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."