A look at the world

The Garage Band Experience

2009-07-29T21:27:00.002+02:00

Do you know what a garage band is? Of course you do. It's a band playing in a garage, that is to say an amateur band practicing their skills in some remote basement with no audience at all (apart maybe from the lead singer's girlfriend lying on the coach and ready to clap her hands at every moment of silence).

The Bank is not a garage band. The Bank never played in a garage and The Bank never felt they had to practice their skills before recording anything, since The Bank believes in spontaneity and raw energy. The Bank is not really a real rock band either, since it is merely an algebraic equation consisting in:

(Pierre Alexander + Sebastian Stelzer)/(The Quakers + Kettering)² = England for sale

But The Bank did put a couple of their songs up for review on http:www.garageband.com, just to see what people would say about their work.

Here is the Garage Band punch line:

"Are you a musician? Get your music heard! Enter the contest to get reviewed by new fans & compete for exposure from Feed Partners.

OPTION 1: Earn a contest entry by reviewing music. Review 15 pairs of songs by other artists (only 9 if you become a Gold member). "

And here is how it works: you review other people's music (songs go by pair and you rate them from 0 to 5 along with the writing of a short review) and then you earn the right to submit your songs for review. Which is exactly what we did for a couple of our beloved tracks.

And here are some of the results:

This is England

- "Drunken Germans pretending to be Brits", says xroomate from L.A. "The keyboard piano part reminds me of threescompany, cool. Nice grooviness to the tune", which is really an ugly piece of abuse to the Bishop Stopford School Music Department, considering the "keyboard piano" is actually a real hammer piano.

- "happy sounding pop song about Nazism in England, sung by a person with a German accent. I'm not really sure WHAT I think about it. I hope it's complex sarcasm or a joke", says door64 from Seattle. "Nothing major wrong with production, composition, or performance, all well done, nothing sticks out. Well, except the words, which SEEM to be a contemplation of right wing inspired mass murder justified in the name of a sense of personal comfort and security." Well seen, Mr door64, it IS a song about xenophobia in the UK and blind slaughtering is suggested in some part of the song.

- "Are you making fun of British lads or what (I'm not one of them)?" asks viceromania from Bucarest. Interestingly, the guy says "I'm not one of them", which is exactly what I thought during my whole time there.

- And now the opinion of mishapscott from Wisconsin: "I think I've heard the opening piano line in the intro song to an 80's sitcom or something. When the singing kicks in, it reminds me of Roger Waters doing his best character impressions on The Wall", while pyoor from Arizona says: "The tune itself would make a great TV ad song" and tries "to figure out if this was supposed to be funny or a joke or something". Slobrock from Norway shares this bewilderment: "This is a song that I can't figure out if it is serious or not. The production sounds decent, but is it some German dudes singing about UK?"

And in conclusion, the shock of the extremes:

- the blind and cheerful approval of Joe from Ohio: "Keep on keepin on this tune is awsome hope you guys go far in the near future"

- the ultimate declaration of disgust from xhead666, Lehi, Utah: "UUUGGHHHH......WOW - this has to be one of the worst songs I've ever heard. Lyrics are really dull. I don't even think this is singing, more like melodic talking."

Mother Belly

- Awful start from paulrocks in Florida: "this song sucks and you guys must be from europe for making weak shit like this", which made me think ot the worse. But this review was to be tempered a bit by the next one. "Interesting calm mood", says EduCesar from Brazil, "but I don't like the mixing. Lead vocals are ok, but I'd like to hear this with more emotion. I like the melody, sounds like New Order sometimes. As for the chord structure, I find it interesting."

- "Weird Lyrics" is what LovetheBand from New York seems to have retained from the song. "The piano/organ makes me think I'm in church. The lyrics are really weird. Who is this Mother Belly? Is it some woman who is taking advantage of a little boy and makes him a man? Why is she telling the little boy to drink a lot? Isn't that illegal? I had to listen to this song twice to make sure I heard it right. " You heard it right, comrade, but I guess you've never been to Kettering. Then you would understand for sure. "Where is the group from?, he eventually asks. "The singer (or shall I say talker) has a accent I haven't heard before." Well, we're from Kettering, Northants.

- Ilike20 from Midwest goes into details: "The intro with just the plain open chords drags on too long. It seems to take too long before anything happens in this song. The vocals were completely unexpected. A very unique sounding voice unlike any others I've listened to in a long time. The harmonies were good, but they didn't seem to mesh with the lead vocalist for me."

- Writing from Italy, vastospino really dug the song: "A Leonard Cohen-like voice develops a delicate poetry", he writes, "as organ chords draw a nice progression with some maj chords, am I wrong? It's not easy to understand it...This is an intimistic song focused on the lyrics,even distorted guitars remain in the background, not to disturb the correct expression of the vocal line. I like the arrangement: you've chosen a few instruments, making them work together in an interesting way."

- But it didn't quite meet the taste of Mr Fantasgreat from Portland, Oregon: "Your vocal reminds me of Urge Overkill's Girl, You'll be a Woman Soon. Your lazy delivery style and low range are very similar. This song puts me to sleep. It doesn't create much interest for me as a listener. The drums are static throughout the entire song and there is very little dynamic difference throughout the track. Combine that with your delivery style, and it's destined to be as effective as Sleepy-Time Tea"

- And at last the complete review of plingativator from Vancouver, Canada, which gives you but a taste of what to expect if you submit a track to a Garage Band listener and get lucky enough:

"The bass line just after 1:00 picks up the song nicely, it's slow to grow but at this point it does exactly what it needs to do. When the distorted guitar comes in around 1:44 it doesn't seem to fit very well. The rest of the music is organ, mellow base, and subdued drums. The guitar just kind of ruins that mood. The vocals in the chorus are probably my favorite part, but the guitar underneath ruins them a little bit. I'm not surewhat kind of accent that is exactly during the verses, sounds French, but the Union Jack reference throws me. Either way it is interesting to listen to. The song could have ended around 4:07, I don't think the last few piano chords add anything to the song, and they drag it out in an unsatisfying way. I think the song could be really relaxing to listen to, but that distorted guitar really wrecks that for me, I would definitely consider removing it or toning it down, it just doesn't fit for me. Everything else is great."

So this is it, my dear fellow musician garage reader: if you hold something in store and you're not oversensitive, consider entering the contest. The funny part is: what they can do to you, you can do it to them and hit back with spiteful reviews if you're in the mood for it. My first review as a listener was a real success and earned me an e-mail of abuse (in my garageband mailbox) from the artist I dared to criticize a bit. But it doesn't happen all the time, far from it, and it's an interesting experience to apply one's judgement on other stuff rather than Coldplay's last single, trusting only your ears without any kind of prejudice.

The Garage Band Experience now awaits you.

PS: on the right of your screen you should be able to listen to the two songs whose reviews have been quoted here. If you are to write a comment about these songs, feel free to it except if you're from one of these localities: Kettering, Corby, Peterborough, Luton, Market Harborough, Bedford.

Sincerely Yours,

Pierre Alexander

Figures of today: the man-machine

2009-02-26T19:46:00.007+01:00

Ever heard of Kraftwerk? Of course you have. It was this famous German electronic band of the mid-70's who set the sonic blueprint for the New Wave and techno music of the decades to come. Their 1978 album "The Man-Machine" was the peak of their career as composers and modern pop visionaries, their songs establishing science fictionesque links between humans and technology.

The interesting thing about science-fiction is that with the everchanging course of progress, one never knows whether science fictional artworks will still be considered that way 20 or 40 years later. Thanks to the worldly triumphant politically correct, George's Orwell Newspeak is no longer science-fiction, but a sociological truth. A welcome victory for some, a sad backward step for others, a reality for all.

So how is doing the man-machine concept in 2009's world? Well, pretty well indeed. That's if you consider that what qualifies a human being is his intelligence, his education, his instinct and his dealing with failure, while the machine is all about certainty and figures. The facts are that the man-machine of 2009 , thanks to the helping hand of science and technology, is really close to perfection.

The man-machine still needs a brain to learn and produce sounds with his mouth and penis/vagina to transmit/receive the seeds of love, but that's all that is required if he chooses to keep things neat and simple. The machine part does the rest.

Love: move your feet to the computer, turn it on, log-in on www.meetic.com website, type in the correct boxes "female", "between 28 and 30", "love clubbing and evening with friends", "urban lifestyle", "non smoking" and you get it: another (wo)man-machine, aged 31, who loves clubbing and evening with friends, who lives in New-York and doesn't smoke. Date her on the fifth avenue, do your part of small talk, watch out for bad breath and you're in for a sitter.

Social life: do the same on www.friendfinder.com but make sure to untick the "relationship/involvement" box, or the machine might get it wrong.

Job: pretty easy, really. Pay another man-machine to have your work profile sensibly computerized and get your new Identikit, process the relevant databases for the match and wake up on time for the interview. Mistrust your instinct? Afraid of the final step?
No need to panic. Just train your brain to memorize that first: www.jobsearch.about.com/od/interviewquestionsanswers. The man-machines who wrote it are devoted to your success.

Amazing sense of well-being: go out and buy Guitar Hero on XBox360, follow the instructions, get up the scale step by step, and enjoy. The sounds that you produce with your fingers are really yours, and all the clapping from the people in the audience are all for you!

Conclusion: the man-machine is safe. Some gentle souls have cleared the road for him. No more mistakes, no more shyness, no more anxiety, no more anguish about lack of self-recognition. The man-machine doesn't need a soul, he barely needs a brain and he can draw a cross on his Cro-Magnonesque instincts. Better leave that to the stupid ideal-seeking human being, who'll see what it takes to pick-up a girl in a bar, learn to play the guitar, improvize during an interview and dream his life while reading Byron and Salinger.

(But please, Mr/Mrs Man-machine, pity the poor fellow. He doesn't have your strength, you know)

Figures of today: the terrorist

2009-01-24T16:24:00.008+01:00

The terrorist will be second on the "Figures of today" list. And why is that? Because he asked for it - quicker than the bank advisor, who will get the third spot.

The terrorist isn't really a new figure in our 21th century fucked-up world. But like the pop singer, he evolved from a shape to another in order to adapt to the new reality, proving once again Darwin right.

So what are the terrorist figures we used to have in mind a few decades back in time?

First, the Andreas Baader-type terrorist, that is the far-left anarchist angry with everything related to the concepts of capitalism, hierarchy, mass-consumption, money and authority, which basically is what our society is all about. Freedom is an illusion, we're all corrupted to the bare bone and so we must change or die. Die Rote Armee Fraktion murdered police officers and bank directors, bombed US military barracks, set department stores on fire etc...

Then, the IRA-like terrorist, fighting for a cause (leave Northern Ireland at once you bloody british pigs), against a well-identified ennemy (the british pigs) in the name of history (look at what they've done to us Irish), all of which resulted in pub-bombing and murders among other things.

Third, the free-lance terrorists, such as Timothy McVeigh and Terry Nichols, who bombed an office complex in Oklahoma City for obscure motives. I would call this the serial killer profiled terrorist.

Post Scriptum 1: For all his sins, Andreas Baader must be relieved not to have made it to 2009, for he would have had to face this heartbreaking truth: the number of department stores, bank directors and US military barracks have tripled since he started erasing them. These things grow faster than grass and even global warming is powerless against it.

The modern terrorist is the islamist fundamentalist terrorist, whose international exporting brand name is Al Qaïda. What did he learn from the previous ones? Nothing, because he doesn't give a shit and probably hardly knows about Baader and co. Who can seriously blame him for that? Most young people in France must think that the "Bande à Baader" was or is a technopop band and older people have other more important things to do rather than bringing them contradiction.

Apart from that, there's nothing really new to say about the islamist terrorist. We all know he hates America, we all know he tracks down the infidels and we all know he considers himself as a martyred hero fighting a Holy War. What we don't know is why he doesn't get himself an ukrainian girl on xlove.com, buy milk and cornflakes for his breakfast and watch Dexter on ITV. Everybody would love him on this part of the world, and it would definitely help the bridge-building process between our great civilizations.

Post-scriptum 2: it seems that department stores, US military barracks, bank advisors and islamist terrorists have at least two things in common: they don't appeal to me and they grow faster than grass.

Figures of today: the pop singer

2009-01-20T21:43:00.012+01:00

The "Figures of today" series starts with the pop singer. Why is the pop singer an important element of today's world? Because I said it was.

The pop singer is in the middle of a triangle. An equilateral triangle, whose initial apexes were: art, money and fame. Being a pop star was about doing art, getting rich and famous. The Beatles, Elvis Presley, Jim Morisson, Bob Marley, Serge Gainsbourg, Kurt Cobain, the list is endless.

Let's have a look at what happened to the apexes nowadays:

Fame

Interestingly enough, all the people mentionned achieved the status of legend, which almost certainly is or will be denied to their contemporary followers, whoever they are and whatever they achieve.
Britney Spears won't become legend, neither will Eminem or Pete Doherty even if they decide to jump from the top of the Eiffel Tower on a sunday afternoon. The last who tried to turn into a legend that way was Michael Hutchence from INXS and nobody remembers him apart from those who do remember him.
So why is the right to become a legend denied to them? Not because of their (in)ability or their personnality (although I doubt Britney Spears has one), but because the world has ceased making legends.
A legend is a product of the times, and the post-war 20th century needed singing heroes to accompany the political, social and economical changes in western societies. Some artists were acknowledged to be different class, different material. Looking up on them was a normal thing to do.
Now these times are over. Not because there is nobody left to look up to, but because people no longer wish to see things that way. To keep it clear and simple, we don't want legends: we want the throne they used to sit on in order to obtain what Andy Warhol called your 15 minutes of glory. If the guy's dead, alright then. There's nothing we can do, he can remain legend (Elvis is safe, and so is John Lennon). But he is among the last of the Mohicans.

Art

When Paul Rothchild, the future manager of the Doors, spotted the band on stage, he said: "what you do guys is above everything I've seen or heard. It's cabaret, it's rock n'roll, it's Berthold Brecht." Art, at the times, was a case of a few giving sight to the many.
Now that everyone can see or at least wears spectacles, it's a case of the many giving medals to the few. And how do you get a medal? By sharing the view of the many.

Money

The successful pop singer still makes a fair amount of money, all right. But is he the only one around? To drive a limousine back in the sixties, you actually needed to be a corrupted polician or a rock star. Even in Kettering, Northamptonshire, floating thing called UK, you can see teenagers going to the night-club on saturday night in a limo.
Plus, the cake is thinner and the guests are more. As the famous rock singer Sebastian Stelzer from Wuppertal once said during an interview with the Daily Pornograph at the Peacock, "music isn't a good way to make money anymore."

5 reasons why it sucks if you're 28 and still at university

2009-01-19T21:23:00.004+01:00

reason one: you should have a job by then. The only reason you don't have a job is you don't seriously look for one. You prefer to read books, sit on your ass and listen to some teacher who has nothing left to teach you. Shame on you, you're extra-smart, useless and lazy.

reason two: there's nothing more depressing than the view of a young female student panicking before an exam, re-reading her notes till the last minute with a bottle of mineral water put on her exam table.

reason three: university is full of left-wing activists who have bad influence over the other students. Their poisonous preaching turns them away from the only noble goal in life: be smarter than the one next to you, earn more money, have a better job and screw better-looking chicks.

reason four: I don't have a reason four.

reason five: university overtime extends your youth. It delays the ageing process, which may cause the Stelzer syndrom: a permanent inability to fit to the English way of life (although it remains hard even for the scientists to find a proper explanation for this).

The meaning of life, part 3: cemetery plots

2009-01-12T22:57:00.011+01:00

When do you buy a cemetery plot? The best time to buy was probably yesterday. The cost of a burial plot is rising like everything in our world. How do you choose a resting place? Take time and think about where you want your final resting place to be. You may want to be buried in the same cemetery that your family has used for years. If you live far from your family you may be looking at being buried around the area that you consider as home.The immediate location of the burial site will be an important decision. If the cemetery is hard to get to then it will be hard for your family to visit, and there will be times when they will want to visit. Make it easy on them.

The cost of a cemetery plot shouldn't deplete your bank account. If the cost is too exorbitant look elsewhere. When you check into the cost of the plot find out what it includes. If you have already made prearrangements with a funeral home then find out if the grave opening and closing, vault, and headstone or monument is included with your prearrangement. If so you may only need to pay the price for the plot itself. In larger cities you may find a municipal cemetery which will possibly be less of an expense than a private cemetery. Research your options in larger cities.

Ask about the cemetery rules. Will you have to be cremated in order to be placed in the cemetery of your choosing? What types of vaults do they allow or use? Do they allow flowers to be placed on your grave? Can your family come at any time to visit your grave or are there certain restrictions they must abide by? A funeral director may be able to assist you with names and contacts of cemeteries that they work with. Just make certain that the cemetery of your choice doesn't have rules that will be hard for your family to abide by.

In small communities you may be able to purchase several grave spaces at one time for family members so that you will have the family in the same location for generations to come.

For more information: ask your grandma

The meaning of life, part 2: how to take a penalty kick

2009-01-12T22:37:00.004+01:00

Picture: The orange areas are good places to aim the penalty kick, although low or high shots are even better. There is some room for error in case the shot is wider or higher than the target.

A well directed, firmly struck penalty in football is almost impossible for the goalkeeper to save, and yet penalties are frequently missed. Many football or soccer competitions, including the World Cup, European Championships, and F.A. Cup include a penalty shoot-out when the game tied after extra-time. England have been knocked out of the World Cup on penalty kicks. Technique is important, but coaches also need to consider the psychology of taking a penalty kick.

There are two broad categories of penalty takers, namely "placers" and "blasters". The first technique is to kick the football hard with the instep, whereas the second technique is to use the side of the foot. The advantage of the side foot is accuracy, but it lacks the power of using the instep, and it's important that the ball is struck firmly using this method. The instep method provides plenty of power, but there is more risk of scooping the ball over the cross bar, or snatching at it and dragging it wide of the goal. Whichever technique is used is a matter of personal preference, and in the professional game there are excellent penalty takers using either method.

Pyschologically, it's important to keep calm, and not allow the goalkeeper to be a distraction when taking a penalty kick. Goalkeepers will try anything to put you off, including jumping up and now and trying to intimidate you. It's best to check the goalkeeper's position in case he is leaving one half of the goal completely open, but be sure to concentrate on the football as you take the tick. Some players find that taking a deep breath before taking a penalty helps.

From Soccer Academy v. 2, football coaching software

The meaning of life, part 1: the female orgasm

2009-01-12T22:26:00.004+01:00

Picture on the left: "Three representational variations of female sexual response. Pattern 1 shows multiple orgasm; pattern 2 shows arousal that reaches the plateau level without going on to orgasm (note the resolution occurs more slowly); and pattern 3 shows several brief drops in the excitement phase followed by an even more rapid resolution phase."

"Sexologists have broken the sexual response cycle into four phases, excitement, plateau, orgasm, and resolution. These are arbitrary definitions and a person is not likely to be aware of their body experiencing each individual phase. The amount of time a person spends in each phase, and even the order in which they experience them may vary. A woman on a date may become sexually aroused several times, even without her knowing, without her ever reaching the plateau phase.
She may experience arousal and the plateau phase during an intense session of dancing, but return to her un-aroused state during the ride home. Once home she may quickly experience arousal and orgasm, as the result of direct genital stimulation without experiencing the plateau phase.
The manner in which a person experiences each phase is unique to them, and even this will change depending on their mood and who they are with."

"Arousal may be accompanied by these physical responses to mental and/or physical stimuli:
Vaginal lubrication begins first, within 10-30 seconds.
- The inner two thirds of the vagina expands.
- The uterus and cervix are pulled upwards.
- The labia majora flatten and spread apart.
- The labia minora increase in size.
- The clitoris increases in size.
- The nipples may become erect as the result of muscle contractions.
- When highly aroused the breasts may increase in size."

From the book Masters and Johnson on Sex and Human Loving Page 58 Copyright 1982, 1985, 1986 By William H. Masters, Virginia E Johnson, and Robert C. Kolodny.

Rebel Rebel

2009-01-10T23:25:00.006+01:00

There was a time in history when being a rebel consisted in affirmative action. Now you ask me: what the bloody hell is affirmative action? And I answer you: affirmative action is when you say "Yes, I do" or "Yes, I have" or "Yes we can". Affirmative action is when you positively do something while other people don't.

So how come affirmative action was the way of the rebels back in time? Well, look at James Dean. He basically said: "Yes I'm young but I can drive a car and I can drive it fast." Look at the French students in 1968, demonstrating and fighting cops in the streets while their parents were watching the show on TV at home. Remember the first guy who came at school holding a mobile phone in his right hand, and we were all like "Waouh, that's cool, does this thing really work?"
And what about the guy who publicly admitted then that he couldn't deal with just one girlfriend because he needed at least three at a time, the same who preached against mariage and stuff since it was after all, according to him, nothing else but a heartbreaking farewell to women?

These people were true rebels, pure avant-garde leaders because they had, did or could do something that we couldn't afford or were afraid of. What about now?

Well, now, these people aren't rebels anymore. They're just people like you and me. Sad and boring human waste waiting for the old garbage truck to collect their bones and send them to heaven. And that's because affirmative action is dead and buried.

The modern rebel now stands for something else; he stands for negative retroaction. And what is negative retroaction? Well, plain and simple, really. Negative retroaction is to say "No, I don't", "No, I haven't" or "No, we can't". Just check this: a 21th century 20-year-old chap who doesn't have a mobile phone, can't drive a car, doesn't yeal against the government, doesn't long for anything but one girl for life and doesn't plan to cheat on her. There are two options: either he's a retarded moron, or he's just a rebel. A rebel just like James Dean. Except nobody likes him.

PS: some may use the term affirmative action to refer to policies that take gender, race, or ethnicity into account in an attempt to promote equal opportunity. Well, fuck them.

Women are wonderful (part 3)

2009-01-07T19:40:00.003+01:00

Preamble: That's only part 3 and I'm already short of ideas. I guess I must be a pathetic misogynous scumbag, not being able to find one more argument to back womanhood. But I think this one could do the job.

Women are wonderful. Yes they are. Everybody knows that and those who don't should know better. And why are women wonderful? Because they have personal taste and we don't. Check this. We are the ones pigging out disgusting food in front of the TV. We are the ones buying cheap clothes and wearing them no matter what we look like. We are the ones wearing black pants and white socks without giving a shit. We are the ones spending half a minute in a furniture shop getting a wood table although it doesn't suit the rest.

A woman would never do that, because she has taste. She would yawn in front of a Wim Wenders movie, yes she would. She would spit on Serge Gainsbourg or cry her eyes out listening to Mariah Carey, but she would never buy a wood table if it didn't suit the rest.

Conclusion: It's time for you now to think about becoming a woman. Sex-change surgery is common and affordable nowadays. Just login there: www.bangkokplasticsurgery.com and enjoy the trip

Women are wonderful (part 2)

2009-01-05T15:21:00.004+01:00

Women are wonderful. They really really are. And why is that? Because they have such powerful insight that they can see things through walls and barriers, whatever their thickness.

One example. Barry, 26 years old, pays a visit to his mother after 2 years of absence. He's got many things to say, he's got a lot of catch up to do. He fell in love, as a start. With a wonderful girl whose body and soul match his own body and soul. He got fired from his job but luckily found another one after months of starvation and bad cheques to cover the bills. He wrote a book, directed a film and played in a band that made it to television.
So he tells all that to his mum, and the first reply he gets is: "I see you wear a new scarf. When did you buy this one?"

Conclusion: "Lady day's got diamond eyes, she sees the truth behind the lies" (U2, Angel of Harlem). We may think women pay too much attention to detail but they don't. They just cut the crap and go for the real thing.

Women are wonderful (part 1)

2009-01-04T12:04:00.004+01:00

Women are wonderful. They're so eager to give that when they by accident refuse you something, they immediately give you something else as a compensation. One example: a girl you're chasing after won't sleep with you and she makes it clear. That's a refusal. But in most cases this won't be her final line. She will add something like "I want us to remain friends". If you already were her friend, you won't win a lot in the bargain.

But what happens sometimes is that you didn't even know the girl, you just caught her number from a friend or got a date on facebook and saw her like twice in your life. But she will still tell you after turning you down: "I want you to be my friend". As you were nothing at all before that, consider it as a promotion.

Conclusion: it's very easy to be friend with a girl. Just court her without success and get the prize of her remorse.

BOTSWANA

2008-12-13T11:37:00.010+01:00

Here is the script I intend to send to the 20th Century Fox to challenge Baz Luhrmann's Christmas epic blockbuster: Australia.

A beautiful american school teacher, Claire Ashley (Charlize Theron) flies to Botswana in the mid-eighties to take on her new position in a remote rural school. She is stubborn and passionate, and eager to break from the narrow-minded codes of the zealously religious society she was born in. At the start of the movie, she breaks up with her fiancé (Ralph Fiennes) and tells her mother (Kim Basinger) to go to hell with her bibles and empty preachings. Her father (Robert Redford) is devastated but still gives her his blessing when she leaves.

Once in Botswana, Claire becomes gradually aware of the swamp she put her feet in. The standards of living are so low comparing to her native Alabama that she first thinks about going back there. But soon she meets reverend Parry (Wesley Snipes), a local boy grown into an educated man with refined manners and a perfect command of English. He makes her discover the hidden face of Botswana, with its beautiful landscapes and cheerful inhabitants.
A romance grows between the two and they have sex in the village church. But young school master Eddy Barnes (Steven Waddington ), who got infatuated with Claire, overhears their after-sex conversation.

Jealousy takes the better of Barnes as he can't help spreading out the gossip of their forbidden relationship, while digging into the clergyman's past to find out he got married seven times and had multiple dry-sex intercourses off-marriage. This means he may have caught HIV and then passed it on Claire.
One night, aware of the growing blasphemous rumours, Parry gives Claire his confession about his tempestuous past, but it's too late and the damage is done. A blood test confirms that both Claire and Parry are HIV-positive and worse than that, Claire is now expecting a child who also is in danger of contracting AIDS. She now has to face a couple of dilemnas: can she afford to carry on amazingly good unprotected sex with Parry, bearing in mind that she may let different and potentially more active HIV stem cells enter her body? Can she give birth to a child who is almost certain to die before his sixteenth birthday?

She goes for the romantic choice and pays the price for it. Parry dies in her arms from multiple opportunist infections and she flies back to America with her new-born daughter, wondering whether she will get the support she needs from her family and friends.

Are the Chinese fluorescent?

2008-12-10T12:34:00.006+01:00

I like racial and cultural clichés. I like them a lot. Clichés make the world an easier place to live in and a more funny one as well. Clichés find simple words for simple souls and that's why we use them. Clichés allow us to travel without leaving our beds and living-rooms and that's why we love them. Clichés claim to be partly true and that's why they're so hard to break.

Now here is a list of common and less-common clichés I thought about this morning while drinking my 11 AM coffee. For clarity's sake, I ranked them in descending order on a scale ranging from definitely true to grossly false.

1. Chinese people are fluorescent. Yes they are. Their body temperature is higher than everyone else and that makes them shine in the dark. That's why Shanghaï at night looks like a firefly city which would be so easy to bomb in the event of World War 3.

2. Black men have a HUGE cock. Possibly. At least, that's what a couple of girls I used to hang around with told me. But is it that their dick is truly bigger or is it a matter of quality of erection? Do black people get stimulated more easily than their white counterparts? Nothing really serious has ever been said or written on the subject, so it's still an open case.

3. Muslim women fake orgasm. Probably, but one can never be sure with women. Has it anything to do with Allah or the patriarchal society they live in? The famous Muslim World expert Nouredine Al Kajil, when asked on Al Jazeera, said he'll need to have a few words with his wife before answering. He did, and then he declared: نجاح المبادرة العربية مرهون بالاعتراف بإسرائيل. محللون هنود: الاعتقالات الباكستان

4. English people drink too much beer. Debatable. They do absorb in large amounts a liquid called beer, but do they really drink it? I would rather suggest they swallow it or soak it up, engulf it maybe, but I'm pretty sure they don't drink it, since drinking presupposes the existence of taste buds in the mouth, which they got deprived of due to evolution.

5. French people are filthy, like French streets and French dogs. Honestly that's a myth. I don't know about dogs, but when it comes to people I would bet that the Gypsies, Irakis and Rumanians I see day after day begging or playing music on the tube stink more than I do. And poverty can't always explain everything, can it?

6. The Germans are perfectionnist. That's rubbish. They can't finish what they start. Schubert left lieder and symphonies in the lurch, Sebastian Stelzer always gives up writing after two pages, Europe is free, the Jews are safe and die soziale Marktwirtschaft hasn't made it to the 21th century.

PS: if you are to leave a comment, please don't go for the pathetic trendy self-righteous statement like "Clichés are stupid and blind, we must learn about other cultures by leaving our prejudices behind and really dig deep into eachother's ground to see the beauty of diversity". Anything else than that will be fine, including verbal abuse and death threats.

Sidewalks

2008-12-09T19:15:00.006+01:00

The rue de Vaugirard is the longest street in Paris, which would make it the smallest one in L.A. Los Angeles is too big anyway but this is not my point. My point is: this is a very long street and one of the streets I often take when I walk the asphalt world. What I've written so far is very interesting. What I'm about to write now is even more interesting.

One of the problems you may have when you walk in the middle of a street is that you can end up face to face with a car and die. That's why people use the sidewalks while drivers drive on the road. But a sidewalk is far from being annoyance-free. First you get dog shits, then you get other people. And I can assure you: of the two, I prefer dog shits.

I was peacefully walking this morning on the left sidewalk of the rue de Vaugirard when I was forced to cross over to the other side of the street because stupid teenagers had gathered for stupid reasons and blocked the way. I peacefully walked on for a couple of minutes on the right sidewalk when this guy with a tie, a suit and a mobile phone drew level with me and kept walking next to me exactly at the same pace. His conversation drove me mad: meetings, appointments, bookings, computer programs etc... I had a song in my head and this fat & ugly short-haired prick made me lose my groove. So I crossed over once more.

I thought that was it. But that wasn't. The left sidewalk was blocked again by a moving van. I had no choice but going back to the right sidewalk, which the fat & ugly guy was still polluting with his horrible business talk. I geared up and went past him. But in my hurry I bumped into a woman. She looked at me with a slight air of reproach. I said "sorry", she mumbled something and moved on. And just when I thought I was in for a little break, a hippie-looking moron came to me and asked for a cigarette. That was more than I could take and I crossed over one last time.

I failed to watch the road and a girl on a bicycle crashed in a parked car trying to avoid me. She looked in pain but I was happy. Someone had made my day at last on this fucking sidewalks.

Birthday

2008-12-08T15:56:00.003+01:00

I don't remember well any of my birthdays, especially the first one, at the clinic. I probably had blood all over my head and everyone was happy but me since I didn't know the people around, which is a shame for a birthday.

Still, there's one birthday I remember more than the others, even if I can't recall which year that was. I was probably 8 or 9 and my mother took me and twelve other kids to a movie. It was Walt Disney's Robin Hood and the cinema was so crowded that we all had so sit on our knees just in front of the screen. We got blind and then we got home and played board games, until their mums and dads came and picked them up one after the other. I found it very sad everytime one of them had to leave and I spent most of the evening crying.

It's a big blank after that, even if I do remember 1987. I got my teddy bear Pounouf that year. A simple birthday party at my grandparents' flat, with my father and my aunt. Back in 1987, I still received gifts which looked like gifts. Computer games for instance. Since I graduated from school and started building myself a false reputation of an intellectual guy, I just get books, books and books.
Do people know we're still playing XBox 360 games at my age? Do people know I'm desperate for good eastern porn? Do people know how boring it is to read Paul Claudel's early novels? I wish I was my brother. He doesn't get this kind of crap. He gets digital cameras, TV sets, DVD players. Then he breaks them and he gets other ones for replacement the next year. The world is unfair, isn't it?

But since today is my birthday, I'd like to wish myself a happy birthday and a long and happy life. I wish me luck for this blog, which I started out of boredom and which I continue out of pride. This little blog is my toy, it's my birthday present and I will keep writing it even if I have nothing in store. Like good old Damon Albarn once sang, "all is said and all is done but what was said was never done" so it may be time to do it.

Anyway, happy birthday all. I don't know when you were born and I don't give a shit. I hardly remember names, let alone dates. But I promise to work on that.

Modern life is rubbish

2008-12-05T10:48:00.008+01:00

It's just one of these days when I wake up at 10, masturbate in bed, jerk off in the brand new sheets I put the night before and light myself a cigarette, thinking once again about becoming a priest. And then I get to my computer and I turn it on. I put Mozart's Cosi Fan Tutte in the stereo and I make myself an instant coffee. By the time the coffee's ready, which is not a long time, I've already smoked a second cigarette.
I really should learn Italian is my second thought of the day. That's for one and only reason: the italian word for "prostitute" is "la mignotta" and I find it top class, since "mignonne" in French means "cute" even if there's actually no connection between the two lexemes.

My curtains are closed but it's alright. I already know what there is to be seen outside. A rainy day in Paris, Christmas decorations hanging around the street lights and the grocery shop opposite my building opening its doors. Too early to get a beer, plus I don't drink a lot in Paris.
My curtains are closed but the big world's wide open. Mozilla Firefox delivers the news, it provides me with words and music, shapes and colours, fast culture and casual nonsense. This makes me think of a student of mine, a little blond fellow who told me he hated school and wanted to stay home all day. I asked him how he would meet friends and girls then, he answered me: "on Facebook."

On MUTV, Sir Alex gives an interview. He really feels his team has a chance to keep their Champions League trophy this season. Does he know I had this dream about Man Utd and Owen Hargreaves was playing up front along with Ji Sun Park? No he doesn't because when it comes to football, he delivers the dream and I buy it. A stupid remainder of my childhood when I used to be depressed every time my team lost.

Opera can be boring at times. The recitative parts mostly. But with Mozart it's different. It's always different with Mozart. Surfing on the Internet is different with Mozart. Checking my mails is different with Mozart. I wish there would be music in the streets, in the shops, in the tube and it would be Mozart all day. Even Pinkie would take the tube then, I'm sure.

Most of my friends are at work, and I'm not. I wonder whether they have plans for this week-end. I have none, and that's fine. I will try to work on my book and smoke a bit less than today. Be it saturday, sunday or monday, it's just another day on Earth, with its cars rolling, people walking and children smiling. Modern life is rubbish and I'm alright with that.

Saturday Night and Sunday Morning, Alan Sillitoe

2008-12-02T15:32:00.004+01:00

When there's room for one, there's room for two. W.H. Auden will share a bed in this gentle blog with fellow british writer Alan Sillitoe. As Auden was homosexual, that's an idea he probably wouldn't find too hard to accept.

Working all day at a lathe leaves Arthur Seaton with energy to spare in the evenings. A hard-drinking, hard-fighting young rebel of a man, he knows what he wants and he's sharp enough to get it. And before long, his carryings-on with a couple of married women are part of local gossip. But then one evening he meets a young girl in a pub, and Arthur's life begins to look less simple.

Here is the last paragraph of Saturday Night, Sunday Morning, a classic novel of the 1950's, as well as a testimony of English self-consciousness at its best.

"And trouble for me it will be, fighting every day until I die. Why do they make soldiers out of us when we're fighting up to the hilt as it is? Fighting with mothers and wives, landlords and gaffers, coppers, army, government. If it's not one thing it's another, apart from the work we have to do and the way we spend our wages. There's bound to be trouble in store for me every day of my life, because trouble it's always been and always will be.

Born drunk and married blind, misbegotten into a strange and crazy world, dragged-up through the dole and into the war with a gas-mask on your clock, and the sirens rattling into you every night while you rot with scabies in an air-raid shelter. Slung into khaki at eighteen, and when they let you out, you sweat again in a factory, grabbing for an extra pint, doing women at the week-end and getting to know whose husbands are on the nightshift, working with rotten guts and a aching spine, and nothing for it but money to drag you back there every Monday morning.

Well, it's a good life and a good world, all said and done, if you don't weaken, and if you know that the big wide world hasn't heard from you yet, no, not by a long way, though it won't be long now."

Refugee Blues, W.H. Auden (1907 - 1973)

2008-12-02T14:38:00.006+01:00

I've been a little bit harshed on England lately, and I want to redeem myself with this post, where my usual yacking will make way for W.H. Auden's lordly eloquence.

I pay so much respect to the man that I decided I wouldn't go for the obvious Internet copy and paste. I take my Oxford Anthology of English Poetry on my knees, and I will now type every word of this long and wonderful poem.

Say this city has ten million souls,
Some are living in mansions, some are living in holes:
Yet there's no place for us, my dear, yet there's no place for us.

Once we had a country and we thought it fair,
Look in the atlas and you'll find it there:
We cannot go there now, my dear, we cannot go there now.

In the village churchyard there grows an old yew,
Every spring it blossoms anew;
Old passports can't do that, my dear, old passports can't do that.

The consul banged the table and said:
"If you've got no passport you're officially dead";
But we are still alive, my dear, but we are still alive.

Went to a committee; they offered me a chair;
Asked me politely to return next year:
But where shall we go today, my dear, but where shall we go today?

Came to a public meeting; the speaker got up and said:
"If we let them in, they will steal our daily bread";
He was talking of you and me, my dear, he was talking of you and me.

Thought I heard the thunder rumbling in the sky;
It was Hitler over Europe, saying: "They must die";
We were in his mind, my dear, we were in his mind.

Saw a poodle in a jacket fastened with a pin,
Saw a door opened and a cat let in:
But they weren't German Jews, my dear, but they weren't German Jews.

Went down to the harbour and stood upon the quay,
Saw the fish swimming as if they were free:
Only ten feet away, my dear, only ten feet away.

Walked through a wood, saw the birds in the trees;
They had no politicians and sang at their ease:
They weren't the human race, my dear, they weren't the human race.

Dreamed I saw a building with a thousand floors,
A thousand windows and a thousand doors;
Not one of them was ours, my dear, not one of them was ours.

Stood on a great plain in the falling snow;
Ten thousand soldiers marched to and fro:
Looking for you and me, my dear, looking for you and me.

Obsessions

2008-12-01T13:57:00.008+01:00

I was back in Paris the other night and I met my German friend Bongo and his better half for 1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8 drinks in a cosy pub of the Latin Quarter. We were discussing many things as we've always done since we met in Kettering last year, but every twenty minutes we found ourselves talking about England again.
His girlfriend spotted it and asked us to stop this madness. "You two are like writing a song when you talk. Your verses are really good but your chorus is boring." The chorus was when we talked about England of course.

She may have been right, for what was left to say about it?

I suggested to bomb it as usual and he came with a better option: "If all the migrants go to the UK, then the island would be overcrowded and eventually sink." That would be the end of the white trash and Ken Loach could continue his filming of the drinking class under water.
But we both felt it was unfair for the Indians and the Pakistani who live there.
Bongo's offer was to give the land to them once the British are expelled by the United Nations. But then he thought twice and came with this conclusion: "The situation will be problematic. What you'll get is a million off-licence shops and curry restaurants with no customers." Bongo's sense of logic was sharp as ever.
It was very sad indeed to imagine these poor Indians standing behind their till, staring at eachother from their shop windows on both sides of an empty street.

We let go these deplorable comments for a while and came back to the verses. We debated about politics, history, books and baby-making but I couldn't help going back to the chorus: "Did you know that in London they put loads of signs in the tube calling for responsible drinking? One of these campaign ads warns about the risk of falling from the platform when drunk in the Underground."

Bongo's girlfriend asked for the permisson to slap me. I gave my permission, she slapped me and then she said: "Now that you have two verses and two choruses, I expect you two to work on the bridge."

What if Jesus came back?

2008-11-27T00:41:00.009+01:00

I read somewhere on the web something about the establishment of God's kingdom on Earth. The author of the article quoted the Book of Revelation ("he seventh angel blew his trumpet and there were loud voices shouting in heaven. The whole world has now become the Kingdom of our Lord and of His Christ, and He will reign forever and ever") and assumed the times were bad for Jesus and co to come back here. Too much violence, too much bigotry, too many muslims...

But then I thought: let's assume Jesus decides to come back to see how we're doing, what would happen next? And I figured out he would have a tricky job on his hands.

First, I suppose he would reappear somewhere in the ancient Judah, where he used to preach in his prime. That means either in Israël or Palestine. In both cases, there's a chance he will receive the same warm welcoming the British Airborne experienced in Arnhem in September 1944 when the paratroopers of its Majesty landed on General Bittrich's 4th SS Panzer Division. The only point of uncertainty is whether the Jews will get him before the Muslims and how much money they will ask the US government to set him free.

Then, the guy will surely try to go back to his former business: preaching, healing and irritating people who have political power. The problem is that these three market segments are overcrowded and extra-competitive.

What concerns preaching, Jesus will have to start with an update. He founded a Church which doesn't exist anylonger. The initital start-up has experienced dismantlements, mergers and takeovers and he will have to choose a new preaching banner: will he go for Catholicism, Orthodoxism, Protestantism, Baptism, Evangelism, Mormonism? A real market study has to be run here. Will Jesus come back with a marketing expert?

Healing should be less of a winding road since humanity is presumably eager to get rid of AIDS, cancer, aging and other plagues. But what will the medical corporations say if a lunatic comes with a free treatment and makes their products obsolete? There are at least a million people in the western world whose house, car, home cinema and Hi-Fi equipment depends on HIV-related diseases in sub-saharan Africa. Will Jesus find them another job?

As for irritating people who own political power, Jesus will have to get familiar with modern communication. If he simply stands on his wood box to deliver his speeches, he will have trouble with the police or the Big Issue man who sells newspapers and hates people who shout louder than him.
So he'll have to go on TV, maybe in a talk-show. He will have to get used to make-up and commercial breaks, he will need another haircut and on top of that he will have to be ready to answer David Letterman's inquisitive questions, such as: "Have you ever imagined, Jesus, to have sex with Paris Hilton?" But will he be ready for that?

I'm sure people are in a hurry to see the Lord back in action. But they have to be patient, and they need to understand Jesus wouldn't be Jesus if he hadn't an answer to all these questions. The Holy Bible shows he's human like us. So give him a little time to think first.

Pet sounds

2008-11-24T19:07:00.008+01:00

No, this is not an article about the Beach Boys. This is an article about dogs. So let's try to imagine you're a dog. Being a dog, your job basically consists in barking at the postman, eating the disgusting probiotic dogfood which your owner gives you, urinating here and there to mark your territory and sniffing at some other dog's ass once in a while to see whether it smells like the nasty turd that was layed in your backyard. But there is actually more in being a dog.

If you're a fan of Walt Disney's 101 Dalmatians, you can also offer your services as a matchmaker. You can do it the old-fashioned way, by joining your owner for a walk in the park and improvising a new Pongo ritual, or you can do it the modern way, by trying your paws on the PC's keyboard and adding to your owner's favorites the webpage http://www.datemypet.com.
Pet owners love to meet other pet owners, and it's only justice that a website should make it easier for them.

But would it not be justice as well to make it possible for us dogs to find a mating soul on the Internet? Is it fair for us dogs to be deprived of the outstanding breakthroughs of new technologies? Are we bound, as dogs, to sniff randomly at a hundred smelly asses before we find the perfect match? Just because we can't properly use mobile phones and condoms, should we be kept away from modernity?

If you find it unfair, if you find it outrageous, www.date-dog.com is here for you. It's a meeting website for dogs and it is already a huge success among the dog community. Thousands of dogs have already registered there and entered their profile.
For instance, Houbi the Bedlington Terrier from Toulouse has described himself as a sociable, intelligent and punchy single dog, and his profile has been viewed by 41 female dogs. Among them was Ophélie from Brittany, a romantic yorkshire who wrote on her profile: "I fancy going out, sleeping late and hugging :)"
They met and had a crush on eachother. If it happened to them, why shouldn't it happen to you? So my fellow dogs, come and register and at least give it a try. The first month is free and you can win a bone and a Playstation 3.

Shortcuts

2008-11-23T22:20:00.005+01:00

I was in the tube the other day with my beloved 18-year-old brother sitting next to me. I was reading a novel by Maupassant, and to be honest I was so much in it I couldn't even hear the roaring of the train.

The book was about a 19th century painter madly in love with a female socialite, Anne de Guilleroy. The guy was supposed to do her portrait, but after a few meetings, he begins to develop strong feelings towards her. So he tries to figure out how to turn the model into his mistress. Being a brillant talker, he skilfully injects in his conversation subtle innuendos and daring proposals.
She lets him talk the talk, waiting for the moment when he would walk the walk. But his first attempt to kiss her is somehow heavy-handed and after offering her lips in a moment of abandon, Anne de Guilleroy swiftly falls back to safer ground. She rejects him and leaves the room.

The poor fellow is at sea. He thinks about ways to redeem himself, but in the same time he doesn't want to give in. She goes back to his house the next day as if nothing happened and asks him to finish her portrait. But there is too much affectation in her apparent indifference for it to be true, and the painter feels that the battle is not completely lost. He affects indifference as well, and obediently limits his conversation to painting and art.
He's a better act than she is, and Anne de Guilleroy starts wondering whether the passion is gone. She's longing for his sweet talk again. Maybe she has feelings as well, and maybe she wants him to possess her. But being a society woman, she can't allow herself to show away too much. She must delay the surrender to add value to its price.
And so began the second act of an intricated foreplay whose ebb and flow promised to be as staggering as the atlantic tide...

I was about to learn about the long-expected outcome when my beloved brother interrupted my reading to show me a SMS he had just received from a girl called Charlotte, who he had been chatting with on the internet for two days:

"Hello, it's Charlotte. If you want, we can have sex tonight. My parents are away. Bring condoms if you have some, otherwise I think I have one or two left. See you. Love"

I threw away my book and we got off the train.

The golden age of concept

2008-11-22T17:08:00.005+01:00

If you're familiar with mineral water, then you might be familiar with Evian mineral water. And if you're familiar with Evian mineral water, you may be familiar with the fact that Evian mineral water got its name from French town Evian-les-Bains, where the water takes its source.
And if none of this is new to you, you certainly know that Evian-les-Bains is a thermal town where old rich folks suffering from rheumatisms and varicose veins and younger rich folks suffering from being too young and too rich get hydrotherapy treatments when springtime comes.

20 years ago, the deal was pretty simple. You came to Evian-les-Bains with your rheumatisms and dollars, they splashed water on you for a few days or weeks and you went back home feeling 15 years younger. Then you naturally came back to smoking and drinking and died of a heart-attack a few years later.
Now things have changed. They still take your dollars and splash water on you, they still make you feel younger, but they give you the choice between seven options, which they call "day packages":

EVIAN DISCOVERY allows you to "savour relexation".
EVIAN LIBERTY intends to "relax you and hydrate and tone your body".
EVIAN ENERGIES procures "lasting relaxation and re-energising".
EVIAN HYDOR ZEN makes you "recover well-being and serenity".
EVIAN MINERAL makes you "feel so much better".
EVIAN REBIRTH draws on "vital energy to restore balance".
EVIAN SENSATIONS offers activities "full of heady excitement".

An old American patient suffering from serious articulatory problems came to Evian last summer at the request of his doctor. He found it hard to breath, he found it hard to move, he found it hard to talk. He came to the desk his prescription in hand and asked the receptionnist, whose sparkling eyes, flawless skin and perfect body shape were a living advert for Aldous Huxley's Brave New World, what they could do for his health.

The white lady at the desk gave him the menu above, the old man read it and was a bit confused. He sure wanted to recover well-being and serenity as well as restoring his balance with the help of vital energies, but he above all wanted to be cured.
The white lady understood perfectly well and informed him about Shiatsu harmony massage, aimed at rebalancing the energetic flux for greater harmony between body and mind. She mentioned reflexology sessions, which by privileging your inner sensations made you aware of the present moment and freed your tensions. She was almost singing when boasting the virtues of Tai Ji quan, an energising corporal discipline which developed strength, suppleness, concentration and inner calm.

During all this chirruping, the old man had to stand as he wasn't offered a seat. He soon felt a weakness in his right leg and, as the freshly cleaned floor was a bit slippery, he fell on his head and broke his neck. By the time the ambulance came, he was dead. Dead at the gates of Heaven, listening to one of his angels chanting the Coming of the golden age of concept.

Talk Radio

2008-11-20T22:46:00.005+01:00

Oliver Stone's Talk Radio took its inspiration from a real event: the murder of liberal Denver radio personality Alan Berg at the behest of a militant right-wing hate group. Here is the story: Barry Champlain is a provocative radio talk-show host, whose racy eloquence and inflammatory views stirs up both love and hate among his listeners. He's witty, cynical and self-indulgent, while his fucked-up fans seem born to advertise for the dark side of America: he gets calls from drug-abusers, suicidal teenagers and angry neo-nazis from all parts of Denver.

Fame comes rapidly and the show gets promoted to national broadcast. And the real troubles begin. One night Barry pushes one caller just a bit too far, and just before hanging up the phone, he hears a scary voice saying: "I know your face, Jew. I know where you live. I'll find you soon." Two days later he gets shot in the street, just a few meters away from the studio.

For some, this is the story of a guy who wittingly played with fire and eventually got burn. In a sense, they're right. To give people a chance to unleash their darkest instincts is to play with fire. Especially people whose audience is usually limited to police stations, intensive care units, bums and drug dealers.

But this film goes beyond the case of Barry Champlain/Alan Berg. Barry here operates as the lightning rod of society. He sure takes pleasure at riding the lightning, but he discovers pretty soon that the game he started is endless, and that it takes no rules. People suffering daily from anger and frustration, lack of money, lack of love and lack of recognition should be happy to find a soapbox and someone to talk to, even if he's an act. But they're not. They feel even worse.

In all their misery, they still have more respect for the racist cop or the corrupted politician, because these two stay where they belong. Barry doesn't. They can take the lies from the nababs above, because they've been groomed to and because they have no choice. But they won't take the truth from a simple radio host whose outspokenness is a constant offence to the system that didn't favor them, but which they look up to as an almighty God.
These people won't shoot the President. But given a chance, they will shoot the one guy who has the guts - or the freedom - to call it an act at the face of the world.

Anonymous said...

2008-11-20T17:41:00.006+01:00

One of the common-shared problems associated with surfing on the internet is that you catch all sorts of worms and virus if you're not careful enough. As for the blogger, one of the most wide-spread bacterias he may get exposed to is the self-called "Anonymous said..."
This is it how it works: you post a thread, "Anomynous said..." comes into contact with it and infects the "comment" cell. It then duplicates its ADN and maliciously multiplies itself. You then find your dear little blog struggling with all kind of parasites, ranging from "I read your shit" to " buy yourself a life" or "Shut up you moron"

As most viruses do, the "Anonymous said..." bacteria stays in the organism for a few days or a few weeks, depending on its resilience. I probably caught my bacteria (whose devastating effects can be examined in some of the previous posts) by leaving my URL on one those broad-mindening american forums I've recently visited. I was careless, I fucked without condom, so I take the blame for it. A bacteria can't be held responsable for its actions. I can.

Some webmasters and bloggers deal with worms and bacterias by deleting their posts. I won't do that for three reasons.

1: braindead stupidity cannot freely express oneself in the real world, because there it bears a name and a face and is likely to get first-hand punishment. Internet is much more democratic than that, since it allows stupidity to travel unchallenged from a website to another. I like that. I think it's cool.

2: the act of blogging implies the hope for readers, hence the hope for comments. My "Anonymous said..." bacteria writes comments, which is better than nothing. I will take all that the Web can give: hate, abuse, anger, innuendos, despise, calomny, cynism, discrediting attempts and, once in a while, witty and delightful plaudits or critics backed by real arguments. But i'm not longing for that too much

3: I was running short of ideas, and my bacteria gave me two new ideas: a) imagining a new form of porn featuring double-penis guys and double-head chicks (try to imagine the number of mathematical possibilities here); b) writing about the freedom of speech and more precisely about Oliver Stone's 1985 film, Talk Radio.

So to "Anonymous said..." and other bacterias to come:

Kind regards, and see you soon.

Election Day

2008-11-20T10:00:00.004+01:00

"Who do I usually vote for, mum?" When election day gets close, the countdown is set on for another crucial choice: shall I vote for Mr X or shall I vote for Mrs Y?

Mum doesn't have to face such a dilemma. She used to when she was young, but these times are over now. Even before Mr X declared himself a candidate for the country's presidency, she knew she would give him her vote. Her ideas are engraved since one of Mr X's fellow campaigners assured her of a job and a flat in the city.

So 20-year old Dwaine has to turn to someone else. Most of his friends trust Mrs Y. They more exactly hate Mr X. "He's a cunning politician, they say. He changes sides every two weeks to fool the electors. But he won't fool us. Everyone knows he's a liberal son of a bitch and a far-right sympathizer." And then Dwayne and his friends light a joint in front of the University entrance and read out loud a satirical tract from a far-left fanzine.

But Dwaine is still not convinced. He's a natural-born citizen and he wants to get a larger picture. So he goes in the evening to Mrs Y's meeting and he listens to her speech. She says it's time for change, she says it's time for justice, she says the other side is bad. And Dwaine comes home with a resolution: "I will vote for Mrs Y."
But mum has turned the TV on. She's watching a talk-show. A fierce and intense debate between two political experts takes place, and new pieces of information he had not heard about before flow to his ears: unemployment, interest rates, savings, indebtedness of the State, security, ecology, foreign policy, nuclear energy... It gives him the hell of a headache. He's asking mum what she thinks of both of them, but she merely answers. "All I know is that the guy on the left can't talk properly, she says. He gets angry all the time and always interrupts the other."

But then Dwaine realizes the guy on the left is one of Mrs Y's supporters. And he says to himself: "if he can't talk properly and gets angry all the time, maybe it is because his opponent is too good for him. Maybe he has no argument." So he gives himself another day to make up his mind.

The next morning he goes to an off-licence, buys himself a couple of beers and two papers. He gets home and reads them. In the first one, there is an interview of Mr X. It says it's time for change, it says it's time for justice, it says the other side is bad. Dwaine wonders who was the first to come up with this key-statement, since both candidates claim ownership. So he goes on the Internet and starts his investigation. He gets 1,147 results for "it's time for change" and 1,254 results for "it's time for justice".
He surprisingly finds out that neither Mr X, nor Mrs Y have a monopoly on it. Hundreds of politicians, some of them dead for 40 decades, said exactly the same thing. Dwaine is completely lost. He drinks his two cans of beer and buys another 10. "In Vino veritas", his Latin teacher said.

The day of the election, Dwaine wakes up at 12 with a nasty hangover. He forgot about the election. He doesn't give a shit no more. But he's a citizen and he will do his duty. So he gets on the street and walks to the polling station. He's looking for a sign. A decisive event that will make him decide. At the market corner, a tall black guy asks him for a fag. He says he doesn't have one and he gets punched in the face. He's bleeding. He's humiliated. He runs to the polling station and puts his vote into the ballot box without a minute of hesitation. He voted for Mr X, whom he heard say the word "security" one time more than Mrs Y.

His job is done. His duty is performed. Now Dwaine can start thinking at last about something else.

Citizen of the world

2008-11-18T21:16:00.008+01:00

For all his wisdom, Master Socrates lost an occasion to shut it when he said 2400 years ago: "I am not an Athenian, I am not a Greek. I am a citizen of the world." Don't get me wrong: that was, back in its context, a wonderful statement; a well-thought provocation towards his judges and a daring dig at the Greek's bigotry and self-centeredness.

But the problem of brillant quotes is that they raise the attention of not so brillant quote recyclers who never miss a chance to use them in every social context, where reputations are made and laurel wreathes are given. At the weekly Grammy Awards of self-righteous yuppies, one can always be sure of finding, standing between the gay-friendly of the month and the feminist of the year, the new self-processed "Citizen of the world".

I met one last week, and I tried to understand what she (since it was a she-citizen of the world) meant by that. First, she meant that she was not a woman, but an individual. She was a woman all right, but she didn't want people to look at her that way. "Feminity", according to her, was a male invention meant to confine women to an ascribed role. She developped this idea and I thought "All right, she may be right on certain points."

Then, she said that she didn't feel like a French or a European person, but as a member of humanity. It was pure chance that she was born in France and that she learnt the language, and she didn't feel any different from an Eskimo or a Papuan. I thought again: "Well, why not?"

Religion came into consideration and she of course denied the impact of being a Christian, a Muslim or a polytheistic bloke from New Guinea. These were all personal beliefs and everyone was free to express one's belief. It didn't interract with the rest.

We said eachother goodbye and on the way back home, I told myself how lucky I was to have met a person whose extraordinary power of transcendence made her at the same time a man and a woman, a French and a Libyan, a Christian and a Muslim.
I wondered why I spent so much time and money learning about interculturality, languages and religions, since a simple chat in a Parisian café was enough to get a complete overlook on humanity. We just have to deny them and stay what we are, and where we are. Peacefully, effortlessly, with a medal around our neck saying: "Citizen of the world".

I thought Socrates meant we had to open ourselves to other cultures and share our views on things. I was maybe off-target. He more certainly meant that he considered himself beyond the Athenian law and its army of narrow-minded law-makers. By proclaming himself a citizen of the world, he was pleading for an universal justice which would not hide behind a wall of silly traditions.
But 2400 years later, nobody gives a shit about the real meaning of that. The packaging is cool enough not to care too much about the actual content.

A short introduction to: the far-left crusader

2008-11-17T21:27:00.008+01:00

Television is a wonderful thing. It shows news, advertising, weather forecast, soap operas, sports, sex, music and films. But what makes television truly wonderful is that it shows to the population exotic things which people rarely have a chance to see.
These exotic things mostly consist in tropical islands, remote seashores, rain forests and magnificent birds. But there are things, or rather people, which are even more exotic than that and whose extraordinary vision of the world leaves the simple-minded TV viewer in a state of mental catharsis close to divine revelation whenever they hear their words.

These people are the far-left activists. Gutted by the prejudices in our western societies, fueled by the hate of injustice and discriminations, they fight like crusaders on every piece of land and give a hard time to every infidel who stands in their way, be it the corrupted cynics who lead the country, the brutal cops who give ill-treatment to their unlucky victims or the unthinking ignorant crowd that goes shopping on friday afternoon while people are starving at the other hand of the planet.

But they have more in store than that. They have the power to redefine the language and to unmask those who use it to feed their fascist propaganda. They read Orwell's 1984 and understood the power of Newspeak. The real war has to be a war of words and a war on words.

The other day, during a TV debate, one of them crusaders heard a guest say the word "race". This crusader reacted by asking: "Excuse-me, what do you mean by 'race'?"
The guest didn't expect that question. He thought everyone had opened a dictionnary once in his life and had come across this definition: "Race (noun): A local geographic or global human population distinguished as a more or less distinct group by genetically transmitted physical characteristics including skin color, hair type, body proportions, and skull measurements."
So, he just answered: "Well, the color of the skin. You are black an I am white."

The crusader was petrified. She asked for more: "So in your opinion, the fact that I am black and that you are white makes me belong to another race than yours?"
The guest replied: "Yes, of course." The crusader couldn't hold her breath. She couldn't believe what she heard. The only problem here is that she had been militating for miscegenation since she was 18, and it was the guest's turn to ask: "How can there be a miscegenation, which you advocate for, if there are no races?"

The crusader didn't even answer. Her ears were closed now, while her friends from "SOS Racism" were already preparing their press release to express their surprise and indignation at Mr Guest's rehabilitation of the ugly "theory of races".

Nevermind the fact that Mr Guest clearly said later that Hitler's sacralization of the races was twice as ridiculous (the infidel is only entitled to say stupid things), nevermind the fact that militating for miscegenation implies indeed miscegenation, and nevermind the fact that an association called 'SOS Racism' was meant to fight racism (which may be understood by some as discrimination between races), the crusader won on two points.

1: she succeeded in turning half of the population against potentially useful progressist ideas by discrediting those who are expected to defend them.

2: she made Alfred Jarry and his Ubu the King laugh in his grave, which had not happened since the Monty Python released The Life of Brian back in 1979.

Greetings

2008-11-16T21:30:00.005+01:00

When people haven't seen each other for a while, they usually ask "what's up?" if they're from Crenshaw mafia, "how do you do?" if they're from 19th century England, "how have you been?" if they're from 19th century England but don't want to face it, or simply "what have you been up to?" if they're just normal.

The problem is that in 90% of the cases, the answer will be "Well, nothing special" or "I'm fine", which is pure bore and a waste of words. Hence the following question: how to turn greetings into something utterly informative? The answer is: by changing the initial question, and moving from "what have you been up to?" to "what have you not been up to?"

To illustrate this, here is an example of a chat between two friends starting with this latter line. It's been recorded by CCTV in the London Tube, at Picadilly Station the 15/10/2008. I got the tape by asking my brother to screw a female employee of the company.

"Oh, Hello, Travis. It's been a while. What have you not been up to?
- Well, Ted, I haven't banged your wife, for a start. I could have the other evening when I met her in a pub, but I didn't. What about you?
- Well, I haven't learnt about that. So I haven't smashed your face with a baseball bat and I haven't stamped my feet on your 45£ suit. Anything else?
- I didn't find another job, I didn't fly to Sri Lanka and I didn't change my mind about never going there. I also haven't bought myself a new car because I haven't got the money to do so. I haven't tried to rob your apartment because I knew I couldn't find a way to unlock your door.
- Couldn't you? That's a shame. I haven't thought about that at all. Besides, I haven't learnt to use correctly the preterit and the perfect tense, which is okay because Sandra hasn't told me anything about that. She hasn't told me anything at all the last three months, when I think about it.
- Well, Ted, I've been glad to see you. I hope we'll find more time soon to catch up.
- All right then, Travis. So long."

A bit more lively, ain't it? Now, you know exactly what to do the next time you meet someone you really don't like but with whom you still want to be polite.

Newspeak

2008-11-16T14:09:00.005+01:00

Judith Mudd is the Head of the British Sociological Association. She woke up on tuesday morning, had breakfast with her husband (tea, eggs and bacon) and gave fish cakes to her dog. She took her car and drove to her work. While driving, she thought about lines she read in bed in George Orwell's 1984:
"You haven't a real appreciation of Newspeak, Winston. Even when you write it you're still thinking in Oldspeak. I've read some of those pieces that you write in The Times occasionally. They're good enough, but they're translations. In your heart you'd prefer to stick to Oldspeak, with all its vagueness and its useless shades of meaning. You don't grasp the beauty of the destruction of words. Do you know that Newspeak is the only language in the world whose vocabulary gets smaller every year?"

She parked her car in front of the company building, said "Hello" at the reception desk and stepped in the elevator. And she thought again. "Don't you see that the whole aim of Newspeak is to narrow the range of thought? In the end we shall make thoughtcrime literally impossible, because there will be no words in which to express it."

She took her phone to call her collaborators for an emergency meeting. She told each one of them how important that was. And so, at 10, all of them left their occupations and hurried to the main meeting room. Before she started to speak, she tried once more to remember what she read the night before. "Even now, of course, there's no reason or excuse for committing thoughtcrime. It's merely a question of self-discipline, reality-control. But in the end there won't be any need even for that. The Revolution will be complete when the language is perfect."
And then she said what she had to say, people heard what they had to hear.

A few months later, her husband was reading the Telegraph in the garden. Judith Mudd was in the garden too, trimming the hedge. Her husband found an article, which he began to read out loud:

"Publishers and universities are outlawing dozens of seemingly innocuous words in case they cause offence. Banned phrases on the list, which was originally drawn up by sociologists, include Old Masters, which has been used for centuries to refer to great painters - almost all of whom were in fact male. It is claimed that the term discriminates against women and should be replaced by "classic artists". The list of banned words was written by the British Sociological Association, whose members include dozens of professors, lecturers and researchers. The list of allegedly racist words includes immigrants, developing nations and black, while so-called "disablist" terms include patient, the elderly and special needs.
It comes after one council outlawed the allegedly sexist phrase "man on the street", and another banned staff from saying "brainstorm" in case it offended people with epilepsy (...)
The list of racist terms features black, which "can be used in a racist sense" and should be changed to "black peoples" or "black communities". Immigrants is said to have "racist overtones" because of its association with "immigration legislation", while developing nations - intended as a more sensitive replacement for Third World - is "prejudical" because it implies a comparison with developed countries.
Although not included on the Policy Press list, the BSA warns authors against using civilisation because of its “racist overtones that derive from a colonialist perception of the world”.

He dropped the paper, looked at his wife and said: "Oh darling, I'm so proud of you. Don't you think we should invite the Spencers tonight to share this achievement?" She shrugged her shoulders and answered: "It's no big deal, you know. Just a little step further on the road of progress."

The thing on the right

2008-11-15T16:37:00.008+01:00

Now, what's this? I strongly advise the reader here to first have a look at "the thing on the left", which you will find by downscrolling the November box. Done? All right. What we'll do here is follow the usual procedure and try to guess what this thing is by finding out what it's not.

This thing on the right is not one of Jackson Pollock's early paintings. They surely have in common the absence of the mannerisms of "good painting," which gives them both generosity and expressive power. But the vertical directionality down to the weave, distinct from any device of perspective, was the hallmark of Pollock's work, and the thing on the right seems more focused on what John Ruskin called "extended gravity": elements are floating around an invisible midpoint, and their rounded shapes suggests the waltz of celestial bodies.

We may also think about some experimental work of Philip Guston. But the thing on the right is clearly too apolitical for that, and for all its underground figurative imagination, it seems to only gather abstract to capture the germ of an intimate feeling, while Guston's canvas paintings clearly pushed allegory further and never lacked a pictural sense of judgment.

The thing on the right is also reminiscent of Adalbert Trillhaase's "naïve paintings". Same fresh and a-contemporary approach, same attention brought to colors, same apparent clumsiness, in addition to an archaïc dealing of subconscious frames. But in that case, where are the intangible elements that give naïve painting its chloroformic essence? Where are the references about the absence and the presence altogether of an old folk culture?

No. The thing on the right is a painting from twelve-year-old Alice Barnes, currently in Year 10 in a Birmingham college. She showed it to her mum and dad one evening and they said "that's wonderful, darling" and then turned the TV on to watch the local news.

The thing on the left

2008-11-15T11:56:00.007+01:00

Now, what is that? Think carefully before answering. If I can give you a guessing tip, the best thing to do here is to clear the ground and try to figure out what this thing on the left is not.

This thing on the left is not a drawing. It's a painting. It it were a drawing, there wouldn't be these paint drips and this grey background with gouache streaks that clearly advocate for the use of a paintbrush.

This thing on the left is not a child's painting intended to be pasted up on the wall of a classroom in some american primary school. If it were, it would have been removed and burnt by a member of the staff or another child, since it carries a political statement. This cannot be tolerated for obvious reasons. A primary school is not a place to express one's controversial opinion about the world.

This thing on the left is neither the work of some old man jailed in a lunatic asylum for repeted rape and sodomy attempts on guinea-pigs. This thing on the left sure looks weird, but not that weird. It's almost symetrical, nearly cohesive and it cannot have been made under the disrupting influence of a mental crisis.

Now, I tell you what this thing on the left is. It's a handmade painting of German artist A.R. Penck (born Ralf Winkler), born in 1939 in Dresden. Like all his other works, it testifies for the parting of Germany and it echoes the contradictions between the eastern and western political systems. It's influenced by Paul Klee's work and mixes the flatness of Egyptian or Mayan writing with the crudity of the late black paintings by Jackson Pollock. At the moment, it's exhibited in the Frankfurt Kunsthalle and is considered by some as his personal masterpiece.

Trolls and Axes: A World of Bancraft

2008-11-14T14:17:00.009+01:00

Let's start with a definition: "An Internet troll, or simply troll in internet slang is someone who posts controversial, inflammatory, irrelevant or off-topic messages in an online community, such as an online discussion forum or chat room with the intention of provoking other users into an emotional response to generally disrupt normal on-topic discussion." (Wikipedia)

And now a second one: "The axe, or ax, is an implement that has been used for millenia to shape, split and cut wood, harvest timber, as a weapon and a ceremonial or heraldic symbol. Antique axes and their modern reproductions, like the tomahawk, often had a simple, straight haft with a circular cross-section that wedged onto the axe-head without the aid of wedges or pins. Modern hafts are curved for better grip and to aid in the swinging motion, and are mounted securely to the head." (Wikipedia as well)

To be more specific, the link between the troll and the axe is that the axe can be used to smash the troll's head and get rid of his threatening presence. But that's an image of course. In modern times, the troll is not really a troll and the axe is not really an axe. We already know what the modern troll is. It's well-explained in the definition above. But what is the axe?

The axe is protean (meaning it can take several forms).

The administator's axe is the bankick, the administrator being the druid of the village. It's a powerful weapon that makes the troll disappear in one click. But before you can use it, you need to upgrade your character. You basically need 150 points of magic to get it, but once you have it, you're the master of the map. You can even resurrect the dead troll and throw it against your ennemies.

The standard player's axe is the report. You don't need experience to use it, but it's more efficient when you're a senior player. All you need here is a simple right click with the mouse and then you have to fill a form: "This person broke the rules of the forum by posting a sexist thread plus he made fun about my own thread dealing with vegetarian food." You won't destroy the troll at once with that weapon, but if many players use it at the same time and combine their energy, that could raise the attention of the druid who'll decide to use his magic.

Another axe is the nasty reply. This is the most common defense against the troll. Verbal abuse is not very powerful against an upgraded troll, but it's a fast and simple answer to the threat. Irony, combined with smileys (like in: "I supposed what you wrote was meant to be funny, sorry if I didn't laugh"), is a bit more effective, but not quite enough. Ignoring is by far the best defense. But like in the report situation, it has to be built as a team. If one breaks the rule and attacks uncovered, the battle is lost and the troll wins.

Forums in Latium

2008-11-14T10:56:00.006+01:00

As someone said back in the 80's, "I remember well what I didn't forget." I visited Roma once, the real one, the living capital of the lost Roman world. I was just a kid, but I remember it. And I visited the forum there, at least what remains of it.
Every roman city had a forum back then: an open public place where citizens discussed about the city's daily business. Now that democracy rhymes with modernity, forum has become a discussion board on the internet.

Does that mean people discuss the world's daily business? Sure it does. I visited the other day an American forum and posted a new thread about politics in the medias and the bad treatment some candidates received. I was told to fuck off. And so I did fuck off and I came back with something new: I copied and pasted an article about low-cost Christmas decorations. That was a massive success.

"99 cent, dollar stores, Walmart have inexpensive xmas decorations. Many charities and self help groups make and sell xmas decorations too", said nitram.

"Um, I guess you could string together some Cheerios, or if you really want to wow them with a splash of color - some Fruit Loops - and put them on the tree like garland", said Twinkle Toes.

"I just saw in Martha Stewart, maybe, to string the popcorn alternating with fresh cranberries. It looked beautiful. Don't know how low cost that is, I think cranberries are about $1 per bag. Don't know how many bags one would need, though, probably no more than two. My question was how long will something like this last?" was mommytotwo's contribution.

And finally deerislesmile said: "One of my first, very broke, Christmases, I hung Hershey's miniatures and added some beer caps hanging on wire. It was like a Redneck Christmas, but it was festive."

I thought I was accepted by the parliament, and so my confidence grew. I posted a thread about social issues in western countries. But the deputees didn't vote the motion. Some called me a troll, others just said "lame". I was kicked out of the Forum and banned for a while from the political scene. I switched off my computer and harped on my poor condition.
And then, at the lowest point of my career, I found this one topic that would bring me redemption and political acceptance from my peers. I bravely switched on my computer, I went straight at the forum pages and as I stood in front of the assembly, with defiant faces staring at me, I posted a new thread: "Success Tips for Transplanting and Moving Garden Plants".

I got 675 views and 42 replies, Senior members gave me loads of positive ratings. I was accepted. I was a democrat. I was a member. A true member of a true forum. A forum in Latium.

That was enough

2008-11-13T14:16:00.010+01:00

I caught myself the other day rummaging through my wallet to find money to buy cigarettes. I could just round up 3 euros and 45 cents and I thought at this moment: a few years beforehand, that would have been enough. Then I went to a bar to meet a friend of mine. He's got a master degree in Physics, but he's still looking for a job. It's been nearly six months now. I listened to his story, then I said to him: "well, you've got what it takes to work for a company. A few decades back in time, I'm pretty sure that was enough."

Another guy I know was thinking about getting a flat in Paris to move in with his girlfriend. He had cash, she was working, they weren't listed terrorists. So I thought that was enough. But then he told me about the queue lines in front of every apartment and the time it took to get an answer from the estate agency, and so I changed my mind.

I would fancy having a boat one day and sail across the Mediterranean Sea. I could call here and there at every port I see, chasing the seagulls and dancing with the dolphins. All I would need is a bit of money to buy myself a small craft. I'm sure there was a time when that was enough. But I recently learned about the bunch of authorizations you need to make this dream come true and the cost of docking in the smallest French port, and I figured out that wasn't.

One of my cousins lives in Madagascar. She invited me there and that was nice of her. "Can I come right now?" I said. I wanted to, that was enough. But she told me I first needed vaccination against hepatitis A and B, rabies, malaria, diphteria, tetanus and measles plus a 50-euro visa. I was a bit puzzled and I asked her: "will that be enough?"

So I went back home with kind of low spirits. I served myself a glass of whisky to cheer me up and I turned the TV on. It was a popular music show. A girl stood behind a microphone and was singing a song she didn't write about something she didn't know. Then she talked about her and said that music was her life. But she had many other things in mind. She'd soon be part of a movie and had started writing a book. Well, as she wasn't exactly a writer either, someone she knows would do the job.

And so I leaned back in my sofa, listening to the girl, and I let a smile come to my face. And as she started massacring another famous song, I gladly said to myself: "I guess back then, that at least wasn't enough"

Talking about a revolution

2008-11-13T10:58:00.005+01:00

Et puisque le pape Paul VI a dit que seule la langue française permettait d'exprimer "la magistrature de l'essentiel", cette courte page consacrée au roman Les dieux ont soif d'Anatole France sera rédigée en français. Pour tout dire, la seule pensée d'évoquer la Révolution dans la langue d'Elisabeth II, du Duc d'Edimbourgh et de sa bande de clébards hirsutes qu'il emmène chasser le cerf dans la forêt de Windsor me file la nausée.

Anatole France, donc, nous entraîne dans Les dieux ont soif au coeur de la Terreur, épisode sanglant de la Révolution Française hanté par les terrifiantes figures de Danton, Marat et Robespierre.
Evariste Gamelin, artiste peintre parisien vivant avec sa mère, n'a au début du roman qu'un poids mineur dans les affaires de son pays. En bon citoyen, il respecte la Convention, idolâtre L'Ami du Peuple (le ci-devant Marat) et voue une aversion de circonstance aux aristocrates, curés et autres résidus de l'Ancien Régime. Mais un jour, une femme riche liée aux milieux contre-révolutionnaires et soucieuse d'assurer ses arrières le fait nommer juré au Comité de Salut Public.

L'inoffensif Gamelin découvre alors la salle du Tribunal et son cénacle d'accusateurs publics en même temps que leur gadget fétiche, la guillotine. Commence à défiler sous ses yeux la colonne des ennemis supposés de la Nation: chefs d'armée accusés d'avoir battu en retraite, filles de rien soupçonnées d'avoir fricoté avec des anglais, nobles coupables d'être restés au pays, fédéralistes à la solde de la monarchie, scribouillards de mansarde taxés de correspondance avec l'étranger, clochards avinés pris à crier "Vive le Roi"...
Devant cette succession hétéroclite de parias, Gamelin est peu à peu gagné par la paranoïa ambiante et commence à craindre pour l'avenir de la France, qu'il voit rongée de l'intérieur par la gangrène contre-révolutionnaire. L'assassinat de Marat dans sa baignoire achève de le convertir au "Tout-Révolution", et dès lors c'est avec un plaisir presque sadomasochiste qu'il enverra à l'échaffaud tout ce que Paris compte d'habitants ou presque, à commencer par son beau-frère, son vieil ami Brotteaux et même la citoyenne qui l'avait fait nommer juré.

L'épuration est colossale: les têtes tombent à toute les pages. Et comme plus tard du côté du camarade Lénine, c'est dans ses rangs que la Révolution trouve ses meilleures victimes. Si bien que quand vient l'heure de juger Robespierre, le tribunal de la Commune n'est plus composé que de "rentiers", de "bourgeois cossus", de "gros commerçants", de "têtes poudrées" et de "ventres à breloques".
La sarabande s'achève avec la mise à mort de Robespierre, et Gamelin n'échappe pas au dernier coup de filet. Il est conduit à la Concorde dans l'anonymat d'une fin de Révolution qui aura vu la naissance de l'esprit français moderne: un savoureux mélange de paresse et d'exaltation, d'idéaux sans lendemain et d'héroïsme de gala.

Anonymous Rebelius

2008-11-11T19:40:00.008+01:00

Uncle Plato was a visionary man, an outstanding child abuser and a first-class philosopher, no question about that. His oligarchy/democracy/anarchy triptych and his theory about the propensity of democracy to decay into anarchy are still relevant today, for most of its parts. But for all the intellectual spice of his grotto's allegory, he couldn't match Corneille's Alcandre on one point: foreseeing. The advent of the Anonymous Rebelius: he didn't see that one coming.

In the human evolution process, Anonymous Rebelius was preceded by Anonymous Democratus. Anonymous Democratus was not easy to handle. He complained about laws, started a few revolutions and wars, claimed power and regularly barked for social changes. Sometimes Anonymous Democratus made silly mistakes, like sitting Napoleon in a throne or Hitler in an armchair, but he tried to learn from that. He sent his children to school, studied the past and gave his best to make his life a worthy one.

He didn't mind to be anonymous as long as he remained democratus. He wanted to be consulted every now and then on the march of the world, the price of vegetables and the TV programs. Even when he didn't vote, he wanted the right to vote. Even if he hated school, he felt it was right to have school obligations. Even if he couldn't stand authority, he was relieved to see police cars patrolling in his street.
Anonymous Democratus desired recognition as well. He sure admitted he would never be Churchill, Balzac or Elvis Presley. He heard their speeches, read their books and listened to their songs without angry feeling. He just wanted to be spotted by some as an individual, whether it was for his working skills, community commitments or love-making capacities. He could go back from work in the evening with a clear conscience. If he was an artist, he would fight his way to self-achievement. If no one knew his face, it was alright by him, as long as many knew his works.

But after a while, Anonymous Democratus went through a middle-age crisis. He looked back in history and couldn't see anylonger the starting point of democracy. He was surrounded by it, as his father and his grandfather were before him. Everybody was democratus, and despite what he read in history books, he began to consider that everybody always was. Some tribes were not democratus yet, but then they were africanus or musulmanus, and that said all. A few democratus napalm bombings or tank action and things would be sorted out soon.
And so Anonymous Democratus thought that it was time to move on. Democracy was granted at birth, it was only a case now of not staying anonymous...

Anonymous Rebelius was born in 1987, on October the 3rd. He can't sing, he can't write, he can't act, he can't work, he can't think, he can't talk, he can't learn, he can't teach, he can't swim, he can't cook. But his website has been visited by 5,000,000 viewers, he's been invited to every broadcasted TV and radio show on Earth. He made the News headlines and is hungry for more. Teenage girls wet their pants by staring at his photos on the Web. He made thousands of babies all over the world without even using his penis. He's the one name they won't forget, the one face they won't miss, until there are so many of them that he'll be lost in the crowd.

For what will happen once the queue lines in front of casting agencies will be 50 kilometers long, once everyone's story and pictures will be published online, once each individual owns his duplicate on Facebook? What will happen when Anonymous Rebelius will look around and see nothing else but other Anonymous Rebelius? He won't find it cool. He won't find it trendy. He will look back in history and maybe look with a dash of regret at the wise and quiet Anonymous Democratus.

The touristic tour series: Los Angeles, USA

2008-11-11T00:50:00.007+01:00

Another 4-day travel package to our new destination: Los Angeles

Day 1: Landing at the Los Angeles International Airport at 10 PM. Full body inspection at the Customs for bacteria checkout. 3-hour waiting for luggage delivery and another 3 hours to find the exit gate. Night bus transfer to the hotel with television sets above each sit broadcasting bodybuilding TV shows. Breakfast at the hotel on arrival: two eggs, sourdough toast, coffee or chocolate splash and fresh orange juice.
Morning visit of Beverly Hills ghetto on trolley. Regular stops to allow tour participants to take pictures of Brenda's house and Dylan's college. Day view of Sunset Boulevard and Santa Monica by bus. 2 miles down Angeles crest Scenic byway, interchange on SR1 overlapping I-405, then eastbound exit to Riverside Drive after reaching Verdugo Road's forty-fourth traffic light. Confused replies to participants asking where Melrose Place is.
Lunch in a macrobiotic restaurant located on 7119 Melrose Avenue. Menu: baked tortilla strips, brussel sprouts and sparkling mineral water. Digestive coyote shooting contest on Glendale freeway. Unlimited ammo. Rest of the afternoon free.
Dinner at the the hotel, then night party at the Beckhams' featuring Keanu Reeves and Britney Spears.

Day 2: Early departure to Crenshaw under police escort. Short stop to Baldwin Village. Freestyle rap exhibition followed by live street execution of three members from the Black P. Stones. 1992 riots testimonial tour with video projection of the Rodney King beating, along with a listening of George Bush Sr speech about the "brutality of mob" violently challenging "good and decent policemen". Quick shopping in a gun shop and short explanations to tour participants who wondered why they couldn't see one single shop like that in Beverly Hills the morning before.
Lunch in a filthy mexican bar and live abortion of a Puerto Rican girl in the toilets. Other questions from participants who definitely can't understand what's going on here.
4-hour transfer to the Dodger Stadium to watch a baseball game between the L.A. Dodgers and the New York Giants. Thunders of applause for Greg Maddux peerless split-fingered fastball and final victory for the Dodgers.
Night party at Snood Dogg's villa featuring Jay-O-Felony and Kurupt: snuff movie scenario-writing session with Dimitri Kuznetsov's cousin, video-gaming in the living room, sex orgy at the stairs and dope smoking by the swimming pool. Police inspection at 3 in the morning easily dealt with via coke and dollars.

Day 3: horrible hangover and immediate repatriation in hearse of participants who ODed during their sleep. E-mails sent to their families. Relaxing day for the others at Cal State L.A. Fitness Center, with body massage and boiling-hot bath. Jogging and tennis playing with Monica Seles.
Cancellation of the long-expected afternoon visit to Holywood, due to the sudden strike of the gardeners who didn't see why they were the only ones around not being given a hand-job by Meg Ryan.
Transfer to the L.A. airport. Take-off by night. Bodybuilding show on screens. Eternal regrets to have to fly back and rejoin his wife in Nottingham.

For further investigation:
http://www.losangeles.com/attractions/

The touristic tour series: Lagos, Nigeria

2008-11-10T18:20:00.009+01:00

Here it is: the first complete 4-day tour package for happy western holiday-makers. First destination: Lagos.

Day one: Arrival at Murtala Mohammed International Airport at 4PM, two days after schedule due to hijack attempt during the flight. Living passengers lead to the Sheraton Hotel in a bullet-proof private bus. Wounded passengers carried in ambulance to the main Lagos hospital. Dead ones left in the plane for police body search. Evening free.

Day 2: Breakfast at the Sheraton, followed by a quick visit to the hospital. Best wishes of recovery to the passengers who accidentaly didn't die during the night due to nosocomial infections. Then, a nice walk through the town with a trilingual Nigerian guide. This walk may include free-for-all bag-snatching and authentic verbal abuse depending on the weather.
Around noon, commented overview of the pile of electronic waste dumped in a swamp near the Lagos market. Random shopping at the market, with an exceptional range of genuine farm products including: chicken infected with the H5N1 bird flu virus and raw meat offering 94% bacterial contamination rate.

Lunch in a sleazy restaurant without air conditionning. Main and only plate: Tsire Suya, which basically consists in roasted boneless meat of either mutton, beef, or goat previously infected by Pseudomonas aeruginosa, Bacillus cereus, Staphylococcus aureus or Escherichia coli.
Collective afternoon visit at the police station. Group complaint lodging about wallets and other belongings lost or stolen in the market.
Evening: introduction to knife-crime and man-slaughtering on Lagos trendy beaches. Night bathing with tiger sharks. Live concert of Afrobeat star Femi Kuti, free befriending with dope addicts and world culture activists.

Day 3 (only between outbreaks of cholera and malaria): excursion to the beautiful Osun district. Departure at 8 in the morning. On arrival, visit of a traditional African village plagued with polio and ethnic war. Shaking hands with the CIA agent delivering weapons to the local militia (pictures are not authorized).
Afternoon: genuine indigenous dancing featuring Yoruba percussion performed by starving musicians dressed-up for the occasion. End of the afternoon: goodbye to the musicians who must go back to Lagos and get their check from the travel company second head office.
Evening: Return to Lagos with a few hand-made baskets and a hundred counterfeited Nike shoes.

Day 4: departure from the Murtala Mohammed International Airport at 8 in the morning. Sad farewells between the tour members and promises to organize a social event somewhere in Long Island to exchange pictures and MPEG films. At home, turning on the TV and real surprise in front of a journalistic report saying that Nigeria wasn't the best of place to visit at the moment. Cocktail drinking on the coach and love-making with a business partner. Sleeping and dreaming of the next holidays.

For further information and experience sharing: http://www.holiday-weather.com/lagos/holiday-reviews.html

There must be a reason for that

2008-11-10T14:04:00.008+01:00

Today in the tube, ignoring the morning rush, a young woman properly dressed was laying on the main stairway in a posture of meditation. Her eyes were closed but here face looked serene. Commuters had to go round her to get to the platform and that didn't trouble her. There must be a reason for that. Somewhere on the wall of the station, someone wrote "Black mask, white power", obviously referring to the US elections. There must be a reason for that. Later in the street, I totally ignored a Rumanian beggar who held a little boy on her knes. There must be a reason for that. Jennifer Aniston left her current boyfriend and thinks about getting back with John Mayer. There must be a reason for that. Young Mary cried in her room when she heard the news. There must be a reason for that.

The Arctic Monkeys sold 363,735 albums in one week thanks to a three-chord single published on the web. In the meantime, Lambchop frontman Kurt Wagner, praised for his subtle songwriting and his musical diversity, has just started making money with it, after putting down parquet floors for 10 years to earn his living. There must be a reason for that.
Holywood legends Errol Flyn, Clark Gable, Rock Hudson and Cary Grant were all living archetypes of virility at the time and kissed so many girls on screen you couldn't count them all. And yet they were all gays. For homosexuality-related Broke Back Mountain, on the other hand, producers chose to cast two heterosexual actors. There must be a reason for that.

Self-professed socialist Ségolène Royal lead her side to defeat in 2007 against a opponent who was under huge media fire and symbolized for many Jacques Chirac's disastrous second mandate. Yet her political motion was recently chosen by left-wing activists and she now stands first in line for the next campaign, which she's certain to lose again. There must be a reason for that.

People get drunk on friday night, fuck random people without condom, wake up the next day with headache, Gonorrhea and vomit on their shirt and say "never again" to their flatmate. Yet they do it again the following week. There must be a reason for that. Britons do the same but don't even pretend to regret anything. They just can't wait for the next week-end to come. There must be a reason for that.

Concert organizers and state officials know about the dangers of overloud music. But they let retarded DJ's killing reckless teenagers night after night with tinnitus and endless ear whistles. There must be a reason for that. People are not allowed to say "Fuck" on TV but they can show their ass on the stage and ruin other people's reputation. There must be a reason for that.

Paul told Stephanie one day he couldn't stand Sophie. Two months later he dumped the former and married the latter. There must be a reason for that. Jenny knows she shouldn't take the car drunk but then she goes and then she dies. There must be a reason for that. Jamie told his friends from West Ham it was pointless to fight every week-end with the chaves from East Ham. One morning her mother found him dead on the street. There must be a reason for that.

This could go on forever. But at the end of the day, people will just say that people are people, and they need no reason for that.

Family blog

2008-11-07T20:02:00.005+01:00

"Hello, my name is Wendy and I am three-months old. I'm gaining weight very fast. Yesterday I went to the doctor's office with my dad to have them check a diaper rash that was making me very upset. I feel better now.
I spend 98% of my time in my baby's bed and sometimes I'm a bit bored. So I cry and my mummy comes and holds me. I don't like when she tickles me though, I can't stand tickeling. It makes me dribble. Sometimes I think my mummy is a little bit stupid. She smiles all the time even when there is nothing funny.

My daddy has a digital camera. He loves to take pictures of me. Hundreds of them. And then he posts the pictures on the web and asks people to leave comments. This is so nice. Many people will know me now. It's a shame I can't reply to the comments myself.
Yesterday I defecated in my nappy. It really smelled like shit, but my mummy changed my nappy and put the dirty one in a bin. I wish my daddy had taken a photo of my shit and posted it on the web, so everybody could have seen it.

It's not just about me in the family. We also have a dog and a hamster. My dog's name is Timmy and my hamster's name is Pimmy. Sometimes it's confusing people because they want to call Timmy but they say "Pimmy" instead. But it doesn't make any real difference because hamsters don't answer to their name.
My daddy has made a video of me and Timmy. He posted it in our family blog too. It says: "Hello guys! This is Wendy and our hamster Timmy, they're having a great time together!"

I also have a big brother, Justin. My daddy took him to the Kindergarden for the first time the other day. This is very interesting to know and so he added a special entry on the family blog. It says: " Andrew loves school! He is so good at it, too! At our first parent teacher conference, we learned just how good Andrew is at school! He was almost perfect on all his testing, he knows almost every word he needs to know for the year right now! He also loves Spanish! The teacher is recommending additional math at home so he can be challenged! I'm so proud of my bright boy!"

I'm not so proud of my family, so if someone hears this call, please report them to the police. Otherwise I'll find a way to kill myself. It's the only way to make them stop adding pictures on the net. But even then I'm not sure. Poor, poor, poor me..."

Pub-crawling

2008-11-07T11:26:00.007+01:00

And so it's friday night, you walk off your place and gets in the street. You are about to meet friends for a nice dinner out, you're in real good mood. But then someone comes towards you with a baseball bat and smashes your head. You fall on the pavement. You see a thousand stars dancing in your head. You're stun. And when you wake up, you're in Kettering, East Midlands, England. What do you do next?

First you go to the Earl of Dalkeith. It's off the main street opposite the pizza place, you can't miss it. The definite place for a friday night starter. Hundreds of guys carrying hundreds of pints, talking loud but still under control. Under your feet, a nice carpet. Above your head, a mighty roof. And all around you, men and women sharing their views on the next Irish band. This pub is the cheapest in town, so you drink up a couple of Carlings and then you go out for a smoke. A 12 year-old teen tries to get in the place, the bouncer asks for her ID, she shows her mum's driving licence and he lets her in.

Then you go to the Watercress, just a few steps further down the street. A massive bloke serves you at the bar a pint of San Minguel. This pub is very quiet. A couple of bar-hopping hotties tease eachother and you cant' but notice them. They're definitely in their thirties, maybe in their forties. You go and ask them politely how much they charge for one night and they tell you to piss off. You take shelter in the garden and light yourself another fag. They follow you and scream at you, you're a bit scared now and so you leave.

Your third stop is the Cherry Tree. A traditional english pub serving traditional english ales. You stand at the bar since there is not seat, and the guy next to you starts a conversation about De Gaulle. Nobody listens to him but you, you find it quite interesting. He's totally pissed, that's for sure. But you're not exactly sober yourself. You order a pint of Guiness and think about spending the whole evening there. But then a terrible smell of shit and organic decay lands to your nose. Someone just farted and you don't want to know who it is. Time to move on.

The streets are busy now. Everybody is kind of pissed and fights arouse here and there. Someone lies on the ground, he's got blood on his face. He asks you for a cigarette and you drop one. He's completely at sea and he cannot even catch it. He says "Cheers, anyway" and you keep on walking. The Peacock is awaiting you now.
Inside the pub, a bunch of girls with bunny ears dance and drink blue cocktails with 120% sugar in it. Some bald stocky guy gets near and squeezes their tits one by one. They let him do and even laugh. So you try do the same, but the result is quite different. One of the girls spits in your face, another one kicks your balls. And then you remember Jarvis Cocker's lyrics : "Nobody wants to be your friend cos' you're not from round here..." and you walk off the pub before it turns ugly.

The Prince of Wales is your last chance. The last place open in town. It's so packed inside you can merely move. Oxygen has been replaced by beer fumes. You manage to get to the bar and wait 20 minutes for the barmaid to take your order. You say "vodka", she says "what?", you say "vodka" again, she says "Ok" and you just realize it's so noisy in there that no one would hear a trombone. You're so drunk that you're eager to socialize at any cost. So you go to the dance floor and move your ass on Blondie's Heart of Glass. But then you slip on someone's vomit and fall. The problem is you fell at the start of the next song which is a punk one. Those ready to pick you up are now trampling on you. You suffocate, you scream and then you die.

When you wake up, the guy with the baseball bat is still there. He smiles at you and leaves. You call your friends and tell them you won't make it tonight. They ask you why and you reply: "I think I've just met Santa Cruz."

Do I want to fuck her?

2008-11-06T19:14:00.004+01:00

That was quite a day. I almost forgot I had to attend a lesson at university. Then I almost forgot someone had to do a presentation during that lesson. And I also almost forgot it was the blonde Milena who was doing the presentation.

It's ten past two when I arrive in the classroom, and she has already started. She wears a grey dress, black skin-tights and yellow heels. I sit on the nearest chair and I realize she also wears a necklace, a watch and a bracelet. She's tall, she's blonde, she's from Poland and she speaks to us about Christian Dior's communication policy.
She uses Powerpoint to back her speaking. Grey slides follow one another and I can't take my eyes off her. The way she says "python bag" and "crocodile skin" is cold and sexy. She got her hair streaked and it definitely suits her. I really want to fuck her at this precise moment.

But then she doesn't look at me when she hands me the company's catalogue. A real step backwards. Even the price booklet smells like Christian Dior's Midnight Poison, and I feel I'm about to commit a crime. The crisis passes on and her voice tames me once again.
"You've probably heard of John Galliano and Kriss von Asche, she says. They both worked for Christian Dior." I don't want to hear that shit, it makes me ashamed to be myself. Plus she really sounds posh when she says that and I'm scared of posh girls.

"We import stuff from Milan, Berlin and also from Dubai", she adds. "Would you go there with me?", I ask her silently. Probably if I was John fucking Galliano. Fame and money, that's all you care for, isn't it, bitch? I keep all that for myself and she moves on to another topic. "The company offers cocktails and gives private parties, she says. All the staff is welcome to join. It's important to make the employees feel like they're part of a team." So she's really posh, then. I can visualize her strinding along the 2nd floor of some parisian private hotel, holding a glass of champagne and ignoring the guys who stare at her. I don't want to fuck her anymore.

The presentation comes to and end. She gives us a last piece of information. "Did you know Christian Dior invented the scissors for left-handers?" Mr Teacher knew. We didn't. We were too obsessed by her to really listen to anything she said. When it's all finished, Mr Teacher claps his hands and invites us to do the same.
Then he asks us if we have something to ask. I raise my hand and say: "Sorry, Milena, I'm afraid my question is totally irrelevant. But can I still ask it?"
She looks embarrased. Everybody stares at me. But she gives me her permission, and so I ask: "Do I want to fuck you?"

I looked at you

2008-11-05T22:16:00.007+01:00

"I looked at you, you looked at me. I smiled at you, you smiled at me." Who said it was all bleak in Jim Morrison's elegiac world? Between two lines of cocain, the guy always found time to write a song or tag his name on a girl's ass.
But Jim's agenda cannot be seen as a school model. For most of us underachieving idiots, the New Year's eve party song would rather go like "I looked at her, she looked at him. I followed her, She slept with him." So what's the problem here and what are the solutions?

The problem here is that you are at Stephen Philips' party, you're drunk and thirsty for love but the targets are so many you can't fix yourself on one. And just when you think you found the right girl, she takes the hand of someone else and goes with him in the upstairs bathroom.
You're not Jim Morrison, so you can't throw your glass of whisky at her face and say "I'm gonna drink you now". You're not Bret Easton Ellis, so you can't simply walk to her and say: "Hey, I've got 543 friends waiting for me in a villa near the seaside, do you want to join?" You have to come with something else.

First tip: try reversing the lyrics. Things would be easier if it were like "She looked at me, I noticed her". Human beings are no different from other mammals: the female gives the first push (most of the time a non verbal one) and the male rushes in.
So stop striding along the rooms with a glass in your hand, and give a look around, chasing information, watching out for a sign. Unless you look like Michael from the Cherry Tree, some girl will have spotted you. But standing still is the key to get a proper view.

Second tip: don't put yourself under too much stress. It's scientifically proved that the woman knows after 3 seconds whether she finds you attractive enough to consider a body connection. All the bullshit you will say is a mere socializer. So spit it out but don't rely too much on it. As they like to put it, "it's not what he says, it's the way he says it."

Third tip: leave her alone at some part, and come back later. Competition is the name of the game. Girls usually don't like being cornered for too long. Unlike us, they like dancing, chatting and readjusting their hair in front of the mirror. Don't block the way between her and the rest of the world. The time she'll spend on her own is probably as fruitful - even more - than the time you spent chatting her up.

Fourth tip: don't go to the bathroom to jerk off. It's tantalizing to do that, to unleash the devil and get your mind back. But the devil inside you is what you need here. An apparent erection looks terrible to us, and it certainly brings us back to what we really are, but all signs of mating are welcome.

Here you are, folks. Enjoy your meal the next time you party at Stephen Philips' place, and try to tag some ass during the night. You probably won't meet me there, since I will be surfing on http://www.city-of-brides.com/profiles/ukrainian-girls/ to find a girl for my father. But bring me back a pants or two to show me your good work.

The losing side

2008-11-05T13:54:00.004+01:00

In normal democracies, main elections are won - or lost - on an average 53/47 % balance. Barack Obama hasn't exactly edged Mc Cain out of the presidency. He secured a pretty comfortable victory. Still, the figures show that the gap between the two candidates isn't wider than in previous elections: 62,443,218 votes for Obama (52%) and 55,386,310 for Mc Cain (48%).

In France, however, 80% of the people surveyed by French medias declared themselves Obama supporters, and would have voted for him if they were American citizens. I would probably have voted for Obama myself. But are these figures not a bit too extravagant not to deserve some form of cross-examination?

Today on TV news, female newscaster Elise Lucet couldn't hide her joy. One may have thought she was still under the spell of an intense love-making night with whoever bangs her at the moment. But she wasn't. She was genuinely pleased with Obama's victory and didn't need to hide it since her state of mind is (apparently) shared by 80% of the French population.

The answer of this enigma is to be found on the losing side. Whenever images were shown of John Mc Cain and his supporters, you couldn't see anything but white dickheads reading out the bible and listening to country music. Every middle-aged guy looked like the bearded white-hair pervert of Oliver Stone's U-Turn. No black people, no children. There must have been some in the crowd, but the cameraman ignored them. They didn't fit the cast.

Then we had a short coverage about Alabama, where Mc Cain got 60% on his name. It wasn't to praise the beauty of the place, but just to remind us that Alabama was once the cradle of the Ku-Klux-Klan.

This is just like what French medias did all over the US campaign and before that. Showing the republicans as unevolved, racist, war-hungry sons of bitches. American people obviously know better than that. For if they didn't, the country would be shifting to civil war. But they already had one and moved on from that point. By voting Obama, they maybe showed they didn't want another good vs evil four-year soap-opera. French medias would love it.

The man who'll save the world

2008-11-05T00:50:00.005+01:00

So this is it. The new CEO of humanity has just been elected. Barack Obama is in for a five-year membership. Jenny Mitchell learned the news in her cosy Manhattan flat overlooking the New York upper bay. She couldn't meet her friends from the democrat committee who kept watching CNN all day long in a lounge bar of the sixth avenue, drinking cocktails and eating peanuts. Well, she could, but she dared not to.

For this election meant a lot to her. Another disappointment like the election of George W. in 2000 and his reelection in 2004, and she would have thrown herself under a car. A big one. A Ford, or a garbage truck. So she chose to stay at home, a box of killing pills on her night table, just next to her mobile phone.

Friends kept sending SMS updates of the latest polls, she barely looked at them. She was too tense for that. "Come on, she said. Pull yourself together. Maybe I should ring Nick." Nick is her ex-boyfriend. She kicked him out of her flat when she found him fooling around with Carole and he didn't even have his pants on.
But on that day she felt she needed him. He was a democrat too, after all. One of the good guys. And he had a wonderful penis. So she may have called him, but she didn't. The strength of women, I suppose.

But then she heard the bursts of joy in the streets. Friends called her one after another to share the delight of victory. The end of Texan rules. The end of Irak war. A hope for less social injustice. The image of America restaured abroad. If Obama was here she would kiss him. After asking Michelle's permission of course. What a nice couple they are.

Tomorrow morning, democrat upper Manhattan yuppies will go to their jobs with a smile on their face. Republican yuppies will surely not smile. But neither will they cry. And in 6 month time you won't be able to see a difference between the former and the latter. Same suit, same tie, same job, same perspectives.
Barack Obama will perhaps not save the world. He didn't promise that. But he made Jenny Mitchell happy for one day. And in 6 month time, all the subprimes she sold to save her job and her ass will be forgotten like the phases of the moon.

There's something about Laurence

2008-11-04T19:02:00.007+01:00

I like Laurence. She's my friend. She's really really nice but above all, she's open-minded. She never judges anybody, or anything, unless she's dead sure the judgment is safe, and that's if 98.7% of the world population said it was. To make it short, she's the opposite of a snobbish person.

Sometimes on saturday afternoon we take a walk in the Montsouris public park. She holds my harm, I let her do so and I point my finger here and there at some nightingale singing in a tree. She finds it cute. And so the two of us walk and talk about things.

"Sandra took me to this rap concert, I say. I don't like rap all right. But this band really sucked."
"You can't say that, she replies. I'm sure people in the audience liked it, plus I think that every form of art deserves credit."

We get by the river and linger on the bridge. I look at her and say: "Michel's been nasty to Elise. He cheats on her every friday night. And he beats her up as well."
She gives a yawn and answers: "People shouldn't be too harsh on him. He must have some personal problems and that's the reason why he does that. We never really know what's going on behind the doors, do we?"

We lay for a while on the grass. Children play football around us. Shady ideas cross my mind. "I wonder whether islamist terrorists are real muslims, cos' if it's so, that's really scary." She gives me one of her funny looks and says: "We should read the Coran. Maybe we would understand better about them."

We reach the exit gate and step in the avenue. "I can't understand a god damned thing about modern art. It's like this Pierre Soulages guy. 200 paintings colored in black and white. No shapes. No variation. Can you imagine that?"
"Come on, Pierre, she replies. How many modern art exhibitions have you been to? It takes time to appreciate it."

We beg eachother goodbye in front of the bus stop. We get along so fine it's a mistery we never kissed. I add a final word: "By the way I changed my window shades. You know, the orange ones. I replaced them with blue ones." She stares at me angrily and says: "How could you possibly do that? It doesn't suit your apartment at all. Blue goes with white, don't you know that?"

I didn't know that, no. But I know there is something about Laurence...

Animal lover

2008-11-03T21:52:00.005+01:00

Usually, the word "revisionism" refers to attention-seeking right-wing politicians or historians who claim that the nazi concentration camps consisted in leisure resorts for homeless people. I think it's about time to give this concept a second birth by using it in another area, and that's zoology.

Many scientists make a habit of breaking the neck of common-shared ideas about the animal world. One of their hobby-horses is to point at people who, in their opinion, clearly overreact to the unsupported threat caused by lovely animals such as sharks, snakes, tigers, bats, spiders, scorpions crocodiles and britons.

Based on the trustworthy opinion of these scientists, here is a short list of harmless animals you can definitely swim with or keep as a pet:

White sharks: they may look nasty, but they're only attracted to areas with fish activity. Besides, they're not agressive and just "inquisitive" (says Theo Ferreira, founder and director of the Great White Shark project). To be all right, just make sure you lack conversation and avoid areas where fishes live (which I think is called the sea, by the way)

Lions: "A lion can be dangerous because it induces fear in human beings. In the absence of human beings, lions are not dangerous" (Gordon Graham). So the matter is settled, then. Make sure you're invisible or dress up as something else (a gazelle or a zebra, for instance) and they will leave you in peace.

Snakes: Always keep in mind that they are shy creatures and will not attack unless bothered. "Snakes don't really want to do humans any harm. In most snakebite accidents, it was the human that provoked the snake into biting." (www.scienceray.com) It's true that in most cases, the guy who was bitten forgot to introduce himself properly or didn't ring the doorbell.

Bats: "It's true that they can transmit rabies. But simple rules of caution such as avoiding bats with a strange behaviour will minimize the risk." (Dr Laetitia Barlerin, veterinarian) Fair enough, but can someone tell me what is a bat's normal behaviour?

Britons: "People should remember that half of all violent crime is fuelled by alcohol." says Shadow UK Home Secretary David Davis. But then he adds: "More than 8 million Britons are problem drinkers" So is it safe to keep a briton as a pet? Of yourse it is. I've got one in my closet. The only thing to remember is you must not keep a beer and a briton in the same cage.

the curious case of the happy hamster rolling his wheel on a moving walkway

2008-11-02T21:04:00.004+01:00

Folks, I have great news for you. Forget what astrology told you. You're neither a taurus, a fish, a pig or a snake, you're a happy hamster rolling your wheel on a moving walkway.

The Greek philosopher, Heraclitus, said that "you [could] never step in the same river twice" and so gave a timeless image of the linearity of life: time is always moving like the ever-changing water flowing in the riverbed.
But then rivers flow into the seas, water evaporates and condenses into clouds, the clouds bring back the fugitive under the form of falling rain. And that's the circularity of life.

Stone monks from Tibet ODed one night and woke up the next day with the doctrine of reincarnation. That was the first cool attempt to combine the two perspectives. It was even cool enough to convince some of us sceptical braindead materialists to buy a tibetan dress and avoid walking on ground insects. The ant you nearly crushed could be Yitzhak Rabin's second cousin and you don't want to be called an anti-Semitic bastard, do you?

My metaphor of the hamster rolling his wheel on a moving walkway avoids such mishappenings and it has the advantage of depicting the whole life process. Two perpetual motions coexist without interacting. A first movement you can control (you roll your wheel at your own speed), a second movement you can't control (that's the moving walkway).
Rolling his wheel provides the hamster with an illusion of freedom, while the moving walkway sets the limits of this freedom, and gives to every hamster the same main tempo.

This fair combination of self-determination and bound temporality makes every hamster happy. The element of fun is brought by the race (the fit hamsters can try and overtake the unfit hamsters) and the fact that in the end there won't be a winner or a loser (every hamster will fall and die at the far end of the walkway) ensures a friendly atmosphere.

So every hamster on his starting block: one, two, three, go!

Sex and exploration

2008-11-02T19:11:00.004+01:00

I will come here with the first serious new theory of the 21th century: you can't know a girl unless you fucked her.

You can fuck a girl and still not know her, but it is nevertheless a prerequisite. All that will or has been said against it is irrelevant, and can from now on be classified along with the other eunuch fantasies such as platonic love and lustless friendship. All this nonsense has been invented by girls who, out of remorse, wanted to help guys they didn't fancy to get over their disappointment. It's been taken over by overshy or overugly chaps who never could get their hand on a girl and still wanted to have their say on the matter.

But the time has come to face the truth. Your ex-girlfriends and your current one are the only females you really know. Your mother will always be mystery to you and only your father can give you clues to understand why she drinks whisky after work or cries in front of a dead dog. The case of your sister is no different, and you just have to focuse on feeding the sexual repression process to keep yourself out of trouble.

Just consider the true meaning of the syntagm "Women I've known" (like when your father tells you: "out of all the women I've known, your mother is the worse in bed"). The verb "to know" here is only commutable with the verb "to fuck". But it's even more subtle than that. "To know" in this context includes the whole process of exploration, which necessarily contains (but is not limited to) the "fuck" part.

Philosophy, as often, offers a back-up to linguistics. The concept of intimacy rests on the non-separability of the human being who is at all times body and soul. Michel Foucault reminds us in his masterpiece "Surveiller et punir" that torture in the Middle-age, and long after that, aimed at purging the soul by inflicting pain to the body.
The body is a tunnel that leads to the soul and there are no spiritual experiences which aren't based on softing (or hardening) the bony part of yourself to make way for the immaterial. Whether it is silence or starvation, reclusion or mass-gathering, all religions set down-to-the-ground rules to make the magic happen.

The exploration of woman is no different from the quest for God: it's beautiful and vain, and it implies a bidimensional approach.

Shit holes that made it to History

2008-11-02T16:25:00.004+01:00

As you may have already seen, I'm obsessed with shit holes. Useless abandoned places whose existence is a living testimony of humanity's forgotten origins. But there are even more interesting things than shit holes, and that's shit holes that managed to make History.
Thanks to a lucky combination of circumstances, these places bear a name in people's busy minds even if they don't know what the hell they look like.

Compiègne is one of them. This shit hole was twice elected centre of the universe. The first time in 1918 when French field-marshal Foch invited german officers for breakfast in his newly furbished command wagon and took their surrender. The second time in June 1940, when Hitler returned the favor and invited himself in the same wagon to ask Petain where he should go first when visiting Paris.

Bretton Woods is a ski spot of New Hampshire surrounded by the Rosebrook mountains. It welcomes holydaymakers during the winter seasons and offers both downhill and cross-country skiing facilities. Stephen King and his wife never miss a chance to linger there when going for fresh air and legal squarrel shooting.
Bretton Woods was the site of the United Nations Monetary and Financial Conference in 1944, at the end of which the Allies decided they would feed the western world with petrol and dollars.

Camp David is the rustic 125-acre mountain retreat of the CEO of humanity, the President of the United States. It is part of the Catoctin Mountain Park recreational area in Frederick County, Maryland. The Camp David Accords of 1978 made the spot famous by officially putting an end to the war between Egypt and Israel.
It was agreed back then that the arabic countries who still wanted to blow Israel off the map had to pass through underage palestinian suicide-bombers. Up to now, the agreement has been honoured without fail.

The list here is endless: Maastricht, Kyoto, Monte Cassino, Bethleem, Auschwitz, London, South Park, Springfield would all have been worth a description.

Other places you have in mind? Feel free to post your description.

Saturday night 8 PM

2008-11-02T13:01:00.003+01:00

Saturday night is like monday morning. It's a key moment in Mr Philips' week, Mr Philips being here the common thirty-something bloke whose life is split into two parts: job and hobbies.
Last saturday Mr Philips called me and asked me if I would join him and his long-term partner
for dinner. I wanted to say no, and so I said yes. I brought myself and a bottle of wine to their flat and the evening started.

A cheerful conversation by the fire, a glass of white wine and a couple of gammon toasts worked as appetizers. Even if I was somehow absorbed into the talking, drinking and masticating, I couldn't help peeping around, and realized how rational and flawless was Mr and Mrs Philip's conduct of their lives. A new TV set had replaced the old one, half a dozen of new travel guides testified of their recent travels and I showed my sincere interest by asking this very stupid question: "I see you've got two guides of Guatemala. Does it mean you've been there twice?"

At the dinner table we talked about American writers and cineasts, and agreed to say some were better than others. Then they mentionned their plan to leave Paris and move to Aix-en-Provence, which I found a good idea and so did they. They offered me to take their flat, I asked them how much was the rent, they said 800 euros and we swiftly moved on to another subject.

"What is it like to have a nervous breakdown?" Mrs Philips asked, while pouring champagne in my glass. "I couldn't say", I answered. "I've merely started it. But your cooking is delightful." She definitely wanted to cheer me up and told me that art required patience, and that I was right to keep trying. Mr Philips thought the same and brought me a couple of books to take home. "This one is particulary good", he said. "It's about a guy who starves to death and describes his agony."

Then they put some music on and started to dance. "Colombiana", Mr Philips said, risking a few steps of cha cha cha, "I love to say Colombiana." They were both drunk and probably thought "We may at last have sex tonight". Saturday night was coming to an end. I took my leave and promised I would call during the week.

This is England

2008-11-01T17:46:00.005+01:00

The Bank is an indie rock band starring Pierre Alexander (piano and yealing) and Sebastian Stelzer (guitar and singing). The group came to life at 7:02PM on February the 1st, 2008 at the Cherry Tree, and disbanded at 3:15 PM on February the 2nd at the Watercress.

In the meantime they wrote and recorded this, along with other stuff:

This is England, and that for sure is our country
This is England, so make sure you spell it properly
This is England, you may call it wild and ugly
This is England, but we'll never give ot for free

This is England, hey mate, what's wrong with you?
This is England, 3 quids will not let you go through

I know you sort of think that we should make some space
There's so many jerks around, mate, we don't own the place
They drink around and mess around, I wish some just died around
So let's make sure we always find them a spare room underground

This is England, and that for sure is our country
This is England, we like it with rice and curry
This is England, where do all these people come from?
This is England, all the roads must lead to London

The indian tribe in Leicester makes it look like a yank western
Norwich, Sheffield, Manchester, which city shall be next to burn?
This store in town sells winchesters, let's find some crooks and shoot at sight
I love my land, this is my pride, let's get the job one overnight

Monsters

2008-11-01T15:18:00.002+01:00

Like everyone on Earth, you've been once or twice to your video-club renting one of these American films whose synospsis takes up two lines (a monster attacks the Big Apple and US forces fight him back) and whose budget represents half of Burundi's gross domestic product. Nevermind the cinematic considerations, and nevermind the fact that by watching Cloverfield or Godzilla on that night, you missed an golden opportunity to pay a last-chance visit to your dying grandmother. What caught my attention about this subject is something of more aerial texture.

War of the Worlds, Independance Day and their close relatives always feature monsters or aliens who lead their attack in modern times. Doing that, they foolishly expose themselves to deadly crossfires of heavy artillery, air bombing and tank assaults. US producers never miss an opportunity to bring their contribution to their country's brand image: each one of these movies is a disguised window display of updated weapons and an advertisement for America's military strength.

What if stupid King Kong or even more stupid aliens (who supposedly have the choice in the timing of their coming) had paid a visit to New York City during the Civil War or before that? Instead of the gruesome machine of war, they would have fought playmobils firing rifles and dusty cannons, and scampering in wheatfields riding horses and carriages.
I don't mean to say here that Holywood scenarists lack imagination - that would be stating the obvious - but that it really breaks my heart to see these cute creatures playing the role of punching-balls.

If I ever come to make a high-budget movie, my monster will attack Devon-by-sea in 18th century England and thrash them all to the last.

By the Open Sea

2008-10-31T22:26:00.003+01:00

"By the Open Sea" is an English translation of August Strindberg's novel "I havsbandet", originally published in 1890. The fact that for some people, this novel shows Strindberg at his best, while for some other people, it's another frightening symptom of a complete fucked-up writer playing checkers with madness, is not relevant here. What is relevant here is that the guy is a fucking genius.

Strindberg wrote this novel in a period of his life when he was reading Darwin alternately with Nietzsche. He then made a cocktail of the two and served himself a drink. No need to say it didn't taste like a Margarita.

In this book, young Fishing Inspector Borg, a self-made intellectual with a no-compromise approach, is sent to a remote archipelago of the Baltic Sea to overlook the fishing practices of a fishermen community, whose only cause of concern is to maintain their primitive way of life.
All along this all-fish business, Borg and the villagers only manage to get on about one thing: they hate eachother's guts.
The stubborn Borg takes up the challenge, but all his attempts to improve the community standards sink into the Baltic, and he soon finds himself surrounded by ennemies. At one part he asks his only ally, a young woman he seduced: "Why do the people hate me?" She answers "Because you're superior to them". And the he goes: "That can't be. They're not intelligent enough to see how inferior they are."

There's a couple of vital questions which won't find an answer in this book, like "where will I find a shampoo that suits the nature of my hair?" or "what did John say when Lucy told him she fell in love with Michael?" But for some other minor interrogations, such as the place of the individual in society, the philosophic side of womankind and the double-edged nature of progress, the reading of Strindberg can be fruitful.

Borg-Strindberg is not a Saint here. He's arrogant, playful, uneasy and occasionally comes close to the Ubermensch doctrine, like when he says to his lover :" I don't want you to worship me, I want you to challenge me and to rise above me." In the course of a discussion with a priest, he even calls Jesus "the God of the molluscs" in opposition to the "God of the vertebrates". With this kind of statements, the guy should really consider joining the race for US presidency.

Despite all his flaws and mass-preaching postures, Borg never loses contact with humanity and sensitiveness. He holds his hand out to people, tries to get the better out of them. But he does this at the expense of hiw own self-fulfilment and eventually pays the price of his blind positivist approach.

nervous breakdown

2008-10-31T16:54:00.005+01:00

Tonight at 8PM someone will start a nervous breakdown. It took him some time to face it, but the poison is in him. It probably infected his soul on one of these dark evenings of fading winter and early spring, when the abuse of alcohol & cigarettes, the lack of rest and over-exposure to a braindead society opened a breach in his immune system. The long and motionless nights of a remote Kingdom took the fight out of him.

Actually he did try to fight for a little while. He took a ride to the mountains, read Strindberg by the chimney fire and played childish games with little fellows. He enjoyed short periods of grace, mostly at night when everyone had gone to bed, and there were nothing left to hear but the crackling of the fire and the burbling of the near river.
But even then, images kept flowing in his head of things that couldn't be undone, and a clear dividing line between the past and the future sprouted up from the ground. And now, for the first time, he chooses to give up the fight. Quietly. Consiously. Looking at it straight in the eyes. He surrenders for some time to the might of reality and its army of social rules, selfish individuality and ruthless materiality.

This guy spent his rolling twenties trying to fight his own fight, giving life the shape of his dreams. Writing, travelling and drinking, meeting people of various kinds, luring some to his disneyland, where nothing was important apart from art and inner feelings. Where Mickey Mouse could be your friend if he could play the piano, where Goofy could make you laugh if he didn't laugh at his own jokes, where Uncle Scrooge could be your man if his saloon was free for all, where Minnie Mouse could be your girl if you pushed the right button.

He won't destroy his disneyland. He still has faith in it, and hopes it will reopen soon. But for now, all he can see is old people repeating the same crap, teenagers worshiping nonsense, companies selling their products, accountants doing their job, girls kissing boys they don't love, boys leaving girls they do love, people judging other people without proof and without trial. And that's not a pleasant view.

Today in the tube, some young guy next to him counted on his fingers the number of girls he kissed and he said 25. He didn't remember their names, he didn't remember their faces. He just remembered they fancied him. The guy was (maybe) not stupid. He's was (maybe) not vain. He was just putting into practice what Camus wrote in the myth of Sysiph. He keeps climbing the mountain, going for quantity, and not for quality. And in a sense he's right. Quantity can't be tricky, and quality can.

The time has come for our friend for hibernating. Accepting defeat and getting prepared for the next battle. Finding himself a new skin for the old ceremony.

The perfect match

2008-10-31T10:29:00.003+01:00

One scene of Woody Allen's Annie Hall I enjoy most is when crazy Woody, upset and confused about his troubled relationship with Annie (Diane Keaton), stops a couple in the street and asks them how they keep a relationship working. The guy basically answers: "Well, she's superficial and so am I, I have no ideas about anything and it's the same for her and we don't ask ourselves questions because we both know we're too stupid fo find answers." The girl nods her head in sign of approval and they walk away hand in hand.

Looking at the whole spectrum of boys & girls business, we may think that the perfect match is the complete opposite of true love, leaving all the shakespearian romantic crap behind and focusing on more solid ground : socio-economic profile, sexual affinities, intellectual symmetries and complementary outdoor activities (like he loves gardening and she likes to read and take a sunbath).
But we may also consider that the perfect match is the modern version of true love. A mere change in designation covering a same reality. And which reality is that? Well, not an easy one to describe, that's for sure...

How many times have we heard people say "She's the woman of my life" or "I'll never find someone like him" with the same intensity as the alchemist who's just found how to turn stone into gold? But in many cases, the morning truth swiftly changes itself into afternoon doubts and evening pleas of reassessment: "Is she really the one?", "Does he fit to my life?", "Will he ever get along with my friends from the gym?"
The doctrine of true love teaches here to send it all to hell, and to comply by one's feelings, no matter the consequences. But in a world of statistics and self-fulfilling prediction, where happiness has been theorized down to the bare bone, consequences do matter. That's where the perfect match doctrine takes over.

Love is still part of the process, but no longer operates as the almighty engine flying the plane through the clouds. It can be there at the take-off - or not, if one can find a substitute. It can be whipped up in air pockets by jealousy and sexual needs. It can be switched off at will when jobs and mortgages repayments require full attention.

The story of humanity shows than men kept trying domesticating the wild to replace it by flower beds. Love is a wild animal, and it needs to be tamed. It has the power to make our lives run out of control, and we don't want that to happen. It has the power to make us question ourselves and the choices we made, and that's too hard to take.

The perfect match doctrine is here to comfort you, by enslaving love to happiness instead of the other way round. It's a useful tool for everyone, especially for those who feel like crying on saturday night watching the English Patient on TV and still want to get up on monday morning with a smile on their face and with plans in their head.

A useless guide of conversation

2008-10-30T18:34:00.003+01:00

Pragmatic linguists J.L. Austin and J.R. Searle published in the late seventies / early eighties a couple of studies introducing the Speech Act theory, which basically says that the act of speaking isn't neutral and cannot be analyzed without a close regard to the context. "To speak is to do" is their common motto.
Speaking then not only leads to action (like when you tell me to piss off, and so I leave) but is an action in itself (like when a judge declares the trial "open", which indeed starts the trial).

A Danish student of that time, whose minds were disturbed by a sentimental break-up and the sudden discovery of his being Danish, fell in love with this theory. He spent hours and hours by the seashore of Helsingor, smoking dope and drinking liquor, trying to find out how to put it into practice. Soothed by the winds of the Nordic bay, he eventually came up with the idea of a multilingual conversation guide linking words with action, and providing the reader with a linguistic answer to every single situation of communication.

Here are some quotes of his (unfinished) book:

"Imagine yourself in an automatic laundery in Poland waiting in front of a washing machine. Someone comes and asks you whether the machine is reliable. You're not sure about that, but you don't want the guy to take alarm on too fragile ground. Then just say: mniej wiecej"

"You're in Japan in a swimming pool and you realize that your swimsuit is too short and all the girls laugh when you go pass them. You want to apologize to them but in the same time make them see the good side of it since that made them look at you. Then simply say: Gomen nasai, Kega shimashiya"

"Your apartment is being robbed in Istanbul while you're in bed, and you want the burglars to spare your life and leave behind the bud vase you sister offered you when you were 17. Go for: Seni seviyor ozluyorum (Prononciation: seni seviYOR euzlUyoroum)"

The list is of course endless, but the most tragic part of it is that the guy is still standing by the seashore, a pen in hand, waiting for some gentle soul to put an end to his misery.

Living on the edge: Sost, Hautes-Pyrénées

2008-10-30T10:22:00.002+01:00

When people think about the Pyrenées mountains, they usually get carried away with simplistic prints of nature and harmony: they see singing rivers, majestic woods, mountain tracks and heavenly views. This is part of the picture, all right, but what if you let your feet bring you to the remote village of Sost?

When entering the village, the first thing that will welcome you is a strong smell of hand-made cheese. All along your scouting process, you'll be followed by a floating aromatic cloud whose toxic attributes, as we'll see, are to not to be looked down upon. The cheese of Sost owns a copyright and cannot be made outside the village limits. It works like a licensed product. Every resident of Sost develops his own cheese, adding to the original receipt a touch of personal witchcraft. The only guideline is: the cheese has to stink in sufficient proportion to provoke death within 2 minutes of close exposure, but it still must be mangeable.

Cheese-making being a very old tradition in Sost, we certainly understand that the population of this village had to take its share of genetical side-effects. One of these side-effects is that the local fellows are incredibly small. Dwarfs and midgets will regularly cross your path and you may start wondering whether Snow-White runs a school there, were it not for the wrinkles on their faces and the smell of piss and rot peculiar to old age.

Dogs and children go free across the narrow streets. Dogs urinate on children and children urinate on dogs. Not out of retaliation, but of community hygiene. It prevents them to spoil the ageless stone walls and doorsteps and that keeps the village clean. Both dogs and children carry urine back home, as old men do with their dropping. The rest lays in womens' hand.

Once every year, people from Sost celebrate being people from Sost. To do so, they stay in Sost and party with fellow-people from Sost. The green valley echoes sounds of joy and dancing, slapping women and beating dogs. When midnight comes and everyone is pissed to death, a big fighting session takes place in front of the townhall, sometimes involving the mayor himself.
Axes are dug up from backyards, cheeses are thrown at faces, and under the glorious light of a full star summer night, brotherhood and keenness play a concert to the moon...

A day in life

2008-10-29T19:21:00.004+01:00

One day humanity will look back in time and say: nothing substantial happened on Wednesay, the 29th of October 2008. Wrong.

First I woke up at 9 AM. This is bloody early. The Sri Lankan Sloth Bear never wakes up before noon and it usually has much more vital things to do than me: find a honey tree, scratch his back on the ground, and try to stay for one more day the last-living ambassador of its kind.
I just had a private lesson to give. A schoolboy of the luxurial 16th arrondissement badly needed me to help him sit on his chair, open his book and start reading what was inside. I get paid for that.

I did my duty and then had lunch at my mother's place. Bad news awaited me there: her Vietnamese guest was there too, preparing his meal in the kitchen. I have nothing against Asian food apart from the fact that I may have something against Asian food. Being a Vietnamese and thus a complete stanger to intercultural matters, he still offered us nems while I was about to eat my pepper steak. To make it even worst, he left and didn't apologize for Dien Bien Phu and the Vienam War. These people are really something.

At 2 PM I came back home and masturbated thinking about someone I know, and then I wrote a blog entry. The one that will earn me an international warrant of arrest from the authorities of Botswana.

When 5 PM came, I did my share of studying at the University. I walked to La Sorbonne, entered one of the classrooms and sat down as far as possible as everyone. Not because I don't like them but because I was stinking a bit. No shower, same old clothes and an unexplainable smell of tobacco mixed with sweat and scum.
The teacher stepped in and the lesson started, only to be interrupted a few seconds later by a Chinese student who came and sat next to me. He looked very happy to do so and even had a chat with me.

When the lesson ended and it was time for us to go back to our tiny Parisian flats, I managed to unstick my fellow classmate using a caustic soda and went home trying to avoid any new encounter with the Far-East.
I now sit on my chair and I think about cooking dinner. And I already know there won't be rice, yellow sauce and noodles among the ingredients.

Rare animals of Botswana, Part I: the rich guy

2008-10-29T14:18:00.005+01:00

The wildlife of Botswana is big and diversified. This landlocked nation in Southern Africa gives shelter to a huge range of nice and helpful species including beetles, grasshopers, flies, mosquitoes, HIV-carrier monkeys and man-charging elephants.
The birdlife is particularily interesting there with its bataillon of green-backed herons and pel's fishing owls that actually interest no one apart from Kalahari-born tour guide Dantes Liebenberg and his starving cat.

Among all this colorful abundance, there are some unlucky under-populated species who must fight for survival on a daily basis. Abandonned by nature, they're too short in numbers to go for group hunting, they're too weak to defend against hungry predators. As a consequence they must hide night and day in their sky-high glass-towers. They can't travel across the land but by using private planes. They have to sit in the back of limousines to skim through the streets of Gaberones, the capital of Botswana.

You know of course who I'm talking about: the rich guy. Even if Botswana ranks pretty well economically by African standards, the rich guy must be on his guard whenever he risks himself out of his only safe spot: the five-star hotels of Phakalane.

As soon as he reaches one of the villages circling the city, he may come face to face with a vicious Bantou speaking the setswana. This deadly encounter cannot be settled by force. American dollars can sometimes do the job, but not always. Sometimes the greedy Bantou, emboldened by the backing of his 76 brothers, asks for more: gold watch, mobile phone, leather shoes... And the rich guy has no other choice than to lay on the floor in a posture of submission. But even that won't always save his life...

That's it for this episode. Coming soon, the next endangered species of Bostwana: the country boy

Baby talk

2008-10-28T21:06:00.009+01:00

Two French babies once met and talked to eachother in a nursery school. They were aged 2 and 3.

The conversation was (accidentaly) recorded and put down on paper on the 6th of November, year 1975, for a linguistic study. Here is the transcription:

- BAjour
- Bojour
- Koto joujou vek moi?
- Bli pa moi bé toi vo pas
- ta ka pa'tir et nir pluta
- non dé pa daco'
- pAske tapeu?
- gna pot'kjoi di nim potkoi
- alo vé apué ladam éva te puni
- azait heu
- zi; orvoar alo
- arvoar

The two babies survived another 32 years and an extraordinary twist of fate made them meet again in a resting room of Wunderman Interactive France. And even more extraordinarily than that, they had the exact same conversation they had 32 years ago. It was also recorded and here is the transcription:

- Bonjour.
- Bonjour.
- Tiens, il faudra que je revienne vers toi pour acter le budget Nestlé.
- Sur du one-to-one?
- C'est le mieux je pense; on reste sur une approche motivationnelle comme ça.
- Je suis à fond avec toi là-dessus, ça réduira le gap.
- T'as trouvé un event impactant pour la promo?
- Il faut que je check avec le back-office. C'est eux qui pilotent le deal.
- Et l'analyse contextuelle? il paraît qu'on est sur du long-terme...
- Je crois qu'il faut vraiment qu'ils arrêtent de post-rationnaliser, au market.
- Bon , et bien j'attends ton retour.
- Idem.

A thousand French-speaking linguists gathered in Geneva a few days ago for a round table to try and sort out what the hell this conversation could mean. They listened to it again and again, in both the baby and grown-up versions. When I last heard, they just agreed on the fact that the first two lines meant "Hello".

British abroad conversation guide

2008-10-28T19:26:00.006+01:00

Happy people from the continent, my brothers and soulmates, you immaculate folks from all around Europe, be it the plains of Spain, the fields of Italy, the mountains of Albania or the forests of Germany, you may - or may not - have crossed the path of this rare and peculiar insular animal that we call a Briton.
If you ever cross one of them tourists strolling across your lands, don't rush and call the police or write to your deputy. Keep your head cool. Remember this post. This is a foretaste of what you must expect from this unlikely encounter.

Briton is a shy animal. He's reluctant to leave his natural biotope (see picture above) and rarely learns the language of other species. So if he comes straight at you and asks "Do you speak English?", please take no offence. Just say "Yes", as anyone of you has learned at school, and he will show signs of relief. Actually he didn't expect any other answer.

Then he will ask you where he can find a cash-machine. In order to survive, reptilians need scales, Britons need money. And beer. Simply show him the way to the nearest ATM and try to spot whether there is a pub around. If so, sit in and wait for him to show up. It won't take long till he does and as soon as he recognizes you, the Briton - being very generous by nature - will offer you a drink. And then another. And then another. And then another. And then he will leave.

If he sits at your table in France or Italy, he will try to say cunning things about food, wine and decoration. That's some his favorite subjects. So be prepared to hear one of these familiar lines: "this cheese is excellent"; "I really like French wine but some Chilian wines are even better"; "your house is AMAZING, there is so much space for the children"; "it's always been my dream to own a place in southern Europe"; "Nick and I actually thought about buying a whole village but the one we visited needs complete refurbishing"
If he comes to Germany, you won't avoid this one: "German cars are terrific. I think the best would actually be to have an english bodywork coupled with a german engine."

Then will come the time to share mutual cultural experiences.
Languages: "I learned Spanish, French, German and Ukrainian at school, I even did some latin. But I totally forgot it. It's a pity, isn't it?"
Travels: "My mother took me to Netherlands once when I was small. It was so flat. I didn't like it" (Bonus track: "Shirley went to Dubaï. She got pissed and had sex on the beach with a married waiter. That was before she knew me of course. And yes, cheers, I'll sure have another glass of wine")
Perspectives: "I really think we should enjoy life. Work less hours. Have more time to party."
Regrets: "I shouldn't have married Michael. I should have gone to Africa and looked after people who really need my help."

So, as you see, my humble friends, there is no need to panick. And since I have to be honest, not all of them are like this.

How to start writing a novel knowing you won't finish it

2008-10-28T17:49:00.004+01:00

Let's face it, folks. Girls kept apart, everyone of us once in his life started a book and gave up after writing a few lines or a few chapters... It probably happened between the age of 16 and the age of 26 when you thought you had it in you. That was before you met your current girlfriend, started making babies and selling fax machines for a multinational company.

My objective here is to bring you relief and to give you tips to repeat the experience without the all despairing brain-teaser "I'm a washout" side effect.

First, you're not alone. The Austrian writer Robert Musil died in 1942 of a brain attack before finishing his post-mortem masterpiece Der Mann ohne Eigenschaften. I'm not saying here that dying during the writing process is the perfect solution, but at least it provides you with a very good excuse. And since we speak of Musil, the guy died after writing 1542 pages, which is a real shame. We don't ask you to go that far.

Then, remember that most readers and publishers don't read a book till the end. So what you need here is a completely boring start that requires no follow-up. When the reader gets bored, he will have nothing left to read. He won't feel guilty for giving in and will subsequently recommand your novel to other people. That's a win-win situation, understood?

Last but not least, there's always some feeling of timeless magic about an unfinished piece of art. Shubert's 7th symphony was left unfinished, Stendhal's Lucien Leuwen as well and no one is really sure about the Manneken Pis in Brussels. And these are works of art of formidable proportion.
In our present case, instead of completing 20 works and leaving 1 undone, I suggest you do the total opposite: write a powerful short-story of about 30 pages and leave your other 45 unfinished novels to prosperity.

Feel like giving your opinion on writing? Please help yourself.

10 reasons why I hate Keira Knightley and why you should do the same

2008-10-28T14:03:00.004+01:00

The following list gives you 10 reasons NOT to go and watch a film featuring Keira Knightley:

1. She's English. She was born in Teddington and if it doesn't ring a bell in you, it's about time you consider full-drug psychotherapy.

2. She's hot and sexy. She gives me a hard-on everytime I get to see her on the screen, in the same way as Scarlet Johansson, Charlize Theron and Marion Cotillard. This has spoiled every serious relationship I tried to build with a girl, when we didn't have a chance not to come across a TV set, a cinema, a movie poster or a magazine (so civilization, really). I won't let that happen again.

3. She always manages to wear men's clothes at some part of her films, whether it is a pirate costume or a bohemian hat, and ends up giving orders to everyone. This is simply unbearable.

4. She played the decoy queen in Star Wars Episode I (the one who provides cover to the real queen Nathalie Portman) and even after 23 viewings I still can't recognize her. I suspect there's a lie underneath it.

5. I have no fitfh reason.

6. I have no sixth reason either.

7. She plays a very despicable trick on Jack Sparrow in Pirates of the Caribbean 2, tying his wrists to the mast with handcuffs while licking his face. No surprise the guy found it hard to fight the Cracken after that. Women are so vicious...

8. She won't sleep with me.

9. She gives me no serious reason for that.

10. I hate Holywood

A quick update on: France

2008-10-27T23:00:00.005+01:00

A very old friend of mine who thought it was a nice idea to emigrate to Austria asked me recently how things were going in France. Now that Jörg Haider is dead and Wolfgang Priklopil (the guy who kept a schoolgirl in captivity for 10 years in his cellar) is in jail, he runs short of soulmates to share a nice Schnitzel with. So he thinks about going back. But he wants to know first if France is still a nice country to live in. I want to reassure him here. It definitely is.

Our president Sarkozy is fit and well. He still goes out in the morning to perform his jogging and doesn't need to wear his rollex wristwatch anylonger since he now has a Tissot. It's a slightly more expensive one but it reflects both the sun and the moon light.

Good old Dominique (Strauss-Kahn) faces an investigation for lifting the French flag high in the sky of the IMF: he fucked a female employee and allegedly gave her financial compensation for
making her come only four times in the night. France is still a lover's country.

Paris Saint-Germain football club beat Marseille in Marseille, which hadn't happened for over four years (when the shetland pony Ronaldinho was still playing for the club). On the football365.fr website, Damien wrote: "c tro génial ptdr pari es magic benarfa dan ton cu" (translation: he's happy).

Angry demonstators of the Education Nationale marched to protest against the cuts in staff and the new training programs. They have done so since 1796 but for the first time in years, they took the shortcut of the rue Soufflot and got round the Saint-Michel cross lights.

Star Academy has resumed and there's no reason to think why it shouldn't continue in the next 50 decades. The number of retarded teenagers sobbing for emotion hasn't fallen down at all. In fact the French birth rate ranks second in Europe, just behind Ireland.

Johnny Halliday said he would end his touring career after next year. He's finally been caught back by age and shows desire to learn brand new skills: singing, writing, composing and playing the guitar.

The couscous restaurant next to my mother's place is still open. They eventually found where the dreadful smelling came from. They've simply forgotten to flush the toilets for the last 10 years.

Here you are, Xavier. I hope to meet you soon.

Er ist ein Blogger too

2008-10-27T20:27:00.004+01:00

And he deserves to be mentionned here, even if some wicked tongues may say he's a mere follower. There are many reasons to read his blog.

First and foremost, most you have nothing else to do, whether at work or at home, and that won't change overnight. And this remark isn't just aimed at the lazy cat lover I talked to on the phone today.

Then, his English is admirable. He's still a pig as I am myself, but he tries hard - as I do - to reach the lion level. Considering the extreme intricacy of his thoughts, that's a worthy achievement. It's very hard to simplify to the bare bone (that is to make it suitable to the language of the kings) a home-made theory.

In addition to that, it's interesting. If you take a look at it now, you will learn what "Heterotopia" means, why it's much more better to be a bee than a sculptor and many other things, like how does it feel to be raised in Pakistan by a dancing wolf who deals acid and not to be able to fully recover for it.

So enough talk and have a nice ride: http://itsnotmyopinion.blogspot.com

Carassius auratus

2008-10-27T19:02:00.003+01:00

Better know as the goldfish, this amazing animal is the most commonly kept aquarium fish. According to wikipedia, goldfish can grow up to a maximum length of 23 inches and is a domestic version of a dark-gray/brown carp native to East Asia.

The professor Pfebastian Pfelzer (her mother lost her teeth the day he was born and some think it had an impact on the spelling of his name) went deeper into the subject in his wordly-acclaimed study, De profundis animalium stupiditus species. And this is what he writes as a conclusion:

"Goldfish have no long time memory at all. As if this wasn't enough, their short time memory runs up to about two seconds. That is why a) you can't make them read or truefully love you as their keeper, but also b) why there is no law agains having a goldfish in a really tiny vase. He just keeps forgetting his miserable conduct of live."

Nothing could be further from my mind than arguing with this renowned scientist who already received the Nobel prize twice for his international breakthrough: "How to keep a woman standing on her head while Snoopy the dog is waiting for the lift".
But someone of equal reputation made his voice heard recently to object to these conclusions.

This is what Paris Hilton said to the Baltimore Sun about keeping a goldfish: "I couldn't see my life without him. Of course he can't sleep in my bed with my 17 dogs but everyone of us knows he's here, bubbling in his aquarium and that keeps us together, united as a family. Whenever I go downstairs in the morning I see him and he looks at me, like if he was saying 'Hi Paris, did yuu have a nice night?' He's really sensitive, and he really does his best to get along with my chihuaha."

Do you have a decisive argument to settle this run-in? Please feel free to post your opinions.

Denouncement

2008-10-27T10:45:00.004+01:00

I ask myself the question: is what I am about to do morally right? Probably not but it's worth trying. I'll have a go at denouncement. All People bear secrets, all people hide embarrassing truth from other people, all people are ashamed of things they did in the past. The people I know are no different. So to the attention of the Gestapo:

Carole from France: Stephane does really love you, there is no doubt about that. But he confessed to me once that he saw you as his own personal Hilary Clinton. That makes you a loser, for one thing. Besides, it may also mean that there is a Monica Legwinsky hiding under his desk at his daytime office. Have it checked and keep me informed. Don't forget to look in the cupboard.

Cyril from China: despite your turns and tricks and for all your verbal brilliance, I know for sure that you contracted HIV in Hong Kong. It's not fair not to tell Emilia about it even if you haven't had sex together for at least 3 years. It's a matter of transparency.

Edgar from France, India and Japan: your wedding was boring to death and everybody shares that view. Not because of the bride or you lovely parents, but because of the uptight inhibited yuppies that you keep inviting at every occasion. These guys should be kept in their Accenture building and wait for the next taliban plane to crash in.

Thomas from Poland: I'm still not convinced your wife isn't a complete bitch, but I trust you on your word. My memories of her go fading, plus she's apparently been faithful to you.

Laurent from France: I will never give your money back, forget about it.

In addition to all that, that's what there is to know: Samuel H. from London lacks fighting spirit, H.S. from Paris killed her cat with a butcher's knife, Sebastian S. from Mannheim will never write a book, Clotidle C. from Paris will never find a man, Xavier C. from Vienna isn't for real he's a plant and his blood is green, Andrew, Janet and Peter S. from Broadway are members of a sect and will cut their wrists to death on redemption day, Cynthia B. from Poitiers provides shelter for an illegal migrant, Mathieu M. from Paris enjoys his job what he says about it is just show off, Marvin from Waitrose masturbates in bed, Kara W. from Melbourne has never been to Kinshasa, Laurent's cat si Heinrich Himmler's reincarnation he tracks down jewish cats and collects their bones, my mother hates black people she just pretends not to.

I let you read between the lines and take notice of all that. If you have any piece of information to share about me and my private life, please feel free to post a comment. It will be deleted in less than 2 seconds.

Couples

2008-10-27T09:29:00.008+01:00

John Updike's Couples isn't exactly the new kid in town. It was published in 1968 and had its fair share of critical reviews at the time. So don't buy it now, no one will start a debate with you about Updike's fierce portayal of adulterous suburbian white America. There is maybe one guy I know that would buy this book and discuss it if I allowed suggestion, but he lives in Germany now and cannot talk seriously anyway unless he's been to his gym session and carries 10L of liquor in his blood.

There is maybe this girl too who may find interest in reading the book. She's special to me and very dear to my heart. She already read Herman Hesse's Narcissus and Goldmund, maybe to get a clearer picture of who I am, in all likehood just to kill time on public transport.

My father gave me the book, so there's few chances he will buy it again for himself. You still won't be able to debate it with him because he totally forgot its content and he has now other things on his mind.

My friend Stéphane is a book swallower. Really commited. Addicted to reading like a fish is addicted to swim. He would listen to my proposal, he would even consider getting the bloody book. But it is more likely that he will wait until the novel gets some form of media revival to really plunge into it.

My sister can't read anything but comics, my brother can't read at all and I can't seriously think about teaching their goldfish how to read. Not at all because of its being a fish, but because of me being a lazy piece of shit.

So, as you see, the list grows thin. And by the way I realize I didn't say anything about the bloody novel. To be completely honest, I haven't read it myself.

Vicky Cristina Barcelona

2008-10-26T19:56:00.005+01:00

All right, folks. This blog won't become a movie review website overnight. But when it comes to Woody Allen, I am ready to make an exception.

Once every three films, the guy comes up with a jewel. He already made gold (Annie Hall), silver (Manathan) and emerald (Match Point), but this one film I will put in the category: "purple silk". You'll tell me that we don't know of any jewel made out of purple silk, but that's not the point.

The way I see it, the genius of the guy is that he keeps making the same movie decade after decade and always finds a new spotlight to illuminate the script. And the script, here again, is about love and relationships.

A girl ready to fall in love (Cristina) but who never quite achieves it; another girl (Vicky) decided not to fall in love but who cannot help it when circumstances give a hand; a Spanish Casanova who seeks more than a one-night stand and less than a lifetime relation, which he yet seems to be bound to due to a passionate fellow-artist (Penelope Cruz) with whom he maintains a post-divorce love/hate relationship.
And just to make sure every generation in the audience has a chance to fall under the spell of this subtle yet dangerous session of love psychoanalysis, a woman rolling to her sixties also questions her marriage and shows signs of splitting from the all fucking program.

For no relationship here can be called rock-solid. The initial love triangle develops into more triangles, each of these triangles containing a meaning, a possibility of love never finding its balance. "True love" exists in synchrony, but not in diachrony. Each day that passes brings a new ingredient to the cooking process and in the end everybody wonders if it's not too soon to lay the table.

Feminism, Age III

2008-10-26T16:45:00.007+01:00

From the Suffragette parades of the 19th century to the women's magazines of the 60's, from Henry James' The Bostonians to Virginie Despentes' Baise-moi ("Fuck me"), feminism has changed its shape and content up to a point that nobody really knows where the initial movement has lead to.

One thing is sure: some clichés are dead and buried. Gone is the woman shown on the photo. The times when women took pride in outmuscling men are over. There is always the casual Texan female bulldozer challenging men at arm wrestling in a rodeo pub near Southfork Ranch, but she ranks now as a has-been.
The ugly fanatic university bachelorette of the 70's (the flat-chested one with greasy hair and shabby t-shirts) is a picture of the past. Too much yacking and not enough breasts.

The time has now come for the decisive changeover. Gorgeous chicks with perfect skin run riot at every level of the society and the results are quite devastating. Western women moved on from the boring initial claim of equality to the far more interesting challenge of installing feminity at the top of the podium.
How do they do that? Not by marching on the Sixth avenue with angry placards. Just by being themselves and forcing men to adapt. No need for a march when you have catwalking. No need to get violent if men get softer. No need for aging since L'Oréal's Revitalift.

All they really have to do now is to wait for the old-line sexist male generation from the good old 50's to kick the bucket. The next generation is ready to wear skirts.

The death of a rising star

2008-10-26T12:53:00.002+01:00

There was one guy once who saw life as an opportunity to achieve great things. In his case it was art. And in art he worshiped beauty and elegance, originality and temper. God learned about him just before he was born. A star rised in the sky and it was of special brillance.
Having failed with his previous son, whom in his opinion he sent too early on Earth, God deciced to learn from his mistake and delayed the coming of the new emissary. He took the boy by his side and waited for the right moment.

The two had a nice run of conversations, about art mostly, and never lost a chance to observe what happened under them. Mankind sailed through History, bringing his lot of poets, writers and magicians, most of whom remained poor and unknown, to the extreme concern of God and his protégé. "Will the times ever come where I can send you safely there, my lad?" said God. "No one of these dumbbells even remembers Sophocles and Athenion. All they care about is the milking of their cows and the burning of the next witch."

But after Middle-Age came Renaissance: Da Vinci, Ronsart and Cervantes set new standards of beauty and raised some attention from the crowd. The boy felt the time was right but God held him back and said: "Not yet, my lad. Let's wait and see how things turn out."

Things turned out well and soon came Molière, Mozart and Gainsborough. The gung-ho boy was stamping his feet. "Come on, old man" he said. "Unleash me know and I will give this Molière a challenge of my own" But God didn't share that view: "Stay put, son. Look how Mozart and Molière ended. Buried in a communal grave before they get to the age of 40."

19th century came and brought Turner, Baudelaire and Lord Byron. Real figures of aestheticism praised to the skies by their peers. But God refused to give the green light. "I can see the age of communication coming" he said. "Mass communication, that is. Your work and talent will get promoted on full scale. That's what you need, really."

And so the boy waited for another 10 decades and came to life on September the 17th, 1981 in a L.A. hospital. He is now a massive star. He composed 7 albums which he put on freeshare on nomajor.com; he wrote a thousand poetries that appear on his skyblog; he added a video on youTube where he plays Rachmaninov's number 2 concerto, and the video received a 5-star rating from 10542 viewers. Hundreds of fans across the earth flagged his Myspace and left comments. His avant-garde paintings got delirious reviews from some German academy for which he gave an trilingual interview that was posted on the web.

He was soon to appear in ABC's Dancing with the stars, but unfortunately he was run over by a car on his way to the studio.

We are the pigs

2008-10-26T11:02:00.004+01:00

1492, Conquest of Paradise. Christopher Columbus (alias Gérard Depardieu) sees his empire crumbling down and turns towards the indian native (alias nobody cares who he is) he befriended with to get a bit of a cheer up. The guy replies something in his mother-tongue dialect and walks away from him. Columbus barks at him: "I didn't get a thing you said. Talk properly for God's sake". The guy turns back and answers: "At least I've learned your language. Have you learned mine?" And then he leaves back to the jungle to play Choctaw frisbee with his friends the jaguar and the aracari toucan.

The language here was Spanish, and he was the pig. The indian native was the pig. What about now? Who are the pigs? Well, my friends, unless you own a british or an american passport, I'm sorry to announce you that you are the pig.

English is a predatory language, as were French, Spanish and German before. Being a predatory language and the king of all predators, it doesn't even have to hunt to get its prey. The preys come by themselves to feed the beast or amuse it.

When you meet an English-speaking person, a Briton leaving in Britain being the extreme, you'll first face a test of classification. Can you or can you not speak the king-language? There are very few chances he or she knows your dialect, so you at least have to give it a try.
Let's say you do speak the king-language. That puts you in the first category, the enviable one: you get a visa from its Majesty. You're still a pig, but a talking pig.

Then goes the conversation. You being a pig and the Briton being the lion, you try hard to please the lion before he gets bored to speak with the pig. You grow confident, your words get flowing and after a while the lion turns to his other fellow-lions and says: "look at this one, he can really speak English." So you're an attraction now. You surely must have something to say since at least you're intelligible.

But how will you be judged? How far can the comedy go? Well, pretty far to tell the truth... For the lion lost his teeth and talking pigs multiplied all around the Kingdom. Too many to be repelled by the thin army of lions.

Along with the other pigs you speak the king-language, your clumsy English being your only show window. Things get lost in translation but you still manage to survive. Italian, Poles, Irakis, Albanian, Ukrainian immigrants all queuing in front of job centres, waiting for the door to open. Some of them qualified, some of them full of wit and humor, some of them local stars at home. But when the nice lady from First Recruitment lets them in to hear their pleading , none of this is relevant.

There is no local star here. Just a bunch of talking pigs exhibiting their tricks to the King's henchman.

Metropolitan

2008-10-26T01:19:00.002+02:00

Metropolitan was a film released in the early 90's and directed by Whit Stillman. It showed a self-professed proleterian making his way into the social sphere of a group of well-off young New-Yorkers. At the beginning of the film, he hires a dinner jacket for his first evening out. That's all that is asked from him to get an entrance ticket: to wear a tuxedo and to know the basic rules of urban civility. Nobody cares if he lives with his mother and grandmother in a dump of Brooklyn opposite the railroad. And then he bangs the girls, and then he goes to the concerts...

So what's my point? Well here it is: to be successful in our society, you have to reflect an image of success. Familiar with this line? Of course you are. But I let you find out where the hell you heard it. To make it short, you don't get a membership by begging for one and you don't wait to get the job to wear the uniform. Move yourself in unnoticed, dance a few steps with the mistress of the house and get the stamp you need once everybody thinks it's totally useless.

On a practical field, what does it mean? Well, try to go and see your banker dressing like Vladimir in Waiting for Godot and you'll see what it means. He won't even let you sit on the customer's chair, let alone lend you money.
Try to seduce a girl by highlighting what a tender virgin you are, how much inexperience you have. She'll sure give you her parrot's phone number.
Go for business partners assuring them that you will soon find new clients. Wrong, my lad, you already have them and all you really ask for is time to make them real.

People are not that unfriendly, people are not that reluctant to welcome new faces. People need people. People with old skin for the new ceremony.

The importance of being modest

2008-10-25T22:16:00.002+02:00

There is this one guy I know and I will tell you some stuff about him. We don't need to know his name, and I will call him Edgar. We don't need to know his age, so he will be 31. We don't need to know his nationality, the guy will then be a Frenchman. Edgar, 31, is a Frenchman. He has many virtues but one stands above all of them: he's modest.

What is to be modest? To be modest is to be successful and not to let yourself slip into self-indulgence. A failure isn't modest, he's a failure. He cannot claim to be modest since he didn't put himself in the position where he can choose to overlook his own success and pretend he doesn't care. A failure can be unlucky, doomed, cursed or whatever but he cannot be modest. That's beyond his reach.

Edgar, here, isn't a failure. He's quite successful.

As a start, he's good-looking. Tall, broad-shouldered, nice brown eyes and short dark hair. He knows it but doesn't say it. Others do. Girls do. And when someone says that to him, he neatly changes the subject.

He's a sportsman too. A fairly good tennis player (he thrashed me on a couple of occasions), with extreme composure and dignity on the court. Never throws down his racket, never spits on the ground, always pays you a drink after smashing the final ball on your face. He can play football (very strong at the back), he can swim and got a medal at volley-ball. But then ask him and he will keep repeating: "No, I lost my shape".

He has an extraordinary penis with a groove of his own, according to the girls he was introduced to for a longer exchange than the casual friday night drink. He's a fucking legend among us miserable schoolmates who didn't even know what a female orgasm was until some of them girls started to complain. But tell him about his reputation and he will say "Well, it depends on the night. I can be crap sometimes".

He's rich and deserves it. Finance, insurance, banking, consulting. A perfect career admirably planned from the beginning. He could live in Tokyo by now, but he met this Indian girl, she's a consultant too, so maybe they'll both move to the States. Mum and Dad are so proud of him, but he merely says: "You made all that happen".

So the guy is perfect, but above all he's modest. He won't teach you a lesson, he won't show you the way. He will just walk in your house the day you have a party, ask you where is the fridge to put the Dom Perignon bottle he found the time to buy and mingle with the other guests all smiling and talking. Some girl will say to him: "where did you learn to dance? you're pretty good." He will deny and she will say: "Come on, Edgar. Don't be modest."

(By the way, this guy has a brother and he's even more modest)

A short introduction on Group Therapy

2008-10-25T19:37:00.002+02:00

So you're an individual. A special taste, a special approach, a special quality. You wander around the mirror gallery of Life reflecting your own light in the eyes of others, and that keeps your spirit high. You've been groomed to excellence, open-minded rationality and moral independance.

You look up to De Gaulle, Stanley Kubrick and John Lennon. You'd like to be the one who wrote Lolita, the one who sang "Money" and "Another brick in the wall" back in the 70's, the one who decorated the Sixtine Chapel in the Vatican. And more than that, you'd like to go further, to be even better than them, to be courted and remembered.

You want to be the Special One, not for Chelsea Football Club but for your wife, your friends and family. So you try to be special, not for the sake of it but because you believe people can really feed eachother and learn on themselves by meeting superior folks. And to be fair you also love to meet people of special quality, you're not afraid of them even if they sometimes can stand in your light.

So you pass a phone call, you say "Hi" to the desk , you get on the elevator that brings you up to the 9th floor. Today's the day and you wear a tie. Some people of special value answered your application letter and offered you a job interview. You learned economy, sciences and art to be ready for this day. You travelled around the world, you learned from your mistakes and you're eager now to make them benefit from your so hardly built individuality.

The door opens and there are a dozen other guys in the room, with a suitcase on their knees sitting around a white table. They look at you with suspiscion, but not the lady in the middle, welcoming you in her purple tailor. You risk a smile, you're a bit shy. "Will I be able to shine enough to impress her?" you ask yourself. "Do I have the skills? Are my minds all right? Do I still remember what Samuelson and Irving Fisher said about the fluctuation of the exchange market?"

But instead of asking you or anyone in the room about all these things, she simply walks to a cupboard and returns with a puzzle box. Inside the box there are pieces, 13 pieces and she gives one to every participant.
And then she says: "Each one of you guys owns a piece of the puzzle that can't be shown to the others. Your job as a team is to get information from each participant in order to reconstruct the puzzle. You have 15 minutes." Then she plugs a camera and steps off the room.

15 minutes later the die is cast. Stephanie Mc Mullen has been spotted as a potential leader. Henry Hill showed good interaction. Lizzie Sanchez really helped the team by connecting the feedback. You kept your mouth shut all along the process. You're out. You failed the group therapy.

Do we really need you here?

2008-10-25T16:47:00.000+02:00

Have you ever asked yourself the question: do they really need me here? How many lives would be different if my parents hadn't met, if my mother got an abortion or if I was a dead-born baby?

Don't start telling me you're so fucking special, cos you're not. Wayne Rooney is. He can run for 90 minutes every three days, score goals out of nowhere, and make 90.000 people happy or desperate for the following week. You can't do that, can you?

Let's try to make a list of what you represent to most people and institutions:

1. For the State: either a tax-payer or a tax-eater, depending on your situation and the country you live in. In both cases you represent an excel cell with a minus or a plus in front of your name. So you're a number.

2. For your country: either an ambassador (Frodo Baggins from the Shire for instance) or a simple name-bearer. Let's say you're English and your name is Philips: your existence merely consists in passing the name from the the previous Philips (your father) to the next Philips (your son). So you're a bridge.

3. For your family: a funny-looking chap or girl whose face resembles a random puzzle of the family genetical mix. In other terms you're a mirror. With funny attibutes, all right, but a mirror still.

4. For your sexual partner: a performer and a witness. You perform love at various levels and provides your better half with a full time audience. It is statistically proved that most of what remains after a fellow's death (apart from the everlasting souvenir of his or her unquestionable uniqueness) is photographs and movie shots taken while on family trips.

5. For your friends: a leitmotiv; an electric cable winding across the jungle of life which keeps them in touch with their own past, and which they can grip at will during their sea diving.

6. For yourself: a toy you can move, alterate and use for interaction with the other toys. You are your own little robot waiting for a command.

7. for humanity: read Schopenhauer's Über die Freiheit des menschlichen Willens and go back to sleep.

So, to sum up: you're a number, a toy, an electric cable, a mirror, a bridge and a witness. Would you take any of these items with you on a deserted island to spend the rest of your life? Of course not. You will leave them behind. The good news then is, you don't have to go.

Teenage Angst

2008-10-25T15:25:00.002+02:00

"Angst" means "fear" in german, and "Teenage" bedeutet "Jugendlich" auf Deutsch. So what is it like to be a teenager nowadays? To be afraid of is age and to speak fluently german and english? No it doesn't. It means, in fact, the complete opposite.

Let's take my brother for instance. He's 18, he's French and the picture on the left shows you what he looks like. And that's the bloody thing with modern teenagers: they look like what they are. So what's so special about him (and the rest of them)?

First, he's young and ignorant even if he doesn't agree with the second adjective. Try to confront him with what he can't do and he will strike back at you with what he could do if only he wanted or needed to. Examples:

"You can't write properly, mate. You make so many mistakes".
Answer: "I could easily write properly if I wanted to, stupid. It's just that on the net people don't give a shit about the spelling."

"You can't play the guitar, bro. You have to learn first".
Answer: "I don't need to. I've got a friend who taught me a few chords and that's enough to get the girls."

"You suck with girls anyway. No one will ever love you if you don't commit."
Answer: "Tell me why they keep knocking at my door, then."

Second thing: he's in tune with his time. Apolitical, fast-typing, self-centered, quick to adapt and unable to think. Hamlet's troubles pass beyond him like planes above London. Very sociable he is, on MSN and skyrock.com; he doesn't have to surf at all to see a naked girl, just asks one of his contacts "Can you show me your breasts?" and activates his webcam.

Third thing: he doesn't get old, just a little better each day. The less he knows, the more he fits.

Fourth thing: he can make a clear distinction between the dead and the living. And he doesn't want the dead to haunt his world. Jim Morrison's dead, "bring on the dj's"; Rimbaud's dead, "bring on the slam style"; Fitzgerald is dead, "who the fuck was he?"; love is dead, "but sex lingers on..."

Love and advert

2008-10-25T12:36:00.002+02:00

"I wanna be adored", sang Ian Brown of the Stone Roses. Well I don't. Not anymore. For as Oscar Wilde said: I was adored once (or twice), and it didn't lead to anything good.

It's all a matter of advertising. You put an ad for yourself and one girl bites the hook. At first you feel grateful to her, she's your first customer. "Your ad was nice" she says, "I now want to know more". So you show her to your room, "here's a picture of me when I was 8", you say, beginning to undress her with one finger standing on the verge of erection. Then you show her to your friends, introducing her as Vickie, Lise, Helen or whatever her name may be. "Your friends are nice", she says, "and so are you."

Then you flirt for a while, voluntarily limiting your meetings to twice or three times a week, cooking your burgeoning love over a gentle heat. "This girl is sweet", you think. I know her but I don't own her, I screw her but she's not my girlfriend, I take pleasure but I take no order. I could hurt her feelings but i don't want to, she could hurt mine and that keeps me sharp.

Months after that you have a nickname and she has one. She forgot your ad and looks at the product straight in the eyes. She's part of the company now, she has her say. There are things she likes, and some she doesn't. Marketing isn't part of the show anylonger.
You devoted yourself to your one customer, and considering the price you paid for the ad - years of maturing, building your personnality, moulding your sex-appeal, piano skills and cultural references - you start to feel angry with that.

Some girl takes interest with you in a trendy bar of the riverside, the one you have skipped away from ages ago, and your best friend comes to interrupt: "Sorry, love, he's not available. But I am." You go home brooding on your pride, fighting against your own nature and trying to forget. "Am I an asshole?, you ask yourself, or just the typical urban greedy piece of a man whose ego and hunger for more won't leave in peace until he gets poor and old and doesn't have a choice?"

You're back home and you watch TV. Not too loud for she's asleep. Scarlet Johansson gives an interview and says she broke up with her boyfriend and found another one. "He's the one, she says. I feel it in my heart". You think "I want to be him", but then again you think twice. "Maybe I don't want to be him. I want to be him and the guy after him, or maybe him and the guy before him". But you're neither. You're in your flat and she's sleeping. On TV there's an ad about a meeting website.

Time for you to put another one.

Not being me

2008-10-25T11:43:00.000+02:00

So you're not me and I'm not you. That's a obvious fact and I'm afraid there's nothing you can do about it. Not being me can appear to some of you very hard to take. Because you're older than me or younger than me, because you screw less girls than I did or more girls than I did but in a different way, because you hopefully didn't screw the same girls that I did screw, and because of many other things...

You haven't written a song called "Christmas day" and recorded it with your german pal in a music room at Bishop Stopford School . You haven't won an English flag at the Cherry Tree picking correctly the all Manchester United team of the 99 final to a stupid barman. You haven't vomited on you in the toilets of the Cavern and woken up the next day wondering where the hell will I find the same trouser that I spoiled in Liverpool. You haven't watched France vs Holland in a pub in Richmond with hundreds of rosbeefs burping their joy at every goal from the Oranje.

You haven't seen Paris at night just coming out of the station, blinding your eyes with the sharp contrast between the City of Lights and the shadow town of Kettering, England. You haven't watched Graeme's haircut on monday morning at 9 as he tried to reach with just one hand both his paquet of cigarettes and a glass of whisky from last night, standing at his piano in his yellow dressing gown.

You haven't spent your childhood reading alone in your room and your teenage years trying to guess how does it taste to kiss a girl, to finally make out with one in Athens, down the luminous gardens of the Parthenon, and find it so disgusting you can't wait to try again and correct your initial misapproaching of the thing.

You haven't locked yourself in the bathroom, shut the lights and listened to The Cure's A forest to add some extra reverb to the song. You haven't cried when you first heard Neil Hammond from the Divine Comedy singing "Our mutual friend" on BBC2 and tried to read Dickens' novel of the same name just for the sake of it.

You don't owe 985 pounds to HSBC and another 500 to a friend of yours. You don't prefer the missionnary position to the obvious dogstyle banging. You can have female friends and get on well with their sisters. You started a blog years ago when it was still hype to do it. You didn't wait till you got 22 to start smoking and you don't cough anymore when you smoke a joint.

You didn't have my life, you didn't start this blog and there's no chance I will meet you at Claire's party next saturday since you're not invited and neither I am.

Living on the edge: Kettering, England

2008-10-24T23:58:00.001+02:00

If you travel to Europe, don't ever go to England. Everybody knows why. And if you travel to England, don't ever go to Kettering. I'm pretty sure not everyone knows why. Well, here is why:

This town of the East Midlands was once the capital of shoes manufacturing. Winston Churchill got his shoes from a Kettering store. It's now the capital of binge drinking, pissing on the street and slaying as many folks from Corby in one night as possible. What is Corby? Another crap town of the East Midlands. In fact there are so many crap towns around that you wonder whether it's a joke.

First thing: people there are even more racist than I am. You just have to speak with a slight accent and you're seen as some Polish scum ass looking for his dog. If you're Indian, keep in your off-licence store and don't go out at nightfall; stand behind your till, serve them drinks and cigarettes and don't forget to say cheers. The white zombies like violence and politeness as well. If you're black, make sure you're 10 feet tall and even then, always carry a gun with you.

Next thing: girls are violent. They ran out of control a decade ago after the virus was spread and cannot be stopped by any means but one: alcoholic coma. As soon as they start drinking, girls there live in a world of their own. They wear mini skirts in january, vomit in the streets all year long, bark at taxi drivers who won't take them in, boys who want to screw them, boys who don't want to screw them, police officers etc... Some have been seen assaulting guys with their fists and stiletto heels. A real nightmare.

Third thing: kids are mad. All of them. They probably would outclass my own father in a fast drinking contest and my father isn't exactly a quaker. And when it comes to verbal abuse, the local thugs know so many words they could edit a dictionnary. I learned English there. I really did.

So here it is: the crappiest place on earth. Ugly food and ugly people, all white trash addicted to chaos waiting for the Stranger to show himself and get beaten to death. I definitely suspect this place to be an object of experimentation by the british government. If it isn't, please terrorists crash a few planes on it.

Are you gay-friendly?

2008-10-24T23:00:00.000+02:00

That's a good question, and don't get it wrong, not easy to answer. For try to say "I don't give a shit" as an answer... You may think that's quite neutral - but, no, my friend, that's not. That's offensive, that's bloody rude. That means "they don't bother me so I don't bother them", let's just not play with eachother and meet in our next life. Gays, you either have to love them or to hate them. There is no middle way.

Imagine yourself at some tv show with some gorgeous blonde female presentator asking you: "How do you stand about gays? Are you gay-friendly?", with a full audience ready to boo at you. You cant' say "I don't mind" or "They're fine by me". For you would also say that about a wasp as long as it doesn't prowl around your afternoon drink, wouldn't you? This answer won't convince anyone for sure. So think again.

You may come up with a powerful left-wing fashionable statement such as: "I really love them. They bring something different, a touch of feminity; they're so deep and emotional, you can really talk with them. Many of my friends are gay by the way."
But then again, where does that come from? You have to be a bisexual Holywood actress to really blend in with that crap. What if you're a heterosexual male in your fifties? People will think "he's one of them!" No, friend, that's no good...

This bloody question IS bloody hard to answer. So open bar, mates. Give your opinion.

Poverty

2008-10-24T19:20:00.000+02:00

A few months ago was the day of Blog Action Day Poverty. What is Blog Action Day Poverty? It's a yearly event uniting all the blogs of the webworld around this striking slogan: "I'm participating. Are you?"

I'm not and that's why.

for poverty... What can be say?
It doesn't sell, it isn't fun, it's useless and it even stinks sometimes. But like Morissey once sang, "some girls are bigger than others", and some poor are more cool than others, or less uncool if you prefer it.
To be poor and still media-cool, this is what you need to be:

1: Black. This is a must-be. White poor people are Bush oriented right wing racists who complain against minorities. Hispanics don't raise any sympathy. Maybe it's because of their accent or because they don't look poor enough, plus most of them can cook pretty well even with cheap ingredients. Lemon faces (chinese, japanese and other tribes) seem born to be poor and no one minds if they eat rats and dead pigeons, that's in their nature.

2: non-christian. Another must-be. Who can seriously pity a christian? He's born to suffer and a skinny body means a perfect soul. look at Jesus and the other saints.

3: Humility; the fashionable poor is humble and doesn't rebel against the mighty ones. He doesn't swear in front of the camera and doesn't even ask the cameraman to put away the fly he has in his eye. This is the typical ethiopian boy with a thousand flies around him. The guy is a celebrity, he doesn't even move.

And to close the subject, as Alan Price one sang: "poor people stay poor people for they don't understand, a man's got to take whatever he needs and grab it with his own hands"