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Anna took me once again to a punk rock show. They all seem to be on the outskirts of town. The odd thing about this one is that it was in some sort of community center. The neighborhood seemed to be upper-middle class and it was odd to see all these punk rock kids hanging out as if they were waiting for the next pick-up game.
The bands were ok. Our friend Pascall’s band Spermicide was playing. It was fun to watch and the sound int he place was excellent.
We ended up missing the last metro home and getting stuck in Pigalle. Where we went to an after hours bar. I mostly stayed in the corner and watched. Then spent the rest of the night talking to a man named Aasif who asked me at least 10 times if I knew black people, which was just kind of confusing. I must learn French.
This is Anna and some guy that walked us home for an hour whose name I never caught, but he’s the French Steve Buscemi to me which would be much more apparent if his eyes were open
Pascall’s band Spermicide
The Parc de Buttes-Chaumont is another park relatively close to where I am living. Once a rock quarry now it had been developed into a man-made lake with man-made rock formations. (As opposed to my home where they built a shopping mall in the quarry.) From the summit you can see out to Sacre-Couer. The park is full of joggers and for some reason on that day many elderlies making out.
Also close to the park is a small village of houses built in the 1920’s. Many of them retain the art deco style of the period. Also this place seems to be ignored by many tourists so it’s the perfect place for a walk…all uphill.
The Parc de la Villette is within walking distance of my flat (although I take the metro as I paid for the pass and am quite lazy). It’s a very modern urban type park built on what use to be a stockyard of some sort. It’s one of those parks that leads you into the misguided notion that having kids would be a fun thing to do. The park is completely about the kids. There’s interactive museums, carousels and some the most interesting playground equipment ever.
Paris has really mastered the punk rock t thing. It seems at shows there is a competition in gross out punk rock art.
One such shirt was made for some sort of toy drive for children at Christmas time. Odd as it had a picture of a dog following a guy and eating his vomit. That outta cheer up the kiddies.
Another was from a band called Metal Urbaine. The slogan when translated from French is “I will shit on your vomit.” Nice.
There does seem to be a fascination with the entire bodily fluids thing here. Which you can feel free to take a whiff of at any underpass or narrow alley, especially nice after a good rainfall.
This past Saturday I went with a new friend Anna to a punk rock show on the outskirts of Paris proper. After winding our way through a flea market, where apparently I look like the kinda gal who could really use a pink studded belt, we came upon what looked to be a typical cafe, the A. Picolo. Yet, the denizens were hardly typical. It looked as the place were French punk rockers came to drink a noisette, a beer and then die. To me there is noting sadder than an aging punk rocker. I remember back when I held these people in the highest of esteem. I was clearly out of my mind. The music was fairly atrocious. The last band The Grannies were quite ok, but had that clearly Californian sound that has gone a bit stale for me, personally. Plus I don’t dig bands that have a gimmick, especially when it incorporates cross-dressing….who are you? Giuliani? He’s not cutting edge and neither are you.
Most of the evening was spent just people watching as they were mostly more interesting than the band. Some guy got beat up for taking a leak outside too close to someones home. It seems to me that that was Parsien tradition, but I suppose not in this hood. There was some guy lying in the gutter water playing with a dog who was constantly licking his face. This guy tried to lick me later, which was more disgusting than can really say. And I had just been getting used to the french cheek kissing thing. Which really cracked me up seeing all these very tough punk rock guys doing their traditional hellos.
We then proceeded to go to some bars in Menilmontant. I had to explain to one French guy that he was wearing a bowling shirt. He was confused because it had the name of a pharmacy the back. Then I had to explain sponsorship and leagues. Possible the longest conversation I’ve ever had about bowling. Eventually I’d had enough. I was tired as Friday night was spent at Idir’s and he wakes up insanely early for work and tends to accidentally wake me up as well. Plus that night had its share of tribulations only found in France. So anyhow I decided to taxi it back to my flat as by now the metro was clearly closed. The cabbie was nice and even made sure I made it to the door of my building before driving off. What he didn’t see was that I couldn’t get INTO my building. The door was closed and locked. This was a first and I had no idea how to get in. Everyone that might have had the code to the building was sound asleep with their telephones turned off. I guess these people don’t believe in the “But what if there’s an emergency?” thing. So the only person I got a hold of was Idir who seemed confused by my entire predicament and already thought I was paranoid. Eventually some old man came into the building and I followed him in, which seemed to dismay him a bit. But I was lucky I could because I had the sneaking suspicion that Idir would have left me there for the night.
Anyhow I think that will be my first and last punk rock show in Paris or anywhere in fact. I’m not quite sure what I use to find so entertaining about it all. Shit these means my parents were right when they said “She’ll grow out of it someday.”
There’s a million reasons for me to adore the Centre Pompidou. Not only do the exhibitions generally rock…except for the Yves Klein one I saw in December which just left my yawning, but there’s hardly ever a line and there’s easy access to free toilets. Which is no small feat. The view is always the best in the city when using the outside escalators. They also have free internet. Since whomever I was stealing internet access from came wise and installed a password I’ve been making daily visits. But now they have blocked access to myspace. Why? I’m quite unsure, so I guess I must break down and pay for internet at some time.
When you come in the main entrance there is an installation piece in which large stuffed vinyl body parts in netting drop from the ceiling. It was interesting enough to make me stop for a second. But my favorite this to watch was this kid’s reaction. Every time one would fall and jolt just before hitting the ground this kid would applaud and cheer. Every time. He rules.
This is the one place close to where I am living that I actually enjoy. Until the inevitable creepy guy decides to stop by and chit chat. This time he had cold sores…sexy!!! And tried to get me to go drink beer with him in his flat. Yeah that sounds like a good idea. I’m not quite sure how to explain to these guys that it not flattering when they tell me I am beautiful because I am fat. I suppose I should just go with it and be flattered.
I totally agree…except for the fat thing. As Isaac Mizrahi says “Fat is the new Black.” It’s about damn time.
Today in the Wall Street Journal Opinions Journal
Muslim Melting Pot
Once again, America beats Europe on assimilation.
BY IRSHAD MANJI
*********************************
my opinion:
From seeing both sides (in Europe and America) of this, as an outsider obviously, I couldn’t agree with anything more. The segregation and racism in Paris is nearly palpable. Many of the people I’ve made friends with here have given me their opinions and is reflected by Ms. Manji’s editorial. Honestly, it did kind of surprise me on my first trip here, finding such a large flaw in a city I thought I would love. But it does make plenty of sense. The colonization efforts here in France brought many Northern African Muslims to the country as cheap labor and has kept a visible class system intact it seems. Where as in America most immigrants came from more affluent backgrounds.
For reference to what I’m to ineloquently saying read this…
Debating American Islam
from: Reza Aslan to: Daniel Benjamin
I spoke to a teacher in Paris yesterday and asked about students that had French as a second language. Since we have a large population of English as a second language in the school in which I teach. He told me that they go to completely different schools. I found this bewildering. How could anyone be expected to feel accepted in a country that will not even immerse them in the education system? It smacks of a French Jim Crow if you ask me.
Today I met with Florian, who has agreed to help me learn French. He has no idea what he’s in for. He’s quite nice and a teacher in Paris. So my bargaining chip is my grammatically correct English. Thanks Mom!
Anyhow I went to meet him in the Marais, one of my favorite neighborhoods. This neighborhood is a good 20 minute metro ride from my shitty neighborhood, but soooo worth it. I generally look outside the window so I don’t accidentally make eye contact with anyone. So I was looking outside the window as a man came into view. He was squatting. It took me a while to process this, really. Then it became apparent the man was taking a shit in the full light of the metro station. There was a collective gasp in the car and a sudden burst of conversation. Apparently no one else could believe it either. Thank God to know it wasn’t a common occurrence. Beware of metro station Poissoniere.
Fausse Parisienne 