Thursday, April 12, 2007
Dallas
How to explain the strange allure of this 1980s Faulknerian drama? In the words of another of my Dallas-obsessed friends, "if the TV show Dallas were a person, wouldn't you want to make love to them?"
Little puzzles
My dad, trying to open a bottle of milk we just bought at G20: "wow, everything in France is like a little puzzle you have to figure out!"
Me: "Welcome to my life."
Me: "Welcome to my life."
Monday, February 12, 2007
On the rue
If you are a French professor at the university of horror in Paris giving a class on 17th Century French Lit, Francophone Lit or French Cinema (or any other class imaginable with “French” in the title), it naturally follows that you will be unable to resist a brief treatise on American literature, film and culture from time to time. If this seems completely illogical, welcome to Paris. The more outlandishly bizarre your unchallenged statements about the US, the better.
Here are some of the facts I have learned about American culture according to French professors which will no doubt leave you with a big, “huh?”
· Ben Franklin, William Penn and Samuel Adams were Naturalist writers. And Zola wasn’t a real naturalist (I guess since he wasn’t an American politician, duh.)
· The 80s Eddie Murphy film Coming to America is an allegory to the life of Marcus Garvey.
· Political correctness in the US only exists in American universities.
· 60% of Americans support the war in Iraq (although we corrected the professor that actually 62% were against according to the last CNN poll).
· Phillip Lovecraft (gothy comic books for surly teenagers?) is a great contemporary American author and recommended reading according to my French cinema professor and he couldn’t believe that none of the three Americans in the class—all well out of their surly teens—had never read him.
· Frequently recurring experience, especially in cinema class: “blah blah blah great American film/text by [someone I’ve never heard of and not culturally important.] And the invariably following: “Oh, none of you American exchange students have ever seen/read it? Well, you need to read/see some American books/films and know your own culture.”
But this is not American Culture. This is a Weirdo French Intellectual Version of American Culture. It’s a sort of fascinating shadow culture populated by French-Canadians and what role have they played in the American national consciousness? They’re always just vaguely up north being polite, maybe even when they play hockey. This Great American Text/film was invariably written or directed by someone part French or with some sort of French influence which explains its obscurity at home. I remember that one—or possibly all—of these mystery Great Cultural Figures are named Jacques and I don’t remember their last names. They’re always men, of course.
But frankly, if it’s not Jack Kerouac, the only partially French famous American Cultural Figure I can think of, I don’t know who they’re talking about. Although he might not be obscure enough for them, I’m just waiting for one of the French professors to mention him. And call him Jacques.
Here are some of the facts I have learned about American culture according to French professors which will no doubt leave you with a big, “huh?”
· Ben Franklin, William Penn and Samuel Adams were Naturalist writers. And Zola wasn’t a real naturalist (I guess since he wasn’t an American politician, duh.)
· The 80s Eddie Murphy film Coming to America is an allegory to the life of Marcus Garvey.
· Political correctness in the US only exists in American universities.
· 60% of Americans support the war in Iraq (although we corrected the professor that actually 62% were against according to the last CNN poll).
· Phillip Lovecraft (gothy comic books for surly teenagers?) is a great contemporary American author and recommended reading according to my French cinema professor and he couldn’t believe that none of the three Americans in the class—all well out of their surly teens—had never read him.
· Frequently recurring experience, especially in cinema class: “blah blah blah great American film/text by [someone I’ve never heard of and not culturally important.] And the invariably following: “Oh, none of you American exchange students have ever seen/read it? Well, you need to read/see some American books/films and know your own culture.”
But this is not American Culture. This is a Weirdo French Intellectual Version of American Culture. It’s a sort of fascinating shadow culture populated by French-Canadians and what role have they played in the American national consciousness? They’re always just vaguely up north being polite, maybe even when they play hockey. This Great American Text/film was invariably written or directed by someone part French or with some sort of French influence which explains its obscurity at home. I remember that one—or possibly all—of these mystery Great Cultural Figures are named Jacques and I don’t remember their last names. They’re always men, of course.
But frankly, if it’s not Jack Kerouac, the only partially French famous American Cultural Figure I can think of, I don’t know who they’re talking about. Although he might not be obscure enough for them, I’m just waiting for one of the French professors to mention him. And call him Jacques.
Friday, February 02, 2007
Cecil's Report Card
As I recently got my grades for last semester, my cat's current caregiver (my dad) was inspired to give me his report card for the quarter June-January from his East Coast boarding school. He is progressing nicely:
FELINE ACADEMY, Fall, 2006 Evaluation for Cecil B. Gulpy, affectionately known as Cecil Burper His Greyness
Attendance: A-
Always present in house during the afternoon; one unexcused absence one night.
Cat Flap Mechanics: A
Operates flap efficiently.
Eating Etiquette: C-
Has difficulty discriminating his own bowl from that of other cat.
Hunting 101: F
Cannot locate, let alone capture, bird, mouse or moth. (Note: he has successfully caught one poor woodland creature since his fall report card was issued which will raise his hunting grade for the next marking period).
Human-feline Interrelationships: A
Shows affection to humans, especially to males.
Inter-feline Relationships: C
Tolerates fellow cat, but still evinces occasional pouncing and hissing.
Adaptive Ability: C
Slow to improvise, but reliable in habits.
Toilet Habits: D
Poos in neighbor's yard (editor's note: neighbor thankfully does not read my blog!)
Overall Grade: B
Clearly, an above average cat!
FELINE ACADEMY, Fall, 2006 Evaluation for Cecil B. Gulpy, affectionately known as Cecil Burper His Greyness
Attendance: A-
Always present in house during the afternoon; one unexcused absence one night.
Cat Flap Mechanics: A
Operates flap efficiently.
Eating Etiquette: C-
Has difficulty discriminating his own bowl from that of other cat.
Hunting 101: F
Cannot locate, let alone capture, bird, mouse or moth. (Note: he has successfully caught one poor woodland creature since his fall report card was issued which will raise his hunting grade for the next marking period).
Human-feline Interrelationships: A
Shows affection to humans, especially to males.
Inter-feline Relationships: C
Tolerates fellow cat, but still evinces occasional pouncing and hissing.
Adaptive Ability: C
Slow to improvise, but reliable in habits.
Toilet Habits: D
Poos in neighbor's yard (editor's note: neighbor thankfully does not read my blog!)
Overall Grade: B
Clearly, an above average cat!
Majoration Blues
At the moment, I have the every-type-of-blues, I think, but to anatomize foreign country depression, the specific blues in question refer to an evening out at the Salty Kiss jazz club that boasts free jam sessions on Monday nights. J-dogg and I proceeded upstairs to jazz land without having to pay a cover for entry-- jazz-tasic we thought. Then ubiquitous Surly Waiter brought us menus for drinks and there was something about 7 euros for the first drink. The word accompanying this information—a word I didn’t know—was majoration. Being an ever optimistic American who feels like, if there’s no cover, the jazz jam session really is free, I generously interpreted this foreign word with no near English cognate as something that would benefit me, a reduction on the first drink to get you to order more or to get people to come out on a Monday night. The fact that this word appeared twice on the menu was clearly French advertising encouraging us all to take advantage of the majoration. However, I asked surly waiter to make sure. What’s this majoration thing? Does it mean that the first drinks are only 7 euros? He indicated a positive response which he would later explain as meaning that he either hadn’t understood the question or that he had actually explained what a majoration was.
J-Dogg and I obviously ordered drinks that cost more than 7 euros to take advantage of the fabulous Monday night majoration offer. The jazz was great, the musicians were having a blast and started bantering with the audience a little. Everything was jazz club cool, and when my drink came like 4 hours after I’d ordered it, it was nothing extraodinary.
What was, however, extraordinary, was the 32 euro bill that came with our 2 over-iced-to-conserve-the –actual-alcohol-at-the-bar cocktails. The next time surly waiter delivered drinks I confidently told him there was a mistake and our bill should be 14 euros. He responded in surly fashion that, no, that was right because they added 7 euros to everyone’s first drink of the evening. This is what the “majoration” acutally meant, which I verified by asking random bar patrons. It comes from the verb to major, which in French means to increase. (What is that, secret code? Jazz club slang? I’d never heard it before and made a point of sharing the lexical discovery with all Americans in my masters program—grad school did not prepare me for the Parisian Jazz Club— so that they would avoid a similar fate and not embarrass themselves in front of visiting college friends—especially ones who told me upon arriving that my French must be great, thanks to graduate program and my 5 months in friendly and helpful, always willing to lend a hand when linguistic misunderstandings arise Paris).
After much arguing with surly waiter whose nickname was now surly drink-vending-under-false-pretenses-waiter, the explanation was that they added a drink surcharge to pay the musicians and that it was expected that everyone order a drink to make it worth the musicians’ time. This is the Beckettian logic that I have come to expect in France. Maybe the next time I’m at the post office they’ll say that stamps are free, but I have to buy the teller a sandwich. Instead of a sensible cover that everyone pays, there is an order an overpriced drink expectation. What if no one orders drinks—does surly French waiter kick them all out? Do the musicians not get paid and leave in a music diva hair-flipping huff or would they stay in the hopes that one person would order a drink which would allow them to split 7 euros 5 ways so that they could buy food for their children? What if you just stared at a menu for the duration of the concert and constantly pretended you were about to order something and then didn’t? “Who would create a system like that,” I find myself wondering about everything from jazz club prices to the post office (even when sandwiches are not involved) to the University of Paris.
How do you say majoration in French, my translator bar pal asked his friends after giving several synonyms in French—all of which I understood perfectly. Majoration, someone replied, the same word with an American accent. The bar found this hilarious—they’d downed several non-majoration drinks already. After my best Listen, Mister directed at false pretences waiter (“ecoutez, Monsieur”-- this is a French phrase that you can use either for very friendly or very angry situations—I did the angry face with it as I did not want to part with 16 euros for glass of ice with lots of ice, mint and a vague odor, if not much of a taste, of rum), I had to conclude, however, that if the money really went to the musicians that was ok, since they were very talented so I paid for it in my best sullen waiter way. I seriously considered signing: Your club sucks, you majoration bastards, instead of my name (it’s about as long) on their copy of the credit card receipt.
I thought back on the jazz jam session and imagined myself on stage playing a mournful “I just bought a 16 euro cocktail without realizing it and it was mainly just a glass of ice” saxophone riff and then explaining, that one’s called Majoration Blues. Before all the French-as-a-second-language patrons got their bills.
J-Dogg and I obviously ordered drinks that cost more than 7 euros to take advantage of the fabulous Monday night majoration offer. The jazz was great, the musicians were having a blast and started bantering with the audience a little. Everything was jazz club cool, and when my drink came like 4 hours after I’d ordered it, it was nothing extraodinary.
What was, however, extraordinary, was the 32 euro bill that came with our 2 over-iced-to-conserve-the –actual-alcohol-at-the-bar cocktails. The next time surly waiter delivered drinks I confidently told him there was a mistake and our bill should be 14 euros. He responded in surly fashion that, no, that was right because they added 7 euros to everyone’s first drink of the evening. This is what the “majoration” acutally meant, which I verified by asking random bar patrons. It comes from the verb to major, which in French means to increase. (What is that, secret code? Jazz club slang? I’d never heard it before and made a point of sharing the lexical discovery with all Americans in my masters program—grad school did not prepare me for the Parisian Jazz Club— so that they would avoid a similar fate and not embarrass themselves in front of visiting college friends—especially ones who told me upon arriving that my French must be great, thanks to graduate program and my 5 months in friendly and helpful, always willing to lend a hand when linguistic misunderstandings arise Paris).
After much arguing with surly waiter whose nickname was now surly drink-vending-under-false-pretenses-waiter, the explanation was that they added a drink surcharge to pay the musicians and that it was expected that everyone order a drink to make it worth the musicians’ time. This is the Beckettian logic that I have come to expect in France. Maybe the next time I’m at the post office they’ll say that stamps are free, but I have to buy the teller a sandwich. Instead of a sensible cover that everyone pays, there is an order an overpriced drink expectation. What if no one orders drinks—does surly French waiter kick them all out? Do the musicians not get paid and leave in a music diva hair-flipping huff or would they stay in the hopes that one person would order a drink which would allow them to split 7 euros 5 ways so that they could buy food for their children? What if you just stared at a menu for the duration of the concert and constantly pretended you were about to order something and then didn’t? “Who would create a system like that,” I find myself wondering about everything from jazz club prices to the post office (even when sandwiches are not involved) to the University of Paris.
How do you say majoration in French, my translator bar pal asked his friends after giving several synonyms in French—all of which I understood perfectly. Majoration, someone replied, the same word with an American accent. The bar found this hilarious—they’d downed several non-majoration drinks already. After my best Listen, Mister directed at false pretences waiter (“ecoutez, Monsieur”-- this is a French phrase that you can use either for very friendly or very angry situations—I did the angry face with it as I did not want to part with 16 euros for glass of ice with lots of ice, mint and a vague odor, if not much of a taste, of rum), I had to conclude, however, that if the money really went to the musicians that was ok, since they were very talented so I paid for it in my best sullen waiter way. I seriously considered signing: Your club sucks, you majoration bastards, instead of my name (it’s about as long) on their copy of the credit card receipt.
I thought back on the jazz jam session and imagined myself on stage playing a mournful “I just bought a 16 euro cocktail without realizing it and it was mainly just a glass of ice” saxophone riff and then explaining, that one’s called Majoration Blues. Before all the French-as-a-second-language patrons got their bills.
Monday, January 08, 2007
The Downwards-Facing-Dog Yoga Promise of 2007
Holding your arms outstretched in a New Year’s day (or any day) yoga class for 11 minutes is painful. But the arm pain was supposed to symbolize toxins and anger that you were purging from your body and that you wouldn't take with you to the next year. I was definitely more relaxed after yoga, but we’ll see if it’s an anger and toxin-free year... I remain guardedly optimistic rather than flat out skeptical.
The Best Vacation Ever
I’m back in Paris now where the classes haven’t yet started again, so this means museum time and tourism, both activities to be well documented in the blogosphere. (Hopefully, no more about libraries and final exams as I try to balance student life and actual life better this semester and to resist the obsessive time suck of misguided attempts to making my thesis perfect).
Highlights of winter vacation were, in no particular order:
1. Seeing snow in Boston.
2. Seeing a local indie band called The Snowleopards in Boston. They are possibly the only band in America to be influenced by Heart, so of course they rock.
3. Despite the snowiness in Boston, daffodils were blooming in Delaware to illustrate global warming, drastic climate changes and how only Al Gore can help us now. I saw An Inconvenient Truth and it was amazing-- Al shares his passion, charisma (yes, really) and the most awesome powerpoint presentation ever.
4. Seeing the Longwood Gardens Christmas display. This is just a magically beautiful garden bedecked in Christmas lights for the holidays that is a regional-national-international-intergalactic treasure. If you don’t find yourself near South Eastern PA, here’s a link to their website for pretty photos/ http://www.longwoodgardens.org/.
5. Seeing my parents’ Christmas tree, which was very Longwood Gardens itself.
6. Seeing my whole family, in general, and spending a lot of time with them. My dad was on break between semesters (ah, the life of a teacher) and always down for a trip to the coffee shop (see number 9) and my mom reduced her crazy busy schedule and even cancelled a meeting! (To put this in perspective, she’s the director and sole employee of a non-profit social justice organization, so she really does it all, since there’s no one else, and she has her hands full with all the injustices of the current administration. Bush is really putting peace activist groups to work).
7. Seeing my cat again, although he is now in love with my dad—guess who feeds him now? What am I, Cecil, something chopped and vegetarian, since chopped liver would probably be appealing to cats? Since they are so easily won over by food.
8. The new ICA in Boston. Modern art that’s playful, makes you think about it and…actually artistic. No bricks or wads of chewing gum as objects of found art to ask ‘what is art’ or anything.
9. Drinking coffee at Brew Ha Ha in Delaware. And they have Peet’s (best California coffee ever) on the east coast now.
10. Eating lotus cakes in Chinatown in Philly.
11. Talking to my bay area best friend who is all kinds of fabulous.
12. The prospect of having visitors next semester!
Lowlights were:
1. Being sick, but to prevent it from being too low, it was nice that was that it was at my parents’ house where they were very sympathetic and medically equipped with the vitamin C and the robitussin.
2. Flying Paris-Philly and back via Chicago-- which is not actually on the way.
3. Realizing when we were practically at the airport on the way to Chicago/Paris that I left my iPod charging in my parents’ kitchen. How to endure public transit and attempts to go jogging now?
Highlights of winter vacation were, in no particular order:
1. Seeing snow in Boston.
2. Seeing a local indie band called The Snowleopards in Boston. They are possibly the only band in America to be influenced by Heart, so of course they rock.
3. Despite the snowiness in Boston, daffodils were blooming in Delaware to illustrate global warming, drastic climate changes and how only Al Gore can help us now. I saw An Inconvenient Truth and it was amazing-- Al shares his passion, charisma (yes, really) and the most awesome powerpoint presentation ever.
4. Seeing the Longwood Gardens Christmas display. This is just a magically beautiful garden bedecked in Christmas lights for the holidays that is a regional-national-international-intergalactic treasure. If you don’t find yourself near South Eastern PA, here’s a link to their website for pretty photos/ http://www.longwoodgardens.org/.
5. Seeing my parents’ Christmas tree, which was very Longwood Gardens itself.
6. Seeing my whole family, in general, and spending a lot of time with them. My dad was on break between semesters (ah, the life of a teacher) and always down for a trip to the coffee shop (see number 9) and my mom reduced her crazy busy schedule and even cancelled a meeting! (To put this in perspective, she’s the director and sole employee of a non-profit social justice organization, so she really does it all, since there’s no one else, and she has her hands full with all the injustices of the current administration. Bush is really putting peace activist groups to work).
7. Seeing my cat again, although he is now in love with my dad—guess who feeds him now? What am I, Cecil, something chopped and vegetarian, since chopped liver would probably be appealing to cats? Since they are so easily won over by food.
8. The new ICA in Boston. Modern art that’s playful, makes you think about it and…actually artistic. No bricks or wads of chewing gum as objects of found art to ask ‘what is art’ or anything.
9. Drinking coffee at Brew Ha Ha in Delaware. And they have Peet’s (best California coffee ever) on the east coast now.
10. Eating lotus cakes in Chinatown in Philly.
11. Talking to my bay area best friend who is all kinds of fabulous.
12. The prospect of having visitors next semester!
Lowlights were:
1. Being sick, but to prevent it from being too low, it was nice that was that it was at my parents’ house where they were very sympathetic and medically equipped with the vitamin C and the robitussin.
2. Flying Paris-Philly and back via Chicago-- which is not actually on the way.
3. Realizing when we were practically at the airport on the way to Chicago/Paris that I left my iPod charging in my parents’ kitchen. How to endure public transit and attempts to go jogging now?
Friday, December 15, 2006
The most surreal exam period of my life
No one—not even the professor—knew if there was a final for my class at Univ. of Paris III. He told us that all he knew was that the Comp. Lit. department had asked him for a question and he’d given them one and if any student needed another grade (2 were required), we should ask the Comp. Lit. office when and where we could take the final. Because heaven forfend the professor should be familiar with requirements for his own class or even arrive to teach it every week. I mean, what do we want from him? Blood?
As far as I can tell, the Comp. Lit. office is one evil troll woman who spends all her time smoking and insulting American students, making her a rather typical Parisian and someone whom I try to avoid.
One of our readings for my French society class posed the question, is the French University system in crisis? I would have to reply yes. My prof. at Paris III cancelled our class 6 times during the semester and 3 of those times he just didn’t show up—no announcement in advance, no message left with Evil Troll so that she could put a note on the classroom door. And the times he showed up, we never, not once, actually discussed the books on the syllabus for the semester. Tales of Paris III: a friend of mine had a Prof. who showed up an hour late for their final. Another friend of mine has a class at Paris III that had to move to another room for the 2nd half of the class each day they met because there weren’t enough available classrooms or chairs for all the students and classes offered on Wednesdays. The professors all also have to bring their own erasers for the black board and apparently, their presence, like the elusive final exam schedule, is optional.
Other finals absurdities: the question for my French society class was: is France capable of reform? (Can we just reply, “no” and leave, someone asked?)
The question for my grammar class was: is the massive use of cell phones due to the fear of loneliness? During the exam, a bunch of people got calls on their cells, no doubt from the fearful and lonely ready to provide the three required examples for the first part of the essay.
I swear, I will become a philosopher simply by taking exams in France.
And how does one answer questions like these? Not like a normal human being.
Below is an example of a good thesis-antithesis-synthesis essay. You start with a general phrase, form a “problematique,” then announce the organization of the essay (which should be always 2 or 3 parts each with 3 sub parts) and then conclude. I swear, this is really the norm for an argumentative essay in which you are asked to give your opinion. It's a form of writing that is still strange to me, but I'm getting used to it-- now it's kind of fun (instead of horrifying) to force the 2-part essay vision on every single question on earth.
Example:
The sky has fascinated man for ages and has formed both our concept of the divine (the heavens) and our vision of reality (the science of astronomy). Many claim that it is blue in color, but how do human beings interpret color and are we capable of understanding the natural world? Can one really say that the sky, as we know it, is blue? In a formulaic 2-part essay, each with 3 sub parts, we will first consider evidence supporting this claim, then we will look at evidence to the contrary.
Yes, the sky is blue (3 specific examples).
We may think that they sky is blue, but we are wrong (3 specific examples).
In conclusion, the sky is and is not blue. And rather than ending on a conclusive note, we will now broaden our question to invite the reader to think about something else similar yet also completely different, for example, is the grass really green?
As far as I can tell, the Comp. Lit. office is one evil troll woman who spends all her time smoking and insulting American students, making her a rather typical Parisian and someone whom I try to avoid.
One of our readings for my French society class posed the question, is the French University system in crisis? I would have to reply yes. My prof. at Paris III cancelled our class 6 times during the semester and 3 of those times he just didn’t show up—no announcement in advance, no message left with Evil Troll so that she could put a note on the classroom door. And the times he showed up, we never, not once, actually discussed the books on the syllabus for the semester. Tales of Paris III: a friend of mine had a Prof. who showed up an hour late for their final. Another friend of mine has a class at Paris III that had to move to another room for the 2nd half of the class each day they met because there weren’t enough available classrooms or chairs for all the students and classes offered on Wednesdays. The professors all also have to bring their own erasers for the black board and apparently, their presence, like the elusive final exam schedule, is optional.
Other finals absurdities: the question for my French society class was: is France capable of reform? (Can we just reply, “no” and leave, someone asked?)
The question for my grammar class was: is the massive use of cell phones due to the fear of loneliness? During the exam, a bunch of people got calls on their cells, no doubt from the fearful and lonely ready to provide the three required examples for the first part of the essay.
I swear, I will become a philosopher simply by taking exams in France.
And how does one answer questions like these? Not like a normal human being.
Below is an example of a good thesis-antithesis-synthesis essay. You start with a general phrase, form a “problematique,” then announce the organization of the essay (which should be always 2 or 3 parts each with 3 sub parts) and then conclude. I swear, this is really the norm for an argumentative essay in which you are asked to give your opinion. It's a form of writing that is still strange to me, but I'm getting used to it-- now it's kind of fun (instead of horrifying) to force the 2-part essay vision on every single question on earth.
Example:
The sky has fascinated man for ages and has formed both our concept of the divine (the heavens) and our vision of reality (the science of astronomy). Many claim that it is blue in color, but how do human beings interpret color and are we capable of understanding the natural world? Can one really say that the sky, as we know it, is blue? In a formulaic 2-part essay, each with 3 sub parts, we will first consider evidence supporting this claim, then we will look at evidence to the contrary.
Yes, the sky is blue (3 specific examples).
We may think that they sky is blue, but we are wrong (3 specific examples).
In conclusion, the sky is and is not blue. And rather than ending on a conclusive note, we will now broaden our question to invite the reader to think about something else similar yet also completely different, for example, is the grass really green?
Friday, December 08, 2006
Libraries and Algeria: 2 weeks of finals
If you’re wondering how I’ve been spending my time in the city of light, the answer is in the dark-- or at least dimly lit libraries or in front of my computer, or both at the same time when my laptop accompanies me to my beloved BNF. This is a shame, because I’ve heard from people not enslaved to academia that Paris, where I live, is a fun city... In an internet version of the Bryn Mawr College “done is good” credo, something that hasn’t crossed my mind in the past 6 years since I graduated, as of today, I’ve taken 2 exams and handed in 3 papers (2 of which were French paper records for me at 13 pages). I have yet to finish another 12-pager and take 3 exams, the last of which is the slightly terrifying subject of 19th century French History from the revolution to the resistance.
The 19th of December (the day of my last final) will indeed be a happy day, which I am starting to imagine as a date nearly as monumental and liberating for me as the day France recognized Algerian independence (one of my essays was on the conquest of Algeria).
The 19th of December (the day of my last final) will indeed be a happy day, which I am starting to imagine as a date nearly as monumental and liberating for me as the day France recognized Algerian independence (one of my essays was on the conquest of Algeria).
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
Charmed Life
The show Charmed is always on French TV. You know, an Aaron Spelling creation that used to star Shannon Dogherty before she was too bitchy to work with. Skinny chicks fighting evil in halter tops. In English, they use “vanquish” as a noun to refer to saving innocent people, or killing bad guys with a ball of fire thing that is way less cool than Buffy vampires that disintegrate instantaneously. Frankly, I don’t really know what they say in French for “a vanquish,” because most of the time they just pout and plot against an evil wizard or something named Cole who is in love with Phoebe.
General rule: shows about witches are lame. Sabrina couldn’t even make a talking cat interesting.
Whenever I get home and turn on the TV, there they are, the annoying glamour witches who run a nightclub in San Francisco in their spare time, drive a BMW SUV and own (yes, own) a Victorian in SF, obtained no doubt by magic. But every show includes a shot of the Golden Gate Bridge and sometimes the skyline (which should have the Christmas lights up now) to imply a realism that obviously is not present in all areas of the show, like the witchcraft part. Every once in a while I’ll actually watch these silly night club witches just to see the Transamerica pyramid.
General rule: shows about witches are lame. Sabrina couldn’t even make a talking cat interesting.
Whenever I get home and turn on the TV, there they are, the annoying glamour witches who run a nightclub in San Francisco in their spare time, drive a BMW SUV and own (yes, own) a Victorian in SF, obtained no doubt by magic. But every show includes a shot of the Golden Gate Bridge and sometimes the skyline (which should have the Christmas lights up now) to imply a realism that obviously is not present in all areas of the show, like the witchcraft part. Every once in a while I’ll actually watch these silly night club witches just to see the Transamerica pyramid.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
The Hit Film Poltergay
You can’t be cultural and sophisticated all the time…
The other night, friends of mine went to the opera to see Cosi Fan Tutte. I also headed towards the opera, but to the cinema near the opera house to see a French film that just came out. If you, like most Americans, think that “foreign film” equals “art house, intellectual and thought-provoking,” then I am very sorry to shatter that illusion.
I saw a film called “Poltergay.”
It is the story of five ghosts who haunt a house built on the hallowed ground of a gay disco that tragically burned down in the 70s. They are now trapped there for eternity as poltergeists due to some magic stones with a vaguely defined electromagnetic force that keep them there. You may be shocked to learn that no one actually recommended this film to me, but I saw it based on the strength alone of the movie posters with a tagline that roughly translates into “phantoms or fantabulous?” Yes, for a girl from San Francisco who, on occasion, spent Halloween in the Castro, it was irresistible.
Spoiler alert. Stop reading if you don’t want a plot synopsis of this important cinematic achievement. (Or: I am not kidding that this is a real movie in theaters everywhere in France).
The short version:
It’s your basic boy sees ghosts, boy loses girl, boy wins her back and opens a nightclub.
The long version:
A straight couple moves into a gay haunted house. Rainbow colored fog foreshadows ensuing creepiness. The cat senses the otherworldly presence—perhaps she sees the fog— and spends the entire film caterwauling. The ghosts do silly things like play disco music, photograph the male lead’s naked ass, paint winged penis insignias on everything, arrange his closet and iron his pants, even his jeans. There’s some psychological drama wherein the male lead thinks he’s losing his mind, since only he can see gay disco ghosts. This prompts his archeologist girlfriend to leave him and he then seeks professional help. The professional help tells him he’s a repressed homosexual, so he trolls a gay club but doesn’t go though with a hook up. He loses his job, too and the antagonistic ghosts start to feel sorry for him.
He decides it is time to Take Action. So he does a google search and discovers that his house was once a disco that burned down. He then calls a German parapsychologist who appears on his doorstep 2 seconds later and is always eating McDonalds. He also discovers that his ability to see the gay ghosts actually reaffirms his heterosexuality since only virgins, who are, according to the film, men who haven’t ever been with another man, can see them. His best friend can’t see them even though he’s straight, but the film explains this inconsistency in that he is not pure because he is a fireman, which is (I discovered later) a Bawdy Pun, since the word for fireman in French is also slang for blow job.
And you thought the film had nothing to teach us.
The male lead and the ghosts then drive into Paris with the magic stones that are the source of their poltergeist power and seem portable enough, and take a tour of Paris gay clubs. But, oh, no, the ghosts become weak and hover near whatever ontological state describes the demise of a ghost. The German parapsychologist explains, in an emergency cell phone conference while he waits in line at a drive-thru, that the ghosts will disappear forever if they and their magic stones are not returned to the house by 5 am, since that was the time of the Tragic Disco Fire. It wasn’t clear if he just forgot to mention that earlier, or if he were deliberately plotting against them and then had a royale with cheese-induced change of heart. (Yes, Pulp Fiction will get a mention in every single blog).
The male lead piles the ghosts into a wheelbarrow and into his car and speeds back to home sweet haunted home, but he gets stopped by the police, one of whom is evidently not a fireman and sees the ghosts, and they let him go. But after this delay, edge of your seat suspense— will they make it back in time?
Yes, don’t worry, the ghosts are fine. Quel relief.
After the Drama That Solidifies Friendship, next along in the plot line is the Effort To Win The Girlfriend Back. The ghosts help and it becomes a French version of Queer Eye for the Straight and Not Dead Guy. They write a love letter to his lady and quote Cocteau. They sew him a shirt out of a floral curtain, cook a great dinner and prompt him with conversation topics since he can hear and see them and his girlfriend can’t. They show him how to dance the salsa with his lady, tell him when to try to kiss her and cheer him on when he hooks up with her later that night. Seriously, all men should be so lucky to have gay French ghosts to give them dating tips.
But, plot twist, one of the ghosts records himself on the girlfriend’s digital camcorder and she can see the ghost when she replays the segment! They’re not vampires after all, so why not show up on digital film? After this discovery, the happy couple, now united in their perception of disco ghosts, open a gay paranormal nightclub in their basement where all the ghosts are visible on TV screens and can communicate and make out with the living, even the firemen.
The other night, friends of mine went to the opera to see Cosi Fan Tutte. I also headed towards the opera, but to the cinema near the opera house to see a French film that just came out. If you, like most Americans, think that “foreign film” equals “art house, intellectual and thought-provoking,” then I am very sorry to shatter that illusion.
I saw a film called “Poltergay.”
It is the story of five ghosts who haunt a house built on the hallowed ground of a gay disco that tragically burned down in the 70s. They are now trapped there for eternity as poltergeists due to some magic stones with a vaguely defined electromagnetic force that keep them there. You may be shocked to learn that no one actually recommended this film to me, but I saw it based on the strength alone of the movie posters with a tagline that roughly translates into “phantoms or fantabulous?” Yes, for a girl from San Francisco who, on occasion, spent Halloween in the Castro, it was irresistible.
Spoiler alert. Stop reading if you don’t want a plot synopsis of this important cinematic achievement. (Or: I am not kidding that this is a real movie in theaters everywhere in France).
The short version:
It’s your basic boy sees ghosts, boy loses girl, boy wins her back and opens a nightclub.
The long version:
A straight couple moves into a gay haunted house. Rainbow colored fog foreshadows ensuing creepiness. The cat senses the otherworldly presence—perhaps she sees the fog— and spends the entire film caterwauling. The ghosts do silly things like play disco music, photograph the male lead’s naked ass, paint winged penis insignias on everything, arrange his closet and iron his pants, even his jeans. There’s some psychological drama wherein the male lead thinks he’s losing his mind, since only he can see gay disco ghosts. This prompts his archeologist girlfriend to leave him and he then seeks professional help. The professional help tells him he’s a repressed homosexual, so he trolls a gay club but doesn’t go though with a hook up. He loses his job, too and the antagonistic ghosts start to feel sorry for him.
He decides it is time to Take Action. So he does a google search and discovers that his house was once a disco that burned down. He then calls a German parapsychologist who appears on his doorstep 2 seconds later and is always eating McDonalds. He also discovers that his ability to see the gay ghosts actually reaffirms his heterosexuality since only virgins, who are, according to the film, men who haven’t ever been with another man, can see them. His best friend can’t see them even though he’s straight, but the film explains this inconsistency in that he is not pure because he is a fireman, which is (I discovered later) a Bawdy Pun, since the word for fireman in French is also slang for blow job.
And you thought the film had nothing to teach us.
The male lead and the ghosts then drive into Paris with the magic stones that are the source of their poltergeist power and seem portable enough, and take a tour of Paris gay clubs. But, oh, no, the ghosts become weak and hover near whatever ontological state describes the demise of a ghost. The German parapsychologist explains, in an emergency cell phone conference while he waits in line at a drive-thru, that the ghosts will disappear forever if they and their magic stones are not returned to the house by 5 am, since that was the time of the Tragic Disco Fire. It wasn’t clear if he just forgot to mention that earlier, or if he were deliberately plotting against them and then had a royale with cheese-induced change of heart. (Yes, Pulp Fiction will get a mention in every single blog).
The male lead piles the ghosts into a wheelbarrow and into his car and speeds back to home sweet haunted home, but he gets stopped by the police, one of whom is evidently not a fireman and sees the ghosts, and they let him go. But after this delay, edge of your seat suspense— will they make it back in time?
Yes, don’t worry, the ghosts are fine. Quel relief.
After the Drama That Solidifies Friendship, next along in the plot line is the Effort To Win The Girlfriend Back. The ghosts help and it becomes a French version of Queer Eye for the Straight and Not Dead Guy. They write a love letter to his lady and quote Cocteau. They sew him a shirt out of a floral curtain, cook a great dinner and prompt him with conversation topics since he can hear and see them and his girlfriend can’t. They show him how to dance the salsa with his lady, tell him when to try to kiss her and cheer him on when he hooks up with her later that night. Seriously, all men should be so lucky to have gay French ghosts to give them dating tips.
But, plot twist, one of the ghosts records himself on the girlfriend’s digital camcorder and she can see the ghost when she replays the segment! They’re not vampires after all, so why not show up on digital film? After this discovery, the happy couple, now united in their perception of disco ghosts, open a gay paranormal nightclub in their basement where all the ghosts are visible on TV screens and can communicate and make out with the living, even the firemen.
Gardens, Airport Security and Beer: the BNF (National Library of France)
The library, you’re thinking, not an exciting topic for a blog. You were maybe hoping for the sex museum or just lots of photos of the Eiffel Tower.
But don't discount the BNF. It’s a wonder of the world, according to François Mitterand, who it is conveniently named after. With its extensive archives, and majestic halls, this cultural treasure could be the subject of a documentary film.
The library is recognizable as such in that it's a building that houses books all with Dewey decimal call numbers and a computerized catalogue. The part that becomes a little Waiting for Godot is that the library is organized not by floor number (e.g., first, second), but by proximity to a garden. The top floor is above- the-garden, the lower floor is garden-level, etc.
The garden-centric system of organization seems about as logical as arranging flavors of coffee by their relation to toothpaste, or, I don’t know, spider webs.
You might wonder why there is a garden at the library. The library is constructed as a large rectangle with an arboretum in the middle with actual trees imported from the countryside so that you can look out the window and admire them while you walk along the red-carpeted corridor to get from one reading room to another. You can’t actually see the garden from any of the hunting lodge-like luxury dens that are the reading rooms. These are dark and gloomy spaces with no natural lighting and plush carpeting that are slightly reminiscent of fading grandeur and drawing rooms of the aristocracy, had they ever entertained 221 readers at once. To enter each reading room, you have to insert your library card into a metro station-like turnstile because, why not apply the innovations of the public transit system to the library? Since there's already a garden there. I will say that the reading rooms are at least in alphabetical order instead of organized around a random natural phenomenon to keep with the garden theme like, say, types of birds, except that salle D is inexplicably before salle A.
To obtain a library card, you're lucky if the books you need are above the garden. This is the part of the library that is accessible to the public. For a fee, of course. The library is not free, perhaps because they have to pay the gardeners, and it was, after all, a 2 billion Euro construction project. Also, like all libraries in France, you cannot borrow books, but just read them there. All books in French libraries are reference books and the libraries function more like archives. At the BNF, there are also specific rules about how many pages of a 100-page book you are allowed to photocopy (at your expense, of course), assuming that the condition of the book is such that it will not disintegrate on the spot if you try to copy it. Thankfully, as a literature student, I only need above-the-garden access, but we are not all so lucky.
My friend Corrine needed garden-level access, so we went to the library, first to the main desk, then to the desk where they directed us. There, we took a number and were to wait until a library teller in a row of bank window-like cubicles was available. Our teller was super nice—most of the staff at the BNF is. They realize that their library was designed by aliens and makes no sense to anyone else and are very helpful and patient. Corinne showed her the printouts from the catalogue proving that the books she needed were on garden level, her student ID and a photocopy of her passport and the teller explained to us that:
1. If the book you need exists in any other library in Paris, you have to go there because the BNF is a library of last resort. She cross checked Corry’s records and found some other libraries with the same books. Other libraries are way more normal than the BNF, so it is not a problem to go elsewhere, to libraries without gardens.
2. You need a letter from your research director as proof that you are a real student writing a real dissertation who has a real need for these books.
3. You need a valid ID, which in France means your passport. And a photocopy is not acceptable.
4. You are not allowed to photograph books with a digital camera, place a water bottle on the desk at the library, only on the ground, or smoke in the library. This last warning was unnecessary for us. As Americans, we are habituated to not smoking in the public places where the French smoke, like restaurants and the metro station.
Despite the fact that Corry didn’t have her attestation from her research director or her actual passport, our friendly librarian took pity on us and gave her 2 cards, one for above-the-garden where some of her books were and one for the elusive garden level. Each card was good for 15 visits, so Corry will have to keep count of them. The library teller also explained the rules of the garden-level. There are many of them and it’s very complex, especially in a foreign language.
1. You have to check your bag, coat and personal affairs above the garden. In an airport security-like measure, you can only take what you need in a clear plastic bag. I didn’t ask about liquids.
2. You have to order your books and they bring them to you. No browsing in the stacks for ordinary people on the garden-level. You can expect to wait up to 45 minutes for your books.
3. Or you can plan ahead and reserve a computer and order your book in advance, especially if it exists in digital form and then it will absolutely be there for you. Unless the library goes on strike or something, which happens with alarming frequency.
4. If you leave the garden-level temporarily, you have to tell a warden/guard/footman. Otherwise you will Lose Your Place There.
She took Corry’s info for her 2 library cards and gave her probably about 100 brochures explaining the BNF and the quirks of each garden level. Then we had to go back to another desk to take another number and wait to be called back to the same row of tellers so that Corry could have her picture taken for the card. In typical 2nd language confusion that arrives daily, we had only a vague understanding of this repeat number-taking and I ended up asking the new desk person what the number she’d just given us was for, again. After about a 4-second wait, they called the number and Corry is now the proud owner of the blurriest BNF photo ever which the photographer assured her was supermodel quality. While they issued her the library card at this desk, we had to go to another desk, the original desk where we’d started, for the second card and to pay for it. Perhaps it was the influence of the garden, but I felt like we were a pair of ducks waddling to and fro, searching for bread crumbs or library cards.
At the other desk, there was a problem with the computer system, “merde, merde, merde”, exclaimed our librarian and then she excused herself. French cursing really doesn’t bother me; it’s just like any other word, like paint or trousers. I didn’t grow up with French curse words as taboo; no kids on the playground during my childhood ever said, "ooh, I’m telling, you said ‘paint.’ " Or , "merde." Finally, we realized the computer error was because Corry had yet to pay for her blurry photo card and of course, this had to be done at another desk. So we went and did that and then returned to the original desk and they finally issued her the second card.
To celebrate the card victory, we had a coffee at the café in the library where, surrounded by the pile of her 100 BNF brochures, Corry remarked that you could buy a beer at the library. At the risk of sounding like a Pulp Fiction discussion of subtle cultural differences by way of fast food, drugs and alcohol, they only have Heineken and 1664.
But don't discount the BNF. It’s a wonder of the world, according to François Mitterand, who it is conveniently named after. With its extensive archives, and majestic halls, this cultural treasure could be the subject of a documentary film.
The library is recognizable as such in that it's a building that houses books all with Dewey decimal call numbers and a computerized catalogue. The part that becomes a little Waiting for Godot is that the library is organized not by floor number (e.g., first, second), but by proximity to a garden. The top floor is above- the-garden, the lower floor is garden-level, etc.
The garden-centric system of organization seems about as logical as arranging flavors of coffee by their relation to toothpaste, or, I don’t know, spider webs.
You might wonder why there is a garden at the library. The library is constructed as a large rectangle with an arboretum in the middle with actual trees imported from the countryside so that you can look out the window and admire them while you walk along the red-carpeted corridor to get from one reading room to another. You can’t actually see the garden from any of the hunting lodge-like luxury dens that are the reading rooms. These are dark and gloomy spaces with no natural lighting and plush carpeting that are slightly reminiscent of fading grandeur and drawing rooms of the aristocracy, had they ever entertained 221 readers at once. To enter each reading room, you have to insert your library card into a metro station-like turnstile because, why not apply the innovations of the public transit system to the library? Since there's already a garden there. I will say that the reading rooms are at least in alphabetical order instead of organized around a random natural phenomenon to keep with the garden theme like, say, types of birds, except that salle D is inexplicably before salle A.
To obtain a library card, you're lucky if the books you need are above the garden. This is the part of the library that is accessible to the public. For a fee, of course. The library is not free, perhaps because they have to pay the gardeners, and it was, after all, a 2 billion Euro construction project. Also, like all libraries in France, you cannot borrow books, but just read them there. All books in French libraries are reference books and the libraries function more like archives. At the BNF, there are also specific rules about how many pages of a 100-page book you are allowed to photocopy (at your expense, of course), assuming that the condition of the book is such that it will not disintegrate on the spot if you try to copy it. Thankfully, as a literature student, I only need above-the-garden access, but we are not all so lucky.
My friend Corrine needed garden-level access, so we went to the library, first to the main desk, then to the desk where they directed us. There, we took a number and were to wait until a library teller in a row of bank window-like cubicles was available. Our teller was super nice—most of the staff at the BNF is. They realize that their library was designed by aliens and makes no sense to anyone else and are very helpful and patient. Corinne showed her the printouts from the catalogue proving that the books she needed were on garden level, her student ID and a photocopy of her passport and the teller explained to us that:
1. If the book you need exists in any other library in Paris, you have to go there because the BNF is a library of last resort. She cross checked Corry’s records and found some other libraries with the same books. Other libraries are way more normal than the BNF, so it is not a problem to go elsewhere, to libraries without gardens.
2. You need a letter from your research director as proof that you are a real student writing a real dissertation who has a real need for these books.
3. You need a valid ID, which in France means your passport. And a photocopy is not acceptable.
4. You are not allowed to photograph books with a digital camera, place a water bottle on the desk at the library, only on the ground, or smoke in the library. This last warning was unnecessary for us. As Americans, we are habituated to not smoking in the public places where the French smoke, like restaurants and the metro station.
Despite the fact that Corry didn’t have her attestation from her research director or her actual passport, our friendly librarian took pity on us and gave her 2 cards, one for above-the-garden where some of her books were and one for the elusive garden level. Each card was good for 15 visits, so Corry will have to keep count of them. The library teller also explained the rules of the garden-level. There are many of them and it’s very complex, especially in a foreign language.
1. You have to check your bag, coat and personal affairs above the garden. In an airport security-like measure, you can only take what you need in a clear plastic bag. I didn’t ask about liquids.
2. You have to order your books and they bring them to you. No browsing in the stacks for ordinary people on the garden-level. You can expect to wait up to 45 minutes for your books.
3. Or you can plan ahead and reserve a computer and order your book in advance, especially if it exists in digital form and then it will absolutely be there for you. Unless the library goes on strike or something, which happens with alarming frequency.
4. If you leave the garden-level temporarily, you have to tell a warden/guard/footman. Otherwise you will Lose Your Place There.
She took Corry’s info for her 2 library cards and gave her probably about 100 brochures explaining the BNF and the quirks of each garden level. Then we had to go back to another desk to take another number and wait to be called back to the same row of tellers so that Corry could have her picture taken for the card. In typical 2nd language confusion that arrives daily, we had only a vague understanding of this repeat number-taking and I ended up asking the new desk person what the number she’d just given us was for, again. After about a 4-second wait, they called the number and Corry is now the proud owner of the blurriest BNF photo ever which the photographer assured her was supermodel quality. While they issued her the library card at this desk, we had to go to another desk, the original desk where we’d started, for the second card and to pay for it. Perhaps it was the influence of the garden, but I felt like we were a pair of ducks waddling to and fro, searching for bread crumbs or library cards.
At the other desk, there was a problem with the computer system, “merde, merde, merde”, exclaimed our librarian and then she excused herself. French cursing really doesn’t bother me; it’s just like any other word, like paint or trousers. I didn’t grow up with French curse words as taboo; no kids on the playground during my childhood ever said, "ooh, I’m telling, you said ‘paint.’ " Or , "merde." Finally, we realized the computer error was because Corry had yet to pay for her blurry photo card and of course, this had to be done at another desk. So we went and did that and then returned to the original desk and they finally issued her the second card.
To celebrate the card victory, we had a coffee at the café in the library where, surrounded by the pile of her 100 BNF brochures, Corry remarked that you could buy a beer at the library. At the risk of sounding like a Pulp Fiction discussion of subtle cultural differences by way of fast food, drugs and alcohol, they only have Heineken and 1664.
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