So we are all going to die

My friend IH hosted a lovely brunch yesterday morning that sprawled into lazy, all-afternoon affair that make me grateful to be a graduate student and not someone punching a nine-to-five. There was the suggestion that we might rally and get some grading done together, but I’ve yet to ever see that work out in practice. Instead we had a long discussion about childhood. Despite hailing from several different countries, it seems that that all of us clustered in the late-20-something age group were all at one point obsessed with dinosaurs and astronomy, whereas the generation directly below us was into Pokémon. I made some overblown argument that an interest in T-Rex and Pluto somehow made my generation cannier to science, but I now regret it. My interest in dinosaurs was probably the first time my desires for a compulsively well-ordered universe reared their ugly head. I kept my plastic dinosaur collection in margarine containers categorized by era (Triassic, Jurassic, Cretaceous, etc.) and hyperventilated at the thought of anachronistic play scenarios. I never became a paleontologist, nor could I even tell you anything insightful about dinosaurs now. I just found great comfort in schematizing their plastic world. I suppose this is the same type of comfort that the next generation found in their encounter with the world of Pokémon, so who am I to throw stones?

My crew and I went to see some pretty offensively bad video art last night at the Centre Pompidou. One of my New Year’s resolutions was to not be so damn critical of everything and everyone, so I guess in keeping with that I won’t detail everything that was wrong with this young woman’s oeuvre. My old therapist said that it is important to try and come up with one positive thing about a situation that is unpleasant overall. It took awhile for me to think of one for this experience, but here it is:  this lady had a strong understanding of the literal. Suffice it to say that the audience dropped like flies. It takes a lot for me to leave a talk, concert, or screening early. Sadly, this is the second event that I’ve dragged my friends to in Paris that ended with stolen sideways glances and a quick shuffle to the exit. The first such flight was from a Williamsburg-based psyché-folk band that weaseled their way into a show at the Palais de Tokyo because the lead singer/gong clanger is Paul Laffoley’s assistant. I don’t even know how the Spanish video artist from last night got the Pompidou gig, but her work confirmed a sneaking suspicion I’ve held about video art for a long time, namely that it allows for any jackass with a camcorder to call themselves an artist. That’s ungenerous, I know, and there is a lot of video art that I genuinely respect and enjoy.  But there is something terrifyingly democratic about the medium. Worst of all, she holds her MFA from my graduate school, making it an ugly day for institutional pride.

We saw an excellent screening of some of Paul Sharit’s films last Wednesday evening at the Pompidou. Especially rapturous was the silent Analytical Studies II: Unframed Lines of 1971-76, which uses the undulating projection line at the bottom of the screen to create some truly mesmerizing abstract imagery. Regrettably, the evening ended with Epileptic Seizure Comparison of 1976, in which footage of two epileptics undergoing induced seizures are interposed with colored panels that somehow mimic the brain waves of the patients. It’s loooong, and while conceptually interesting, it’s decidedly painful to actually watch. I mean, it’s basically watching someone have a seizure through a strobe light for a half-hour. However, having watched someone have a seizure through a strobe light for a half-hour becomes a useful litmus test for other experiences. Would you have rather watch a thirty-minute seizure or eat this casserole? Would you rather watch a thirty-minute seizure or listen to this Spanish video artist talk about Rousseau’s misogyny? Would you have rather watch a thirty-minute seizure or grade these 68 economics exams? It’s good to have a sense of precisely where you hit bottom and how close the experience you are currently undergoing is to the forehead-scrape.

Nobody wants to read your blog

I’m overcome with the urge to tag every single entry as “barf” and call it a day.

I sent out a few e-mails out yesterday publicizing this place to friends.  It felt really yucky, like I was parading around my dirty laundry.  To add insult to injury, I managed to write the wrong blog address on not only the initial e-mail, but the also the SECOND e-mail I sent out to remedy the first one.  As a Freudian, I decided that two times made this a meaningful error.  Also by that point I was far too ashamed to send out a third e-mail directing people to a blog they likely have no interest in reading.  In addition to being a malignant narcissist, I’m an entirely ineffective self-promoter.  What a combination!

So, if you made it here and it wasn’t particularly easy on account of all the misdirection, thanks.  Seriously.  I’ll try extra-hard to keep you entertained.

* * *

About a year ago I scoffed pretty hard at a Style Section article about Seasonal Affective Disorder.  A+ for a culture that produces acronyms that makes more sense than the names of the diseases they abbreviate!  It was easy to scoff at home UV lamps, of course, from my warm little existence in Orange County. You know, that place where it rains like once or twice a year and everyone scampers around in flip flops and glorified sweatsuits?  Cut to the present day and man, oh man, am I sick and tired of this grey, rainy weather.  I’m tired of wet shoes, carrying around an umbrella, the smell of wet wool on the métro, and this half-assed version of “daylight” that begins sometime mid-morning and ends before 5 p.m.  You might even say it’s making me SAD!

Puns are certainly the lowest form of humor.

I was kvetching about this (the lack of sunlight, not puns) with some friends and a Londoner said that he didn’t know what to make of my complaints.  “I like to be my own little ray of sunshine,” he impishly declared.  I feel sheepish at my total lack of that particular varietal of self-sufficiency.  I’m officially one of those people ruined by California, the ones who complain when it is anything less than sixty degrees and sunny.

* * *

Someone who had held out for a long time on joining Facebook got on the boat last week.  He suddenly appeared on my radar with dozens of friends and a readymade knack for the clever status update.  I was disappointed to see that he disappeared after three days.  I sent him a standard “quitter or defriender?” query.  He wrote back to say that he had realized how toxic the place is for things like “productivity” and “sanity” and he wisely decided to depart before things got too serious.  Oh, to go back to the time when things weren’t too serious between me and FB, as I hear the kids are calling it these days.  To be able to depart before things got too complicated! Lemme tell you what, I’d sure like to be the dump-er in that scenario.  If only there was a way to say to a social networking device: Look, I’m really sorry.  It isn’t you, it’s me!  I know that you provide a valuable service to many of your users!  How did anyone ever remember wish anyone else a happy birthday before you came around?  Especially since the recent sneaky shift in the privacy standards, you make it easier than ever to stalk high school boyfriends and old coworkers!  But this just isn’t working out.  I’m sure you are going to make your next five million users (largely women between the ages of 55 and 70 apparently) really happy, what with all the posting about cats and grandchildren that your relationship will surely enable!  You deserve someone who will appreciate you like they will, not just someone who is in the habit of being in your company.  Trust me, this will be better for both of us in the long run.

But as any addict will tell you, deactivation is like taking a break but never really breaking up.  Facebook is the bad news codependent boyfriend that will always take you back when you are feeling weak, the one who remembers every single petty detail of your relationship and plans to rub them in your face when you shuffle back with your tail between your legs.  So good for you, S, for getting out before it was too late.  Wish I could join you out there on the other side.

Photo again courtesy of the winsome M. Starik

Clarence in Paris: Han Lim

Han Lim

6 rue Blainville, 75005 Paris

Métro:  Place Monge

One bummer about living in Paris is that there isn’t nearly the diversity of types of cuisine available in even a small American city.  Don’t get me wrong:  what they do well here, they obviously do better than anybody else in the universe.  But if you are living on a moderate budget, the Parisian diet ends up consisting of very few Michelin-starred eateries and a lot of ham and cheese in various white-carbohydrate guises.  I’m getting to the point where I’d happily chop off a hand for a decent burrito, piece of pizza, or some Schezwan noodles.

I’ve had a bit better luck in terms of Vietnamese and Korean food, though nothing compared to what I was used to as a denizen of Orange County.  I wasn’t sure about how to write this review of Han Lim, a Korean restaurant in the Latin Quarter.  I don’t want to pretend that I really know anything about Korean cuisine, other than I really enjoy it and if you are lucky enough to within driving distance of Kaya in Irvine, well, I hate you right now.  But for those of you in Paris who are starting to get a little too promiscuous with the Sriracha on account of the dearth of spicy food in this town, I would recommend a visit to Han Lim.  I quite enjoyed the kimchi chigae and the dolsot bibimbap, and the smells of bulgogi and kalbi wafting from the other tables seem to be right on target.  The banchan is spare, but functional.  The place is usually full in the evenings but not so much so that you can’t easily get a table.  The people who run the place are really friendly.

Details: No reservations necessary.  For around 20 euros each, everybody will be well-fed and sloshed on Soju.

The Puke Story

As anyone within hollering distance (and Skype gives me a wide fucking radius) might know already, I was recently and unceremoniously dumped.  It sucked.  These things never get easier.  I won’t bore you (likely again) with the details of the relationship or its demise.  But what happened next is actually starting to be funny.

I’ve always been an emotional vomiter.  When overwhelmed, stressed, heartbroken, or otherwise at wits’ end, my physical recourse is always puking.  After the long-distance breakup conversation, I immediately threw up.  Following two long, tear-soaked discussions with my mom and my best friend, I threw up again.  I went to bed, only to lie sleepless all night as my elbows were mysteriously aching.  I finally dozed off at six a.m. and slept through my alarm, which was problematic as I was supposed to be giving a final exam to my students at eight a.m.  I awoke and in a frenzy tried to make something of my pukey, swollen face.  I was starving, so I pounded a raspberry smoothie.  Bad idea.  By the time I was scurrying through the frozen streets to my métro stop, hazy recollections of the breakup conversation came swimming into my head and I was overcome with nausea.  I ran to barf on what I thought was a pile of trash nestled underneath one of the support beams of the Centre Pompidou.  It was only after I had begun throwing up that I realized that I was puking on a half-frozen homeless guy who had taken refuge under all the trash.  Horrified, I tried to back off and apologize, but I was still throwing up.  As I staggered backwards, I proceeded to puke PINK BARF all over my peacoat, jeans, and shoes.  Finally finishing up and mortified, I thrust a wad of cash at the poor guy, who was totally confused and upset by this rude awakening.  Realizing that I was already late for class, I then made the incredibly dubious decision to CONTINUE GOING TO WORK COVERED IN PUKE.  If you think that the French are ungenerous in their stares on the métro, try going on the train covered in pink vomit.

Thankfully the class I was proctoring was a loveable bunch I call the Tuesday Six, a bright and articulate group of kids who look like a Benetton ad for a fresh-faced multicultural future.  Aghast at my appearance, one of my students inquired as to what had happened to me.  Asshole that I am, I managed to whip up a story about how I had been spontaneously puked on by a homeless man in the métro station.  It’s a good thing I don’t believe in karma.

Later, my friend B walked me home from work and high-fived me when we passed the frozen pink puddle that I had made earlier in the day.  It was the kindest thing anyone had done for me in a long time.

Oh, Julia.

First off, fan mail!  Just kidding.  A friend obliged to read this blog writes: “When you said that you were going to give Clarence a blog, I thought that meant that you would be writing from his point of view.” Dearest reader, I thought about it, but let’s be honest. Clarence isn’t an especially verbal kid. He would certainly be flagged by Head Start if I let him out of the closet long enough to attend school. He communicates mainly by pointing, grunting, and having tantrums.  So think of Clarence in Paris as a view into what makes Clarence happy, but with the addition of useful details about logistical issues (cost, walking, waiting, making reservations) that Clarence is loathe to consider.

* * *

Check out those boots!

Yesterday afternoon I went to see Julia Kristeva (swoon!) speak at the Museé du quai Branly, “where cultures speak to one another” and “indigenous” (read:  places that were colonized by France at some point or another) art is exhibited in dark, vertiginous rooms that make you worry you are about to walk face-first into a sheet of glass. It’s a fancy space, likely made rich by the obscene number of tourists that come through after getting tired of waiting in line at the Eiffel Tower next door. One thing that they do at Branly that I’m pretty amped about is L’Université Populaire, a series of conferences and talks organized by Catherine Clément (somewhat smaller swoon!) about postcolonialism, psychoanalysis, and contemporary politics. The talk gave a general overview of Kristeva’s life and work and was well-handled for a general audience (think Inside the Actor’s Studio for rockstar academics). Kristeva was everything I had hoped she would be – exceedingly poised, articulate, and possessing of a sartorial sense that made her the ultimate antidote to Eileen Fisher-clad American female academics (or maybe that’s Hélène Cixous, who wanders around in a full-length fur). The only downside was that I had carried my dog-eared copy of Pouvoirs de l’horreur across town in hopes to have it signed. I nearly chickened out at the end of the talk, but my friends pushed me to the front of the auditorium where I stood, sweat-drenched and nervously muttering “Would you please sign my book?” in French over and over again so that I wouldn’t be dumbstruck when she got to me. Let’s just say that it was hardly 1964 and this was hardly Beatlemania. There were only three twitterpated fans up there, all of us waiting politely with well-worn copies of her books. But a diamond-clad hand fluttered and she was gone, and her assistant informed us that there would be no autographs today as Madame Kristeva was tired. It was terribly disappointing. I don’t want to say anything more about it than that.  Except I do think I handled it with a bit more grace than the guy who loudly threw his copy of Les samouraïs (really?) down on the floor in exasperation.  Manners count.

* * *

Last night I attended an extremely well-executed dinner party at the apartment of H and S, a couple who have been blessed with a disproportionate amount of good looks, culinary talent, and storytelling savvy between them. They are the kind of couple that would inspire rabid envy if they weren’t so damn nice. They made tacos de lengua complete with pico de gallo and guacamole, no small feat in a country where Mexican ingredients are sold in the same part of the grocery store as peanut butter, that is, the section for homesick expats. Also, can we say bonus points for cooking tongue at home? I didn’t snap any pictures of the two enormous tongues nestled in the pot together, but lemme tell you, what a sight for sore eyes! It was nice to know that I wasn’t the only person carrying the persistent dull ache for Mexican food and these kids miraculously hit the spot.

Afterwards we hit a heaving neighborhood bar with a huge hole in the front window that someone had driven through a few nights prior. My kind of place, you might say. Incidentally, I’ve decided that heaving, which my British friend uses instead of packed, is a far superior adjective. Let’s make that happen in America, shall we? Anyway, H was the target of one of the most amusing pick-up attempts in recent memory, cribbed directly from the Vh1 series The Pick-Up Artist (she knew about the show because her friend wrote a dissertation on reality television, I knew about the show because I’m a pop culture bottom-feeder). Broseph approached our group, sporting a too-tight button down, bad cologne, and full-fledged braces. As H remarked, “No Invisalign in France, I guess?” Broseph claimed he was taking a survey of the bar patrons for a “friend” (“Is it cheating if somebody makes out with someone who isn’t their boyfriend?”). He acted as though he was in a rush to talk to the next group of people (yet lingered for fifteen minutes). He paid a lot of attention to me (I was regrettably the not-as-hot friend of the target in this scenario). He looked at H and casually tossed out “You’re beautiful, too bad you’re not my type.” H and I confronted him about the schtick he was trying to pull (schtick was a word officially lost in translation) and walked away to another part of the bar. Amusingly, however, we then witnessed Broseph continue to woo our male friends, who are so starved for locally-grown masculine contact that they ended up spending a big chunk of the evening fraternizing with Broseph and his bad pickup lines. So while cribbing from The Pick-Up Artist may not get you the hot blonde American chick at the bar, it very well might garner you some of her Y-chromosome friends. Lesson learned?