meant to give you an interesting, concise round up of the news. On a news website. Okay, so maybe it's sort of lame. Or maybe I am.
In honor of the Lede, I'll introduce...A Danish News Round-Up!
For those doubting the influence of Danish newspapers, talk to Danish embassy employees in the Middle East and see what they have to say. (Who said noone ever read the cartoon section?)
This week:
"Danes' sex lives are full of taboos" from Politiken, Denmark's largest newspaper.
A link to the original article here, so you can confirm that THIS IS THE PICTURE THEY USED.
This is why I love Denmark. Although they may be a northern European country, they have none of that British reservedness when it comes to sex. Or showing dolls doing it. This said, it's sort of unsettling--this was the head article on Politiken's website today. I *swear* something else more important happened today. Something that didn't need to show to DOLLS BONKING AND HIGH FIVING?
Unless you had like, a naked Nancy Pelosi doll getting it on with...oh, actually, no. We don't want that visual image, so I'll stop.
GOODNIGHT!
In honor of the Lede, I'll introduce...A Danish News Round-Up!
For those doubting the influence of Danish newspapers, talk to Danish embassy employees in the Middle East and see what they have to say. (Who said noone ever read the cartoon section?)
This week:
"Danes' sex lives are full of taboos" from Politiken, Denmark's largest newspaper.
A link to the original article here, so you can confirm that THIS IS THE PICTURE THEY USED.
This is why I love Denmark. Although they may be a northern European country, they have none of that British reservedness when it comes to sex. Or showing dolls doing it. This said, it's sort of unsettling--this was the head article on Politiken's website today. I *swear* something else more important happened today. Something that didn't need to show to DOLLS BONKING AND HIGH FIVING?
Unless you had like, a naked Nancy Pelosi doll getting it on with...oh, actually, no. We don't want that visual image, so I'll stop.
GOODNIGHT!
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Santorum Nomore-um
Dear Rick Santorum's daughter,
Why do you cry?
Is it because your dad got pummelled in his senatorial race? Or you just realized what a hypocritical far-right fascist schmuck your father really is? Who suggested Hurricane Katrina victims should be punished for having stayed? And that homosexuality was 'deviant sexual behavior' and likened it to bestiality, polygamy, and pedophilia? Oh, and furthermore, blamed the behavior of pedophilic priests on Boston's 'liberal culture'?
No, my guess is that because you seem to be above the age of 4, you could probably guess your father is a horrible person. You must be crying because you see the death of your cushy interning job, thus ruining your chances, in a few years, of being one of the few women who can wear pink heels in the capitol without being escorted out of the building. (Or escorting senators out of the building...)
Well, turn that frown upside down, darling. Daddy's out, and you're free. Free to go Democrat. Where the interns are a little more frumpy and just a little better educated.
..But I should stop. THIS IS A DAY FOR CELEBRATION! Not for meannness.
Not only is Rick Santorum gone, America's looking blue. And I just had to post for joy.
hooray!
Why do you cry?
Is it because your dad got pummelled in his senatorial race? Or you just realized what a hypocritical far-right fascist schmuck your father really is? Who suggested Hurricane Katrina victims should be punished for having stayed? And that homosexuality was 'deviant sexual behavior' and likened it to bestiality, polygamy, and pedophilia? Oh, and furthermore, blamed the behavior of pedophilic priests on Boston's 'liberal culture'?
No, my guess is that because you seem to be above the age of 4, you could probably guess your father is a horrible person. You must be crying because you see the death of your cushy interning job, thus ruining your chances, in a few years, of being one of the few women who can wear pink heels in the capitol without being escorted out of the building. (Or escorting senators out of the building...)
Well, turn that frown upside down, darling. Daddy's out, and you're free. Free to go Democrat. Where the interns are a little more frumpy and just a little better educated.
..But I should stop. THIS IS A DAY FOR CELEBRATION! Not for meannness.
Not only is Rick Santorum gone, America's looking blue. And I just had to post for joy.
hooray!
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Smack, Chirac!
I got bored. The blog changed. Thoughts?
In any case, let's get to it:
1. Go see Borat:Cultural Learnings of America Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazhakstan. If you don't find it funny, there is probably something wrong with you and we can't be friends.
2. And because I don't think I could go a few weeks without making fun of France...
I posted last spring about France's anti-CPE riots, when the frogs rose up en masse to stop a law to essentially make the job market more flexible. I made fun of them then, and I stand by it now. HOWEVER, I will give them a bit of credit in that the way the CPE measure went through was well messed up. Dominique de Villepin (Prime Minister) sort of just made it law. It didn't go through any legislative bodies. Checks and balances? What? De Villepin used an article of the French constitution (an emergency clause, if you will) to essentially force his measure through.
And, lo and behold, in my Comparative Constitutional law readings, I found even more ammo as to why France's constitution (the 5th one they've made, might I add) is completely bent-Something, I have to add, that a lot of French people agree with. And so I give to you, France-The Arab Gulf State:
"France and Kuwait differ from the US in a few aspects, such as allowing the President/Amir a part in the amendment of the Constitution, and allowing him much wider powers to dissolve the elected body for limited periods. It is also notable that both France and Kuwait, in granting freedoms, are careful to insert such phrases as, "in accordance with the law and/or public policy and/or morals," "answering for any abuse of such freedom"--thus preserving to the Government from time to time discretion to legislate on acceptable levels of freedom." -Commercial Law in the Arab Middle East.
Smack! No more moral high horse, my gaullois friends.
All for now,
F
In any case, let's get to it:
1. Go see Borat:Cultural Learnings of America Make Benefit Glorious Nation of Kazhakstan. If you don't find it funny, there is probably something wrong with you and we can't be friends.
2. And because I don't think I could go a few weeks without making fun of France...
I posted last spring about France's anti-CPE riots, when the frogs rose up en masse to stop a law to essentially make the job market more flexible. I made fun of them then, and I stand by it now. HOWEVER, I will give them a bit of credit in that the way the CPE measure went through was well messed up. Dominique de Villepin (Prime Minister) sort of just made it law. It didn't go through any legislative bodies. Checks and balances? What? De Villepin used an article of the French constitution (an emergency clause, if you will) to essentially force his measure through.
And, lo and behold, in my Comparative Constitutional law readings, I found even more ammo as to why France's constitution (the 5th one they've made, might I add) is completely bent-Something, I have to add, that a lot of French people agree with. And so I give to you, France-The Arab Gulf State:
"France and Kuwait differ from the US in a few aspects, such as allowing the President/Amir a part in the amendment of the Constitution, and allowing him much wider powers to dissolve the elected body for limited periods. It is also notable that both France and Kuwait, in granting freedoms, are careful to insert such phrases as, "in accordance with the law and/or public policy and/or morals," "answering for any abuse of such freedom"--thus preserving to the Government from time to time discretion to legislate on acceptable levels of freedom." -Commercial Law in the Arab Middle East.
Smack! No more moral high horse, my gaullois friends.
All for now,
F
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Flatmate Profile: John
I've been lucky in terms of the people I've shared living space with. Everything except The Unfortunate Post-It Incident my freshman year has been fairly normal.
Then I moved to London. Enter John, my current flatmate.
A Glaswegian born and breed, he's lost every trace of his Scottish accent, except when drunk, when it turns into a lispy, slurry, incomprehensible ramble. This is most of the time.
Unemployed since I've moved here, he receives free housing thanks to the British government. This makes my rent lovely and cheap, and British Projects are nice enough, really.
The flat is an exercise in What is camp? : A full length poster of Marilyn Monroe decorates the closet door and Marilyn Monroe collages line the walls of the toilet. Elsewhere, large, fake gold statues of grecian women clutter every table in the house. Other finishing touches include an enormous collection of model cars and multiple pictures of every (female) monarch the UK has ever had.
The color scheme is "muppet." Purple is not only the accessory color of the season for fashion, but for our living room. (Who knew?) A big sparkly purple festoon covers a mirror, and a large purple plastic DOME sort of sits on a table by the TV.
The color of my room is somewhere between mint green and vomit, and John's room is brick red. There's a bit too much red paint and he's threatening to paint the toilet room and the foyer walls with the excess.
John's activities including watching "Good Morning Britain" show in its entirety, ( 7-12 am, i believe...), smoking a lot of hand-rolled cigarettes, blasting Tina Turner, Cher, or The Ronettes at full volume, and staring out the kitchen window while drinking Sanka.
Likes include "girlie mags" ("Chat" and "Love it!"), musicals, and penises. No, I should be more clear. And I quote, "The thing about penises is, I like big ones." Thus, his main activity is bringing home random men about every night, or every other night. There must be no more new gay men left in North London. Seriously. I've done the math.
Never a dull moment here in N1, and despite all the ways we differ, we get on quite well, and he really is a lovely man. This blog can only begin to capture his eccentricities, and one day when I sell my screenplay to Wes Anderson, John will surely make an appearance.
Goodnight from London.
Then I moved to London. Enter John, my current flatmate.
A Glaswegian born and breed, he's lost every trace of his Scottish accent, except when drunk, when it turns into a lispy, slurry, incomprehensible ramble. This is most of the time.
Unemployed since I've moved here, he receives free housing thanks to the British government. This makes my rent lovely and cheap, and British Projects are nice enough, really.
The flat is an exercise in What is camp? : A full length poster of Marilyn Monroe decorates the closet door and Marilyn Monroe collages line the walls of the toilet. Elsewhere, large, fake gold statues of grecian women clutter every table in the house. Other finishing touches include an enormous collection of model cars and multiple pictures of every (female) monarch the UK has ever had.
The color scheme is "muppet." Purple is not only the accessory color of the season for fashion, but for our living room. (Who knew?) A big sparkly purple festoon covers a mirror, and a large purple plastic DOME sort of sits on a table by the TV.
The color of my room is somewhere between mint green and vomit, and John's room is brick red. There's a bit too much red paint and he's threatening to paint the toilet room and the foyer walls with the excess.
John's activities including watching "Good Morning Britain" show in its entirety, ( 7-12 am, i believe...), smoking a lot of hand-rolled cigarettes, blasting Tina Turner, Cher, or The Ronettes at full volume, and staring out the kitchen window while drinking Sanka.
Likes include "girlie mags" ("Chat" and "Love it!"), musicals, and penises. No, I should be more clear. And I quote, "The thing about penises is, I like big ones." Thus, his main activity is bringing home random men about every night, or every other night. There must be no more new gay men left in North London. Seriously. I've done the math.
Never a dull moment here in N1, and despite all the ways we differ, we get on quite well, and he really is a lovely man. This blog can only begin to capture his eccentricities, and one day when I sell my screenplay to Wes Anderson, John will surely make an appearance.
Goodnight from London.
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
London's other white meat.
Something this wrong can't be anything but hilarious.
from BBC News:
"Pelican swallows pigeon in park"
Sunday, October 22, 2006
Here's to you, wallet
I've tried to adapt since I've come to England.
I can dance with one hand raised, punching the air, to just about any song. Similarly, my butt and hips have become redundant while dancing.
Furthermore, I enjoy celebrating the various holidays and celebrations of the UK. Here in London, The Brick Lane Festival was pretty sweet, and I'm looking forward to a cozy British Christmas season.
Unfortunately, my wallet decided to celebrate a holiday of it's own--
The (british) National ID Fraud Prevention Week. By getting itself stolen. I kid you not: http://www.moneyextra.com/features/feature-national-identity-024347.html
There is a British National ID Fraud Prevention week, FAR different from the American National ID Fraud protection week, which is in February. Why we need two different weeks for prevention and protection, I don't know. Why even we need these weeks AT ALL is a greater mystery. AND perhaps the greatest mystery of all is why my wallet wanted to martyr itself in the hands of some Pikey.
At least I am, entirely-accessories included-getting into the spirit of things. And so, I raise my glass to you, wallet, as you suffer a painful death in the hands of some icky vagrant. At least you know how to celebrate.
Wallet, far right, treating itself to some beers, circa February 2006
I can dance with one hand raised, punching the air, to just about any song. Similarly, my butt and hips have become redundant while dancing.
Furthermore, I enjoy celebrating the various holidays and celebrations of the UK. Here in London, The Brick Lane Festival was pretty sweet, and I'm looking forward to a cozy British Christmas season.
Unfortunately, my wallet decided to celebrate a holiday of it's own--
The (british) National ID Fraud Prevention Week. By getting itself stolen. I kid you not: http://www.moneyextra.com/features/feature-national-identity-024347.html
There is a British National ID Fraud Prevention week, FAR different from the American National ID Fraud protection week, which is in February. Why we need two different weeks for prevention and protection, I don't know. Why even we need these weeks AT ALL is a greater mystery. AND perhaps the greatest mystery of all is why my wallet wanted to martyr itself in the hands of some Pikey.
At least I am, entirely-accessories included-getting into the spirit of things. And so, I raise my glass to you, wallet, as you suffer a painful death in the hands of some icky vagrant. At least you know how to celebrate.
Wallet, far right, treating itself to some beers, circa February 2006
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Like sex on two wheels.
'Post more regularly,' they say. When the fans speak, I've got to listen.
There haven't been any large, embarassing or super-interesting moments recently, and thus, I've been hesitant to write. But, I'm in London- nothing's really ever that boring.
And so, with a slight nod to Alice Carney, I present to you, what's hot/not, L-Town version.
What's Hot:
Having classmates wear burqas. It definitely shakes up any image you might have of them being oppressed shrinking violets. On the contrary, I'm intimidated. The class we have together is Islamic Law- In an academic debate, one of us follows an interpretation of it, and one doesn't...!(not to mention all the various sunna that I'm learning I would be breaking...)
What's Not:
The awkwardness that came when I realized I had NO way of recognizing them outside of the classroom. I mean, we're not talking minimalist, sparkly, multi-colored veils here. I mean, up-to-the-eyelids black gowns, transforming them into black flying squirrels. And so I end up awkwardly waving at both of the girls at SOAS that wear them, not knowing which one I sat next to in class...
Especially Not Hot:
British Home Secretary Jack Straw expressing his desire that women not wear them (at least when they're talking to him..) articleness: --although it must be said it's been blown up more in the press than what he actually said...why is he spoiling for this fight?!
Hot:
The Healthy Urban Lifestyle. A phrase first coined by Joseph, it refers to walking everywhere (and maintaining that Swan-like thinness) and running on crowded Urban streets. Car exhaust? Bah! Nothing!
Not:
Running on the beach. Who needs the ocean when you can have asphalt?
Hot:
Angel. The tube station and it's environs, where I live.
Not:
The phrase "daddy's little angel", the angel emoticon, and the slutty angel Halloween outfit. I'm reclaiming Angel for Islington!
Hot:
My bicycle. Potentially, the sexiest thing ever. She is 80's fabulous, white with red stripes a 10 speed racing bike. WITH 90's kellogg's cereal box rooster ornaments on the spokes..(or so my British friends tell me) If I go on, this will slowly become a sort of personal-ad-sounding and maybe even slightly pornographic. Which is not okay, because she's MINE, bitches.
So far, no accidents. I've been bicycling around London for the past day, and yes I'm very proud of the fact that I'm still in one piece.
Not:
Sorry, nothing even vaguely un-hot about my bicycle. Although, I'm shopping around for a name...any suggestions?
There haven't been any large, embarassing or super-interesting moments recently, and thus, I've been hesitant to write. But, I'm in London- nothing's really ever that boring.
And so, with a slight nod to Alice Carney, I present to you, what's hot/not, L-Town version.
What's Hot:
Having classmates wear burqas. It definitely shakes up any image you might have of them being oppressed shrinking violets. On the contrary, I'm intimidated. The class we have together is Islamic Law- In an academic debate, one of us follows an interpretation of it, and one doesn't...!(not to mention all the various sunna that I'm learning I would be breaking...)
What's Not:
The awkwardness that came when I realized I had NO way of recognizing them outside of the classroom. I mean, we're not talking minimalist, sparkly, multi-colored veils here. I mean, up-to-the-eyelids black gowns, transforming them into black flying squirrels. And so I end up awkwardly waving at both of the girls at SOAS that wear them, not knowing which one I sat next to in class...
Especially Not Hot:
British Home Secretary Jack Straw expressing his desire that women not wear them (at least when they're talking to him..) articleness: --although it must be said it's been blown up more in the press than what he actually said...why is he spoiling for this fight?!
Hot:
The Healthy Urban Lifestyle. A phrase first coined by Joseph, it refers to walking everywhere (and maintaining that Swan-like thinness) and running on crowded Urban streets. Car exhaust? Bah! Nothing!
Not:
Running on the beach. Who needs the ocean when you can have asphalt?
Hot:
Angel. The tube station and it's environs, where I live.
Not:
The phrase "daddy's little angel", the angel emoticon, and the slutty angel Halloween outfit. I'm reclaiming Angel for Islington!
Hot:
My bicycle. Potentially, the sexiest thing ever. She is 80's fabulous, white with red stripes a 10 speed racing bike. WITH 90's kellogg's cereal box rooster ornaments on the spokes..(or so my British friends tell me) If I go on, this will slowly become a sort of personal-ad-sounding and maybe even slightly pornographic. Which is not okay, because she's MINE, bitches.
So far, no accidents. I've been bicycling around London for the past day, and yes I'm very proud of the fact that I'm still in one piece.
Not:
Sorry, nothing even vaguely un-hot about my bicycle. Although, I'm shopping around for a name...any suggestions?
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Shari'a Legally Blonde
I am a nerd.
Keep in mind that I don't consider this to be a bad word. It's never stopped me from engaging in debauched behavior, nor enjoying myself to excess in various parts of the world.
But this thought, nevertheless, occured to me the other night, in a very posh bar somewhere near Goldman Sach's headquarters in London. I'm a few mixed drinks into the evening and I'm chatting with my friend's colleagues, all bankers.
10 minutes later, I'm almost in a fistfight with one of them. About grammar.
In more sober hindsight, it occured to me that 1) the girl that started the debate had what I've learned is an "un-posh" accent, and must've had a chip on her shoulder about it 2) I should really never ever do such things in social settings, ever ever again.
But I digress. The fight started because she said that "AMERICAN ISN'T ENGLISH."
This is my favorite fight to pick. No, American isn't English English, but i'll be damned if any linguist can tell me we speak an entirely different language. Structurally? The same. Spelling? Yeah, variations. Accent? sure, they've got the upper hand there. But I will not let Brits think they have the monopoly on the entire English language.
This is what I'm calmly trying to explain to her when I tap into her apparent massive insecurities.
"I speak a dialect of English, just like you speak a dialect of English," I say.
She turns slightly pink in the face.
"I may not speak the queen's english, but We are More Correct because we invented it!" (lame, lame argument).
I mumbled something about cockney rhyming slang, when her phone rang. At this point, I turn to a French friend who is sitting on the other side of me, ever so slightly scared of the whole conversation...
"Je m'excuse, mais, j'adore disputer..." She overhears this. "THAT'S it! I can't handle this! I know you're talking about me!"
I tried to translate to her that I was just excusing myself, and saying that I loved to argue, but all reason was lost on this one. I had another drink and bounced down Fleet Street.
........
Confirming my nerd-ness is my recent acceptance to a law program here, at the School of Oriental and African Studies in Islamic Law...I'm excited as hell, and almost late for my first class.
So, I'll be in London for the next year. Now it's your turn to visit.
Keep in mind that I don't consider this to be a bad word. It's never stopped me from engaging in debauched behavior, nor enjoying myself to excess in various parts of the world.
But this thought, nevertheless, occured to me the other night, in a very posh bar somewhere near Goldman Sach's headquarters in London. I'm a few mixed drinks into the evening and I'm chatting with my friend's colleagues, all bankers.
10 minutes later, I'm almost in a fistfight with one of them. About grammar.
In more sober hindsight, it occured to me that 1) the girl that started the debate had what I've learned is an "un-posh" accent, and must've had a chip on her shoulder about it 2) I should really never ever do such things in social settings, ever ever again.
But I digress. The fight started because she said that "AMERICAN ISN'T ENGLISH."
This is my favorite fight to pick. No, American isn't English English, but i'll be damned if any linguist can tell me we speak an entirely different language. Structurally? The same. Spelling? Yeah, variations. Accent? sure, they've got the upper hand there. But I will not let Brits think they have the monopoly on the entire English language.
This is what I'm calmly trying to explain to her when I tap into her apparent massive insecurities.
"I speak a dialect of English, just like you speak a dialect of English," I say.
She turns slightly pink in the face.
"I may not speak the queen's english, but We are More Correct because we invented it!" (lame, lame argument).
I mumbled something about cockney rhyming slang, when her phone rang. At this point, I turn to a French friend who is sitting on the other side of me, ever so slightly scared of the whole conversation...
"Je m'excuse, mais, j'adore disputer..." She overhears this. "THAT'S it! I can't handle this! I know you're talking about me!"
I tried to translate to her that I was just excusing myself, and saying that I loved to argue, but all reason was lost on this one. I had another drink and bounced down Fleet Street.
........
Confirming my nerd-ness is my recent acceptance to a law program here, at the School of Oriental and African Studies in Islamic Law...I'm excited as hell, and almost late for my first class.
So, I'll be in London for the next year. Now it's your turn to visit.
Monday, September 25, 2006
The French are coming!
So, I'm in London. (Hence the blog title change). It's raining.
No matter what language you pose it in, I still will be reluctant to answer the question of what I'm doing here. It's really a complicated chain of events that got me here. It began with a war, and things sort of snowballed from there. I'll be staying here anywhere from 3 months to a year, again, depending on the snowballs.
C'est un peu dodgy.
What I have been doing the past 3 weeks is being underpaid. I've been working at a swish, new, well-hyped French restaurant in Chelsea. No names will be used until I see what the New York Times review says next week. Naturally, all of my co-workers were French, making my contact with the Gaullois in London massively larger than it was in Paris.
Encore, un peu dodgy.
I quit recently, not because I didn't enjoy my new frenchies or the restaurant or management, but because this whole "service" thing doesn't really float my boat. I'm more of a "be served" sort of girl.
At least I did learn.. Fun and Exciting New Ways to Include Sexual Harassment In The Workplace! Man, I will say it was endlessly amusing. A few examples:
Situation #1 As I'm standing in front of the bread basket, a co-worker reaches around me to reach the bread.
Me: "Touche pas a mon pain!" (a very clever word play in French, thank you very much..translation: Lay off my bread..)
Co-worker: "Man, if you guarded your ass like that from your boyfriend..."
Situation#2 I don't hear something my boss says.
Boss: "Well, you know that masturbation makes you deaf.."
Me: "But, uh, I, uh, have a boyfriend?"
Boss: "Is he English?"
Me: "uh, yeah"
Boss: "That explains it..!"
Oh, I shall miss them..! Seriously. All this American whinging about sexual harassment is annoying.
Off to trot around in the rain... P.S. someone POST COMMENTS, for fuck's sake!
No matter what language you pose it in, I still will be reluctant to answer the question of what I'm doing here. It's really a complicated chain of events that got me here. It began with a war, and things sort of snowballed from there. I'll be staying here anywhere from 3 months to a year, again, depending on the snowballs.
C'est un peu dodgy.
What I have been doing the past 3 weeks is being underpaid. I've been working at a swish, new, well-hyped French restaurant in Chelsea. No names will be used until I see what the New York Times review says next week. Naturally, all of my co-workers were French, making my contact with the Gaullois in London massively larger than it was in Paris.
Encore, un peu dodgy.
I quit recently, not because I didn't enjoy my new frenchies or the restaurant or management, but because this whole "service" thing doesn't really float my boat. I'm more of a "be served" sort of girl.
At least I did learn.. Fun and Exciting New Ways to Include Sexual Harassment In The Workplace! Man, I will say it was endlessly amusing. A few examples:
Situation #1 As I'm standing in front of the bread basket, a co-worker reaches around me to reach the bread.
Me: "Touche pas a mon pain!" (a very clever word play in French, thank you very much..translation: Lay off my bread..)
Co-worker: "Man, if you guarded your ass like that from your boyfriend..."
Situation#2 I don't hear something my boss says.
Boss: "Well, you know that masturbation makes you deaf.."
Me: "But, uh, I, uh, have a boyfriend?"
Boss: "Is he English?"
Me: "uh, yeah"
Boss: "That explains it..!"
Oh, I shall miss them..! Seriously. All this American whinging about sexual harassment is annoying.
Off to trot around in the rain... P.S. someone POST COMMENTS, for fuck's sake!
Tuesday, August 29, 2006
Lay it on me, Ernesto
When things do happen, they hurricane. Or tropical storm.
In any case, shortly after posting the last entry, I made the mistake of going west of the intracoastal for a doctor's appointment, around the same time it became apparent we were going to be hit by Ernesto.
Chapter 1: In which I consider jumping out the window.
Scene: My OB-GYN's waiting room.
Seeing as the tropical storm/Hurricane was now impending, every single pregnant woman and every single FAT NEW YORKER decided to run to the OB-GYN's office. So, imagine the room is elbow to elbow in estrogeny or estrogen-replacement cranked-up women. Essentially, the 7th circle of hell.
As I scan the room, I see that these fat, wrinkly, (dear-god-why-are-they-at-the-OBGYN?!) old New York women have the only two acceptable magazines in the waiting room. I'm left with "Parenting" and "Healthy Baby," Shoot me. I soon hear that I have to be subjected to their banal observations about pop culture. Keep in mind it's obvious that these women can't possibly know each other-- they just share the sisterhood of "We're here to die and we'll annoy you until you do the job for us."
So they begin squawking to each other like migrating parrots: "My GAWD, How YOUNG Blythe Danner looked at the Emmys, and oh, that she MUSTA had collogen injections in her hands..." Then, they add their criticisms of Jane, my favorite magazine, that they held in their grubby, fake-nailed hands. (On a side note, why do strangers talk to each other here?! WHY?! I can't wait to go to the UK, where, they tell me, this kind of thing doesn't happen.)
"AW GOWD, LISTEN TA THIS.." one says, reading a letter in Jane. "I'M FINE WID SLEEPING AROUND IN MY TWAN-TIES, I FIGURE WHY DO I HAVE TO HAVE TO SETTLE DOWN YET?..."
"SO SHE'S SAYIN' SHE WAHNTS TO SLEEP WITH 50,000 MEN. UNBAHLIEVABLE."
...I stare down at my shoes uncomfortably, and think of moving one of my rings over to my ring finger.
So, yada yada, finally my name gets called, and I sprint out of the waiting room on the way out, still afraid to catch their eye.
Chapter 2: Ernesto gets ready to lay down the lovin'
Scene 1: driving around Del Boca Vista
Americans are especially good at two things. Consumption of food and consumption of gas. Throw in an impending hurricane and BAM! We surprise even ourselves.
I decide not to wait in a 2 hour gas line, but hedge my bets, and decide to fill up the car later. My dad hears we have a half-empty tank and flies into hysterics. Seriously-- If we're all destroyed WHY would we need to drive anywhere, anyways? The logic escapes me. (People tell me later that it's because when the power goes out, stations can't pump for days, weeks. Whatever.)
By the time I make it to the grocery store, every single desirable item is GONE. People are filling entire grocery carts to the brim. Do people really think food will cease to exist after the storm? OR (in some cases) that they really need to be eating that much?! No.
As I ask the large check-out man what he thinks of the storm, and we both decide this is a non-event. As if he were a part of this, the guy behind me in line (with a dozen or so candy bars in hand, might I add) decides to chime in.
"Well, the storm could go either way, HONEY."
HONEY?! Getting honey'd by a stranger was the last straw. I can't wait for this storm to be over.
Although I do enjoy a little tropical stormage.
In any case, shortly after posting the last entry, I made the mistake of going west of the intracoastal for a doctor's appointment, around the same time it became apparent we were going to be hit by Ernesto.
Chapter 1: In which I consider jumping out the window.
Scene: My OB-GYN's waiting room.
Seeing as the tropical storm/Hurricane was now impending, every single pregnant woman and every single FAT NEW YORKER decided to run to the OB-GYN's office. So, imagine the room is elbow to elbow in estrogeny or estrogen-replacement cranked-up women. Essentially, the 7th circle of hell.
As I scan the room, I see that these fat, wrinkly, (dear-god-why-are-they-at-the-OBGYN?!) old New York women have the only two acceptable magazines in the waiting room. I'm left with "Parenting" and "Healthy Baby," Shoot me. I soon hear that I have to be subjected to their banal observations about pop culture. Keep in mind it's obvious that these women can't possibly know each other-- they just share the sisterhood of "We're here to die and we'll annoy you until you do the job for us."
So they begin squawking to each other like migrating parrots: "My GAWD, How YOUNG Blythe Danner looked at the Emmys, and oh, that she MUSTA had collogen injections in her hands..." Then, they add their criticisms of Jane, my favorite magazine, that they held in their grubby, fake-nailed hands. (On a side note, why do strangers talk to each other here?! WHY?! I can't wait to go to the UK, where, they tell me, this kind of thing doesn't happen.)
"AW GOWD, LISTEN TA THIS.." one says, reading a letter in Jane. "I'M FINE WID SLEEPING AROUND IN MY TWAN-TIES, I FIGURE WHY DO I HAVE TO HAVE TO SETTLE DOWN YET?..."
"SO SHE'S SAYIN' SHE WAHNTS TO SLEEP WITH 50,000 MEN. UNBAHLIEVABLE."
...I stare down at my shoes uncomfortably, and think of moving one of my rings over to my ring finger.
So, yada yada, finally my name gets called, and I sprint out of the waiting room on the way out, still afraid to catch their eye.
Chapter 2: Ernesto gets ready to lay down the lovin'
Scene 1: driving around Del Boca Vista
Americans are especially good at two things. Consumption of food and consumption of gas. Throw in an impending hurricane and BAM! We surprise even ourselves.
I decide not to wait in a 2 hour gas line, but hedge my bets, and decide to fill up the car later. My dad hears we have a half-empty tank and flies into hysterics. Seriously-- If we're all destroyed WHY would we need to drive anywhere, anyways? The logic escapes me. (People tell me later that it's because when the power goes out, stations can't pump for days, weeks. Whatever.)
By the time I make it to the grocery store, every single desirable item is GONE. People are filling entire grocery carts to the brim. Do people really think food will cease to exist after the storm? OR (in some cases) that they really need to be eating that much?! No.
As I ask the large check-out man what he thinks of the storm, and we both decide this is a non-event. As if he were a part of this, the guy behind me in line (with a dozen or so candy bars in hand, might I add) decides to chime in.
"Well, the storm could go either way, HONEY."
HONEY?! Getting honey'd by a stranger was the last straw. I can't wait for this storm to be over.
Although I do enjoy a little tropical stormage.
Monday, August 28, 2006
My life as a schnook.
So there's been a definite lack of posting recently. Hard to explain other than the fact that nothing's been particularly "funny." I'm surrounded by the people I love the most, and feeling warm and fuzzy inside doesn't make for a good blog.
This said, I've been watching a lot of mob movies recently. When everything falls apart in my life, I always turn to organized crime movies. Gives me a sense of order in the universe. It also made me realize that I've been living in a world akin to the Witness Protection Program. Anonymity. Absolute security. NOTHING happens here. So, I give you the Ray Liotta quote that best summarizes the transtion from Paris to Delray Beach.
This said, I've been watching a lot of mob movies recently. When everything falls apart in my life, I always turn to organized crime movies. Gives me a sense of order in the universe. It also made me realize that I've been living in a world akin to the Witness Protection Program. Anonymity. Absolute security. NOTHING happens here. So, I give you the Ray Liotta quote that best summarizes the transtion from Paris to Delray Beach.
"Everything was for the taking. And now it's all over. And that's the hardest part. Today everything is different; there's no action...I have to wait around like everyone else. Can't even get decent food - right after I got here, I ordered some spaghetti with marinara sauce, and I got egg noodles and ketchup. I'm an average nobody... I get to live the rest of my life like a schnook."Because I can't take it anymore, I'm moving to London. To have massive amounts of financial and personal insecurity. But at least I won't be living like a schnook.
Monday, August 14, 2006
Alumni of Sciences Po, unite and serve
Okay, so just kidding about having "The Fallout." For about the first week, I enjoyed a sort of touristic sort of awe about home. All the American accents! All the fat people! AND All the central air conditioning! But then, of course, all this must sour. To summarize the past couple weeks,
July 12-August 1: The Great Tits-Uppage of 2006. Where everything in my life, in short, goes tits up. War, tears, much gnashing of teeth, etc. Essentially, all the elements of a telenovella-- a really bad one.
August 1- Present: Despite being 'tout sur le dos' I decide to actually do things. Mainly, try and find desirable job for next year, and go to gym for a while to not think about how I don't have a job. Oh, and watch lots and lots of bad TV and movies.
Marking the end of this current period was our recent family wedding in Denver, CO.
My mom's side of the family, a bunch of lovely and crazy francophones, made this highly enjoyable. Highlights and Lowlights:
Highlight:
My grandmother, whispering to me during the wedding: "The last time I saw the bride, she was about 10 pounds heavier, she looked good. It didn't make her nose look so big. Oh, maybe I shouldn't be saying that."
Lowlight:
Being the only single woman, besides my 10 year-old cousin, to stand there and catch the bouquet. Luckily, she caught it.
Highlight:
Having an actual French waitress serving us at the wedding.
Lowlight:
Said waitress graduated from Sciences Po with a degree in Carrieres Internationales. I shit you not. The conversation went as such: "Vous etes diplomee de Sciences Po?!!" "Oui oui" (she says, in waitressing outfit)...
My parents' eyes sort of glazed over. THIS is what we're sending our daughter to Paris for?! Mention de chomage...no joke...
Luckily, she went on to say how she pursued hotel management after graduation and had an eye for moving to the States for this stuff. Still, made me kind of nervous. I'm not killing myself to eventually land a menial job in the suburbs of Denver.
On that note, wish me luck.
Cheers, y'all.
July 12-August 1: The Great Tits-Uppage of 2006. Where everything in my life, in short, goes tits up. War, tears, much gnashing of teeth, etc. Essentially, all the elements of a telenovella-- a really bad one.
August 1- Present: Despite being 'tout sur le dos' I decide to actually do things. Mainly, try and find desirable job for next year, and go to gym for a while to not think about how I don't have a job. Oh, and watch lots and lots of bad TV and movies.
Marking the end of this current period was our recent family wedding in Denver, CO.
My mom's side of the family, a bunch of lovely and crazy francophones, made this highly enjoyable. Highlights and Lowlights:
Highlight:
My grandmother, whispering to me during the wedding: "The last time I saw the bride, she was about 10 pounds heavier, she looked good. It didn't make her nose look so big.
Lowlight:
Being the only single woman, besides my 10 year-old cousin, to stand there and catch the bouquet. Luckily, she caught it.
Highlight:
Having an actual French waitress serving us at the wedding.
Lowlight:
Said waitress graduated from Sciences Po with a degree in Carrieres Internationales. I shit you not. The conversation went as such: "Vous etes diplomee de Sciences Po?!!" "Oui oui" (she says, in waitressing outfit)...
My parents' eyes sort of glazed over. THIS is what we're sending our daughter to Paris for?! Mention de chomage...no joke...
Luckily, she went on to say how she pursued hotel management after graduation and had an eye for moving to the States for this stuff. Still, made me kind of nervous. I'm not killing myself to eventually land a menial job in the suburbs of Denver.
On that note, wish me luck.
Cheers, y'all.
Thursday, July 20, 2006
The fallout.
All apologies for the massive lack of posting. In 50 words or less, I have been on vacation in Budapest/Croatia, packed up my apartment, then realized that I have, in fact, no plan for next year- things that, individually, do take up a lot of energy.
I had next year all lined up in Beirut, but seeing as there's been a mass exodus of foreign nationals out of Lebanon, looks like I'm not going to be taking my colonial sejour after all. As much as I would like to go to Cyprus, I'd rather not be taken there by an army helicopter.
Meanhwhile, I'm in Delray Beach, languishing. I had warned my parents that I would be going through post-European withdrawal and to take it easy on me.
I had hoped for a re-education in all things American; maybe we'd order pizza and go out to the shooting range, and my dad would buy an XXL wife beater, just for the occasion.
Instead, I came home to where, it became obvious, my europhilia was incubated. "Should we pick up a baguette on the way home?" dad asked in the car from the airport. I mumbled something about how technically, they should hardly be called proper baguettes. Once at home, I began talking about the war in Lebanon, and my mom flipped on the news. "Oh, we only watch BBC Worldnews anymore." No CNN. No FOX. Of course, The BBC.
Fine, so, they have the common sense to watch better TV media than what the US can produce. Maybe they'd take it easy on me for movies and TV shows. "I've been watching a lot of Gordon Ramsey's 'Kitchen Nightmares..'" mom continued. Flipping through the list of TiVoed shows, I learned that for all intents and purposes, our remote has been frozen on BBC America and the Independent Film Network.
As painful as it is to constantly be reminded what exactly I'm missing, it's lovely to be able to talk to my parents about my trip to Croatia, and their life in London when they were just married, and the superiority of Paris. I guess it's good to be home.
I had next year all lined up in Beirut, but seeing as there's been a mass exodus of foreign nationals out of Lebanon, looks like I'm not going to be taking my colonial sejour after all. As much as I would like to go to Cyprus, I'd rather not be taken there by an army helicopter.
Meanhwhile, I'm in Delray Beach, languishing. I had warned my parents that I would be going through post-European withdrawal and to take it easy on me.
I had hoped for a re-education in all things American; maybe we'd order pizza and go out to the shooting range, and my dad would buy an XXL wife beater, just for the occasion.
Instead, I came home to where, it became obvious, my europhilia was incubated. "Should we pick up a baguette on the way home?" dad asked in the car from the airport. I mumbled something about how technically, they should hardly be called proper baguettes. Once at home, I began talking about the war in Lebanon, and my mom flipped on the news. "Oh, we only watch BBC Worldnews anymore." No CNN. No FOX. Of course, The BBC.
Fine, so, they have the common sense to watch better TV media than what the US can produce. Maybe they'd take it easy on me for movies and TV shows. "I've been watching a lot of Gordon Ramsey's 'Kitchen Nightmares..'" mom continued. Flipping through the list of TiVoed shows, I learned that for all intents and purposes, our remote has been frozen on BBC America and the Independent Film Network.
As painful as it is to constantly be reminded what exactly I'm missing, it's lovely to be able to talk to my parents about my trip to Croatia, and their life in London when they were just married, and the superiority of Paris. I guess it's good to be home.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
sordid? adorable? who cares!
Just had to share with the world my favorite ad, bar none, of all time.
SO CUTE, but yet also quite clever: here
For those of you who kvetch about my exclusion of non-francophones, all you need to know is the tagline: "Everything's more intense."
enjoy, I've still got a fair amount of work until my grande fête this saturday.
xoxoxox
SO CUTE, but yet also quite clever: here
For those of you who kvetch about my exclusion of non-francophones, all you need to know is the tagline: "Everything's more intense."
enjoy, I've still got a fair amount of work until my grande fête this saturday.
xoxoxox
Friday, June 09, 2006
Cathartic whinging.
I promised to at least try make this blog funny. I never said it wouldn't make me sound like a horrible person. Hasn't been a post in a long while, because I've been lacking decently humorous episodes of my life, seeing as I've been in a hell MONTH. What enormous of amounts of work CAN do, though, is make you awesomely mad at the world. Without further ado, The Shit List.
1. American tourists. Jesus titty-fucking Christ, we are one ugly, fat nation. Granted, I swear I didn't think so before, and I probably won't think so when I go back, but man, we are so annoying. Or maybe it's a new passport requirement? Don't bring with you: lighters, explosives, or pesticides. DO bring with you: 10 tons of lard, ugly white sneakers really ugly caps, and your OUTSIDE VOICES whenever you're in a quiet place. Shudder.
2. Sciences Po Librarians. So, I may not do the "returning books" thing well, and I have general angst about the school's resources, but man, they're just MEAN. Except for cute Stefan, who knows my name. Yes, I go to the library that much.
3. The White Dog's owners. Let me explain.
Oli's seen it, so at least I have a witness to say that it actually exists, and isn't some LOST-like appearance. So basically, some crazy old rich person in the next block, instead of actually walking their dog, just LETS it out, and lets it wander around the block for hours on end. Literally, wanders around in circles, and looks scared and won't let you touch it. Which, seeing as its the quiet stuffy 16th isn't such a problem, but the poor fucking dog just drifts around with the most pathetic look on its face.
I actually incredibly sorry for it. You have to understand that this is coming from a girl that kicked a dog on a date once.(when the guy wasn't looking, and it was kind of a gentle tap) (and the dog wouldn't stop licking its balls, it had to be done).
Man, this list could go on, but let me just add a few more:
1) People who call themselves "princess," allow their parents to, or even worse,call themselves "Daddy's little princess"
2) Posers in Paris. People who, despite their extremely strong accent, try and speak French to anglophones. Bite me, everyone can tell you're American, go fuck off.
3) Anyone who works in French administration, anywhere. Just trust me, you'd hate them too.
4) THAT GUY/girl in your classes. Sadly, at Master's level, it only gets worse. In France, it's ten times worse. They all have names: "Donkey lips" (arabic class), "La petite grosse" (Enjeux Po class), "Belligerent Canadian" (every class), etc.
5) Pretentious hippies. Either you're hippy, and chill, or your pretentious, and not. Don't try and name drop things like, "Oh, yeah, I went to this really mind-blowing session of Oonamamweh last night. It like, changed my life." Although, you know what? Don't care what you're saying anyways.
Anyways, now I should get back to the work I've been bitching about, although god knows I could go on. This is awesomely cathartic. Night all.
1. American tourists. Jesus titty-fucking Christ, we are one ugly, fat nation. Granted, I swear I didn't think so before, and I probably won't think so when I go back, but man, we are so annoying. Or maybe it's a new passport requirement? Don't bring with you: lighters, explosives, or pesticides. DO bring with you: 10 tons of lard, ugly white sneakers really ugly caps, and your OUTSIDE VOICES whenever you're in a quiet place. Shudder.
2. Sciences Po Librarians. So, I may not do the "returning books" thing well, and I have general angst about the school's resources, but man, they're just MEAN. Except for cute Stefan, who knows my name. Yes, I go to the library that much.
3. The White Dog's owners. Let me explain.
Oli's seen it, so at least I have a witness to say that it actually exists, and isn't some LOST-like appearance. So basically, some crazy old rich person in the next block, instead of actually walking their dog, just LETS it out, and lets it wander around the block for hours on end. Literally, wanders around in circles, and looks scared and won't let you touch it. Which, seeing as its the quiet stuffy 16th isn't such a problem, but the poor fucking dog just drifts around with the most pathetic look on its face.
I actually incredibly sorry for it. You have to understand that this is coming from a girl that kicked a dog on a date once.(when the guy wasn't looking, and it was kind of a gentle tap) (and the dog wouldn't stop licking its balls, it had to be done).
Man, this list could go on, but let me just add a few more:
1) People who call themselves "princess," allow their parents to, or even worse,call themselves "Daddy's little princess"
2) Posers in Paris. People who, despite their extremely strong accent, try and speak French to anglophones. Bite me, everyone can tell you're American, go fuck off.
3) Anyone who works in French administration, anywhere. Just trust me, you'd hate them too.
4) THAT GUY/girl in your classes. Sadly, at Master's level, it only gets worse. In France, it's ten times worse. They all have names: "Donkey lips" (arabic class), "La petite grosse" (Enjeux Po class), "Belligerent Canadian" (every class), etc.
5) Pretentious hippies. Either you're hippy, and chill, or your pretentious, and not. Don't try and name drop things like, "Oh, yeah, I went to this really mind-blowing session of Oonamamweh last night. It like, changed my life." Although, you know what? Don't care what you're saying anyways.
Anyways, now I should get back to the work I've been bitching about, although god knows I could go on. This is awesomely cathartic. Night all.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
The French citizenship test, partie No.1
In dishonor of Sarkozy's latest proposal on curbing immigration to France, I'd like to offer my own personal Citizenship test for the Republic.
FRENCH CITIZENSHIP TEST
#1. You are a male between 11-80 years old. You see a blond girl speaking English on the street. You do which of the following:
a. Say nothing
b. Look her up and down, imagine her naked, and continue loafing
c. Scream out "'Ello! 'Appy Birfday!" then look her up and down, imagine her naked, and continue loafing
The correct answer is: C
#2. You see a man with long hair and orange-tinted skin. He:
a. Has Been stranded on a desert island with nothing but carrots to eat
b. Is an average man- a Sciences Po professor, for example
c. Is the prime minister, Dominique de Villepin
The correct answer is: B or C
#3. Cheating is wrong.
a. True
b. False
c. Irrelevant statement in French society
The correct answer is C
#4. What was France's position in the Second World War?
a. There was no Second World War
b. We surrendered like little bunnyrabbits
c. Heroic resistance against the coward Saxon invaders.
The correct answer is A or C
#5. What is most important to know about the United States?
a. The girls are cheap and easy
b. Bush=bad
c. The worst of its music: Sean Paul and Ben Harper
The correct answer is: All of the above
FRENCH CITIZENSHIP TEST
#1. You are a male between 11-80 years old. You see a blond girl speaking English on the street. You do which of the following:
a. Say nothing
b. Look her up and down, imagine her naked, and continue loafing
c. Scream out "'Ello! 'Appy Birfday!" then look her up and down, imagine her naked, and continue loafing
The correct answer is: C
#2. You see a man with long hair and orange-tinted skin. He:
a. Has Been stranded on a desert island with nothing but carrots to eat
b. Is an average man- a Sciences Po professor, for example
c. Is the prime minister, Dominique de Villepin
The correct answer is: B or C
#3. Cheating is wrong.
a. True
b. False
c. Irrelevant statement in French society
The correct answer is C
#4. What was France's position in the Second World War?
a. There was no Second World War
b. We surrendered like little bunnyrabbits
c. Heroic resistance against the coward Saxon invaders.
The correct answer is A or C
#5. What is most important to know about the United States?
a. The girls are cheap and easy
b. Bush=bad
c. The worst of its music: Sean Paul and Ben Harper
The correct answer is: All of the above
Tuesday, May 02, 2006
"Are you now or have you ever been..."
If you're looking for zany adventures, see the blog prior to this. This said, I felt I had to share.
I auditioned for a part in a movie today. (!!)
Really. Sketchy story short, I was walking down the street with none other than Joseph Swan, Esq. I barked something at him in American English. Then got approached by French film student-looking girl who thus gives me an appointment to go to the bureau of her film company. Les Films du Poisson. Look, it actually exists.
Today I had my appointment and I got ushered into their converted apartment-office off of Republique, and was ignored for a solid 15 minutes. I've never felt cooler.
Everyone in the office was in a hurry, but yet they didn't seem to be doing any work, and still looked incredibly important doing this sort of nothing. Painfully Parisian. And in movies! No, not "movies," films.
Finally, woman that randomly picked me up pulls me into audition room and describes the role. I learn that I would be auditioning for the following part:
Awesome.
It also occured to me that I should have loved and nurtured my drama/film friends more, at a time like this. I'm sure that I wasn't supposed to be feeling this stupid and unprepared. Or maybe I should've remembered the tough, real life lessons of acting camp when I was in 5th grade.
Woman hands me the script and tells me to pick any line I want and read it.
Another nightmare. I pick the line that sounds the prettiest in French and I feel I wouldn't trip over. "Je pose pour les etudiants des Beaux Arts." I mean, it almost rhymes, goddamnit! She must've sensed my pleasure at how pretty that sentence was, then points me to the one phrase I was avoiding:
"Je suis communiste."
I mumble. "Encore" She says. "JE SUIS COMMUNISTE" I blast, trying to sound as socially concerned and militant as possible.
Anyways, so, if there ever were a time to finally just own up to the fact that i'll NEVER be able to run for public office, this is it. Somewhere, deep in a closet in Paris, there will always be a camcorder in Paris that has a recording of me saying I'm a fucking communist.
And if I get lucky, there will be footage of me playing a cokehead nude-model communist!
Goodnight.
PS: Home...
I love the Delray.
I auditioned for a part in a movie today. (!!)
Really. Sketchy story short, I was walking down the street with none other than Joseph Swan, Esq. I barked something at him in American English. Then got approached by French film student-looking girl who thus gives me an appointment to go to the bureau of her film company. Les Films du Poisson. Look, it actually exists.
Today I had my appointment and I got ushered into their converted apartment-office off of Republique, and was ignored for a solid 15 minutes. I've never felt cooler.
Everyone in the office was in a hurry, but yet they didn't seem to be doing any work, and still looked incredibly important doing this sort of nothing. Painfully Parisian. And in movies! No, not "movies," films.
Finally, woman that randomly picked me up pulls me into audition room and describes the role. I learn that I would be auditioning for the following part:
- It's 1980. I'm an American Girl
- Who has just returned from a Kibbutz in Israel.
- Declares, "Je suis communiste."
- Then takes the main character to the Art School (Ecole des Beaux Arts a Paris)....
- ...Where she is a nude model. *cough*
- And then takes her to Le Palace, an old Parisian club that the movie is attempting to recapture
- She walks into the club and knows everybody, is really cool (seriously, no way I'm getting this role)
- Where She then does drugs in the bathroom, and corrupts main character.
Awesome.
It also occured to me that I should have loved and nurtured my drama/film friends more, at a time like this. I'm sure that I wasn't supposed to be feeling this stupid and unprepared. Or maybe I should've remembered the tough, real life lessons of acting camp when I was in 5th grade.
Woman hands me the script and tells me to pick any line I want and read it.
Another nightmare. I pick the line that sounds the prettiest in French and I feel I wouldn't trip over. "Je pose pour les etudiants des Beaux Arts." I mean, it almost rhymes, goddamnit! She must've sensed my pleasure at how pretty that sentence was, then points me to the one phrase I was avoiding:
"Je suis communiste."
I mumble. "Encore" She says. "JE SUIS COMMUNISTE" I blast, trying to sound as socially concerned and militant as possible.
Anyways, so, if there ever were a time to finally just own up to the fact that i'll NEVER be able to run for public office, this is it. Somewhere, deep in a closet in Paris, there will always be a camcorder in Paris that has a recording of me saying I'm a fucking communist.
And if I get lucky, there will be footage of me playing a cokehead nude-model communist!
Goodnight.
PS: Home...
I love the Delray.
Wednesday, April 26, 2006
Dear God, It's Me, Yehudah
("And I have this annoying American next to me on the plane...")
We've all had bad flights before. I am the first person I know to vomit on Orthodox jews mid-flight.
Initially, I was pleased with my seat. Toward the front. Window Seat. I sit down and open my Vogue. My neighbors, who we'll call Yahudah and Abraham open the Talmud. They've barely hit puberty and look just adorable in black and white as they store their hats in the overhead bin.
Everything's going well, until it hits me. I realize that because of the time change, I should be taking my birth control, about...now. I discreetly reach into my bag and attempt to pop it out of the container into my hand that's in the purse.
On the way to my mouth, I drop it. Like a cokehead diving after the last bit of blow, I frantically start searching around my skirt and purse area. No luck. I start flailing my arms and making little panicky noises as I search.
"Did you drop something?" Yehudah asks. "NO! I mean, no, no, I'm fine," i mumble. More flailing of the arms and searching. I find the elusive fucker and continue casually flipping through my magazine.
Then a wave of nausea hits me, much like that time I downed multiple pitchers of Sangria at Bar 10. Urgent, Strong, but...sober this time? Strange. I think I was a solid 12 years old the last time I booted during the day. (There were all those benders when I was 11, but that's a different story)
Trip 1 to the airplane toilet. Goodbye meals of the day. I mumble apologies to Yahudah and Abraham on the way back to my window seat.
10 minutes later. Turbulence. Oh God. I try desperately not to curse on the way to the toilet, lest I hurt their Y and A's (peot)-protected ears. I pass out from exhaustion for a little bit, thinking how much shittier vomiting is when you're sober.
When I wake up again, after the foolish mistake of trying to drink water, except now, everyone's asleep. It's urgent this time. I mumble Excuse Me to Y and A, but they're long asleep.
Then, my stomach starts to rebel. It's now or on their black pants.
"PLEASE DEAR GOD MOVE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE MOVE MOVE MOVE!!!" I start screaming as do an awkward tango over their laps (they jump up...i'm guessing they weren't a big fan of the vomiting-girl loin on theirs...)
No good. An Air France stewardess is bent over, ass against the Toilet Door. Naturally I start to hit her side with my free hand. (A gentle tap, she assured me later), and I reacquaint myself with my new bff, the Air France toilet.
Move over, Mile High Club, "Vomiting constantly" is the new "Sex on an airplane."
Yours Awkwardly,
F
We've all had bad flights before. I am the first person I know to vomit on Orthodox jews mid-flight.
Initially, I was pleased with my seat. Toward the front. Window Seat. I sit down and open my Vogue. My neighbors, who we'll call Yahudah and Abraham open the Talmud. They've barely hit puberty and look just adorable in black and white as they store their hats in the overhead bin.
Everything's going well, until it hits me. I realize that because of the time change, I should be taking my birth control, about...now. I discreetly reach into my bag and attempt to pop it out of the container into my hand that's in the purse.
On the way to my mouth, I drop it. Like a cokehead diving after the last bit of blow, I frantically start searching around my skirt and purse area. No luck. I start flailing my arms and making little panicky noises as I search.
"Did you drop something?" Yehudah asks. "NO! I mean, no, no, I'm fine," i mumble. More flailing of the arms and searching. I find the elusive fucker and continue casually flipping through my magazine.
Then a wave of nausea hits me, much like that time I downed multiple pitchers of Sangria at Bar 10. Urgent, Strong, but...sober this time? Strange. I think I was a solid 12 years old the last time I booted during the day. (There were all those benders when I was 11, but that's a different story)
Trip 1 to the airplane toilet. Goodbye meals of the day. I mumble apologies to Yahudah and Abraham on the way back to my window seat.
10 minutes later. Turbulence. Oh God. I try desperately not to curse on the way to the toilet, lest I hurt their Y and A's (peot)-protected ears. I pass out from exhaustion for a little bit, thinking how much shittier vomiting is when you're sober.
When I wake up again, after the foolish mistake of trying to drink water, except now, everyone's asleep. It's urgent this time. I mumble Excuse Me to Y and A, but they're long asleep.
Then, my stomach starts to rebel. It's now or on their black pants.
"PLEASE DEAR GOD MOVE PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE MOVE MOVE MOVE!!!" I start screaming as do an awkward tango over their laps (they jump up...i'm guessing they weren't a big fan of the vomiting-girl loin on theirs...)
No good. An Air France stewardess is bent over, ass against the Toilet Door. Naturally I start to hit her side with my free hand. (A gentle tap, she assured me later), and I reacquaint myself with my new bff, the Air France toilet.
Move over, Mile High Club, "Vomiting constantly" is the new "Sex on an airplane."
Yours Awkwardly,
F
Monday, April 24, 2006
SPRING FAIR by the numbers
The first of my Super American Vacation! posts...
3: Entire days spent at Spring Fair
1: of these days that Baltimore was issued a Flood Warning.
12: Number of Hours spent consecutively drinking on Friday
100: Percent of meals on Friday that were based around "pasteurized cheese product" thanks to Spring Fair vendors
(think: Philly Cheese Steak, Cheese Fries, etc. etc....groan...)
20-30: Percent of people that looked completely confused to see me.
95: Percent of these people that I didn't like anyways.
1: Time I actually ducked behind a stranger to avoid seeing someone.
28479412798: Hug-Tackles received in Beer Garden (awww)
85: Percentage of people whose first response to seeing me was, "YOU'RE BLONDE!" (guys, I've been blonde on the inside for a long time)
15: Minutes spent in PJs (just about enough)
75: Times A***** W*** had to be convinced not to beat up a Sophomore that had insulted her
(Or as she screamed.."SOPHOMORE WHORE!")*
*postscript: The girl turned out to be a freshman, anyways
4: Perfect number of days to be back at Hopkins, before realizing that it's suffocating and I'm fine with not being here.
25: Of May 2006, When Commencement begins, and I'll be mentally with you guys. Mwah.
I'll post more post-US updates, including pictures, sometime very soon. Maybe they'll be funnier posts, maybe they won't. We'll see.
3: Entire days spent at Spring Fair
1: of these days that Baltimore was issued a Flood Warning.
12: Number of Hours spent consecutively drinking on Friday
100: Percent of meals on Friday that were based around "pasteurized cheese product" thanks to Spring Fair vendors
(think: Philly Cheese Steak, Cheese Fries, etc. etc....groan...)
20-30: Percent of people that looked completely confused to see me.
95: Percent of these people that I didn't like anyways.
1: Time I actually ducked behind a stranger to avoid seeing someone.
28479412798: Hug-Tackles received in Beer Garden (awww)
85: Percentage of people whose first response to seeing me was, "YOU'RE BLONDE!" (guys, I've been blonde on the inside for a long time)
15: Minutes spent in PJs (just about enough)
75: Times A***** W*** had to be convinced not to beat up a Sophomore that had insulted her
(Or as she screamed.."SOPHOMORE WHORE!")*
*postscript: The girl turned out to be a freshman, anyways
4: Perfect number of days to be back at Hopkins, before realizing that it's suffocating and I'm fine with not being here.
25: Of May 2006, When Commencement begins, and I'll be mentally with you guys. Mwah.
I'll post more post-US updates, including pictures, sometime very soon. Maybe they'll be funnier posts, maybe they won't. We'll see.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
'Cause I'm (annoyed) to be an American...
I bit of introspection about my nationality:
Here's a short list of what it is to be American. Nowhere in here will you find the words "patriotic" "Bush" or "love my country," don't worry.
I am an American...
1. I am loud.
In vain do we struggle, but we just can't get ourselves to laugh like Japanese schoolgirls.
3. I cringe when I spot other Americans, thinking that, naturally, I look completely native. Even with a popped collar and sorority sweater.
4. I will kill you in a debate on American politics
You may THINK you know everything about the states because a friend of a friend studied abroad, or you took a week long "holiday" in New York, but you're wrong. Sorry.
5. We're not all ignorant.
Just the president.
6. Actually, I won't give you a blowjob .
I just need to get this out there. Please tell all the European male friends you may have. Some slut(s) have made it very hard for us.
7. If you're French, don't even try to speak English to me.
My French is probably better than your English.
8. If you're British, your English is better than my English.
Keep talking. The bag over your head only makes you look hotter and your accent stronger.
(accepting submissions...apparently my nationality isn't that well defined)
Here's a short list of what it is to be American. Nowhere in here will you find the words "patriotic" "Bush" or "love my country," don't worry.
I am an American...
1. I am loud.
In vain do we struggle, but we just can't get ourselves to laugh like Japanese schoolgirls.
3. I cringe when I spot other Americans, thinking that, naturally, I look completely native. Even with a popped collar and sorority sweater.
4. I will kill you in a debate on American politics
You may THINK you know everything about the states because a friend of a friend studied abroad, or you took a week long "holiday" in New York, but you're wrong. Sorry.
5. We're not all ignorant.
Just the president.
6. Actually, I won't give you a blowjob .
I just need to get this out there. Please tell all the European male friends you may have. Some slut(s) have made it very hard for us.
7. If you're French, don't even try to speak English to me.
My French is probably better than your English.
8. If you're British, your English is better than my English.
Keep talking. The bag over your head only makes you look hotter and your accent stronger.
(accepting submissions...apparently my nationality isn't that well defined)
Wednesday, March 22, 2006
Quit le bitching!
Looking at the Paris student riots of 1968, I always thought to myself, 'wow, how exciting..students..actually getting excited about some thing, wreaking havoc, etc."
Turns out, student protestors are really damn annoying.
I'm about to get my own personal billy club if the anti-CPE riots don't stop. Read, er, this if you think a CPE is a Crappy Parisian Excuse to protest.
There's rumors of us holding a vote as to whether to "go on strike" from school next week.
( Wait..students can go on strike...from school? Bad ass! Should've done that in middle school)
The vast majority of uni's in France haven't been in school for 2 months or so.
As nice as that may seem, this is bordering on absurd. Damn socialists.
I may be turning slightly conservative with age, but I just don't care. Goodnight.
Oh!
And a pic-y from Dublin from St. Patrick's Day with Keith! Rest are on el facebooko.
See, 'cause in Dublin, when they gather in large masses they drink and dance and sing a lot. Bless their hearts.
Turns out, student protestors are really damn annoying.
I'm about to get my own personal billy club if the anti-CPE riots don't stop. Read, er, this if you think a CPE is a Crappy Parisian Excuse to protest.
There's rumors of us holding a vote as to whether to "go on strike" from school next week.
( Wait..students can go on strike...from school? Bad ass! Should've done that in middle school)
The vast majority of uni's in France haven't been in school for 2 months or so.
As nice as that may seem, this is bordering on absurd. Damn socialists.
I may be turning slightly conservative with age, but I just don't care. Goodnight.
Oh!
And a pic-y from Dublin from St. Patrick's Day with Keith! Rest are on el facebooko.
See, 'cause in Dublin, when they gather in large masses they drink and dance and sing a lot. Bless their hearts.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
The crotch of France is beautiful.
Back from break! Emily was here! It was fantastic! We spent a few days in Paris, but, notably spent a few days in Arles and Avignon and the viscinity in the crotch of France.
And, funny the sun DOES shine there, unlike other crotches. Okay, enough already with the crotches.
Pictures worth scrolling down for:
Emily at Centre Pompidou. Yes, this is The Artsy Shot.
DOESN'T THIS PLANTER LOOK AN AWFUL LOT LIKE A POPSICLE??! (still in Paris....)
IN ARLES, WALKING TO OLD ROMAN ARENA:
SAINTES-MARIES-DE-LA-MER
(yes the city names has THAT many hyphens in it and there are TWO holy marys they pay homage to.)
WHICH BORDERS THE CAMARGUE, FRANCE'S SWAMP. Without alligators, though. Instead?
Flamingos and Ponies. "Like a Lisa Frank wet dream."
SO THEN WE RODE PONIES. Because you can't ride flamingos. Unless you're in a Disney Movie.
These pictures only include my pony's head, because I got the dumb one, that insisted on remaining 50 paces behind everyone else. Fucking Mistral. At this point in the ride we decided,
"It's like we're in a bad Shania Twain video"
Riding white ponies on the Mediterranean is pretty sweet. The pics from Avignon will have to wait for another posting. The spirit is willing, but the laziness is stronger.
And, funny the sun DOES shine there, unlike other crotches. Okay, enough already with the crotches.
Pictures worth scrolling down for:
Emily at Centre Pompidou. Yes, this is The Artsy Shot.
DOESN'T THIS PLANTER LOOK AN AWFUL LOT LIKE A POPSICLE??! (still in Paris....)
IN ARLES, WALKING TO OLD ROMAN ARENA:
SAINTES-MARIES-DE-LA-MER
(yes the city names has THAT many hyphens in it and there are TWO holy marys they pay homage to.)
WHICH BORDERS THE CAMARGUE, FRANCE'S SWAMP. Without alligators, though. Instead?
Flamingos and Ponies. "Like a Lisa Frank wet dream."
SO THEN WE RODE PONIES. Because you can't ride flamingos. Unless you're in a Disney Movie.
These pictures only include my pony's head, because I got the dumb one, that insisted on remaining 50 paces behind everyone else. Fucking Mistral. At this point in the ride we decided,
"It's like we're in a bad Shania Twain video"
Riding white ponies on the Mediterranean is pretty sweet. The pics from Avignon will have to wait for another posting. The spirit is willing, but the laziness is stronger.
Friday, February 24, 2006
Your moment of zen.
I seriously couldn't eat it. It was too cute. And yet, tragic, that it missed it's calling as an extra in a Sir Mix A Lot video.
The letter and the gnat.
I slept a lot through High School French.
I realized this recently during one of my six essay-exams in French. It's frustrating when you can talk for hours about International Law in a foreign language, but you're sitting there at the start of the next paragraph thinking,
"Fuck! What's the best connection word between these paragraphs? WHY did I throw away that hand-out?!WHYY!!!??"
Again, at the prefecture of Police today, when I officially decided to end my status as a visa overstay/illegal alien, my lack of attention span in High School came back to spite me. Now, I'm not only a little late with my application, I'm oh....3 months late.
Sitting in front of a surly Martiniquan woman, I had to answer a question I didn't really have an answer for: "So why did you wait 6 months to apply for your residence permit?!"
Possible answers included:
"I did nothing but drink the first two months here before school started"
"I'm completely lazy" or, even,
"Landlord tried to suck my blood, have had to bat her off with a broom for the past few months" (which is true)
Instead of beating me while during a ritualistic dance of the bureaucrats, It turns out, I only had to write a letter in front of the Martinquan fonctionnaire.
YES, a LETTER saying I was sorry and why I was so late turning in my dossier. So, I start out and write some complete bullshit about having difficulty finding the necessary documents, etc. etc. Then I get to the end. The French add some sentence at the end of every letter before the signature that is some variation of
"Let me lick your ass and offer you my best sentiments" or, for more severe letters,
"Lick my ass and give me your the assurance of your best wishes!"
I blanked. I had no fucking clue how to write this. In the ONE opportunity where someone stuck a piece of paper in front of me (outside of High School) and said, "GO! WRITE AN IMPORTANT LETTER IN FRENCH!" I couldn't perform. Damn you, IB French. Damn you attention span similar to that of an ADD gnat! Damn, damn, damn.
On the plus side, I'm a little less illegal today. I'll drink to that.
I realized this recently during one of my six essay-exams in French. It's frustrating when you can talk for hours about International Law in a foreign language, but you're sitting there at the start of the next paragraph thinking,
"Fuck! What's the best connection word between these paragraphs? WHY did I throw away that hand-out?!WHYY!!!??"
Again, at the prefecture of Police today, when I officially decided to end my status as a visa overstay/illegal alien, my lack of attention span in High School came back to spite me. Now, I'm not only a little late with my application, I'm oh....3 months late.
Sitting in front of a surly Martiniquan woman, I had to answer a question I didn't really have an answer for: "So why did you wait 6 months to apply for your residence permit?!"
Possible answers included:
"I did nothing but drink the first two months here before school started"
"I'm completely lazy" or, even,
"Landlord tried to suck my blood, have had to bat her off with a broom for the past few months" (which is true)
Instead of beating me while during a ritualistic dance of the bureaucrats, It turns out, I only had to write a letter in front of the Martinquan fonctionnaire.
YES, a LETTER saying I was sorry and why I was so late turning in my dossier. So, I start out and write some complete bullshit about having difficulty finding the necessary documents, etc. etc. Then I get to the end. The French add some sentence at the end of every letter before the signature that is some variation of
"Let me lick your ass and offer you my best sentiments" or, for more severe letters,
"Lick my ass and give me your the assurance of your best wishes!"
I blanked. I had no fucking clue how to write this. In the ONE opportunity where someone stuck a piece of paper in front of me (outside of High School) and said, "GO! WRITE AN IMPORTANT LETTER IN FRENCH!" I couldn't perform. Damn you, IB French. Damn you attention span similar to that of an ADD gnat! Damn, damn, damn.
On the plus side, I'm a little less illegal today. I'll drink to that.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
God doesn't care about cigarettes.
While watching a French-produced documentary on American evangelism tonight, they showed some especially hateful protestors with signs that said,
"GOD HATES FAGS"
Having been with British people way too long, my first thought was, "Why are they going after cigarettes?" "Is anti-tobacco activism the new Evangelical cause?!"
In other news,
I have 5 exams in the next week, and am completely panicked.
School drools. Find me a good translation of that in French.
-F
"GOD HATES FAGS"
Having been with British people way too long, my first thought was, "Why are they going after cigarettes?" "Is anti-tobacco activism the new Evangelical cause?!"
In other news,
I have 5 exams in the next week, and am completely panicked.
School drools. Find me a good translation of that in French.
-F
Monday, February 06, 2006
Un touchdown accordé aux Steeleurs de Pittsburgh!
Oh dear god, they've tried to do the Super Bowl.
France 2, complete with French commentators (Where the hell did they find them?!) broadcast the Super Bowl live this Sunday. It's funny, it may be the first time I've laughed consistently throughout the big game. Without getting to the sheer absurdity of the coverage, let's just fast forward to the Half Time show.
In a room literally wallpapered with American flags, a popular TV host has two guests with him: A French comedian, and as best I can figure out, a large man who was just cast as "Random French Black guy." (RFBG) I mean, seriously. I think they just picked the largest man in the country, and were like, "Hey! You look like you could maybe be American! Go on TV!"
Host turns to RFBG and asks, "So what do you like about American Football?"
RFBG: "What I like about baseball is..."
(host interrupts: "no no, this is Football à l'Américain"). RFBG looks kind of surprised.
The Comedian then takes it upon himself: "I like the helmets. The helmets are cool."
I'm thinking I could've done a better half time show, until I see the mysterious Third Guest. YES, a real live NFL Cheerleader.
Tits McAmerica with flowing blond long hair comes on, and they continue to not bother to translate anything to her, so she sits there looking scared, as RFBG actually begins to put his head nearer and nearer to her shoulder. They finally work on translating some hard hitting questions to her, as soon as they figure out she can't speak French.
Host: "So, why are cheerleaders so pretty?" (montage of American cheerleaders in background) (Tits McAmerica's breasts pop farther and farther out of her top)
Cheerleader: "Umm (being dubbed over, simultaneously)..well...there's a lot of us out there, and you know, only some of us can become cheerleaders."
Host: "So why do you all look the same?"
(A brilliant question, if you ask me)
Cheerleader: (pause) "Well, we all have to have long hair." (another awkward pause)
All of this confirms my suspicion that we Americans are just as much a national laugh for the French as the frogs are for us. Here's a translation guide to French American Football, which took me a fair amount of time to figure out:
Rot-lees-bear-gurrr: Roethlisberger
'Asselbeck: Hasselbeck
Le wide réceveur: Wide Receiver
Les linebackeurs: Line Backers
The funniest thing being, I imagine that they gave the soccer (read: real football) commentators a half-assed explanation of American football and told them to cover the Super Bowl, so the tempo of the commentary is WAY too fast for a football game.
"And 'Asselback has the ball and he's GOING! ALLEZ! ALLEZ! (play ends). Oh. And another break."
All in all, I far prefer French American Football. There's only one thing that's worse about this Super Bowl:
French ads suck.
France 2, complete with French commentators (Where the hell did they find them?!) broadcast the Super Bowl live this Sunday. It's funny, it may be the first time I've laughed consistently throughout the big game. Without getting to the sheer absurdity of the coverage, let's just fast forward to the Half Time show.
In a room literally wallpapered with American flags, a popular TV host has two guests with him: A French comedian, and as best I can figure out, a large man who was just cast as "Random French Black guy." (RFBG) I mean, seriously. I think they just picked the largest man in the country, and were like, "Hey! You look like you could maybe be American! Go on TV!"
Host turns to RFBG and asks, "So what do you like about American Football?"
RFBG: "What I like about baseball is..."
(host interrupts: "no no, this is Football à l'Américain"). RFBG looks kind of surprised.
The Comedian then takes it upon himself: "I like the helmets. The helmets are cool."
I'm thinking I could've done a better half time show, until I see the mysterious Third Guest. YES, a real live NFL Cheerleader.
Tits McAmerica with flowing blond long hair comes on, and they continue to not bother to translate anything to her, so she sits there looking scared, as RFBG actually begins to put his head nearer and nearer to her shoulder. They finally work on translating some hard hitting questions to her, as soon as they figure out she can't speak French.
Host: "So, why are cheerleaders so pretty?" (montage of American cheerleaders in background) (Tits McAmerica's breasts pop farther and farther out of her top)
Cheerleader: "Umm (being dubbed over, simultaneously)..well...there's a lot of us out there, and you know, only some of us can become cheerleaders."
Host: "So why do you all look the same?"
(A brilliant question, if you ask me)
Cheerleader: (pause) "Well, we all have to have long hair." (another awkward pause)
All of this confirms my suspicion that we Americans are just as much a national laugh for the French as the frogs are for us. Here's a translation guide to French American Football, which took me a fair amount of time to figure out:
Rot-lees-bear-gurrr: Roethlisberger
'Asselbeck: Hasselbeck
Le wide réceveur: Wide Receiver
Les linebackeurs: Line Backers
The funniest thing being, I imagine that they gave the soccer (read: real football) commentators a half-assed explanation of American football and told them to cover the Super Bowl, so the tempo of the commentary is WAY too fast for a football game.
"And 'Asselback has the ball and he's GOING! ALLEZ! ALLEZ! (play ends). Oh. And another break."
All in all, I far prefer French American Football. There's only one thing that's worse about this Super Bowl:
French ads suck.
Saturday, January 14, 2006
French people say the darndest things
As I said to a friend recently, the only things I don't like about living abroad are:
1) School (in general)
2) French people.
An excerpt of the things I've heard in the past week out of the mouths of frogs:
1) "American's different than English. It's mixed with other languages."
-Taxi Driver, who was also drumming rapidly on his steering wheel while driving
2) FRANCE=CHARLES DEGAULLE=FRANCE AS COUNTRY OF VALIANT RESISTANCE
(Written on the chalkboard in class)
After seeing the look of shock and horror on my face, the professor had to add,
"Yes, it is only in France that this is taught."
3) "I'm sorry, can you type less loudly?"
-Girl in National Library.
I swear to god, it took *so much* willpower to mumble, "I'll try" instead of snapping her in two. (Yes, I could probably have done it quite easily)
4) NEW ADDITIONS to badly translated French-man texts:
"I kiss you very much!" (Je t'embrasse beaucoup, literally)
"I propose to you to take a coffee..." (Je te propose a prendre un cafe..)
That's all I've got for now, but expect a Part Deux, without a doubt. Cheers!
I leave you with a picture of THE CUTEST CAKE EVER MADE, seen in the Dalloyau store window:
1) School (in general)
2) French people.
An excerpt of the things I've heard in the past week out of the mouths of frogs:
1) "American's different than English. It's mixed with other languages."
-Taxi Driver, who was also drumming rapidly on his steering wheel while driving
2) FRANCE=CHARLES DEGAULLE=FRANCE AS COUNTRY OF VALIANT RESISTANCE
(Written on the chalkboard in class)
After seeing the look of shock and horror on my face, the professor had to add,
"Yes, it is only in France that this is taught."
3) "I'm sorry, can you type less loudly?"
-Girl in National Library.
I swear to god, it took *so much* willpower to mumble, "I'll try" instead of snapping her in two. (Yes, I could probably have done it quite easily)
4) NEW ADDITIONS to badly translated French-man texts:
"I kiss you very much!" (Je t'embrasse beaucoup, literally)
"I propose to you to take a coffee..." (Je te propose a prendre un cafe..)
That's all I've got for now, but expect a Part Deux, without a doubt. Cheers!
I leave you with a picture of THE CUTEST CAKE EVER MADE, seen in the Dalloyau store window:
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
How to apologize for vomiting on carpet.
Apparently, the more difficult and self-important my school gets, the more debauched my behavior gets.
Without getting into any details, here are the results of my
"How to apologize for vomit on a rug Poetry Contest";
Sorry I got so wild last nite
And my vomit on your carpet so white
I'll gladly give you some time,
Some elbow grease and some 4-0-9
-Jon Raviv, 2005
In other news, I'm feeling super bereft with the girls and Team Scheib gone:
Here are some are some photos of our winter Paris bender. Plus Canadians.
James being saluted by Nicolas after jumping in the Seine. Keep in mind it is also *December* at this point. Damn Canadians.
Team Awkward:
Note: Mikey is singing? yelling? in this picture and most of the others:
I see this view of the tower every day, but when you're drunk and it's New Year's and your friends are there it's pretty damn exciting.
MICHAEL SCHEIB IS A GOD
Bonne nuit, guys.
Without getting into any details, here are the results of my
"How to apologize for vomit on a rug Poetry Contest";
Sorry I got so wild last nite
And my vomit on your carpet so white
I'll gladly give you some time,
Some elbow grease and some 4-0-9
-Jon Raviv, 2005
In other news, I'm feeling super bereft with the girls and Team Scheib gone:
Here are some are some photos of our winter Paris bender. Plus Canadians.
James being saluted by Nicolas after jumping in the Seine. Keep in mind it is also *December* at this point. Damn Canadians.
Team Awkward:
Note: Mikey is singing? yelling? in this picture and most of the others:
I see this view of the tower every day, but when you're drunk and it's New Year's and your friends are there it's pretty damn exciting.
MICHAEL SCHEIB IS A GOD
Bonne nuit, guys.
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
And the bells were ringin' out for Christmas day
Nothing has been particularly *funny* as of late, except if you consider everything going really well for me to be kind of funny.
I've been happier than a pig in slop.
First, Dublin for Christmas. Amazing. I spent most of my time on Shauna's couch moaning about the superiority of Anglophone countries:
"French...cunting bastards...mmmmmm...English language....mmmm..."
Irish TV is a beautiful mixture of the best of American and British TV. Absolute heaven, after 5 channels of shitty French game shows. Shauna's family, The Sheehys, are the nicest, warmest folks, ever. In fact, My parents seemed kind of disturbed that I wasn't particularly homesick on Christmas eve.
Shauna lives in Bray, just outside of Dublin toward the coast, so on St. Stephen's day we went for a tour of the seaside towns of Dalkey, SandyCove, Killinerney (or something like this. Someone correct me). The vista inspired James Joyce's Ulysses and the entire town was marked with his literary-ness.
I won't drone on anymore. An Irish Christmas in pictures:
Shauna, doing her "BRAAAAAY" face.
(Bray: Dublin :: Ft.Lauderdale: Miami, except 1/100 of the scale)
Out in Bray, at the chipper's. This is, apparently, a place where French fries are sold.
Dalkey Harbour, on Dublin bay:
I love how desolate this picture is. More Dublin bay.
Sniff. I miss Delray's Seaspray.
Dalkey. Quaint like whoh.
Me and Arnie Pie on the streets of Dublin!
I've been happier than a pig in slop.
First, Dublin for Christmas. Amazing. I spent most of my time on Shauna's couch moaning about the superiority of Anglophone countries:
"French...cunting bastards...mmmmmm...English language....mmmm..."
Irish TV is a beautiful mixture of the best of American and British TV. Absolute heaven, after 5 channels of shitty French game shows. Shauna's family, The Sheehys, are the nicest, warmest folks, ever. In fact, My parents seemed kind of disturbed that I wasn't particularly homesick on Christmas eve.
Shauna lives in Bray, just outside of Dublin toward the coast, so on St. Stephen's day we went for a tour of the seaside towns of Dalkey, SandyCove, Killinerney (or something like this. Someone correct me). The vista inspired James Joyce's Ulysses and the entire town was marked with his literary-ness.
I won't drone on anymore. An Irish Christmas in pictures:
Shauna, doing her "BRAAAAAY" face.
(Bray: Dublin :: Ft.Lauderdale: Miami, except 1/100 of the scale)
Out in Bray, at the chipper's. This is, apparently, a place where French fries are sold.
Dalkey Harbour, on Dublin bay:
I love how desolate this picture is. More Dublin bay.
Sniff. I miss Delray's Seaspray.
Dalkey. Quaint like whoh.
Me and Arnie Pie on the streets of Dublin!
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