Bonfire of the vanities: "There is no reason to mourn, because - apart from some paintings by Patrick Heron and Paula Rego's neurotic fairy tales - the art destroyed was disposable."
"U want me 2 take him 2 trafford centre and kill him in the middle of trafford centre??"
Bizarre tale of boy who used internet to plot his own murder: "The boy... persuaded his friend, known as Mark, now 17, to stab him to death in order to pass a fictitious initiation test for the British secret services in a meticulously planned attack one Sunday evening last summer."
Ministers weigh into chocs-for-sport row: "The government's campaign against obesity was rocked by squabbling between ministers yesterday about whether they had backed a discarded scheme that encouraged children to eat chocolate in order to acquire sports equipment...a Downing Street spokesman said last night: 'It is certainly not government policy to encourage children to eat confectionery.'"
A Cautionary Tale: "The provenance and reliability of the many pages of quoted remarks and dialogue—as many as in most novels of similar length—are left to the reader's imagination. My favorite product of this method occurs on page 440. ''HOLY SHIT!' Powell said to himself as he read a copy of Tenet's speech.'"
Comparing Montmartre cemetery to Pere Lachaise cemetery: Montmartre has a nicer landscape, with tall trees and terraced into the side of the hill, but Pere Lachaise boasts more notables in its ground. All I know is that my family really needs a crypt for the afterlife. It would be like an eternity of 4th of July picnics, though I suspect that one might need a bit more room to breathe after a 150 years or so. Dreadlocked and pierced American girls made a beeline to fat Jim Morrison's grave. We went the other direction. Oscar Wilde's monument was crowded so we waited on a bench down the way. The stone itself is covered in lipstick-smeared kisses, which is kind of gross. Somehow we walked past Gertrude Stein and Alice B Toklas' twice. In the Paris Review collection I was reading, Stein revealed, in an interview from beyond the grave, that she was reincarnated as a South American cowboy to work out her gender issues. Edith Piaf and Marcel Proust have boring black slab monuments. Gericault, however, has a bronze of his disaster painting "Raft of the Medusa". Which is an odd choice. Heloise and Abelard looked quite content together in effigy.
Ate lunch at a cafe across the street from the Parc des Butte Chaumont. The waiter winked as we left as if to signify to us that he knew we were American but wouldn't let on. Thanks. Buttes Chaumont used to be a dead horse dump until it was remodeled as a park. A little temple rotunda sits atop a hill over a lake fed by a waterfall through a grotto. It's all fake but charming nonetheless. We sat and read our respective books for a bit until thunder came from a bright blue sky which seemed like a bad omen and a good time to split.
The Curse of Beauty for Serious Musicians: "Diane Walsh, a pianist, observed, 'The image of a beautiful young woman inspires deeply ambivalent feelings in everyone.'"
Bookish band creates spectacle: "Crowds at Decemberists' shows are a mixed bag, he says, 'punks to hippies to bookish types … people who wear glasses. We have a high spectacle quotient.'"
"So I was coming out of the subway on 86th St on Friday night and right
there was a used one. So I put it in an envelope brought it back to
her. Now she'll believe me."
"$2,000 for bail? Well, how are you going to pay for that? Really? Okay
then."
Brian's engine broke down. He woke up with a sore throat and a runny nose. All the walking, all the massive infusions of culture, are bound to have that effect. We slowly made our way out of the hotel to visit the Musee Picasso because it was only a few blocks away from the hotel. Our morning pain au chocolats were still warm so we ate them while walking down the street. I wondered if this were proper until I saw a well-heeled woman doing the same. The Musee Picasso occupies a grand hotel of the Marais neighborhood, refurbished to showcase Picasso's artwork sold to France to settle his estate tax. My personal feeling about Picasso is that he really was an extraordinary painter until fame went to his head and he was just began taking the piss. From the amount of materials in the museum, he was extremely proficient in nearly every medium. By his death, he could spit paint on a canvas and find some feeble critic to call it a masterpiece. The current temporary exhibit tried to establish direct and indirect links between Picasso and Ingres, in a subtle manner that didn't pound anything into the viewer's head. The garden had a cafe where we took coffee and sat to read. Brian decided he could carry on so we walked slowly to do some shopping. I bought two shirts from Muji and oil pastels, notebook, and incense (gift for Heather). At Confisserie Rivoli bought several Eiffel Tower-shaped chocolates for assorted persons. Mariage Freres is a tea shop--all loose tea is kept in containers behind a counter. You must ask a clerk to bring down a container to get a sniff. That seemed too daunting so I stuck to the prepackaged goods. My favorite tea description is from box of iced tea bags: "...an ode to extraordinary journeys to mystical distant lands". Headed back north to a lunch restaurant (we found out it was lunch only when we tried to go there for dinner) recommended by Chocolate and Zucchini. The menu changes daily. Brian had a carrot ricotta tart and I had a the duck wok dish. The waitress looked like she was going to have a heart attack from lunch grind stress. Brian went back to the hotel to nurse his cold; I went down to the river to sketch. The weather was against me though--fat raindrops in the sunshine. Whenever I turned around, groups of schoolchildren had surrounded me. Taking a more abstract view of the matter, I proposed the following trade. Midtown Manhattan, complete with Broadway and Times Square, for the Parisian banks of the Seine. Grass is greener whatever, of course, but let's not tell anyone until the trade is complete that there is no grass in midtown.
The second attempt at visiting the Musee d'Orsay went much better--the museum is open late on Thursday nights. I'll skip the descriptions, except to say that I never really appreciated the work of Odilon Redon in the past. One man, trailed by his wife, was taking a digital picture of every painting in the Impressionist galleries. And a man was taking pictures of every work on his digital camera. Back to the hotel around 10.30; I read for a few hours (my holiday ideal).
Show time: "Ask a pelargonium grower to explain what a pelargonium is, they tend to get a bit excited. The import of their reply is that whatever a pelargonium is, it isn't a geranium (just to confuse things, the American word for pelargonium is 'geranium'). How do you tell the difference? The simplest method seems to be to put the plant in question outside on a frosty evening and go to bed."
For the Unbuttoned Man: "Whether silk or cotton, they tie the same. Lay it flat, fold it diagonally, roll it tightly and, slipping it around your neck, tie that Boy Scout classic, a square knot... Whatever the neckerchief is, there is one thing it is not: an ascot. 'We don't use the A-word,' Mr. Burke said. 'This is not about Thurston Howell III.'"
The Rebirth of the 'NYRB': "One suspects they yearn for the day when they can return to their normal publishing routine--that gentlemanly pastiche of philosophy, art, classical music, photography, German and Russian history, East European politics, literary fiction--unencumbered by political duties of a confrontational or oppositional nature. That day has not yet arrived. If and when it does, let it be said that the editors met the challenges of the post-9/11 era in a way that most other leading American publications did not, and that The New York Review of Books--which turned forty last fall--was there when we needed it most."
Off at the Madeleine church to buy gifts at Fauchon. Brian bought a tins of biscuits for his parents and one for Amanda for watching the cats. And I bought a gift for myself: a sample of fruit confit/pate--outrageously expensive cubes in a little pink box. They have to be eaten slowly and savored. We strolled down the Champs Elysee, wind and rain spitting. The street is like Madison Ave or upper 50s Fifth Avenue in New York City: wide sidewalks and high-end flagship stores. The best part is the large sidewalks--all the streets near our hotel have room for only one person and that space must still be shared with refuse containers and mopeds (and other people). Crossed underground to the Arc de Triomphe. Looked down the vistas from each of the avenues of the etoile. The sun came out from behind a clouds for a few minutes. Our spirits rallied so we finally decided to do the big one: the Eiffel Tower. Despite one (maybe two) visits to Paris and living in the city for six weeks one summer, I've never been to the top of the Eiffel Tower. Before it had seemed so expensive, or obvious, but its hard to avoid it. Exited the metro at the Trocadero and walked across the bridge. A class of grade schoolers walked down the steps opposite, each boy wielding a long baguette like a sword. The line at the tower moved relatively quickly, but the guards have the process down pat. The second platform had an impressive view and a bitter cold wind. Top floor naturally had a better view and an even colder wind. Supposedly one can see the Chartres' cathedral spires from the top but I couldn't. Yes, it was crowded and noisy--that's expected. However, baby strollers are just unnecessary. Infants don't care about any view except their mother's. All in all, I'm glad I did it and now I'll never have to do it again. Lunched at a Thai restaurant with a basil chicken dish.
Back to the Musee Cluny for the third attempt at visiting. Big fat rain drops began to fall so we rushed inside. We stood in line but a second line of German tourists formed around us. Tried to work our way back in, but an older German tour guide yelled that I wasn't in line. Argued, lost, and went to the end. Finally paid and was told by the guard to check my bag. Bag checker told me to go in with bag. Shouted rapid-fire "pardons" at the German guide's group of gathering ladies. My favorite part of the museum is how it was built on Roman baths--some of these are now exposed. Our cities will be more efficiently buried and turned to dust. Brian and I had a picnic dinner in the hotel of baguette, camembert, couscous, and yogurt, and watched CNN and snooker. Later in the evening I went to a cafe to read Philip Pullman's The Golden Compass and tried to figure out which cat of mine is my daemon.
Sex film actress defends UK movie: "'I have managed to get myself into a mess,' the actress told The Guardian. Despite her appeal for anonymity, Stilley's identity was revealed and it emerged that her religious mother was praying for her twice a day."
South African drunk donkey cart driver fined: "He was ordered to stop, but when the police left the scene he continued on his journey, South African media said. Before appearing in court, he said he did not stop 'because the animals knew the way home'."
Microchips to save Peru's alpacas: "Peru has launched a campaign to implant microchips in hundreds of pedigree alpacas to try to stop the best animals being smuggled out of the country."
The quick entry to the Louvre inspired us to try that again at the Musee d'Orsay. Unfortunately, there was a line several busloads of people thick. I tried to sit on the wall where a picture was once taken as I read among the statuary. The statues are now removed and no one is allowed to sit on the wall. Since lines of people outside means lines of people inside, an alternative was proposed. Walked to the Rodin Museum. Much of the larger works are scattered around the gardens, and we sat by the pond to read our books. The past few days had been warmer than expected so I had worn only a shirt. The sun worked against me today and brought chills and clouds over Paris. (Brian had wisely always worn his coat). I tried to just accept the cold into my skin in an effort to avoid to shivers, but that wasn't successful. Avoided large groups of children in the house area of the museum. I think there may have been two since this tactic didn't work well at all. Lunch was at the outdoor pavilion in the garden. While waiting in line a German woman pulled a cat's tale. His claws scraped across the tile floor and he yelped. She laughed to her companion and tried to call him back to her. Brian and I sat outside and the cat visited. We fed him some ham from our sandwiches until he became greedy. Some trashy Italian teenagers were singing Eminem and trying to look tough.
Down to Montparnasse to tour the catacombs. The logistics of the project are curious: cemeteries smell and are overcrowded, underground quarries need to be filled before the Left Bank collapses so fill it with bones. Halls and halls of brown femurs stacked like Lincoln logs, with a row of skulls interspersed. The skulls seemed very small, but Brian pointed out that our skulls aren't much larger. By the time we exited, a constant drizzle and cold wind were falling. Over to Montparnasse cemetery and saw Serge Gainsbourg's tomb but the rain became steady. Sorry, Jean Seberg and Tristan Tzara--next time!
A coworker of Brian's was also in Paris on his honeymoon so we stopped off at Odeon to leave a note at his hotel. Walked wrong way from metro and found movie theaters with films in "version originale". The other Americans were out so we left a note. Spent the rest of the afternoon watching saw Jim Jarmusch's film Coffee and Cigarettes. Not too familiar with his work but he missed a chance to make some great point with the film (don't ask me what the great point is). The best bit was Cate Blanchett playing herself and a down and out cousin. Round the corner for an early dinner at a creperie. A black cat came to say hello and curled up for a nap between Brian and myself. Not necessarily a psychic companion, as William Burroughs would write--perhaps just a psychic visitor. At the end of the meal the cat jumped up and disappeared around a corner. He was just joining us for the meal.
The New Yorker: Nellie McKay: "She relishes using interviews to scare off anyone expecting a biddable camp figure: 'I thought all the 50's rockers were so dirty'; 'There's a side of me that identifies with Aileen Wuornos'; 'I'd really like to raise the minimum wage.'"
Nellie McKay's record is in the shortlist for the record of the year, displacing Franz Ferdinand. The next few weeks are packed with new releases so competition is going to get fierce.
Edited to add:
Christopher wondered if I meant Morrissey. Yes, and Wilco, PJ Harvey, the Magnetic Fields, Sam Phillips, Loretta Lynn...
In an effort to avoid the crowds as much as possible we left the hotel to be at the Louvre for its opening at 9 am. Started at Louvre history, to ancient Egypt, ancient Mesopotamians, large format European painters like Gericault. Down a long gallery to the Mona Lisa. Yup, that's it. The mysterious smile that attracts so many visitors mysteriously. Unlike the museum's other da Vinci paintings that are virtually ignored. Early Renaissance to Nike of Samothrace which has the best placement atop a long staircase after a grand gallery. I liked the Romantic fantasy paintings of the galleries as ruins. How often do I say to myself that something would be better as a ruin? Lunch at the museum cafe. I have soft spot for museum cafes. The current ranking leader is the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York's new cafe in the basement. My favorite part of lunch was yogurt in a ceramic pot. Despite aching feet, carried on to Napoleon III apartments and northern European painters. It was a test of endurance. Saw an American guide giving a lecture to middle-aged women on Corot. I could do that and hatched a plan to start art history tours for Americans (my mother and her friends being the model customer).
Sat in the Tuileries gardens, laid out on bench and took nap. Down Rue de Rivoli to WH Smith (English) bookshop, but again, did not buy anything. Cut over to Colette. The items in vogue are robot action figures, the cool Japanese kind, of course, but I had no qualms passing over those. All the store employees looked like dirty NYC lower East Side rocker boys--I can see that at home for free. I do admire the Colette aesthetic of choosing a few select items for display. Back west to Samaritaine department store. I was immediately drawn to the Paul Smith, Ted Baker, and Agnes B clothes. Reason overcame vanity. Brian bought some gifts for his people. Stopped by McDonalds to use their wee-fee on Brian's laptop, but his battery was dead. Plan hatched to charge battery, eat dinner near hotel, and head to McDonalds. Dinner was couscous with roasted chicken. The security guard at McDonalds explained that the wee-fee doesn't work and it is apparently only available to subscribers. Since we now possessed our weekly carte d'orange metro tickets, down to internet cafe. Lots of people send me messages but its all spam. I'd also like to discuss the French keyboard. The key placement differences I can get used to but the punctuation posed more problems. And being able to press ! without a shift must surely lead to sentences on! anti-depressants!!! The American keyboard requires the extra effort of a shift key to get an exclamation point so our sentences generally end with a firm and polite period.
Colonial House: "What was the real world like in 1628? Not a whole heckuva lot of fun. Forget about pious Pilgrims and powdered wigs. The original colonists lived lives of sheer spartan hell: primitive cabins, bitterly cold weather, chamber pots for toilets, backbreaking labor, isolation, deprivation, indentured servitude, public punishment for the slightest infraction -- oh yeah, and then they died young... Yep, things pretty much sucked 400 years ago, as this series brings into vivid focus."
Back in the US of A: "John Edwards plays the saxophone and 'admires' the Beatles. Former Governor Howard Dean plays the harmonica and the guitar and his favorite Beatle is George Harrison. Wesley Clark's favorite album of all time is Yellow Submarine (Kerry's is Abbey Road; Dennis Kucinich's is The White Album)... The great exception to all this is George W. Bush. He was at Yale from 1964 to 1968, and liked some of the Beatles first records. 'Then they got a bit weird,' he has said. 'I didn't like all that later stuff when they got strange.'"
Late start Sunday meant that the stairs to Sacre Coeur were already filled with tourists and the accompanying panhandlers. (Which came first?) Brian noted that Amelie must have digitally altered the ground to remove all the black masses of gum. A man began to set up a small helicopter that was really a stage for a puppet show. We counted the spires of the city. The area is uncomfortably crawling with people. But aren't I a tourist too? The same as the others, in search of French culture and souvenirs? Perhaps, though my idea of sightseeing is sailing through silently like a spirit and piecing things back together later. Most people are happy to trample trough to leave their mark. Heidi wanted a magnet with name on it for a collection, but the closest we could find was Henri. We should have gone to Bavaria. Ate a disgusting sandwich from a disgusting sidestreet--the worst part is I should have known better. Followed the streets of Montmartre down the hill. The cemetery wall didn't have an entrance to either the left or the right so a choice had to be made between. And we chose the wrong one and followed the wall all around. Finally near the point we began, we spied a staircase off the overpass. An overpass had been built over the cemetery--one monument's cross was built into the girders. My two goals for this place were the graves of Francois Truffaut and Edgar Degas. The landscape of the cemetery is terraced into the hill with tall family monuments beneath the thick trees. At a bench Brian gave up walking while I made another pass at Truffaut's monument and found it. Degas was not so easy to find despite my two passes through his section. Next time, Edgar, though I find Hector Berlioz and Alexandre Dumas fils instead. Brian sat on the bench trying to call cemetery cats to this side with no luck. Back to the Musee de Cluny for the free admission, but a line went out the courtyard. Instead we walked too far down the quai, ate mango sorbet, and found Shakespeare and Co, though didn't find any Denton Welch edition I had hoped for. Hotel, nap. Finally found a cafe near the Hotel de Ville with a delicious salad (jambon, rocquefort). Listened to catty men discuss desserts and other catty men. On the television at the hotel the only two English channels were CNN and sports. We watched snooker and tried to figure out the rules. Whenever I thought I knew one, it changed. No, that's not a metaphor for life.
Dark Age Ahead, by Jane Jacobs: "Despite her effort to raise the alarm in order to rouse us to reform, there's a dark sense here that our present leaders and many of our people are too arrogant, too proud, too absolutist, and too blind to the acceleration of anomie and its attendant alienation to slow the erosion of our institutions, let alone prevent the collapse of North American culture as we know it."
Michael Winterbottom's Nine Songs: most sexually explicit British film: "In the film the couple also attend Michael Nyman's 60th birthday concert, with shots of the composer playing the piano at the Hackney Empire in east London. 'I'm very pleased to be in the most sexually explicit film in British film history,' said Nyman from Berlin yesterday, 'especially as I am not doing anything sexual. I can't wait to see it.'"
It's the Hottest Place in Town, and Dolls Eat Free: "Embraced by banquettes, plied with smoked salmon and shortbread, and served tea from china pots, American girls here learn the ways of the ladies who lunch."
Cold Turkey: "And, except for the Garden of Eden, there were already all these crazy games going on, which could make you act crazy, even if you weren’t crazy to begin with. Some of the games that were already going on when you got here were love and hate, liberalism and conservatism, automobiles and credit cards, golf and girls’ basketball."
Early wake up to visit the marche aux puces (flea market) north of the city. All of the guides made the place seem on the edge of Paris, but the metro ride probably took only fifteen minutes, if even that. The guides were right on one count though: the booths first encountered only sell jeans and sneakers. Not exactly the Paris junk-treasure I had in mind. Suddenly in the midst of the junk-junk, an alley leads to a maze of stalls with the junk-treasure. I flipped through vintage postcards before finding a collection from Reims for my father, a cat keychain for Molly, and a vintage paperback (chosen for the cover) for William C. If I had bought anything for myself, would have been some of the modernist furniture, perhaps a few prints (not the naughty ones of nuns). The walk back to the metro was a fight against a stream of people so our exit was well-timed.
Down to St Michel to see the Musee de Cluny with a detour for lunch. The proprietor broke into English for us. Back to Cluny but it was closed for May Day. Not in a mood to waste the sunshine we went to the Luxembourg gardens for reading and sorbet. Violin players in a small orchestra at the Place de la Sorbonne grimaced at each note they missed. Walked over to Pont Neuf and back to the hotel, which in hindsight was long and tedious. Our legs and feet would have their revenge by Monday. Napped while chansons breezed in from the open window and apartment across the street. Saw a very small socialist demonstration at the Place de la Republique--its so hard to protest on a warm Saturday afternoon. Brian and I sat by the St Martin canal--walked on to the bridge over the canal. A woman was urinating behind a building. As we left the park, she was happily smoking a cigarette. Dinner choice #1 was closed, dinner choice #2 was too busy. #3 was found via wandering and much difficulty. I had asparagus with pesto over greens and jambon with a tarte orange for dessert. Back at the hotel, the neighbor across the street had a loud, full fledged party. It was charming by 11.30, bothersome at 12.15, but downright annoying from 2 to 4. And no one invited me.
Free Talk With the Streets: "I don't have whole albums on there. Why bother? If there's four songs from one album on my iPod, then it's a good album. Like Carole King's Tapestry."
The only song from Tapestry I left off for my iPod is "Smackwater Jack". And don't even get me started on why a live version had to be added to the CD instead of any other song on the album.
Naughty gnomes made to cover up: "While most garden gnomes fish or enact scenes of bucolic tranquility, ex-army Sgt. Tony Watson's models in the northern English town of Barnsley bared their breasts and buttocks..."
After a night on the plane, the lure of getting to the hotel and sleeping was the main draw. 6.30 am is early in any country. The hotel room walls lacked any right angles. All the furniture tried to put some order in the room, but the walls won out. The sink basin was at a precarious position to its pedestal. I had checked on two occasions that the room would have a shower in the bath, but the definition of shower should have been discussed. Apparently, a handheld shower attachment on a bath faucet that is so low one can only sit in the tub with the water spray is a shower. Hell, we could even pretend that that is a bidet for all its basic purposes. At least a flushing toilet has a pretty standard meaning.
"Easy sightseeing" before jetlag: down through the Marais to Notre Dame, over to Ile St Louis where a jazz band sang "Dream A Little Dream Of Me", up to the Bastille, west to Place des Vosges, colonnaded square where both Victor Hugo lived and Henry II was killed. That DK Eyewitness book series isn't worth much--no mention of the king's death at all! Quick email check while French teenagers played Diablo against each other. They were commanding large armies of demons, but in a friendly manner. Wandered in the direction of the hotel, though that was euphemism for lost, for camembert, baguette, red wine, yogurt picnic spread. Fell asleep hearing little girls laughing out the window in the street around midnight.
