The most war-nderful time of the year

Gift-giving can be tricky.

Inevitably, you will probably give or receive someone something awkward,"You don't like my 50 year old single malt..what's that you say? oh...AA?"

Instead of turning to a pauncy New York Times gift guide, let me stop you right there. Walking through my neighborhood the other day, I found a present that could cover all your gift-giving needs. For that special person in your life...

...



The deceased Tamil Tiger leader Velupillai Prabhakaran bejeweled oyster!

Just look at his soulful eyes just wishing you a happy holiday.
A happy holiday and an independent Tamil state.
The rhinestones around the frame really bring out that enchanting, mischevious (read: terrorist) glint in his eyes.

And who doesn't love oysters? I was just looking at my desk the other day, and thinking what I really needed was an ornamental gold oyster. But, how many ornamental gold oysters also double as shrines to deceased rebel group leaders? This is really a one of a kind, folks.

For the person in your life that has everything. Even a Yassir Arafat emerald-incrusted spoon rest.

Merry Christmas.

Jason Bourne's nagging mother.

I knew today was going to be a good day when I saw someone reading a book about psychopaths.

Riding to work on line 2, a woman was reading a photocopied book chapter entitled, "Comment punir un psychopathe" (How to punish a psychopath). Let's pause for a second to think about the fact that she had actually taken the effort to photocopy just this chapter of the book.

What could the book possibly have been called, "How to prepare for the eventuality of being trapped in a Stephan King movie?" How to freak out everyone around you in a public transport system?"

Some misplaced overly-curious urge wondered what would happen if I acted psychopathic in a very, very short period of time, but then I quickly realised that:

1) A highly-trained psychopath expert such as my neighobor would see through such faux psychopathy
2) I wouldn't want to test her newly-acquired psychopath-punishing skills. I couldn't get a good look at the book.
It may have involved crippling choke holds or, worse, very clever emotional blackmail:"What would your mother say!"

Arriving at work, I settled down to what was undoubtedly some very serious business.
Then an anonymous number flashes up. The ensuing conversation has made me rethink the systematic dilution of all risk-avoidance instincts that we call "friendship".

"Hey."

"I'm in Berlin."

"What!"

"I need you to wire me money".

"OK. How much?"

Why?! Why was this my first response? It's times like this when my generally-hidden but incredibly frightening mean side should kick in.
Said good friend, who will go by the letter "C", is one of those really overly careful types. Who considers scolding overly-trusting generally unconcerned people (like myself) to be a sport. I had never thought of 63 terrifying ways in which riding a metro could be dangerous until I met my friend C.

And what do I do when said friend travels without a bank card or his sacred, beloved iPhone?
I do not re-scold. That said, re-scolding is like re-gifting; all the fun is gone when someone calls you out on being that jerk that spreads around the misery.

I'm still sort of bitter about this borderline-motherly "oh my poor lamb" reflex. What an opportunity for mockery lost!
Well, luckily this is what blogs are for.

Here's lookin' at you, kid:



Epilogue:
It occured to me.

While a friend is someone to whom you would wire money, no questions asked - a good friend is someone who receives an accompanying telegram, saying:
"Don't think I'll ever let you forget this"

win'ah pansies! toofoafivah!

Prostitutes aside, people do often seem to resemble what they sell:

Princessy girls open over-priced clothing stores, and call them "boutiques."

Pierced, former courriers seem to always run bike shops.

But in a special place in East London, men like this..




..sell pansies:



How I missed you, Columbia Road!

Goodnight, sweet shirtless prince.

If the deaths of Farrah Fawcett, Michael Jackson, and Patrick Swayze haven't filled you with enough grieving for people you don't actually know, today we mourn the passing of another great.

On September 16, 2009, Filip Nikolic, 35, was found dead in his Parisian apartment.
Of course, you all know Filip from the greatest French contribution to music since Serge Gainsbourg, 2B3.

A friend explained this to me.

"Yes, you know, the group from the 90's..2B3."

[Increasingly well-known blank stare]

"Get it? It's a play on words. "

[crickets chirping]

"2B3.... TWO BE FFFRREE"

After a solid five minutes of hysterical laughter, I regained my composure and started thinking. This is quite possibly the most genius musical move of the past 15 years! A name that makes fun of French people's inability to pronounce the "th" sound? Sold BACK to them?
Their manager must have been English. I would like to shake that man's hand.

Now, I know it isn't fair to make fun of what a country produces out of its boy-band era, but we did manage to produce Justin Timberlake. Who is by all accounts, awesome. Pfff to you, other countries!

So then there's the music.

Behold, a three-man choreographed threat to every French man's masculinity:



I wish France had a "Behind the Music." I can just see it now. "For years, they trolled the streets, trying to sell their musical trio to chest-waxing salons across Europe..."

Blondgeist!

To: lufthansa.movie@dlh.de Date: 3 September 2009 10:38 Subject: Question regarding movie choice mailed-by gmail.com

Dear Sir, Madam,

On a recent Lufthansa flight from JFK to Frankfurt, ýour airline chose to screen the film "Hannah Montana: The Movie" raising a number of troubling questions about your airline´s opinion of its customers, not to mention, on a personal level, my threshold for such cinematic detritus as I watched the entire film.

You can imagine my relief when I saw this e-mail address appear after the film. Your answers to my questions may ease my annoyance at having lost 2 hours of brain function.

My first question would be, What, exacly, made Hannah Montana:The Movie appeal to the screening body responsible for such decisions? Was it the contrast between her stage personas Blondgeist and her "real" down-home Christian self? To this I might answer: if pop culture has taught us anything in the past decade it is that such a contrast cannot be trusted. Time and time we have been let down by such faux blonde purity. I need point you no farther than the Spears family.

Convincing as Ms. Montana may have been for your airline, I, much like my neighbors on this flight, was not impressed. The 7 year-old behind me was not soothed by her screeching pop ballads, and continued to kick my chair with much gusto. My neighbor to the left, a 75 year-old gentleman, was seemingly not entertained either, and continued talking to me throughout the 6 hour flight, mentioning on several occasions that his traveling companion was, in fact, just his sister.

In short, I hope that when I fly with Lufthansa in the future, your airline will show a minimum of discretion, and not aim for the lowest common denominator. We may travel Economy, but our standards are First Class.

As perplexed as I may have been by your choice of the Hannah Montana film, I would like to applaud the choice of two Disney cartoons from the 50´s. Especially deft was the choice of two films which do not rely on WWII or Cold War memes. Mazel Tov, Lufthansa, on a pleasant end to what would have otherwise been an entirely culturally insufferable voyage.

Thank you in advance for your consideration.

NB: To date, I haven't received a response. Stay tuned, dear readers.

Choose your own slum fight!

I've been working on my idiomatic expressions in French and in English. Some favorites include: "La goutte d'eau qui fait déborder le vase" (straw that broke the camel's back) and "Gourmand à table, gourmand au lit" (untranslatable).

For example, I sleep very deeply. In English, you might say, "I sleep like a log." I'm still searching for an equivalent in French, but I think the following two might work:

1) You sleep so deeply you Sleep through someone breaking into your kitchen window and throwing your favorite chinaware on the tile floor.

Our mutant bichon frisé-trailer-trash gardienne sent her little feline messenger of evil into our kitchen at 4 a.m. On its way in, the cat sent my two favorite mugs scattering onto the tile floor. I woke up to see my geeky Planets mug from the London Science Museum in big pieces. And then my heart shattered into a million pieces.

A special thanks goes to my roommate for waging a 30-minute staredown with the wee offender.

2) You sleep so deeply you Sleep through the shrieks of Chinese prostitutes, and a fist/knife fight.

NB: I woke up at some point, heard wailing, thought, "Wow, that person sounds like they are in distress!"...and promptly fell. Back. Asleep. This raises all sorts of troubling personal questions. Aboard a sinking titanic, I would have thought, "What luxury! I didn't realize this was a waterbed..oh, must be leaking...zzzzzzzzz."

To set the scene: Roommate 1 (R1) was on the courtyard-(ring)side of the apartment and Roommate 2 was overlooking the street. Houseguest LL was allegedly somewhere between the two, wondering how she was going to incorporate "street fights' into her postcards from Paris. Where was I, again? Blissfully snoring, clutching a pillow, in my room.

Using R1,R2, LL, and the Gardienne's versions of events, the story reads something like MadLibs. Did you ever read the "Choose your Own Adventure: Slum fight!" book? No?

Everyone woke up because two (Chinese/American Indian) men were punching each other in the courtyard. One fat Chinese prostitute was screaming, the other was wailing, and the last one was holding a man back. The men were fighting because (they are father and son/one caught the other with a Chinese prostitute/one was doing bad things to a Chinese prostitute/they were all high and it seemed like a good idea.)

Then various Tamil neighbors start throwing objects onto the offending group in the courtyard.

Plainclothes policemen arrive and arrest the first, long-haired (Chinese/American Indian) man.

Then, (the same man, released/the second man) comes back out onto the street, with a BOWSTAFF and KNIFE because he is (high out of his mind/looking to hunt large prey.) Bowstaff man then tries to stab (a shadow/unidentified individual) through a car. Promptly arrested.

Wailing ceases.

La Fin.

* This is most certainly not a generality about women of Chinese origin in our neighborhood. Our very nice landlord has often mentioned that there were these two ladies of the night in the building, and that she has contacted the police, thus helping us come to the conclusion that they have sex for money. Also, they dress like whores.

Oh sweetie, no.

There are only a handful of hard and fast fashion rules. They keep men from making bad sock choices, and women from wearing white shoes in winter. People follow these rules, and respectably-dressed society marches on.

The rest go unspoken, as if the world will understand and follow these rules out of common sense. This is a very foolish assumption.

The other day, a girl was sitting across from me in the metro. It was 80-90 degrees fahrenheit outside, and pushing 100 in the metro car. It is August.

This fine lady was wearing calf-high boots, no tights, short shorts and a RABBIT FUR VEST.

(While I understand French girls' sensibility to draughts, this is absurd. Furthermore, as any French girl knows, the way to catch a cold is through the throat. If you really are feeling a draught, cover up your neck immediately if you don't want to catch the plague.)

And to top it all off, she had bleached her naturally black hair..making it a putrid shade of orange/red. Between this and the pelt, she was the spitting image of ... Pebbles.

So, to the unfortunate girl in the métro: No, oh no, no, no. Perhaps it would be easier if we layed (laid?) out some ground rules. Shall we?

Uggs are slippers, not shoes. People do not wear slippers outside of the house, now DO THEY? The only situation that would require such intense slippers would be a combination of sub-zero temperatures and broken heating. Female residents of Long Island, this probably does not apply to you.

Africa pants are only acceptable in Africa. Preferably only worn by denizens of the great continent. NO EXCEPTIONS. I don't want to hear "but they're so comfortable." So is nudity. But that will get you arrested. Just like Africa pants should.

People who wear camel-toed shoes should be shot on sight. I understand these shoes are popular in China. Luckily, the Chinese government has no problem with fast and loose applications of the death penalty. I think we can find a common solution, here.

If we work together, we can build a future without girls like this:

Things French People Like.

I have knocked down the last domino to full expatriation.
Like The Blob digesting a small puppy, my music taste is slowly absorbing the library of Really Terrible French Pop Songs.

Instead of fleeing to the bar when one of the Really Terrible French Pop Songs (RTFPS) comes on, I find myself hurtling toward mobs of sweaty French people, one hand stretched to the sky and trumpeting; "Ouaaaaaaaaais!!"

Even worse, I quite earnestly sent the following song to a musically inclined friend, insisting, "It's so bad, it's good, right?" Oh no, 2009 Francesca, oh no it is not:



Then there's the biggest repeat offender of slimy French popdom.
"Rick Ocasek's Bodacious French Adventure with Blue mermaids and Cowbell."
Or, Les Rita Mitsouko. If I were the New York Times' The Moment blog, I might discuss how this song is fantastically refreshing amid the recession austerity of 2009. But, frankly, it's just crap. But,positively delightful merde at 4 a.m. after seven Martini Blancs.



UPDATE: I had always wondered just *how* I could best bring shame upon my family. Turns out, my brother has the answer:

"I have no words other than you should be ashamed. That music is terrible. Seriously. Terrible. And I bought a Madonna and a Cher single once. Seriously. Terrible."

Oh, Finland.

People often say that Finland is part of Scandinavia. Sorry, Finland. Finland is actually the creepy uncle that noone wants to invite to the Scandinavian family dinner.

Above and beyond the scores of Nordic death metal enthusiasts that flocked around Helsinki, I was just a little perplexed about these Finno-Ungric folk. Behold:

1. There's big fans of Susan Sontag...and there's the headliners of "PIG FEST 2009"(bottom left)



2. How to encourage your children not to use the playground? Build a playset that looks like the a slow, gruesome quicksand death of pacman:



3. When you just want a lighting solution that screams: OBEY!



4. I do love a man that is not afraid to wield a sledgehammer in the nude:



5. I can think of a number of things this poster makes we want to do (mostly involving crying or rocking back and forth in the fetal position) but "going to this museum" is not one of them:



6. No comment necessary:



7. Just out for a pleasure row in the middle of Helsinki's industrial harbor:



8. 11 P.M.



Admittedly, one of the most awesome sunsets I've ever seen. Here's to you, creepy uncle.

Rue Velupillaï Prabhakaran

I remember what it was like, living in a posh neighborhood. Two out-of-the-ordinary things happened in the entire 9 months I lived on Boulevard Emile Augier, in the 16th arrondissement.

I noticed that on the weekends, my decrepid (lazy?) neighbor would routinely to let her Bijon Frisé roam free around the block for hours at a time. I would frequently walk down my block to the sight of a dirty white puppy, trickling pee out of confusion and limping around the block in laps.

Then, walking to the bus one night, I noticed a pile of Lychee husks just shy of the trash can. I looked up and down the street, expecting to see a pile of Oyster shells littering the street and foie gras wrappers cluttering up the sewer drains. Ah yes, the dreaded Racaille du 16ème, I thought. I heard that once they threatened to throw a Taittinger bottle-Molotov cocktail, but then realized their parents were waiting for them at home, and they'd better not.

Things have changed a lot since I've moved to Rue du Faubourg St. Denis.

I now find myself defending my neighborhood like a protective mother of a serial killer:

"You just don't understand! But (he/it)'s always been such a nice (boy/neighborhood) !"

Our street, Rue du Faubourg St. Denis, is the epicenter of the French Tamil community (more on this later) and a stone's throw from Gare du Nord. Our apartment is one of my favorite addresses I've ever had. But, there may be a few drawbacks. Let's look at a pro/con list:

Pro: Very cheap rent.
Con: Our address is officially a Public health hazard. According to the decree from the city of Paris posted on our main door, there are exposed electrical wires in our main courtyard, and the third building of the complex is basically crumbling; (Pictures to come, but the group of Tamil youth who stand in front of the 3rd building have deterred me from taking photos). How crumbling? "Being entirely held up by a number of sturdy wooden beams" crumbling.

Con: One of the women from our building was involved in a stabbing that ended up in the courtyard. This would be more frightening were it not the woman that stabbed a man who had 'bothered' her on the street. (He was stabbed in the back and is apparently OK, and she got taken to police headquarters. Also, the 'randomness' of this event seems a little suspicious. Who carries around a switchblade in their purse at 6 p.m.? )

Pro: The fair and balanced commentary of our gardienne. Our gardienne is a drug-addled, mail-stealing creature of the Parisian underworld. She looks like an aged character from a sub-grade production of Les Misérables, with authentic 19th century hygiene. But I never had any actual proof that she was a horrible person until this happened.

Our delicate flower is seen here, hosing down blood after the incident:

When we asked what happened, she offered some delicately woven analysis:
"She's always been such a whore! She's always bringing men to her apartment!" When we asked who the guy was, she suggested that he was "Chinese" or "Arab" and then looked at us awkwardly like she wasn't pulling her least favorite ethnic minorities out of a hat...

Pro: A lively Tamil neighborhood and the best South Asian food I've ever had.

Con: Regularly-occuring violent protests. It's really sad what's happening in North Sri Lanka, and I support people's right to protest, so other than the one time that the tear gas started coming into our apartment, I have no real complaints here, actually. The same may not be said for the guy whose scooter was incinerated just down the block. Or the people who almost got involved in the Antillean/Tamil turf war that started also just outside our window after a recent protest:

(french po po, regulatin')

(We look on as Paris riot police bring the bleepin' ruckus)

But, really, it's a lovely place to live. Come visit?

Plastics: The bad trip.

This is a great example of the Disney cartoons that had a scarily deep impact on my conception of WWII industrial America. If you ask me how America won World War II, somewhere in my mind I'm imagining a small, pants-less cartoon duck welding planes.

Anyways, this is graphically and musically incredible. Also, I refuse to believe that the creators of this cartoon were not on any number of hallucinogens.

(With thanks to ECH for the link. I'll try to post more of these in the future.)

An Open Letter to Petit Bateau

Gentlemen,

I would like to start by thanking you for your contribution to the T-Shirt world. Your T-Shirts are sublime! They are worth clawing one's way through a Galeries Lafayettes sale. I once imported borderline illegal amounts for my friends in college.

But, see, we need to have a talk about your latest ad campaign:



Tell me, what EXACTLY are you going for here? OK, to be clear: it says 'Jazzmine 320 months" and "Paule 24 months"..oh yes may the scalloped edge T shirt reign forever!

...But to express the joy and longevity of your T shirts you use...possibly the two least desirable aspects of Parisian life: Cold women with bad haircuts and bratty children. Seriously?

Don't get me wrong, France, specifically Paris, has some damn adorable children. And they should; I can't think of any other country that has TWO competing children's fashion magazines. It's almost insulting to every legitimate American print media company that is on the verge of collapse. But in France? People are CLAMORING for fashion advice for their toddler. Spring's hottest accessory, your child!

Anyways, so most children run around with little red patent Mary Janes and Dior coats and are generally cute as a button. How did you get a 5 year old child to look so SURLY? I can just imagine the photo shoot:

"YES DARLING! YOU 'AVE JUST 'AD YOUR LOLLIPOP STOLEN! WORK IT! YOU are VVVVerrry CRANKY AND TIRED! YOU MISSED YOUR NAP! YES! YES!"

It makes me sad, guys. I have to pass this bilboard EVERY. SINGLE. DAY. I repeat: it makes me sad on my way to work on a daily basis. Can we get a look at the SIZE of it?



I feel a strange compulsion to discuss Sciences Po grades while smoking a cigarette with the girl on the left. And I just want to give that kid a hug. Both are sort of depressing. The only company that succeeds in depressing people into buying their clothes is Calvin Klein. That's merely because being hot and cranky makes a certain amount of sense; you're not being fed! You're being paid to look pouty and emaciated.

Sad emaciated models= high fashion.
Sad emaciated children= Calling children's services.

Anyways, but you know what makes me saddest of all? I just don't get it. I don't think I'll ever get it.
I'm worried I'll never look at this poster and think "Mais, bien sûr! Elles font la gueule, je m'achèterai un T shirt!"

I'm trying here, Petit Bateau. I am REALLY trying to integrate into France. WHY do you have to make this so hard for me? I want answers. Please.

And give your goddamn model a hair cut.

Très Cordialement,
FCH

Your February Reader's Digest.

It's February. Everyone is really miserable about the financial crisis.

These two things are bad enough without posting polemic topics.
Je vous propose, alors, quelque chose de soft.

YOUR FEEL-GOOD FEBRUARY BREAKDOWN:
1. Paris is experiencing a somehow-charming little windstorm, a very sexy tempête.
In its honor, a favorite childhood memory...Scandified:




2. Earlier in the winter, looking at a completely frozen Versailles, my first thought was "I would like to walk 30 minutes into this." In tow were Cesi and James, who have yet to forgive me. In truth, I was trying to find Marie Antoinette's little village, but we did find this:





The sight of Swans landing on ice is something pretty gorgeous. Also, ducks look even cuter when confused and walking on ice.

3. For no particular reason other than that making fun of our dear Cedric is an international sport:

[Open call for a good caption]

4. My new love, a small 50 something Ukelele player I have yet to speak to:

This video, as is their myspace page, does not do them justice, but they are an incredible live experience; many thanks to F for introducing them to me.
(Having issues uploading the video, but check them out on: www.myspace.com/jicbenjjouentgainsbourg )

5. Finally, in response to my last post, I was searching for anything on Larry David and racism (of which there is a bounty of Davidian hilarity), and found this:



See, doesn't Larry David make you feel all warm and fuzzy inside?

Someone get Nas on the phone.

I'm not sure what we were discussing, but I said to a friend the other day, "Wow, just when you thought France couldn't get any more racist" to which he replied, "No, I never doubted France could get more racist."

He was right:

So, I was on hold with the French secretariat of Overseas Territories the other day.

A quick global history recap: France still has its tentacles in a number of relatively sexy islands scattered across the Caribbean, Indian and Pacific Oceans, and has its linguistic imprint on half of Africa. Roughly.

So, the hold music is a pleasant classical symphony, and after 30 seconds, a voice tells me:

"You're listening to the Violin Concerto in G major of Chevalier de St. Georges... otherwise known as, "The Enlightened N----"*

I almost dropped the phone. Surely, I must have misunderstood. I mean, in a country with as many very obvious racial problems as France, they wouldn't consciously use this word on the hold service FOR THEIR (former) COLONIES. But, they did.

"So here's how it's gonna work: We'll keep you as a territory, give you the euro, and improve your economic conditions, but we get to use the name we did 300 years ago when we first enslaved and colonized you. Sorry!'

It gets better.
A trip to Wikipedia reveals that Joseph de Bologne, Chevalier de St. Georges, 1745-1799, was a hottie:


..And, "the first European composer of African origin." So, the son of a white plantation owner and a slave was freed and came to Europe and dominated in fencing and composing in the court at Versailles. Pretty sweet. But wait, you say, did he sign his works, "the Enlightened N----" ?

Nope. Quelle surprise!

The hold service simply needed to specify that he was otherwise known as "The Enlightened N----", for no determinable reason. There's a biography coming out with this title; a bunch of biographers seem to think it's appropriate. That's it.

I'm just saying I'm willing to guess he didn't go around calling himself that.


*the word, technically speaking, better translates to "Negro" and not the N word, but I think the point remains the same.

What a douche.

I received a forward the other day.

It was one of those, admittedly; fairly humorous “Men are so silly” forwards. And they are, girlfriend! It went along the lines of:

“Women showering: “Shampoo condition, exfoliate, scrub, blowdry, fluff, clean, exit bathroom”

Men showering: “Grunt; scratch balls, rince hair, leave shower, throw towel on bed. MEN ARE SO GROSS ISN’T THAT HILARIOUS.”

To begin with, I’m not as sure that there is a clean gender divide here. My wet towels seem to love to congregate on my bed, I shave my legs as little as possible, and I’m not a particularly fastidious conditioner-er.

Besides, without going into detail, I’ve had a fair few metrosexual boyfriends. Nosestrips and facial masks-type boyfriends. Anyways.

It occurred to me then that noone really has gone into Parisian showering habits:

IF YOU ARE LUCKY ENOUGH TO HAVE A SHOWER IN YOUR FLAT:

1. Turn on shower, stand outside shivering while water heats. Get spritzed by offshoots of faulty nozzle. Shiver.

2. Enter shower, hurt elbow closing plastic shower door. Hope said door doesn’t fall off.

3. Stand under trickling stream of nozzle. Try to imagine yourself getting clean. Never underestimate the power of positive thinking.

4. Apply shampoo, lather, bang elbows on plastic door. Ignore rapidly-forming bruises. Beauty (and Cleanliness) is pain.

5. Note soap suds slowly trickling down body. Double task! Who needs shower gel?

6. Feel fuzzy legs, grab razor. Begin awkard samba to try and reach legs in the 2 sq foot box in which you are standing.

7. Fall over. Get up, attempt shaving legs again, bending leg in ‘crouching stork’ position.

8. Legs half-shaven, feel hot water running out. Leave shower immediately. One leg shaven is as good as two.

9. Repeat process every 3-5 days.