I'm currently in America (specifically, Fresno, California) for the holidays. This is, as always, backlogged. I'm content, worried, full of snot and don't want to leave the couch. But it's good to be back home for 2 weeks.
23 Novembre 2008
Dimanche
Upon viewing all of my footage from today and yesterday, all my beautiful, beautiful footage, there are blue bars or mosaic pixelations that completely obscure the image. When I tried playing it on another shittier camera, nothing shows up other than the nice error message, “CLEAN PLAY HEADS. CLEAN THEM HARD.”
Then we realized one of the bambino lights broke. Wires were sticking out everywhere. Though when I came home I pulled out my thinking hat and managed to fix it, I feel as if my time in Paris is cursed.
Today on the lunch break, I filmed snow falling. I’ve never even seen snow falling. The only snow I’ve seen was 6 feet high and frozen, and any snowballs I threw resulted in bruises and lectures on why I mustn’t throw ice. The snow lasted about 10 minutes, then there was a lull. Afterwards came the rain, the rain on my shoot, the rain on my parade.
So my crew was miserable, I was miserable, my talent was miserable, all for the sake of some shots that may or may not show up. I’ve been researching it for the past 3 hours in preparation for a shoot on Wednesday, Saturday and Sunday. I don’t want the same problem happening to my other crew members.
After capturing about 40 minutes of footage (the first 10 being uncapturable, hopefully to be solved once I get me some cleaning tapes tomorrow), I decided I needed a cigarette, which turned out to be quite a walk. I felt compelled to walk for some reason. My great solace was the fact that after this walk, I found myself not too far from my house where I got lost. Because streets are crooked and poorly planned, I got lost on my first week here. Now I found my way back home quite easily, looking at which side the moss grew on, the north star, the landmark church in the distance, and my innate sense of direction. It felt good to be successful in at least one endeavor.
25 Novembre 2008
Mercredi
So I’m not exactly sure what it is, but everything seems to go wrong while I’m here in Paris. Camera broken? Check. No money? Check. Bureaucratic problems? Check. Phone breaks? Check. Loan problems? You bet. Hunger problems? Oh yeah. Relationship void? You bet your sweet ass.
If this is some test, some sort of thing to put into my A&E Director’s Special Biography, I’d like to just skip ahead to the end of the hour special – Nick Refuerzo: How a suburban Filipino-American became a successful and amazing film director. Or if that’s not possible, Nick Refuerzo: How a suburban, Filipino-American aspiring filmmaker lost his mind in Paris. Exciting, n’est-ce pas?
2 Decembre 2008
Mercredi
See, the trouble with my movies is that nothing ever happens. If something does happen, if a character goes through some semblance of an “arc,” it’s so subtle and so minor that nobody ever notices it. Of course I get it, and of course my select friends get it in the States. But frankly, 95% of others didn’t get it there, and I don’t think that’s a problem with them, I think it’s a problem with me.
It’s not you, it’s me.
I need a better understanding of the spectator and the film. I’ve written papers about it and I’ve had my stupid little thoughts about it – the public spectacle, the shared spectatorial experience, the apparatus theory, patiti patata…and I think I’ve only viewed it as theory. Maybe I should think of it in simpler terms. Let’s say it’s a loveless marriage.
Myself, the know-it-all smartass husband, feels he never needs to communicate too loudly or be, in any way, loquacious. My significant other(now illegal again in California) must be able to tune in to the signs I do give, however subtle they may be. Eye contact, gestures, word choice, clothes, movement. I say more with less words. But this hypothetical lover of mine – the audience, the spectator – is indeed just as intelligent as I am, but fail to understand me. Why is this happening?
It’s not you, it’s me.
I like cyclical stories. I like stories that don’t exactly reach full arcs, that aren’t concluded nicely, that don’t exactly fulfill the expectations and desires a person has. Life isn’t like that. And so I want to tell stories like this. To follow whatever metaphor I’ve already established, I want to be less communicative. I expect too much from the audience.
As a result, I’ve failed to keep a relationship longer than a month.
I just re-watched my last movie at UCI – Philistine – and I couldn’t stop smiling. Though nobody may agree, it’s by far the most well rounded script I could come up with. Every piece of information I revealed has a call back, everything is reflexive, everything self-referential. I watched it in pure, arrogant joy. Then I snapped out of it and realized nobody liked it. Nothing happened. It didn’t win anything.
I burned it on a DVD to possibly show my screenwriting class tomorrow. What chance is there that people here will get understand it when English is not their first language? Even Americans didn’t get it.
I don’t exactly what to change like the characters in trite movies…I’d rather evolve and be able to incorporate my fuck-story subtleties into a more sensible, tender understanding of my stupid lover. That’s it…a character mustn’t change, he must evolve. I must evolve here in Paris, like Pikachu to Raichu. Sure, I’ll be less cute…but I’ll have more hit points, be more powerful, and be able to make damn good movies that I’m finally happy with, and that an audience is happy with.
5 Decembre 2008
Vendredi
In an act of forgetfulness and stupidity, I finished making dinner…one of my all time favorites, spaghetti. I finished the pasta, finished the meat. Looks good, I thought. Looks damn good.
I reached into my “pantry” and noticed a lack of a secret, special, important ingredient. Something that makes my spaghetti extra amazing: pasta sauce. Having absolutely nothing else, I was forced to pour ketchup all over the dish.
I’ve reached a new low.
7 Decembre 2008
Dimanche
While smoking outside my apartment, I watched a fight breakout at a park across the street. To me the most exciting part was one of the man’s dogs. They seemed to know their master was in a skirmish, and barked furiously at the man being attacked. As he fell against a tree holding his head, the barks surrounded him, growled, and kept barking, holding him at bay.
I didn’t seem to care about the circumstances surrounding the fight, nor if anyone was okay. All I was interested was how cool the dogs were, supporting their owner, like little cute fuzzy minions with sharp teeth. After the fight ended and the wounded man stumbled away, the dogs happily sat next to his owner and looked up at him, and one of them jumped on his lap. He petted them gratefully, and they all seemed fairly content in their tag team victory.
Let’s see cats do that. Fuck them.
In other news, I may not go home for Christmas and I may not come back for my 2nd year at EICAR.
It’s too much of a financial burden, and for what? These next couple of months at school better give me a reason to fight to stay…it’s just too much on my family for a second rate education. I don’t want to give up halfway through a Masters Degree, but I may not have a choice. I have to find a well paying job, a massive scholarship, a winning lottery ticket, or a rich boyfriend. All of those would do quite nicely, but what I could really go for right now is a cigarette.
13 Decembre 2008
Samedi
After I mostly finished my first film/exercise here, it was far too long for the assignment. So I had to rethink the concept completely and cram it in 3 glorious minutes of music video montage. It sucked. So I rethought it again and again, again and again, and changed the tone slightly, made it far more confusing, added new music, and viola. 3 minute movie to turn in to EICAR. I’m more or less satisfied with it, but since it wasn’t planned this way there are obvious holes.
I have 10 spaceships made out of paper plates and UFO’s and I don’t know what to do with them. They’re somewhat sentimental, I guess, and I didn’t want to throw them out. As I finished my 3 minute edit, even as I was typing this, each UFO began to fall one by one. I tried to think of a meaningful interpretation of this metaphor, each UFO falling to its grave, each UFO representing something grandiose like…cheap paper plates covered with foil. I wouldn’t even bother to turn around and watch it fall…I recognized that plastic/aluminum/Styrofoam sound crashing onto the floor from the last movie I overloaded with pathetic symbolism.
A couple days ago I went into a pharmacy to buy some toothpaste. I eyed all the confusing brands, each proclaiming to stop gingivitis, picked the cheapest one, and took it ot the counter while the cashier was waiting, watching. He looked at my product, smiled, and said, “tres bien.”
Is this a cultural thing? Was my toothpaste pick really very good? I’m under the impression that salesmen only say “very good” when one chooses to purchase something like a fine cigar, a fancy car, or the best hooker in the lot. But toothpaste? When I got home I opened it up to see why it deserved my pharmacist’s approval. Maybe he knows something about this toothpaste that nobody else knows. Maybe it will help reverse the decay of my constant cigarette and coffee consumption. Maybe it’ll give me wings or help me get laid. Whatever it is, I am determined to find out. And next month, when I run out of toothpaste, I’ll opt for a different brand and see what the pharmacist says. If he eyes it suspiciously, shakes his head and says gravely, “Il y a une problem,” then I’ll know the brand I bought is the real deal. But if he says “tres bien” again, I’m afraid I cannot trust the opinions of pharmacists, salesmen, and the French.
15 Decembre 2008
Lundi
It’s not a matter of procrastination. I try and try, and find I do something wrong, or something isn’t the way it’s supposed to be.
If I don’t get my carte de sejour within 2 days, I don’t think I can go home for Christmas. And frankly, the way my life has been the past month (woe is me), I really, really want to go home.
When one says, “I’m sorry I don’t understand. I can’t speak French well,” the logical, humane response would be to speak slower, use more common words, and try and help the person who really needs this fucking piece of paper that’ll allow him to stay in an ass-backward bureaucratic mess of a country. The improper response, which I received, was “Yes, I can tell,” then she walked away.
And I know it’s not just me. I know I have bad luck with everything. One horrible wall lead to another horrible wall, and I can always attribute that to miscommunication and slow paperwork. But when I sit in a depressing room for 3 hours watching countless people leaving empty handed, cursing under their breath, actual FRENCH people too…it pisses me off.
I’ve come to the conclusion that French people in the workplace are just plain assholes. It’s usually the “I’m not paid to do that” mentality. I’ve received help from some odd men out in this country, but they were, in fact, paid to help give information.
I thought about a passage from the latest David Sedaris novel, where he says “Everyone just needs a good cry now and then.” No. That’s bullshit. Crying doesn’t get anything done. I think I’d rather punch a bureaucratic drone in their smug face. And if they’re sitting too far across their little table, well then, I guess I'll just have to cry.
28 December, 2008
30 November, 2008
doctor nick
11 Novembre 2008
Mardi
I just wrote a short essay in French. I read it out loud to myself to practice French pronunciation and realized if I spoke French as well as I could write it, I would quickly become an asshole or a smartass.
I was supposed to pick a topic to write about…anything I wanted. I could write about cinema, I could write about Paris, I could write about being homesick, I could write about French bureaucracy, music, anything at all. Instead, I wrote about my experience in a Laundromat. It read exactly how I would write it here in my own personal blog…full of smartass quips and observations that I usually like to keep to my friends or myself. Definitely not my teachers, if I can help it. I’d rewrite the whole thing, but since I made myself laugh writing it, I’ll just turn it in anyway.
I went to IKEA today with some friends and purchased a charming alarm clock to be used in my movie. When I unwrapped it inside my house and wound it, the alarm went off and I think I must have peed my pants. It was loud and obnoxious, the kind of bell real old alarms used to make only to be replaced by the generic NOKIA ringtone. It’s incessant ticking started to drive me insane, so I stuffed it into a closet in the hallway. As I ate dinner, it rang and rang and rang. I tried to disable it, turning screws and winding things every which way, and hid it in the back of my closet behind paper towels and laundry detergent, and ordered it to never ring again. It meekly ticked back, cowering over my dominance.
10 minutes later it went off again, its ring permeating through all the shit I put in front of it. It didn’t muffle the sound at all, and somehow managed to amplify the sound waves. At this point I would just break the damn thing, but I need it for my movie. I cut some cardboard from its packaging and wrapped it around the little hammer that rings the bells. I do not tolerate insubordination, I told it as it cowered back into the closet like a shamed tranny.
15 Novembre 2008
I had written a very long and arduous entry and went back and deleted it. It was too angsty. In short, my student status is threatened because of the lack of communication between my bank and EICAR, about my loan not being allowed, and my family and I having to come up with 6100 euros by December 1st or else I’m getting the boot from EICAR.
Today I waited at a phone boutique for 2 hours. I didn’t really complain nor can I complain…there were lots of people. But when I was finally helped, a whole slew of French customers stared voicing their complaints incredibly loudly, even after crowds have died down.
As much as I love them and their country, I just don’t understand the French. They’re quick to complain and voice their outrage, but when the tables are turned they do the same thing to customers. Many people were yelling what a terrible service this or that is, they wanted to talk to managers, etc. etc. Come on now. I get that kind of service everywhere. It’s fine to complain when the situation calls for it, I understand that. Why is it then that nobody ever learns? Nobody ever thinks, “Man, service sucks. Paperwork sucks. From now on, when I’m behind the desk, when I’m working, I’m going to avoid this situation and make sure the service I work for isn’t bad.”
No. They work just as slowly, impatiently, and poorly. For the first time ever, I can say America totally trumps France in this department. Shit got done. Customer service was mostly great. Paperwork was way easier. Nobody ever wants to do more than they have to do to make things easier here. End rant.
In other news, I think its great that at most metro stations, they have condom dispensers, and I guess condoms are called “Point Caps.” There’s a smiley face on the machine, which I guess is the usual face one makes when buying condoms at a metro. There’s a delightful prevention of AIDS message on it. Next time I fuck on a metro, I’ll be ready.
21 Novembre 2008
Vendredi
It’s the eve of my first shoot in Paris. I just went through a couple difficult camera/lighting setups with my DP and a friend for 3 hours. It’s the calm before the storm, and all I can think about is, should I eat pizza before I go to bed? And also, why can’t I press the “G” button well on my laptop?
After testing some shots, I’m quite excited about how this film will look. It ain’t got no 35mm adapter sadly, so I feel like I’m moving a step down, but what can you do. While looking for posters/set design stuff, I came across a huge Metropolis poster that I had to have. It’s beautiful, and all it is is a close up of robot Maria. Not exactly the same as my alien/spaceship theme of the movie, but what can you do.
After watching a couple movies in English with French subtitles, I’m under the impression that the French language, however beautiful it sounds, doesn’t seem to be as vast as English. Maybe I just think I’m better than the impeccable French who just slap on a scarf and a jacket and look great, cultured, sophisticated. An American slaps on some sweats and goes to Burger King.
22 Novembre 2008
Samedi
Panic. Pure panic.
Though the shoot today went relatively smoothly, upon playback and capturing, the tape appeared to skip and have odd mosaics. This has never happened before on my trusty DVX. My first thought was “I’m fucked and I may have to reshoot half of the film.” My second thought “I’m never letting anyone borrow my camera when I’m not there again.” My third thought was “Goddammit I need the fucking internet so I can run diagnostics and I need an electronics store to be open, but everything’s closed on Sundays in fucking France.” My fourth thought was “I’m shooting important scenes in the rain, thunder and snow tomorrow. That can’t be good for my camera.”
So I put on my Sherlock Holmes hat and my doctor’s uniform to figure the mystery out. I did what research I could with the manual and help files I already downloaded in the states. Things may not be hopeless. Camera Doctor Nick thinks it’s just the case of dirty heads, which is a result of using tapes the camera isn’t used to, and prolonged use in more extreme weather situations. And considering that we shot things today in somewhat cold weather, and I don’t even know what my friends did with my camera, I figured that’s the culprit. If it is, hopefully I can find a cleaning tape here. My life keeps getting more and more pathetic. I mean the minute I came home today and turned out the light, the light fuse broke. Is there anything that can go right with my life in this country?
Mardi
I just wrote a short essay in French. I read it out loud to myself to practice French pronunciation and realized if I spoke French as well as I could write it, I would quickly become an asshole or a smartass.
I was supposed to pick a topic to write about…anything I wanted. I could write about cinema, I could write about Paris, I could write about being homesick, I could write about French bureaucracy, music, anything at all. Instead, I wrote about my experience in a Laundromat. It read exactly how I would write it here in my own personal blog…full of smartass quips and observations that I usually like to keep to my friends or myself. Definitely not my teachers, if I can help it. I’d rewrite the whole thing, but since I made myself laugh writing it, I’ll just turn it in anyway.
I went to IKEA today with some friends and purchased a charming alarm clock to be used in my movie. When I unwrapped it inside my house and wound it, the alarm went off and I think I must have peed my pants. It was loud and obnoxious, the kind of bell real old alarms used to make only to be replaced by the generic NOKIA ringtone. It’s incessant ticking started to drive me insane, so I stuffed it into a closet in the hallway. As I ate dinner, it rang and rang and rang. I tried to disable it, turning screws and winding things every which way, and hid it in the back of my closet behind paper towels and laundry detergent, and ordered it to never ring again. It meekly ticked back, cowering over my dominance.
10 minutes later it went off again, its ring permeating through all the shit I put in front of it. It didn’t muffle the sound at all, and somehow managed to amplify the sound waves. At this point I would just break the damn thing, but I need it for my movie. I cut some cardboard from its packaging and wrapped it around the little hammer that rings the bells. I do not tolerate insubordination, I told it as it cowered back into the closet like a shamed tranny.
15 Novembre 2008
I had written a very long and arduous entry and went back and deleted it. It was too angsty. In short, my student status is threatened because of the lack of communication between my bank and EICAR, about my loan not being allowed, and my family and I having to come up with 6100 euros by December 1st or else I’m getting the boot from EICAR.
Today I waited at a phone boutique for 2 hours. I didn’t really complain nor can I complain…there were lots of people. But when I was finally helped, a whole slew of French customers stared voicing their complaints incredibly loudly, even after crowds have died down.
As much as I love them and their country, I just don’t understand the French. They’re quick to complain and voice their outrage, but when the tables are turned they do the same thing to customers. Many people were yelling what a terrible service this or that is, they wanted to talk to managers, etc. etc. Come on now. I get that kind of service everywhere. It’s fine to complain when the situation calls for it, I understand that. Why is it then that nobody ever learns? Nobody ever thinks, “Man, service sucks. Paperwork sucks. From now on, when I’m behind the desk, when I’m working, I’m going to avoid this situation and make sure the service I work for isn’t bad.”
No. They work just as slowly, impatiently, and poorly. For the first time ever, I can say America totally trumps France in this department. Shit got done. Customer service was mostly great. Paperwork was way easier. Nobody ever wants to do more than they have to do to make things easier here. End rant.
In other news, I think its great that at most metro stations, they have condom dispensers, and I guess condoms are called “Point Caps.” There’s a smiley face on the machine, which I guess is the usual face one makes when buying condoms at a metro. There’s a delightful prevention of AIDS message on it. Next time I fuck on a metro, I’ll be ready.
21 Novembre 2008
Vendredi
It’s the eve of my first shoot in Paris. I just went through a couple difficult camera/lighting setups with my DP and a friend for 3 hours. It’s the calm before the storm, and all I can think about is, should I eat pizza before I go to bed? And also, why can’t I press the “G” button well on my laptop?
After testing some shots, I’m quite excited about how this film will look. It ain’t got no 35mm adapter sadly, so I feel like I’m moving a step down, but what can you do. While looking for posters/set design stuff, I came across a huge Metropolis poster that I had to have. It’s beautiful, and all it is is a close up of robot Maria. Not exactly the same as my alien/spaceship theme of the movie, but what can you do.
After watching a couple movies in English with French subtitles, I’m under the impression that the French language, however beautiful it sounds, doesn’t seem to be as vast as English. Maybe I just think I’m better than the impeccable French who just slap on a scarf and a jacket and look great, cultured, sophisticated. An American slaps on some sweats and goes to Burger King.
22 Novembre 2008
Samedi
Panic. Pure panic.
Though the shoot today went relatively smoothly, upon playback and capturing, the tape appeared to skip and have odd mosaics. This has never happened before on my trusty DVX. My first thought was “I’m fucked and I may have to reshoot half of the film.” My second thought “I’m never letting anyone borrow my camera when I’m not there again.” My third thought was “Goddammit I need the fucking internet so I can run diagnostics and I need an electronics store to be open, but everything’s closed on Sundays in fucking France.” My fourth thought was “I’m shooting important scenes in the rain, thunder and snow tomorrow. That can’t be good for my camera.”
So I put on my Sherlock Holmes hat and my doctor’s uniform to figure the mystery out. I did what research I could with the manual and help files I already downloaded in the states. Things may not be hopeless. Camera Doctor Nick thinks it’s just the case of dirty heads, which is a result of using tapes the camera isn’t used to, and prolonged use in more extreme weather situations. And considering that we shot things today in somewhat cold weather, and I don’t even know what my friends did with my camera, I figured that’s the culprit. If it is, hopefully I can find a cleaning tape here. My life keeps getting more and more pathetic. I mean the minute I came home today and turned out the light, the light fuse broke. Is there anything that can go right with my life in this country?
22 November, 2008
always backlogged.
4 Novembre
Lundi
I’m Nick Refuerzo and I approved this message.
It kind of saddens me that nobody here cares to elaborate or really talk about the American election, and rightly so. They just shrug it off as a political circus, which it is. But I like circuses. They’re fun. It’s the only thing I really like about America right now…it’s a fucking intense time and I was obsessed with it before I came to Paris. I loved discussing it with anyone that had an opinion, and now here people either shrug it off or just support Obama by default. I would enjoy bringing up precedents, facts, lies, anything during these discussions in America. But now…nothing. It’s just a foreign affair, like how everything else in the world was while in America. I find people here have a more general knowledge of the ENTIRE world instead of stupidly in depth knowledge of the past 6 months of one country’s history. I started late, I guess.
The first thing I did when I got the internet illegally was watch youtube videos of campaign ads and read shit about the election. I briefly went on normal vice sites like facebook and myspace, but after a month without it I really stopped caring. They’re nice to check every now and then and say hello whats up look at this silly picture of me in front of the Eiffel Tower. But I’d rather watch the laughably ridiculous half hour infomercial Obama released that’s so soppingly sentimental it’s hilarious. Pathos pathos pathos. I’ll vehemently support Obama, but this is just hilarious. McCain ads are even worse.
I just love being immersed in this shit because it really tells so much about a candidate, about their staff, and about the people that watch them. What they believe in, what they think people believe in. It’s a very good teacher for manipulating the audience and buying into the Oprah-esque videos they need. To me it’s like a more expensive, more produced reality show, except instead of 7 beautiful 20 year olds it’s all of America. It’s addicting, and it’s such a better talk piece then the Real World sex cams or Survivor’s naked men eating monkey brains.
Everywhere I go I hear people concerned about Obama being assassinated, or if McCain wins, him dying from skin cancer. These are incredibly valid concerns, but I don’t think it should supercede the actual discussion of what either candidate would do if in office. I also don’t think people should automatically resort to apathy or pessimism that either candidate is bad, we’re settling for lesser evils, etc. etc. That may be true, but each candidate holds different values that I’m positive they will fight for. Congress will push them both to a more middle ground, bien sur, but I do believe inside these puppets lies tres different beliefs. I’m disappointed that both of them have been pushed away from their original beliefs (McCain more than Obama) but that’s just part of the circus.
I really want to be in America for this fiasco, but I think it’s an even more interesting being away and seeing a more world view of it. And now, instead of doing lots of homework due tomorrow, I’m giddily reading as much shit as I can on the election. I know it’s only 11:35 AM there, but fuck. I don’t admit it here, but I’m an American, and ever since I’ve been able to vote, I’ve been really into this shit. For God’s sake, I was even out there at my university trying to get people to register. I would have volunteered for Hilary’s campaign if I weren’t so poor and busy (then I would’ve switched to Obama by default).
I know I’m going to jump out of bed tomorrow morning and check the internet for the winner. I can’t wait. I really can’t. But in all honestly, I know I’ll just press snooze and get up 30 minutes later.
6 Novembre 2008
Mercredi
Around 4PM today, I suddenly got incredibly fatigued and just needed to sit down. Earlier in the day I had taken Tylenol as an attempt to curb cold symptoms, but I guess it had worn off.
Against all odds, I recklessly braved going out to a book reading by David Sedaris, one of my favorite authors. I had come 30 minutes early, praising myself for my punctuality. But as I approached the Anglophone bookstore, I could see a line of people outside the shop, with the tiny place completely packed. Luckily, some elderly people didn’t have it in them and left, and so I was able to find a nice spot inside with a good view of the TV that had David Sedaris. He was upstairs, but since the Village Voice is so tiny they had to set up a TV and a speaker system.
As I made my way inside the store, I saw little signs on the doorways that read “Congratulations OBAMA.” People still had Obama ’08 pins on. I stood in a bookstore with both French, English, and American Sedaris and Obama fans. When Sedaris wasn’t talking, people were still buzzing about Obama’s win, having real discussions about the election that I’ve sadly missed so incredibly much. They quoted politicians and newscasters and the silliness of it all. Most people around me had enough knowledge of the election, enough of a sense of humor, and enough distance to really enjoy it all.
It was like another world separate from Paris and France. I honestly felt like I was back in America, which may be a good thing or a bad thing. Either way, it was incredibly nostalgic and it really made my week.
After some hilarious anecdotes and a few readings Sedaris had time to sign books. While waiting in line and scoping out beautiful faux intellectual Frenchies that also spoke English, I chatted with a woman who looked to be about 50. She talked to me about her life and her family, how she used to be a model and then an actress, then a model again. What struck me was that there was just so much sadness behind her words. Here I was, soaking in everyone’s post-Obama giddiness and in high spirits from Sedaris, waiting in line to meet him, when this woman is sharing information about her life that nearly makes me want to leave Paris and just sit in a hole and cry. She’s obviously led an incredible life, but she had to sacrifice her job and her dreams for a husband who got in an accident and a son who’s schizophrenic. She told me how he can’t read English, and that Sedaris is the only English author that he can and attempts to read…she was there to get a book signed by him to give to her son. It was ridiculously sad and touching, and I didn’t know how to her other than generic “Oh he’s going to love this gift!” or “That’s really interesting.” All the while, me being the asshole I am, I kept looking at one guy behind her and the fellow in front of me, thinking of clever ways to flirt with either one of them. “Hey beautiful, do you want to get Naked, When You Are Engulfed in Flames? We’ll Dress Our Family in Corduray and Denim and Talk Pretty One Day, just you and me.”
Why I did it, I don’t know. But I brought up the topic of regret to this random American-French old woman. Why the fuck would anyone do that? I told her I didn’t believe in regret, that everything we experience is necessary to educate ourselves, and we wouldn’t be the same person if we went back and changed it. We wouldn’t know what we did wrong had we did things differently. Why would some snot nosed 23 year old tell an old woman this? She corrected me, saying “Well you’re young and you have a whole life ahead of you. I’m old, and I have very few regrets but regrets nonetheless.” I would peer over at the cute boy behind her looking at me, his face reading, “Don’t do this to her, for the love of God, just talk to her about puppies and unicorns or something.”
The line eventually became a blob that crowded around Sedaris. When I had reached the front and he was entertaining the people around him, I seemingly forgot that I idolized him because I felt so bad for this woman next to me. So when Sedaris would throw in silly anecdotes, I forgot that he’s the funny guy, and not me. I threw in my normal quips and jokes that made everyone laugh but David Sedaris. I thought, “I just made people laugh. I’m charming. But David Sedaris didn’t laugh. Maybe I should repeat myself, maybe he didn’t hear me.” This happened several times.
Eventually it was my turn. He had made earlier remarks about book readings in the Philippines and how he didn’t understand why Filipinos liked him there, since he thought there was no middle class, and there’s no way they could relate to his anecdotes. “I’m one of the Filipinos that really like you,” I told him. He asked if I was a balikbayan, which confused the hell out of me. I had always heard that word associated with boxes and inanimate objects to be sent to and from the Philippines, and the word holds no direct translation in my brain. So there I was, standing their awkwardly, as David Sedaris explained to me my own supposed language. He then had a lovely segue into Filipino chain stores, and then let me know of a great restaurant where Filipino midgets serve you.
I left feeling bittersweet. His books have really helped me through the most stressful times in my life (his books and cigarettes, really), and I had just met him and had a few laughs. However, I had also met a woman that gave me enough information about her life, ambition, growing old and losing it all that scared the shit out of me. I’d rather live simply with one emotion at a time. Happy, sad, angry, etc. But not this. I don’t want to be happy while despondent, thoughtful yet giddy. What the shit is that? And don’t give me that human complexity bullshit.
8 Novembre 2008
Samedi
I ran out of clean underwear and socks today, so I went to H&M to buy more to put off doing laundry.
This proved to be an unwise decision. I dressed really warm since I’m sick. To me it was freezing outside, but once I got in it was steaming with swarming Parisians and too many teenagers trying on fuzzy hats. I constantly am switching from freezing to melting, so I think that’s why I got this cold.
I saw several things I wanted at H&M: Peacoats, scarves, gloves, hats, cash registers full of money, and several hottays. I’m actually looking for a nice black peacoat, but I’m outraged at the prices and sizes. I came to Europe expecting sizes to be slim and small. Sure, there’s still no comparison to America’s ample selection of XXXL, but I angrily pushed things aside looking for smalls and extra smalls. I saw plenty of skinny faggots in form fitting clothes today, and I feel like they’ll take their shopping secrets to the grave. I wanted to push them against tacky H&M racks and demand, “Where did you get that coat? WHO DO YOU WORK FOR?” My past 3 years of attempting to gain weight so I could fit into clothes were all for naught…France has driven my gym habits away, my protein intake is down, I don’t eat nearly as much as I should because I’m poor, and my frustration with things has me smoking more.
I’ve lost my battle with weight.
9 Novembre 2008
Dimanche
A stranger approached me today and asked for directions. Like a fucking champ, I gave her precise directions in French. I felt invincible, and I almost wanted to run ahead and hide in a corner as her and her friend found their destination successfully, and witness the triumph of my feat. Then I would approach them and say, “Yes, I spoke to you in French, and I gave you directions in a town that I just moved to. Am I not awesome? Are you not amazed at my remarkable skill of direction giving? Marvel at my victory over the French language, over my victory over Paris, as you enter this store in complete confidence of where you were going.”
Lundi
I’m Nick Refuerzo and I approved this message.
It kind of saddens me that nobody here cares to elaborate or really talk about the American election, and rightly so. They just shrug it off as a political circus, which it is. But I like circuses. They’re fun. It’s the only thing I really like about America right now…it’s a fucking intense time and I was obsessed with it before I came to Paris. I loved discussing it with anyone that had an opinion, and now here people either shrug it off or just support Obama by default. I would enjoy bringing up precedents, facts, lies, anything during these discussions in America. But now…nothing. It’s just a foreign affair, like how everything else in the world was while in America. I find people here have a more general knowledge of the ENTIRE world instead of stupidly in depth knowledge of the past 6 months of one country’s history. I started late, I guess.
The first thing I did when I got the internet illegally was watch youtube videos of campaign ads and read shit about the election. I briefly went on normal vice sites like facebook and myspace, but after a month without it I really stopped caring. They’re nice to check every now and then and say hello whats up look at this silly picture of me in front of the Eiffel Tower. But I’d rather watch the laughably ridiculous half hour infomercial Obama released that’s so soppingly sentimental it’s hilarious. Pathos pathos pathos. I’ll vehemently support Obama, but this is just hilarious. McCain ads are even worse.
I just love being immersed in this shit because it really tells so much about a candidate, about their staff, and about the people that watch them. What they believe in, what they think people believe in. It’s a very good teacher for manipulating the audience and buying into the Oprah-esque videos they need. To me it’s like a more expensive, more produced reality show, except instead of 7 beautiful 20 year olds it’s all of America. It’s addicting, and it’s such a better talk piece then the Real World sex cams or Survivor’s naked men eating monkey brains.
Everywhere I go I hear people concerned about Obama being assassinated, or if McCain wins, him dying from skin cancer. These are incredibly valid concerns, but I don’t think it should supercede the actual discussion of what either candidate would do if in office. I also don’t think people should automatically resort to apathy or pessimism that either candidate is bad, we’re settling for lesser evils, etc. etc. That may be true, but each candidate holds different values that I’m positive they will fight for. Congress will push them both to a more middle ground, bien sur, but I do believe inside these puppets lies tres different beliefs. I’m disappointed that both of them have been pushed away from their original beliefs (McCain more than Obama) but that’s just part of the circus.
I really want to be in America for this fiasco, but I think it’s an even more interesting being away and seeing a more world view of it. And now, instead of doing lots of homework due tomorrow, I’m giddily reading as much shit as I can on the election. I know it’s only 11:35 AM there, but fuck. I don’t admit it here, but I’m an American, and ever since I’ve been able to vote, I’ve been really into this shit. For God’s sake, I was even out there at my university trying to get people to register. I would have volunteered for Hilary’s campaign if I weren’t so poor and busy (then I would’ve switched to Obama by default).
I know I’m going to jump out of bed tomorrow morning and check the internet for the winner. I can’t wait. I really can’t. But in all honestly, I know I’ll just press snooze and get up 30 minutes later.
6 Novembre 2008
Mercredi
Around 4PM today, I suddenly got incredibly fatigued and just needed to sit down. Earlier in the day I had taken Tylenol as an attempt to curb cold symptoms, but I guess it had worn off.
Against all odds, I recklessly braved going out to a book reading by David Sedaris, one of my favorite authors. I had come 30 minutes early, praising myself for my punctuality. But as I approached the Anglophone bookstore, I could see a line of people outside the shop, with the tiny place completely packed. Luckily, some elderly people didn’t have it in them and left, and so I was able to find a nice spot inside with a good view of the TV that had David Sedaris. He was upstairs, but since the Village Voice is so tiny they had to set up a TV and a speaker system.
As I made my way inside the store, I saw little signs on the doorways that read “Congratulations OBAMA.” People still had Obama ’08 pins on. I stood in a bookstore with both French, English, and American Sedaris and Obama fans. When Sedaris wasn’t talking, people were still buzzing about Obama’s win, having real discussions about the election that I’ve sadly missed so incredibly much. They quoted politicians and newscasters and the silliness of it all. Most people around me had enough knowledge of the election, enough of a sense of humor, and enough distance to really enjoy it all.
It was like another world separate from Paris and France. I honestly felt like I was back in America, which may be a good thing or a bad thing. Either way, it was incredibly nostalgic and it really made my week.
After some hilarious anecdotes and a few readings Sedaris had time to sign books. While waiting in line and scoping out beautiful faux intellectual Frenchies that also spoke English, I chatted with a woman who looked to be about 50. She talked to me about her life and her family, how she used to be a model and then an actress, then a model again. What struck me was that there was just so much sadness behind her words. Here I was, soaking in everyone’s post-Obama giddiness and in high spirits from Sedaris, waiting in line to meet him, when this woman is sharing information about her life that nearly makes me want to leave Paris and just sit in a hole and cry. She’s obviously led an incredible life, but she had to sacrifice her job and her dreams for a husband who got in an accident and a son who’s schizophrenic. She told me how he can’t read English, and that Sedaris is the only English author that he can and attempts to read…she was there to get a book signed by him to give to her son. It was ridiculously sad and touching, and I didn’t know how to her other than generic “Oh he’s going to love this gift!” or “That’s really interesting.” All the while, me being the asshole I am, I kept looking at one guy behind her and the fellow in front of me, thinking of clever ways to flirt with either one of them. “Hey beautiful, do you want to get Naked, When You Are Engulfed in Flames? We’ll Dress Our Family in Corduray and Denim and Talk Pretty One Day, just you and me.”
Why I did it, I don’t know. But I brought up the topic of regret to this random American-French old woman. Why the fuck would anyone do that? I told her I didn’t believe in regret, that everything we experience is necessary to educate ourselves, and we wouldn’t be the same person if we went back and changed it. We wouldn’t know what we did wrong had we did things differently. Why would some snot nosed 23 year old tell an old woman this? She corrected me, saying “Well you’re young and you have a whole life ahead of you. I’m old, and I have very few regrets but regrets nonetheless.” I would peer over at the cute boy behind her looking at me, his face reading, “Don’t do this to her, for the love of God, just talk to her about puppies and unicorns or something.”
The line eventually became a blob that crowded around Sedaris. When I had reached the front and he was entertaining the people around him, I seemingly forgot that I idolized him because I felt so bad for this woman next to me. So when Sedaris would throw in silly anecdotes, I forgot that he’s the funny guy, and not me. I threw in my normal quips and jokes that made everyone laugh but David Sedaris. I thought, “I just made people laugh. I’m charming. But David Sedaris didn’t laugh. Maybe I should repeat myself, maybe he didn’t hear me.” This happened several times.
Eventually it was my turn. He had made earlier remarks about book readings in the Philippines and how he didn’t understand why Filipinos liked him there, since he thought there was no middle class, and there’s no way they could relate to his anecdotes. “I’m one of the Filipinos that really like you,” I told him. He asked if I was a balikbayan, which confused the hell out of me. I had always heard that word associated with boxes and inanimate objects to be sent to and from the Philippines, and the word holds no direct translation in my brain. So there I was, standing their awkwardly, as David Sedaris explained to me my own supposed language. He then had a lovely segue into Filipino chain stores, and then let me know of a great restaurant where Filipino midgets serve you.
I left feeling bittersweet. His books have really helped me through the most stressful times in my life (his books and cigarettes, really), and I had just met him and had a few laughs. However, I had also met a woman that gave me enough information about her life, ambition, growing old and losing it all that scared the shit out of me. I’d rather live simply with one emotion at a time. Happy, sad, angry, etc. But not this. I don’t want to be happy while despondent, thoughtful yet giddy. What the shit is that? And don’t give me that human complexity bullshit.
8 Novembre 2008
Samedi
I ran out of clean underwear and socks today, so I went to H&M to buy more to put off doing laundry.
This proved to be an unwise decision. I dressed really warm since I’m sick. To me it was freezing outside, but once I got in it was steaming with swarming Parisians and too many teenagers trying on fuzzy hats. I constantly am switching from freezing to melting, so I think that’s why I got this cold.
I saw several things I wanted at H&M: Peacoats, scarves, gloves, hats, cash registers full of money, and several hottays. I’m actually looking for a nice black peacoat, but I’m outraged at the prices and sizes. I came to Europe expecting sizes to be slim and small. Sure, there’s still no comparison to America’s ample selection of XXXL, but I angrily pushed things aside looking for smalls and extra smalls. I saw plenty of skinny faggots in form fitting clothes today, and I feel like they’ll take their shopping secrets to the grave. I wanted to push them against tacky H&M racks and demand, “Where did you get that coat? WHO DO YOU WORK FOR?” My past 3 years of attempting to gain weight so I could fit into clothes were all for naught…France has driven my gym habits away, my protein intake is down, I don’t eat nearly as much as I should because I’m poor, and my frustration with things has me smoking more.
I’ve lost my battle with weight.
9 Novembre 2008
Dimanche
A stranger approached me today and asked for directions. Like a fucking champ, I gave her precise directions in French. I felt invincible, and I almost wanted to run ahead and hide in a corner as her and her friend found their destination successfully, and witness the triumph of my feat. Then I would approach them and say, “Yes, I spoke to you in French, and I gave you directions in a town that I just moved to. Am I not awesome? Are you not amazed at my remarkable skill of direction giving? Marvel at my victory over the French language, over my victory over Paris, as you enter this store in complete confidence of where you were going.”
12 November, 2008
My chicken is burning
1 Novembre 2008
Samedi
Last night on All Hallows Eve, I walked by the venue near my house and saw that I’m From Barcelona was playing. Since I’ve only heard one of their songs before, I decided to pass. A shady man approached me to scalp some tickets which I considered, but instead I decided to make spaghetti. Later on when I walked by the venue the doors were open and I saw 50+ people all smiling and screaming with beach balls bouncing as I stood in the rain outside watching people have fun. For a second I was jealous, but my full tummy quickly snapped me out of jealousy. That was some good spaghetti, I thought.
For some reason today, I watched a lot of the short videos I’ve done in the past. It was really neat seeing how I’ve progressed (or digressed?). I of course ended the non-stop Nick Refuerzo comedy hour by watching Slow Through Eden. I think my amateur-ness is forgivable, but it may not be for others. Regardless, I truly truly truly cannot believe I did “finished” this documentary. It’s pretty fucking solid for what it is. If I can manage to tweak it and keep the pacing, I do think it is airable for television. It’s such an upbeat message about artists and the community. I had a difficult time leaving America because I was at the peak of my game with this documentary and the people I knew…amazingly technical filmmakers and brilliant actors/artists.
Which leads me to Paris. I’m starting all over and am sifting through the people around me like my friend Negin, looking for that spark of talent within masses of French and International filmmakers. This may be evil, but I really like to find what people’s strengths and weaknesses are since it’s so fucking varied here. It’s great. But for now, it’s nothing but silly short film exercises.
I’m already spending way too much time on the theory aspect of my short film here, which is NEVER noticed in student films. I should be honing my craft in the simplicity in short story telling instead of delving into the psychology behind shot distance, negative space and visual metaphors. That’s what I get for getting a BA in Film Studies and not Film Production.
2 Novembre 2008
Dimanche
So last night some friends gave me the username and password for some WiFi hotspots around Paris, which conveniently covers my apartment. This may or may not be that good for me since I spent all morning watching youtube videos. It’s really, really strange being able to connect to the world from my little hole…I’m so used to being alone in my little studio. I’ve completely adapted to the internet café and the short 15-30 minute spurts I spend all the time sitting next to tourists looking for maps and locals looking for porn.
What’s really a testament to my absolutely amazing sense of adaptability is the French keyboard. I now misspell everything on my Mac because I’ve quickly adapted to the French keyboard thanks to Internet cafes. If this is a sign of Darwinism, then I believe I’ll be able to speak the French language within 1 month and learn to fly once I start sleeping with pigeons.
I decided I need to look for a better antacid, at least something equivalent to Pepcid AC back in America. Whatever I bought tastes like a mint and rarely counteracts alcohol the way I’m used to. Even the tiniest glass of wine attacks my body and sends me into a sleepy itchy mess. Leaving a party at 10:30 PM to shower and fall asleep is just plain tacky and rude.
For fun I decided to look up some information on antacids, blood alcoholic levels and what not. It took me by surprise because I’m underweight. Apparently after 3 drinks I’m legally drunk. 3 drinks?! Check out this fun factoid:
“Some people of Asian descent have more difficulty metabolizing alcohol. They may experience facial flushing, nausea, headache, dizziness and rapid heartbeat. It appears that one of the liver enzymes that is needed to process alcohol is not active in these individuals. It is estimated that up to 50% of Asians are susceptible to these reactions to alcohol.”
Additionally, my mom always warned me with this fun bit of information:
“You’re allergic to alcohol. It runs in my family.”
Well that’s no fun. Good thing I don’t listen to the Internet or my mom.
3 Novembre
Lundi
The knob on my stove fell off and so it’s stuck on HIGH.
I stood there, staring at my burning chicken, and calmly assessed the situation.
1) My chicken is burning. 2) It will continue to burn because I cannot turn the heat down. 3) I don’t have a wrench to twist the inside panel back to OFF. 4) My landlords are on the 6th floor, I’m on the 1st, and probably by the time I reach them and explain the situation in French, the building would be forced to evacuate. As it continued to burn, I stood there thinking of how to translate “The knob off the stove fell off and it’s stuck on high. Do you have a wrench I can borrow?” Then my mind started to wander and seek the translation for, “I’m sorry I burned your building down. Do I still have to pay for November’s rent?”
So after careful deliberation, I put the chicken on my plate, slightly burnt. With the stove unexposed and incredibly hot, I frantically searched the apartment for a makeshift wrench. Twisting the exposed knob proved unsuccessful because, for some reason, that was scalding as well. Scissors didn’t work and ended up doing more damage. I wadded two papertowels together and twisted as best as I could, to no avail, though it did clean the grease in the surrounding area. I tried pleading with the stove to turn off, but it heard not my prayers.
Finally, I rolled up my sleeves and decided to be a man. I threw the papertowels in disgust, held on to the burning knob, and twisted like I’ve never twisted before. I imagined a crowd covering their eyes, wincing in pain as they watched me struggle. “You can do it, Nick!” they cheered. “Just endure 10 more seconds of level 6 heat!” “We believe in you!” And so on.
Success! I turned it down from a level 6 heat to a level 5 heat! After several more painful attempts, the stove was off. I wanted to celebrate with a cigarette lit from the stove, but decided against it.
I scrutinized the knob that fell off and found the culprit: a loose screw. After fixing that with a pencil, I shoved it back onto the stove. Because of the brilliance behind its architecture, a small aluminum wall about 1 cm high prevents me from properly screwing the knob to its correct dial. So I have to remember a simple formula when cooking:
4 = off, 5 = low, 6 = low medium, 0 = warm, and so on. It’s like a code I constantly have to decode if I ever want to cook. I took this as a sign from the Top Ramen gods for cooking rice and chicken. “How DARE he eats something other than Top Ramen. We shall smite him.”
The meal ended up delicious still, and my apartment isn’t on fire. If everyday ends this victoriously, Paris should be pretty successful.
Samedi
Last night on All Hallows Eve, I walked by the venue near my house and saw that I’m From Barcelona was playing. Since I’ve only heard one of their songs before, I decided to pass. A shady man approached me to scalp some tickets which I considered, but instead I decided to make spaghetti. Later on when I walked by the venue the doors were open and I saw 50+ people all smiling and screaming with beach balls bouncing as I stood in the rain outside watching people have fun. For a second I was jealous, but my full tummy quickly snapped me out of jealousy. That was some good spaghetti, I thought.
For some reason today, I watched a lot of the short videos I’ve done in the past. It was really neat seeing how I’ve progressed (or digressed?). I of course ended the non-stop Nick Refuerzo comedy hour by watching Slow Through Eden. I think my amateur-ness is forgivable, but it may not be for others. Regardless, I truly truly truly cannot believe I did “finished” this documentary. It’s pretty fucking solid for what it is. If I can manage to tweak it and keep the pacing, I do think it is airable for television. It’s such an upbeat message about artists and the community. I had a difficult time leaving America because I was at the peak of my game with this documentary and the people I knew…amazingly technical filmmakers and brilliant actors/artists.
Which leads me to Paris. I’m starting all over and am sifting through the people around me like my friend Negin, looking for that spark of talent within masses of French and International filmmakers. This may be evil, but I really like to find what people’s strengths and weaknesses are since it’s so fucking varied here. It’s great. But for now, it’s nothing but silly short film exercises.
I’m already spending way too much time on the theory aspect of my short film here, which is NEVER noticed in student films. I should be honing my craft in the simplicity in short story telling instead of delving into the psychology behind shot distance, negative space and visual metaphors. That’s what I get for getting a BA in Film Studies and not Film Production.
2 Novembre 2008
Dimanche
So last night some friends gave me the username and password for some WiFi hotspots around Paris, which conveniently covers my apartment. This may or may not be that good for me since I spent all morning watching youtube videos. It’s really, really strange being able to connect to the world from my little hole…I’m so used to being alone in my little studio. I’ve completely adapted to the internet café and the short 15-30 minute spurts I spend all the time sitting next to tourists looking for maps and locals looking for porn.
What’s really a testament to my absolutely amazing sense of adaptability is the French keyboard. I now misspell everything on my Mac because I’ve quickly adapted to the French keyboard thanks to Internet cafes. If this is a sign of Darwinism, then I believe I’ll be able to speak the French language within 1 month and learn to fly once I start sleeping with pigeons.
I decided I need to look for a better antacid, at least something equivalent to Pepcid AC back in America. Whatever I bought tastes like a mint and rarely counteracts alcohol the way I’m used to. Even the tiniest glass of wine attacks my body and sends me into a sleepy itchy mess. Leaving a party at 10:30 PM to shower and fall asleep is just plain tacky and rude.
For fun I decided to look up some information on antacids, blood alcoholic levels and what not. It took me by surprise because I’m underweight. Apparently after 3 drinks I’m legally drunk. 3 drinks?! Check out this fun factoid:
“Some people of Asian descent have more difficulty metabolizing alcohol. They may experience facial flushing, nausea, headache, dizziness and rapid heartbeat. It appears that one of the liver enzymes that is needed to process alcohol is not active in these individuals. It is estimated that up to 50% of Asians are susceptible to these reactions to alcohol.”
Additionally, my mom always warned me with this fun bit of information:
“You’re allergic to alcohol. It runs in my family.”
Well that’s no fun. Good thing I don’t listen to the Internet or my mom.
3 Novembre
Lundi
The knob on my stove fell off and so it’s stuck on HIGH.
I stood there, staring at my burning chicken, and calmly assessed the situation.
1) My chicken is burning. 2) It will continue to burn because I cannot turn the heat down. 3) I don’t have a wrench to twist the inside panel back to OFF. 4) My landlords are on the 6th floor, I’m on the 1st, and probably by the time I reach them and explain the situation in French, the building would be forced to evacuate. As it continued to burn, I stood there thinking of how to translate “The knob off the stove fell off and it’s stuck on high. Do you have a wrench I can borrow?” Then my mind started to wander and seek the translation for, “I’m sorry I burned your building down. Do I still have to pay for November’s rent?”
So after careful deliberation, I put the chicken on my plate, slightly burnt. With the stove unexposed and incredibly hot, I frantically searched the apartment for a makeshift wrench. Twisting the exposed knob proved unsuccessful because, for some reason, that was scalding as well. Scissors didn’t work and ended up doing more damage. I wadded two papertowels together and twisted as best as I could, to no avail, though it did clean the grease in the surrounding area. I tried pleading with the stove to turn off, but it heard not my prayers.
Finally, I rolled up my sleeves and decided to be a man. I threw the papertowels in disgust, held on to the burning knob, and twisted like I’ve never twisted before. I imagined a crowd covering their eyes, wincing in pain as they watched me struggle. “You can do it, Nick!” they cheered. “Just endure 10 more seconds of level 6 heat!” “We believe in you!” And so on.
Success! I turned it down from a level 6 heat to a level 5 heat! After several more painful attempts, the stove was off. I wanted to celebrate with a cigarette lit from the stove, but decided against it.
I scrutinized the knob that fell off and found the culprit: a loose screw. After fixing that with a pencil, I shoved it back onto the stove. Because of the brilliance behind its architecture, a small aluminum wall about 1 cm high prevents me from properly screwing the knob to its correct dial. So I have to remember a simple formula when cooking:
4 = off, 5 = low, 6 = low medium, 0 = warm, and so on. It’s like a code I constantly have to decode if I ever want to cook. I took this as a sign from the Top Ramen gods for cooking rice and chicken. “How DARE he eats something other than Top Ramen. We shall smite him.”
The meal ended up delicious still, and my apartment isn’t on fire. If everyday ends this victoriously, Paris should be pretty successful.
08 November, 2008
history books forgot about us, the bible didn't mention us
29 Octobre 2008
Mercredi
I always get annoyed by how much food I eat, even though it’s not as much as I should eat. I have to buy cereal a new box of cereal every week, I eat about 28 eggs a week, more ramen then humanly possible.
My mom messaged me tonight saying the EURO-US dollar exchange is down at a record low. The euro is now down to .7 to the dollar. Oh. My. God. Ohmygod. I feel terrible that my parents and I are excited over a worldwide economic catastrophe. They’re putting in my rent money and other loan payments in the bank and I’m supposed to withdraw the money ASAP while it’s down. I’m going to buy as many things as I possibly can with my extra 50 euros this month. Yes!
30 Octobre 2008
Jeudi
No! My mom texted me and said she got the conversion rate wrong. It’s basically the same as it’s always been. Dammit! I was really hoping it changed because I really need to buy groceries, pay for rent, and renew my metro card. It’s so wonderful that my French bank is taking more than 2 weeks to give me a bank card or checks, making it 1) extremely difficult to withdraw money and 2) impossible to get a cell phone, a phone, the internet, and tv. Thank you, French bureaucracy.
Today I attended an EICAR class I don’t have, Directing and Acting. It’s a class for actors in the French department as well as Bachelors students and Fast Track students. I was filming a short documentary for a friend on the class, and I left amazed. I came to EICAR to learn how to not only make films, but to be a better director. And thus far, I’ve done little to no directing. Every class, regardless of small new things I learn here or there, are things that I’ve already learned with my bachelors degree, or things I’ve already learned on film sets. It’s nice for a refresher, but it’s also sluggish and frustrating.
Everything about it seemed appealing to me, especially when I heard the news that I could probably enroll in the class just as a director, not as an actor, since I just plain suck on acting. The best director in the world could not get me to perform well. No, not even George Lucas himself could make me act well.
While waiting for the metro I saw the cutest, smallest little mouse on the metro tracks. It was scurrying around acting afool. I could hear the metro coming in the distance, and with morbid curiosity I leaned in closer to watch. Something that small and cute should not die a gruesome death. I imagined most metro accidents occur for this reason. An animal lover would see a small mouse and fear for it, and so he’d jump down and try and save little Speedy Gonzales or Mickey Mouse or whatever cartoon characters embody mice, like that mouse that traveled west. Or the Great Mouse Detective. It goes on and on. But in any case, I thought about jumping down to save this mouse which probably has a normal life expectancy of 3 years. Should I die, I would save the life of a mouse that would have no impact on the world whatsoever. If I died, I would piss off Parisians and make them wait for 15 minutes as they cleared my carcass.
I thought about all the times the French bureaucracy has pissed me off, how my well being and livelihood is cut short because someone doesn’t want to sign a paper or a company takes forever to mail important documents like bank cards or loan confirmations. I could get my revenge and piss off hundreds of Parisians at once with my rescue effort, make THEM wait because the metro would stop. They’d read their little newspapers that read, “L’homme fou est mort parce qu’il aime une souris. Et il déteste les Parisiennes.” What would follow would be my heartbreaking tale of my struggles in Paris, and tout le monde would weep for me. French bureaucracy would be banned, and students would get their carte de sejour when they asked for one, they would ACTUALLY get bank cards within 7-10 business days, and the euro would decrease in value making my tuition 10 bucks instead of $25,410. They’d build a monument for me in the 11th arrondisement, homophobia would disappear, Obama would be elected, and we would discover a new renewable, environmentally safe source of energy.
Of course, I was just too tired to fall to my death since it was a 13 hour day for me. And, of course, I had top ramen to eat and Simpsons to watch.
31 Octobre 2008
Vendredi
Ma vie est tres deficile parce que Paris est trop cher.
I went to my bank to ask why I haven’t received my bank card or checks yet. I need these to get my phone. The bank neglected to tell me that in order to receive these things, I had to have a minimum of 650 euros in my bank account. Isn’t that the kind of important information you’re supposed to tell a customer, especially one that doesn’t speak French well?
What’s really bugging me is that I put in 200 euros into this bank account, and last week I had to withdraw 100 to survive since I had nothing. When the bank guy checked my account, he said I only had 27 euros. Oh my jesus. I know my arithmetic skills are bad, but where the fuck are the other 73 euros? Where the hell am I going to get the other 650 euros just so I can receive a fucking ATM card? I’ll be getting 1000 euros soon for rent and living expenses, but apparently I need another 650, on top of a 750 euro deposit for my apartment. And when I do manage to get the loan to pay for tuition, I have to start paying that shit back ASAP. This ain’t no student loan; I have ot pay 443 euros every month.
So far, in my 23 years of existence, the only thing that has ever truly got me depressed is money. But it’s never been that bad. Heartbreak, sure I get sad and mope. Death, of course I get sad. I’ve had a few nervous breakdowns from stress, but that only lasts a few minutes where I rock back and forth in the corner muttering like a crazy person. But money…money problems do not go away. And to make things worse this money problem is transferred to my parents. I don’t want them to suffer for my life and my education, an education I don’t even think is that good yet. Certainly not 18,150 euros worth. But that’s okay, since I haven’t paid yet, and don’t know how we can afford it.
Did I really have to follow my dreams and pursue something that I truly love? I could be a doctor or a lawyer with a definite monetary guarantee. I could be a pharmacist or an engineer. But no, I had to follow my dreams and passion. It’s a passion that constantly requires more money. Shooting a class assignment? Gotta pay for everything. Thesis movie required? Oh you bet your sweet ass you gotta pay.
I really should have applied to film schools in the US. I may be self conscious and insecure, but I do believe I could have gotten some sort of scholarship, maybe even a fellowship. Something, anything to make my parents’ life easier since I’m a huge fucking gamble that may not pay off.
And now as I listen to fucking Bruce Springsteen singing classic American folk songs, eating Top Ramen, I can’t help but feel a little bit isolated in Paris, and doubt any other fag would put up with this kind of life. They would have succumbed to meth and prostitution a long time ago.
Mercredi
I always get annoyed by how much food I eat, even though it’s not as much as I should eat. I have to buy cereal a new box of cereal every week, I eat about 28 eggs a week, more ramen then humanly possible.
My mom messaged me tonight saying the EURO-US dollar exchange is down at a record low. The euro is now down to .7 to the dollar. Oh. My. God. Ohmygod. I feel terrible that my parents and I are excited over a worldwide economic catastrophe. They’re putting in my rent money and other loan payments in the bank and I’m supposed to withdraw the money ASAP while it’s down. I’m going to buy as many things as I possibly can with my extra 50 euros this month. Yes!
30 Octobre 2008
Jeudi
No! My mom texted me and said she got the conversion rate wrong. It’s basically the same as it’s always been. Dammit! I was really hoping it changed because I really need to buy groceries, pay for rent, and renew my metro card. It’s so wonderful that my French bank is taking more than 2 weeks to give me a bank card or checks, making it 1) extremely difficult to withdraw money and 2) impossible to get a cell phone, a phone, the internet, and tv. Thank you, French bureaucracy.
Today I attended an EICAR class I don’t have, Directing and Acting. It’s a class for actors in the French department as well as Bachelors students and Fast Track students. I was filming a short documentary for a friend on the class, and I left amazed. I came to EICAR to learn how to not only make films, but to be a better director. And thus far, I’ve done little to no directing. Every class, regardless of small new things I learn here or there, are things that I’ve already learned with my bachelors degree, or things I’ve already learned on film sets. It’s nice for a refresher, but it’s also sluggish and frustrating.
Everything about it seemed appealing to me, especially when I heard the news that I could probably enroll in the class just as a director, not as an actor, since I just plain suck on acting. The best director in the world could not get me to perform well. No, not even George Lucas himself could make me act well.
While waiting for the metro I saw the cutest, smallest little mouse on the metro tracks. It was scurrying around acting afool. I could hear the metro coming in the distance, and with morbid curiosity I leaned in closer to watch. Something that small and cute should not die a gruesome death. I imagined most metro accidents occur for this reason. An animal lover would see a small mouse and fear for it, and so he’d jump down and try and save little Speedy Gonzales or Mickey Mouse or whatever cartoon characters embody mice, like that mouse that traveled west. Or the Great Mouse Detective. It goes on and on. But in any case, I thought about jumping down to save this mouse which probably has a normal life expectancy of 3 years. Should I die, I would save the life of a mouse that would have no impact on the world whatsoever. If I died, I would piss off Parisians and make them wait for 15 minutes as they cleared my carcass.
I thought about all the times the French bureaucracy has pissed me off, how my well being and livelihood is cut short because someone doesn’t want to sign a paper or a company takes forever to mail important documents like bank cards or loan confirmations. I could get my revenge and piss off hundreds of Parisians at once with my rescue effort, make THEM wait because the metro would stop. They’d read their little newspapers that read, “L’homme fou est mort parce qu’il aime une souris. Et il déteste les Parisiennes.” What would follow would be my heartbreaking tale of my struggles in Paris, and tout le monde would weep for me. French bureaucracy would be banned, and students would get their carte de sejour when they asked for one, they would ACTUALLY get bank cards within 7-10 business days, and the euro would decrease in value making my tuition 10 bucks instead of $25,410. They’d build a monument for me in the 11th arrondisement, homophobia would disappear, Obama would be elected, and we would discover a new renewable, environmentally safe source of energy.
Of course, I was just too tired to fall to my death since it was a 13 hour day for me. And, of course, I had top ramen to eat and Simpsons to watch.
31 Octobre 2008
Vendredi
Ma vie est tres deficile parce que Paris est trop cher.
I went to my bank to ask why I haven’t received my bank card or checks yet. I need these to get my phone. The bank neglected to tell me that in order to receive these things, I had to have a minimum of 650 euros in my bank account. Isn’t that the kind of important information you’re supposed to tell a customer, especially one that doesn’t speak French well?
What’s really bugging me is that I put in 200 euros into this bank account, and last week I had to withdraw 100 to survive since I had nothing. When the bank guy checked my account, he said I only had 27 euros. Oh my jesus. I know my arithmetic skills are bad, but where the fuck are the other 73 euros? Where the hell am I going to get the other 650 euros just so I can receive a fucking ATM card? I’ll be getting 1000 euros soon for rent and living expenses, but apparently I need another 650, on top of a 750 euro deposit for my apartment. And when I do manage to get the loan to pay for tuition, I have to start paying that shit back ASAP. This ain’t no student loan; I have ot pay 443 euros every month.
So far, in my 23 years of existence, the only thing that has ever truly got me depressed is money. But it’s never been that bad. Heartbreak, sure I get sad and mope. Death, of course I get sad. I’ve had a few nervous breakdowns from stress, but that only lasts a few minutes where I rock back and forth in the corner muttering like a crazy person. But money…money problems do not go away. And to make things worse this money problem is transferred to my parents. I don’t want them to suffer for my life and my education, an education I don’t even think is that good yet. Certainly not 18,150 euros worth. But that’s okay, since I haven’t paid yet, and don’t know how we can afford it.
Did I really have to follow my dreams and pursue something that I truly love? I could be a doctor or a lawyer with a definite monetary guarantee. I could be a pharmacist or an engineer. But no, I had to follow my dreams and passion. It’s a passion that constantly requires more money. Shooting a class assignment? Gotta pay for everything. Thesis movie required? Oh you bet your sweet ass you gotta pay.
I really should have applied to film schools in the US. I may be self conscious and insecure, but I do believe I could have gotten some sort of scholarship, maybe even a fellowship. Something, anything to make my parents’ life easier since I’m a huge fucking gamble that may not pay off.
And now as I listen to fucking Bruce Springsteen singing classic American folk songs, eating Top Ramen, I can’t help but feel a little bit isolated in Paris, and doubt any other fag would put up with this kind of life. They would have succumbed to meth and prostitution a long time ago.
03 November, 2008
hoverbikes!
25 Octobre 2008
Samedi
Do you have identification on you? No. Then you can’t withdraw money despite having all the bank papers you got when you created a bank account. But I’ve been waiting for 2 weeks for you to send me a bank card or checks so I can access money in the first place. Sorry, you can go get your passport but you have to hurry because we close in 30 minutes.
Even when I’m utterly helpless and poor, I still didn’t run. Not in cowboy boots, no. So I walked as fast as I could, crossing streets and almost getting hit by smart cars, bikes and weaving around countless old people. Got home, changed into real shoes, took off my fake leather jacket, grabbed my passport, and hauled ass to the République so I could have money to live. I noticed a lot of people staring at this tiny Asian boy powerwalking down Boulevard Voltaire. I tried to imagine what they were thinking. Where is he going? Does he know how silly he looks? I love how his outfit consists of thrift store pants, a vest his Dad had from the Philippines, Lacoste, Hugo Boss, and 300 dollar Italian shoes. It’s like a bum mugged a label queen.
Earlier in the day I was finally exploring some shops near my house I never bothered to look at. I found a music store! A full size keyboard is only the cheap cheap price of 289 euros. The cheapest guitars were 59 euros which I’m considering buying, despite the fact that I’m still not that good at the ukulele. Unfortunately, there was no cheap violin, so my neighbors can rest in peace. I was really hoping I would get neighbor complaints like “He’s killing a retarded cat slowly with a big wooden spoon” with my amazing violin skills.
I went to the Marais district tonight to read and write some of my script, which probably wasn’t a good idea. I just wanted to be around a lot of people to people watch and write, but it being Saturday night and it being La Marais, I didn’t get much work done. It was fun to see really shitty costumes a week before Halloween, but then I realized they were just tired faggots, and they always dress like that.
A friend of a friend told me that I “need to get a French boyfriend who doesn’t speak much English so you can perfect your French”. See, there’s way too much work in that suggestion. The words “need to get” imply effort, and “doesn’t speak much English” suggests mentally straining conversations. I’m already exhausted midday thinking about paying bills, buying food, and worrying about the financial burden I am on my family. Can’t I just wake up rich, fluent in French, sleeping next to giant sacks full of money and a French boyfriend that has a fantastic movie collection?
I made a short film about trying to meet someone at a café, about putting books out for people to see, about acting mysterious and intellectual. All I saw tonight were trashy gays sucking each others’ faces off and stumble around scaring tourists. I imagine all the great people here are casually sipping wine in studios on a Saturday, discussing the world economic crisis, great films and novels, the American election, and making fun of literary and film theorists like Derrida and Mulvey. They’re sporting top hats and monocles while obscure indie bands play from a beat up record player. They’re scoring 200 points at Scrabble. “Ah ha,” one of them says. “57 points for mononucleosis. I shan’t say you all rue this day.” “Oh my heavens,” someone replies. “You are as pedantic as you are imperious.”
God I miss doing that, god I miss making fun of how pretentious we were, and god I miss my friends and family.
26 Octobre 2008
Dimanche
I cannot, for the life of me, understand what the owner of the Laundromat is saying. I know I constantly say my French is bad, but after someone says something in French, it takes me awhile to decode the sounds that come out of their mouths. When this Laundromat owner says anything, nothing at all registers. I understand the people that talk to him, but the minute he opens his mouth, all I hear is gobbledygook. Is there just a dialect of French my ears haven’t picked up on yet? Or is he simply speaking gibberish and the French customers humor him?
I helped a friend out with a mini photoshoot at the Luxembourg gardens. Take the Aldrich Park at UCI, make that 5 times bigger and 20 times more beautiful, and you have these gardens. Now I understand why the French have an arrogant stereotype; Paris is just too goddamn beautiful. They’ve become numb to it, I think, and it has become the standard of living. Everything else is just crap to them.
I started my first bit of decorating today. I put up a big, blown up picture of Richie and Margot Tenenbaum on my wall, the same I put up in my apartment at Parkwest. It’s really, really comforting to see again. It’s the first step towards making this place look less like a generic hotel room and more like a living space. I realized that everything in my room has this vomit inducing beige/light orange palette to it, which is the ugliest, most boring color combination I have ever seen in my life. It’s the most neutral pile of colors I’ve ever seen thrown together.
The walls are beige, the curtains are beige, the furniture is a light brown, the lamps are light orange, the bed is light orange…it’s disgusting. I would love to be living in an ultra tacky, color clashing room that a blind retarded paraplegic designed. Then it would have character. But as it is, it’s simply the most boring room I have ever experienced in my life. And when my security window is down, its metal sheets visible behind white curtains, it feels as if I’m not in Paris, but that I’m actually in some sort of rehab where any sort of stimuli would trigger a drug craving. As a Fresno native, this is not good.
To add insult to injury, the clementines I bought are sour. So the only source of color in my studio are the clementines I spit back out.
27 Octobre 2008
Lundi
I’m so worried about tomorrow. It’s the longest day of the week and the coffee machines at my school are broken. Yes, I have bigger concerns in life that trump this, but for some reason this is all I can think about. This just means I’ll be smoking double the amount of cigarettes which can’t be good for me.
If I ever quit, I realize I’d quit for the wrong reasons. Not because a boyfriend would ask me to or my parents would yell at me until I did or because I want to be healthy. No. I’d quit because I’m cheap. I’d quit because I don’t like the smell. But mostly I’d quit because I’m cheap. It’s a trait that has definitely been essential because I’m poor.
I’m a bit disappointed that school is going by at a sluggish rate. I figured a masters class would be at least an intermediate starting point, but it’s basically start from square one. For weeks. Which is fine, I suppose, so we’re all on the same page to make sure there’s a foundation to build on. I understand that. And really though, I have no reason to complain since I haven’t paid for tuition yet.
I can’t really pinpoint why it is I’m disappointed thus far. I like my teachers, I like my classmates, I love Paris. I think it’s just difficult starting over when my peers and I in Irvine have gone so far. I didn’t notice it at the time and would just dismiss everything, but looking back on it now I realize just how much we all grew in 5 years of shooting shitty little student films. From home movie cameras to full sets, 30+ person crews, everyone buzzing around knowing exactly what they’re doing.
I think I want to just approach a subject again where I don’t know a damn thing instead of waiting for and clinging onto a piece of advice I haven’t heard from a professor already. I’ll be a beginner in lighting and literally directing actors, but so far this has been pushed aside until we all get basics of shooting down. I’ve got that down. All my short films are basic. I’d feel pretentious if I threw in a pan or a tilt or a tracking shot. I want to learn to work with actors, how to get them to shut up or act better. I want to learn lighting tricks and how to set up a system right so it doesn’t look like I lit the scene with a series of flashlights.
I guess all that comes in time, and if it doesn’t, at least I can say I lost weight in Paris.
28 Octobre 2008
Mardi
I’m not sure how this happened, but I woke up completely diagonal in my bed. I tried reaching for my phone like usual after waking up, then slammed my hand against the wall. Because my apartment is seemingly in a dark hole when the security window is down, I had no idea which way was up, down, left or right.
When I meet a bunch of new people here in Paris, we all discuss where we’re from. Because it’s an international school, there are dozens of different countries. I have no idea why, but I always feel awkward mentioning I’m from America. Is it embarrassment? I don’t know. It’s definitely not pride. I don’t hate America. I don’t love it. It’s not shame. I don’t know. I definitely want to go back because it is my home. I haven’t hit that point of no return where I just never want to leave Paris yet (people tell me it’s around the 9 month mark, I just hit the 1 month mark 2 days ago).
Same goes for speaking English in the metro. It’s as if I need to be silent and assimilate, act Parisian and speak their language or nothing at all. There’s a ton of people who speak English here, why can’t I speak French? POURQUOI?!
Today I switched from Top Ramen to Microwavable Instant Noodles and Vegetables. It was actually quite tasty, but I felt it was missing something. I looked into my pantry and thumbed through the packets of various meats from a care package. SPAM. GLORIOUS SPAM. I don’t even know what body part(s) or animal(s) it comes from, but I grew up with Spam and have no objections eating it. If mixed with the right sauces, noodles and vegetables, it’s actually quite tasty. And judging from the price tag, it was only 99 cents. Score.
I need an alternative source of income. The loan + rent equates to about 1620 euros a month. Then there’s living expenses (60 for a cell phone/internet/tv/landline which I can’t get yet, maybe 350 for food and groceries). So let’s just say 2000 a month. At the current exchange rate, that’s about 2600 US dollars a month.
Who in their right mind can afford that? Not me. Not my family. I’m used to working so I can at last live comfortably. I’m a consumer and I like to buy DVD’s, go out and eat, buy a shirt, and get some pennywhistles and moonpies. I’d sell my body, but there are way hotter prostitutes out there. I’d sell my soul, but I think I need that later on.
Recently a speaker came to EICAR and he disclosed how much PBS bought a documentary he made. 150,000. That’s all I’m asking. I’ll sell my documentary and allow PBS or some random channel to air it, work out the percentage with some lawyers and divvy it up with the rest of Ahimsa Artists. I constantly fantasize about this and imagine paying EICAR’s two year tuition with one fat check, settling my exorbitant rent cost (and possibly move to a better place at least with a kitchen bigger than my laptop), pay off my 23,000 student loans, pay off my parents’ loans, then use the rest on black tar heroin, crystal meth and a hoverbike with a laser gun.
Samedi
Do you have identification on you? No. Then you can’t withdraw money despite having all the bank papers you got when you created a bank account. But I’ve been waiting for 2 weeks for you to send me a bank card or checks so I can access money in the first place. Sorry, you can go get your passport but you have to hurry because we close in 30 minutes.
Even when I’m utterly helpless and poor, I still didn’t run. Not in cowboy boots, no. So I walked as fast as I could, crossing streets and almost getting hit by smart cars, bikes and weaving around countless old people. Got home, changed into real shoes, took off my fake leather jacket, grabbed my passport, and hauled ass to the République so I could have money to live. I noticed a lot of people staring at this tiny Asian boy powerwalking down Boulevard Voltaire. I tried to imagine what they were thinking. Where is he going? Does he know how silly he looks? I love how his outfit consists of thrift store pants, a vest his Dad had from the Philippines, Lacoste, Hugo Boss, and 300 dollar Italian shoes. It’s like a bum mugged a label queen.
Earlier in the day I was finally exploring some shops near my house I never bothered to look at. I found a music store! A full size keyboard is only the cheap cheap price of 289 euros. The cheapest guitars were 59 euros which I’m considering buying, despite the fact that I’m still not that good at the ukulele. Unfortunately, there was no cheap violin, so my neighbors can rest in peace. I was really hoping I would get neighbor complaints like “He’s killing a retarded cat slowly with a big wooden spoon” with my amazing violin skills.
I went to the Marais district tonight to read and write some of my script, which probably wasn’t a good idea. I just wanted to be around a lot of people to people watch and write, but it being Saturday night and it being La Marais, I didn’t get much work done. It was fun to see really shitty costumes a week before Halloween, but then I realized they were just tired faggots, and they always dress like that.
A friend of a friend told me that I “need to get a French boyfriend who doesn’t speak much English so you can perfect your French”. See, there’s way too much work in that suggestion. The words “need to get” imply effort, and “doesn’t speak much English” suggests mentally straining conversations. I’m already exhausted midday thinking about paying bills, buying food, and worrying about the financial burden I am on my family. Can’t I just wake up rich, fluent in French, sleeping next to giant sacks full of money and a French boyfriend that has a fantastic movie collection?
I made a short film about trying to meet someone at a café, about putting books out for people to see, about acting mysterious and intellectual. All I saw tonight were trashy gays sucking each others’ faces off and stumble around scaring tourists. I imagine all the great people here are casually sipping wine in studios on a Saturday, discussing the world economic crisis, great films and novels, the American election, and making fun of literary and film theorists like Derrida and Mulvey. They’re sporting top hats and monocles while obscure indie bands play from a beat up record player. They’re scoring 200 points at Scrabble. “Ah ha,” one of them says. “57 points for mononucleosis. I shan’t say you all rue this day.” “Oh my heavens,” someone replies. “You are as pedantic as you are imperious.”
God I miss doing that, god I miss making fun of how pretentious we were, and god I miss my friends and family.
26 Octobre 2008
Dimanche
I cannot, for the life of me, understand what the owner of the Laundromat is saying. I know I constantly say my French is bad, but after someone says something in French, it takes me awhile to decode the sounds that come out of their mouths. When this Laundromat owner says anything, nothing at all registers. I understand the people that talk to him, but the minute he opens his mouth, all I hear is gobbledygook. Is there just a dialect of French my ears haven’t picked up on yet? Or is he simply speaking gibberish and the French customers humor him?
I helped a friend out with a mini photoshoot at the Luxembourg gardens. Take the Aldrich Park at UCI, make that 5 times bigger and 20 times more beautiful, and you have these gardens. Now I understand why the French have an arrogant stereotype; Paris is just too goddamn beautiful. They’ve become numb to it, I think, and it has become the standard of living. Everything else is just crap to them.
I started my first bit of decorating today. I put up a big, blown up picture of Richie and Margot Tenenbaum on my wall, the same I put up in my apartment at Parkwest. It’s really, really comforting to see again. It’s the first step towards making this place look less like a generic hotel room and more like a living space. I realized that everything in my room has this vomit inducing beige/light orange palette to it, which is the ugliest, most boring color combination I have ever seen in my life. It’s the most neutral pile of colors I’ve ever seen thrown together.
The walls are beige, the curtains are beige, the furniture is a light brown, the lamps are light orange, the bed is light orange…it’s disgusting. I would love to be living in an ultra tacky, color clashing room that a blind retarded paraplegic designed. Then it would have character. But as it is, it’s simply the most boring room I have ever experienced in my life. And when my security window is down, its metal sheets visible behind white curtains, it feels as if I’m not in Paris, but that I’m actually in some sort of rehab where any sort of stimuli would trigger a drug craving. As a Fresno native, this is not good.
To add insult to injury, the clementines I bought are sour. So the only source of color in my studio are the clementines I spit back out.
27 Octobre 2008
Lundi
I’m so worried about tomorrow. It’s the longest day of the week and the coffee machines at my school are broken. Yes, I have bigger concerns in life that trump this, but for some reason this is all I can think about. This just means I’ll be smoking double the amount of cigarettes which can’t be good for me.
If I ever quit, I realize I’d quit for the wrong reasons. Not because a boyfriend would ask me to or my parents would yell at me until I did or because I want to be healthy. No. I’d quit because I’m cheap. I’d quit because I don’t like the smell. But mostly I’d quit because I’m cheap. It’s a trait that has definitely been essential because I’m poor.
I’m a bit disappointed that school is going by at a sluggish rate. I figured a masters class would be at least an intermediate starting point, but it’s basically start from square one. For weeks. Which is fine, I suppose, so we’re all on the same page to make sure there’s a foundation to build on. I understand that. And really though, I have no reason to complain since I haven’t paid for tuition yet.
I can’t really pinpoint why it is I’m disappointed thus far. I like my teachers, I like my classmates, I love Paris. I think it’s just difficult starting over when my peers and I in Irvine have gone so far. I didn’t notice it at the time and would just dismiss everything, but looking back on it now I realize just how much we all grew in 5 years of shooting shitty little student films. From home movie cameras to full sets, 30+ person crews, everyone buzzing around knowing exactly what they’re doing.
I think I want to just approach a subject again where I don’t know a damn thing instead of waiting for and clinging onto a piece of advice I haven’t heard from a professor already. I’ll be a beginner in lighting and literally directing actors, but so far this has been pushed aside until we all get basics of shooting down. I’ve got that down. All my short films are basic. I’d feel pretentious if I threw in a pan or a tilt or a tracking shot. I want to learn to work with actors, how to get them to shut up or act better. I want to learn lighting tricks and how to set up a system right so it doesn’t look like I lit the scene with a series of flashlights.
I guess all that comes in time, and if it doesn’t, at least I can say I lost weight in Paris.
28 Octobre 2008
Mardi
I’m not sure how this happened, but I woke up completely diagonal in my bed. I tried reaching for my phone like usual after waking up, then slammed my hand against the wall. Because my apartment is seemingly in a dark hole when the security window is down, I had no idea which way was up, down, left or right.
When I meet a bunch of new people here in Paris, we all discuss where we’re from. Because it’s an international school, there are dozens of different countries. I have no idea why, but I always feel awkward mentioning I’m from America. Is it embarrassment? I don’t know. It’s definitely not pride. I don’t hate America. I don’t love it. It’s not shame. I don’t know. I definitely want to go back because it is my home. I haven’t hit that point of no return where I just never want to leave Paris yet (people tell me it’s around the 9 month mark, I just hit the 1 month mark 2 days ago).
Same goes for speaking English in the metro. It’s as if I need to be silent and assimilate, act Parisian and speak their language or nothing at all. There’s a ton of people who speak English here, why can’t I speak French? POURQUOI?!
Today I switched from Top Ramen to Microwavable Instant Noodles and Vegetables. It was actually quite tasty, but I felt it was missing something. I looked into my pantry and thumbed through the packets of various meats from a care package. SPAM. GLORIOUS SPAM. I don’t even know what body part(s) or animal(s) it comes from, but I grew up with Spam and have no objections eating it. If mixed with the right sauces, noodles and vegetables, it’s actually quite tasty. And judging from the price tag, it was only 99 cents. Score.
I need an alternative source of income. The loan + rent equates to about 1620 euros a month. Then there’s living expenses (60 for a cell phone/internet/tv/landline which I can’t get yet, maybe 350 for food and groceries). So let’s just say 2000 a month. At the current exchange rate, that’s about 2600 US dollars a month.
Who in their right mind can afford that? Not me. Not my family. I’m used to working so I can at last live comfortably. I’m a consumer and I like to buy DVD’s, go out and eat, buy a shirt, and get some pennywhistles and moonpies. I’d sell my body, but there are way hotter prostitutes out there. I’d sell my soul, but I think I need that later on.
Recently a speaker came to EICAR and he disclosed how much PBS bought a documentary he made. 150,000. That’s all I’m asking. I’ll sell my documentary and allow PBS or some random channel to air it, work out the percentage with some lawyers and divvy it up with the rest of Ahimsa Artists. I constantly fantasize about this and imagine paying EICAR’s two year tuition with one fat check, settling my exorbitant rent cost (and possibly move to a better place at least with a kitchen bigger than my laptop), pay off my 23,000 student loans, pay off my parents’ loans, then use the rest on black tar heroin, crystal meth and a hoverbike with a laser gun.
31 October, 2008
epic fail
22 Octbore 2008
Mercredi
There’s been a lot of debate within my friends and I if I’m getting my moneys worth in school here in France. It’s debatable and completely relative to what I make of my situation. I like all my teachers/professors, I enjoy the friends I’ve made, and I love Paris. By all accounts that should be enough. I can’t say I’ve learned everything already; sure I have 5 years of film history and theory. I believe it’s my third week in school and things are still basically all review, from my French lessons to film theory, history, and even production. But I cannot dismiss that even in these review sessions, I still manage to learn new things and fill film holes in my mind that were either left blank or forgotten from general stupidity.
The other day in school we saw the “best films of EICAR” which left me utterly devastated and melancholy. As unrealistic as this hope was, I walked into the theater holding on to my underoos and desperately wishing, pleading, and wishing that my underwear would be blown away so I could really focus and up my game here. Quite the opposite. There was solace, however, in the fact that it was a unanimous decision amongst peers and staff alike that these films were as ridiculous as my expectations.
After our Hollywood pitches in Directing class, where we constantly push the “Learn the rules before you can break them” creed, my perpetual struggle to mix art house, kitsch and commercialism easily disenchanted my classmates. I can’t make a living doing what I love and have to learn otherwise. I have to figure out how to cross breed what I want to say with cold heartless industry of TV and film. My dog is a Terrier and a German Shepard, and I imagine it couldn’t have gotten that way without a helpful push from a devious human owner. If that human could push this improbable spawn, hopefully I can be able to breed a monstrous hybrid bastard child between moneys and art. Mart.
I see EICAR and Paris as an important step towards realizing this sexy combination. Yes I have the pretentious education of film theorists and history. Yes I have the sickening education of Hollywood formulas, audience manipulation and target demographics. I’ve practiced the three act structure, I know I can do it. I’m positive I can do it. It’s just that when I do it, I stop and examine what I’ve done and realize I’m not being true to myself. I don’t necessarily think that all my films should say something from the inner depths of my soul because I’m an artist. Horse-merde. I just really need to figure out how to not treat the audience like they’re idiots, encourage thought, allow something from myself to show within the film, and still entertain an audience.
I don’t want to proclaim that the Hollywood industry is a thoughtless, soulless beast and that commercialism is the devil. I don’t want to be another progressive liberal completely against THE MAN. I’ve grown up with THE MAN and it’s done good things to my life and those around me. I really believe there’s a way to strike a deal with THE MAN without losing my soul, and I intend to find it.
Thoughtful films are only eaten by the already thoughtful, and that really needs to change.
23 Octobre 2008
Jeudi
I’ve been eating this creamy sauce concoction Danielle and I cooked on Monday for maybe 4 days now. I recall someone telling me milky foods go bad after like 3 days, or maybe I imagined it. I really don’t remember, and I probably should. I’m still alive thus far and I’m saving some money and my precious, precious top ramen. The only drawback is I get gas which isn’t really a drawback when I live in my own little hole anyway.
While coming home with friends the métro doors were just about to close. A man struggled to keep the doors open for us. It was by far the nicest thing anyone has ever done here in France. He was all smiles, as we were too, and according to that little boy from the 6th sense and Kevin Spacey, I feel obligated to pay it forward. I must pass along niceness to three other people, and if they do that to three more, we’ve got one giant pyramid of kindness. And not the kind of pyramid that pyramid schemes are founded on, but more like the good kind.
I think my first act of kindness will be to recycle all my water bottles which have been piling up near my radiator. My second act of kindness will be giving a stranger a cigarette since that seems to happen twice a day, everyday (which is starting to wear out my wallet and my cigarette supply), which I believe amounts to more acts of kindness than just one. And lastly, my third act of kindness will no doubt be to stop using the word “fabulous,” which if I do ever say that – and mean it – is a crime against nature. It’s one thing when an older straight man says it that probably fought in WW2. But coming from a tiny 23 year old who will pull the gay card if there is a war draft, it’s just not right.
I’m going to attempt to write the script and begin writing the storyboards of my first short film here at EICAR. Despite a mixed class reaction, I’m really excited. I’m trying to figure out a way to use the input I received in class (which was basically make it a real story where something actually happens), but the real butt buster is to still try and keep it subtle. Avoiding clichés may already be out of the question…the whole concept and execution seems, to me, like it’s already been done.
But what I absolutely love about it is the fact that it’s based on a true story, as most of my films are, which may be a way of saying I’m arrogant. Throughout the day I remember snippets of things I’ve read and lectures I’ve heard. I remember a particular series of lectures on Hitchcock films at UCI where we discussed how one would film absence. How fucking bizarre and cool is that. “Why it’s easy,” you say. “Just film NOTHING.” I’m sure that’s exactly what Hitchcock did. WWHD?
And then during my screenwriting class, the teacher told me she liked an idea I “pitched” for a short film with dialogue which will be a later film. It’s actually a script I’ve already written and planned to shoot this summer. I’m not too comfortable with it because it’s by far reaching way farther than I’ve reached in terms of storytelling and directing. I’m used to telling stories where nothing happens. If you were to graph the rising action in any of my films, it would look like the economy is crashing, not like a healthy rising line. That’s just how I roll. I’m not exactly the most exciting person. This would be the first time I attempted a genre other than “subtle think piece with kitsch-ey ideas to make a serious subject a little silly.” This movie would actually require me to really, truly direct actors. And since the two actors I trust in completely and were cast to play these roles are in America, and since I would have to cast French actors where communication may be a problem, I’m fucked. There goes my domestic bio-terror zombie film.
I was intending on shooting something based on a short story I wrote about two brothers walking home where nothing happens (again). But really? How the fuck can I direct a child, let alone a French child? I can barely order coffee without making an ass out of myself. And don’t get me started on the gender of objects. I have enough problems deciding which hole to put it in; playing the gender card on everything else will just make me sexually inept forever.
24 Octobre 2008
Vendredi
I received another care package full of oatmeal, tuna and salmon. The contents inside look like I’m a hurricane victim receiving canned foods from the Red Cross or some other charitable nation. Or it can be mistaken for a food package to an impoverished nation. But really now, am I that much different? Sure my closet is filled with Ben Sherman and Urban Outfitters’ generic brands, I have an iPod and a Macbook Pro, but when it comes down to it, I think I’m about equal to a starving Filipino child. We’re probably roughly the same weight, only I have larger bags under my eyes.
After many discussions about EICAR thus far with other students, I came home and watched the last half of my documentary. It’s weird how quickly I forget these amazing and important messages that I learn and try to convey – it’s not about the environment, it’s about the person and the people you meet. It’s just so difficult to start over…for 5 years in America I built great relationships with talented people, from directors to actors, cinematographers to designers and musicians. I’m starting all over in a new country with people from many countries, but this time instead of just using our free time to pursue our passion, we’re all here in Paris to pursue it. It’s cah-razy.
I think about 95% of the people in the international section of my department know how to speak at least two languages. What the shit. I’m so American. I’ve basically lost all the Japanese I knew (which wasn’t much at all), I can only understand Tagolog and not speak it, my French is sub-par, I don’t remember a thing about Spanish, and I have poor English grammar. I’m linguistically fucked. Is linguistically even a word? Dammit.
I ran out of medication for my skin allergies for about a week and a half, and consequently, thanks to stress in Paris, my right arm got quite itchy. It’s definitely gotten better and I received some more medication today, but currently I have a scab right in the middle of where my arm bends. And conveniently, there’s a small mark in the middle. It looks like I shoot heroin. I’m not sure what’s worse: looking like a heroin addict because of eczema, or being a heroin addict.
25 Octobre 2008
Samedi
Do you have identification on you? No. Then you can’t withdraw money despite having all the bank papers you got when you created a bank account. But I’ve been waiting for 2 weeks for you to send me a bank card or checks so I can access money in the first place. Sorry, you can go get your passport but you have to hurry because we close in 30 minutes.
Even when I’m utterly helpless and poor, I still didn’t run. Not in cowboy boots, no. So I walked as fast as I could, crossing streets and almost getting hit by smart cars, bikes and weaving around countless old people. Got home, changed into real shoes, took off my fake leather jacket, grabbed my passport, and hauled ass to the République so I could have money to live. I noticed a lot of people staring at this tiny Asian boy powerwalking down Boulevard Voltaire. I tried to imagine what they were thinking. Where is he going? Does he know how silly he looks? I love how his outfit consists of thrift store pants, a vest his Dad had from the Philippines, Lacoste, Hugo Boss, and 300 dollar Italian shoes. It’s like a bum mugged a label queen.
Earlier in the day I was finally exploring some shops near my house I never bothered to look at. I found a music store! A full size keyboard is only the cheap cheap price of 289 euros. The cheapest guitars were 59 euros which I’m considering buying, despite the fact that I’m still not that good at the ukulele. Unfortunately, there was no cheap violin, so my neighbors can rest in peace. I was really hoping I would get neighbor complaints like “He’s killing a retarded cat slowly with a big wooden spoon” with my amazing violin skills.
I went to the Marais district tonight to read and write some of my script, which probably wasn’t a good idea. I just wanted to be around a lot of people to people watch and write, but it being Saturday night and it being La Marais, I didn’t get much work done. It was fun to see really shitty costumes a week before Halloween, but then I realized they were just tired faggots, and they always dress like that.
A friend of a friend told me that I “need to get a French boyfriend who doesn’t speak much English so you can perfect your French”. See, there’s way too much work in that suggestion. The words “need to get” imply effort, and “doesn’t speak much English” suggests mentally straining conversations. I’m already exhausted midday thinking about paying bills, buying food, and worrying about the financial burden I am on my family. Can’t I just wake up rich, fluent in French, sleeping next to giant sacks full of money and a French boyfriend that has a fantastic movie collection?
I made a short film about trying to meet someone at a café, about putting books out for people to see, about acting mysterious and intellectual. All I saw tonight were trashy gays sucking each others’ faces off and stumble around scaring tourists. I imagine all the great people here are casually sipping wine in studios on a Saturday, discussing the world economic crisis, great films and novels, the American election, and making fun of literary and film theorists like Derrida and Mulvey. They’re sporting top hats and monocles while obscure indie bands play from a beat up record player. They’re scoring 200 points at Scrabble. “Ah ha,” one of them says. “57 points for mononucleosis. I shan’t say you all rue this day.” “Oh my heavens,” someone replies. “You are as pedantic as you are imperious.”
God I miss doing that, god I miss making fun of how pretentious we were, and god I miss my friends and family.
Mercredi
There’s been a lot of debate within my friends and I if I’m getting my moneys worth in school here in France. It’s debatable and completely relative to what I make of my situation. I like all my teachers/professors, I enjoy the friends I’ve made, and I love Paris. By all accounts that should be enough. I can’t say I’ve learned everything already; sure I have 5 years of film history and theory. I believe it’s my third week in school and things are still basically all review, from my French lessons to film theory, history, and even production. But I cannot dismiss that even in these review sessions, I still manage to learn new things and fill film holes in my mind that were either left blank or forgotten from general stupidity.
The other day in school we saw the “best films of EICAR” which left me utterly devastated and melancholy. As unrealistic as this hope was, I walked into the theater holding on to my underoos and desperately wishing, pleading, and wishing that my underwear would be blown away so I could really focus and up my game here. Quite the opposite. There was solace, however, in the fact that it was a unanimous decision amongst peers and staff alike that these films were as ridiculous as my expectations.
After our Hollywood pitches in Directing class, where we constantly push the “Learn the rules before you can break them” creed, my perpetual struggle to mix art house, kitsch and commercialism easily disenchanted my classmates. I can’t make a living doing what I love and have to learn otherwise. I have to figure out how to cross breed what I want to say with cold heartless industry of TV and film. My dog is a Terrier and a German Shepard, and I imagine it couldn’t have gotten that way without a helpful push from a devious human owner. If that human could push this improbable spawn, hopefully I can be able to breed a monstrous hybrid bastard child between moneys and art. Mart.
I see EICAR and Paris as an important step towards realizing this sexy combination. Yes I have the pretentious education of film theorists and history. Yes I have the sickening education of Hollywood formulas, audience manipulation and target demographics. I’ve practiced the three act structure, I know I can do it. I’m positive I can do it. It’s just that when I do it, I stop and examine what I’ve done and realize I’m not being true to myself. I don’t necessarily think that all my films should say something from the inner depths of my soul because I’m an artist. Horse-merde. I just really need to figure out how to not treat the audience like they’re idiots, encourage thought, allow something from myself to show within the film, and still entertain an audience.
I don’t want to proclaim that the Hollywood industry is a thoughtless, soulless beast and that commercialism is the devil. I don’t want to be another progressive liberal completely against THE MAN. I’ve grown up with THE MAN and it’s done good things to my life and those around me. I really believe there’s a way to strike a deal with THE MAN without losing my soul, and I intend to find it.
Thoughtful films are only eaten by the already thoughtful, and that really needs to change.
23 Octobre 2008
Jeudi
I’ve been eating this creamy sauce concoction Danielle and I cooked on Monday for maybe 4 days now. I recall someone telling me milky foods go bad after like 3 days, or maybe I imagined it. I really don’t remember, and I probably should. I’m still alive thus far and I’m saving some money and my precious, precious top ramen. The only drawback is I get gas which isn’t really a drawback when I live in my own little hole anyway.
While coming home with friends the métro doors were just about to close. A man struggled to keep the doors open for us. It was by far the nicest thing anyone has ever done here in France. He was all smiles, as we were too, and according to that little boy from the 6th sense and Kevin Spacey, I feel obligated to pay it forward. I must pass along niceness to three other people, and if they do that to three more, we’ve got one giant pyramid of kindness. And not the kind of pyramid that pyramid schemes are founded on, but more like the good kind.
I think my first act of kindness will be to recycle all my water bottles which have been piling up near my radiator. My second act of kindness will be giving a stranger a cigarette since that seems to happen twice a day, everyday (which is starting to wear out my wallet and my cigarette supply), which I believe amounts to more acts of kindness than just one. And lastly, my third act of kindness will no doubt be to stop using the word “fabulous,” which if I do ever say that – and mean it – is a crime against nature. It’s one thing when an older straight man says it that probably fought in WW2. But coming from a tiny 23 year old who will pull the gay card if there is a war draft, it’s just not right.
I’m going to attempt to write the script and begin writing the storyboards of my first short film here at EICAR. Despite a mixed class reaction, I’m really excited. I’m trying to figure out a way to use the input I received in class (which was basically make it a real story where something actually happens), but the real butt buster is to still try and keep it subtle. Avoiding clichés may already be out of the question…the whole concept and execution seems, to me, like it’s already been done.
But what I absolutely love about it is the fact that it’s based on a true story, as most of my films are, which may be a way of saying I’m arrogant. Throughout the day I remember snippets of things I’ve read and lectures I’ve heard. I remember a particular series of lectures on Hitchcock films at UCI where we discussed how one would film absence. How fucking bizarre and cool is that. “Why it’s easy,” you say. “Just film NOTHING.” I’m sure that’s exactly what Hitchcock did. WWHD?
And then during my screenwriting class, the teacher told me she liked an idea I “pitched” for a short film with dialogue which will be a later film. It’s actually a script I’ve already written and planned to shoot this summer. I’m not too comfortable with it because it’s by far reaching way farther than I’ve reached in terms of storytelling and directing. I’m used to telling stories where nothing happens. If you were to graph the rising action in any of my films, it would look like the economy is crashing, not like a healthy rising line. That’s just how I roll. I’m not exactly the most exciting person. This would be the first time I attempted a genre other than “subtle think piece with kitsch-ey ideas to make a serious subject a little silly.” This movie would actually require me to really, truly direct actors. And since the two actors I trust in completely and were cast to play these roles are in America, and since I would have to cast French actors where communication may be a problem, I’m fucked. There goes my domestic bio-terror zombie film.
I was intending on shooting something based on a short story I wrote about two brothers walking home where nothing happens (again). But really? How the fuck can I direct a child, let alone a French child? I can barely order coffee without making an ass out of myself. And don’t get me started on the gender of objects. I have enough problems deciding which hole to put it in; playing the gender card on everything else will just make me sexually inept forever.
24 Octobre 2008
Vendredi
I received another care package full of oatmeal, tuna and salmon. The contents inside look like I’m a hurricane victim receiving canned foods from the Red Cross or some other charitable nation. Or it can be mistaken for a food package to an impoverished nation. But really now, am I that much different? Sure my closet is filled with Ben Sherman and Urban Outfitters’ generic brands, I have an iPod and a Macbook Pro, but when it comes down to it, I think I’m about equal to a starving Filipino child. We’re probably roughly the same weight, only I have larger bags under my eyes.
After many discussions about EICAR thus far with other students, I came home and watched the last half of my documentary. It’s weird how quickly I forget these amazing and important messages that I learn and try to convey – it’s not about the environment, it’s about the person and the people you meet. It’s just so difficult to start over…for 5 years in America I built great relationships with talented people, from directors to actors, cinematographers to designers and musicians. I’m starting all over in a new country with people from many countries, but this time instead of just using our free time to pursue our passion, we’re all here in Paris to pursue it. It’s cah-razy.
I think about 95% of the people in the international section of my department know how to speak at least two languages. What the shit. I’m so American. I’ve basically lost all the Japanese I knew (which wasn’t much at all), I can only understand Tagolog and not speak it, my French is sub-par, I don’t remember a thing about Spanish, and I have poor English grammar. I’m linguistically fucked. Is linguistically even a word? Dammit.
I ran out of medication for my skin allergies for about a week and a half, and consequently, thanks to stress in Paris, my right arm got quite itchy. It’s definitely gotten better and I received some more medication today, but currently I have a scab right in the middle of where my arm bends. And conveniently, there’s a small mark in the middle. It looks like I shoot heroin. I’m not sure what’s worse: looking like a heroin addict because of eczema, or being a heroin addict.
25 Octobre 2008
Samedi
Do you have identification on you? No. Then you can’t withdraw money despite having all the bank papers you got when you created a bank account. But I’ve been waiting for 2 weeks for you to send me a bank card or checks so I can access money in the first place. Sorry, you can go get your passport but you have to hurry because we close in 30 minutes.
Even when I’m utterly helpless and poor, I still didn’t run. Not in cowboy boots, no. So I walked as fast as I could, crossing streets and almost getting hit by smart cars, bikes and weaving around countless old people. Got home, changed into real shoes, took off my fake leather jacket, grabbed my passport, and hauled ass to the République so I could have money to live. I noticed a lot of people staring at this tiny Asian boy powerwalking down Boulevard Voltaire. I tried to imagine what they were thinking. Where is he going? Does he know how silly he looks? I love how his outfit consists of thrift store pants, a vest his Dad had from the Philippines, Lacoste, Hugo Boss, and 300 dollar Italian shoes. It’s like a bum mugged a label queen.
Earlier in the day I was finally exploring some shops near my house I never bothered to look at. I found a music store! A full size keyboard is only the cheap cheap price of 289 euros. The cheapest guitars were 59 euros which I’m considering buying, despite the fact that I’m still not that good at the ukulele. Unfortunately, there was no cheap violin, so my neighbors can rest in peace. I was really hoping I would get neighbor complaints like “He’s killing a retarded cat slowly with a big wooden spoon” with my amazing violin skills.
I went to the Marais district tonight to read and write some of my script, which probably wasn’t a good idea. I just wanted to be around a lot of people to people watch and write, but it being Saturday night and it being La Marais, I didn’t get much work done. It was fun to see really shitty costumes a week before Halloween, but then I realized they were just tired faggots, and they always dress like that.
A friend of a friend told me that I “need to get a French boyfriend who doesn’t speak much English so you can perfect your French”. See, there’s way too much work in that suggestion. The words “need to get” imply effort, and “doesn’t speak much English” suggests mentally straining conversations. I’m already exhausted midday thinking about paying bills, buying food, and worrying about the financial burden I am on my family. Can’t I just wake up rich, fluent in French, sleeping next to giant sacks full of money and a French boyfriend that has a fantastic movie collection?
I made a short film about trying to meet someone at a café, about putting books out for people to see, about acting mysterious and intellectual. All I saw tonight were trashy gays sucking each others’ faces off and stumble around scaring tourists. I imagine all the great people here are casually sipping wine in studios on a Saturday, discussing the world economic crisis, great films and novels, the American election, and making fun of literary and film theorists like Derrida and Mulvey. They’re sporting top hats and monocles while obscure indie bands play from a beat up record player. They’re scoring 200 points at Scrabble. “Ah ha,” one of them says. “57 points for mononucleosis. I shan’t say you all rue this day.” “Oh my heavens,” someone replies. “You are as pedantic as you are imperious.”
God I miss doing that, god I miss making fun of how pretentious we were, and god I miss my friends and family.
26 October, 2008
14 Octobre 2008
Lundi
I went to two different places to attempt to receive my carte de sejour. I went in expecting to be turned away, so when I did the first time at 9AM, I wasn’t too disappointed. I didn’t know I had to schedule an appointment, and I don’t remember reading about that. So I went to Cité Universitaire, a much kinder and forgiving place for students to receive it. Instead of just getting into the long line and wait to be turned away, I went straight to the help section and struggled to talk to a nice woman about what I’m doing wrong. It almost becomes patronizing when they laugh and say, “Oh la la, your French is good don’t worry!”
I still have to think up 3 new story ideas for Wednesday, and then rethink one of my older story ideas for my directing class. I’ve always had this goal to make something interesting AND actually be saying something, and after a few pitches today, I realized that my stories are just goofy short films with punch lines. Almost like a vaudeville act, with jazz hands and a punchline drum roll at the end. I just can’t think up anything serious without a voice inside me saying, “stop being pretentious” or “you know you want to put in a robot.” It’s difficult when I know the pitches/exercises are assigned because he wants to know that we know the basics of storytelling…3 act structure, character driven, conflict, goals, blah blah. All I want to do is break the rules, even though I could never obey them in the first place.
To save money, I’ve been experimenting with Top Ramen. Today I added hot sauce, pepper, some tuna, and an egg. Frankly, it was delicious. But all I wanted was a Big Mac or an In N Out burger. My mom suggested I throw in some cabbage and carrots and maybe some beef, and then I’ve got a pretty awesome stew for less than 3 euros. Hopefully by the time I leave France after my masters program, I will have developed an arsenal of top ramen dishes and publish some sort of college cookbook. Though, I imagine there’s a limit to how many things you can add to top ramen until it just becomes a pile of produce and noodles.
15 Octobre 2008
Mardi
Sometimes I wonder if the students shown in French textbooks have any idea they are in it. They’re given fake names, phone numbers, interests, and e-mail addresses. I flip through the pages and look at all the various faces. Jean-Pierre likes to play soccer, and Lauren just loves to play the violin. Every now and then I spot an attractive picture and think, “I should e-mail them.” Then I wonder what I’d say. “Hey…I saw your pic and your address in a French language text book. You seem like a pretty cool person. I hope you’re real. Let’s get some lunch, yes?”
A lot of EICAR students went to see Dennis Hopper today at the La Cinémathèque Française, a lovely building devoted to cinema. We saw Out of the Blue, a depressing flick about a troubled family. Not my cup of tea, especially since 80% of the people I’ve dated told me stories of their family that were pretty much what was on screen. So with my dating history, I should have been attracted to the 14 year old faux-punk teenager as she unabashedly raised hell because of her broken home. I hope my taste changes with age, and instead of being attracted to beautiful crazy people, I’m only attracted to millionaires with monocles.
I realized today that I’m not a student of EICAR. My loan hasn’t processed, and my name isn’t on any roster or anything like that. I don’t have the internet or the phone, nor do I have residency. I’m like a glorified tourist acting like I live here. Technically I did just get a bank account, but I have no checks or an ATM. So I couldn’t use it if I wanted to. If a tree falls in a forest, does it make a sound? If a guy attends a school he’s not enrolled in, is he a student? These questions have often plagued philosophical debates for centuries.
16 Octobre 2008
Mercredi
It finally came. After a long day at school of various film exercises, as I was coming home I had an idea on the métro for my first 16mm film. Well, I’ve had several, but I’ve hated all of them. I’m supposed to pitch them on Monday. They were all silly punchline short films, which I’ve tried to stay away from, but these are more exercises in plot structure. I’ve been pushing myself in a direction I’m unfamiliar with, like when I cook something other than top ramen or try matching an outfit with colors other than black.
I know I tend to recycle ideas, but there are themes I just can’t shake off. The whole unrequited thing, disappointment, the quixotic, foxy boxing, wet t-shirt contests. You know. Films you can really scratch your noggin over. I’m a little disappointed that I want the aesthetic and technique of the film to be almost identical to something I’ve already done, but I figure I’m in a new country with a fresh slate. These fuckers haven’t seen what I’ve done, so I’ll just steal ideas from my other movies. Only I’ll be in Paris and shooting on film with actors instead of in Irvine shooting clay on a home movie camera.
I tried calling a friend back home today with a phone card I bought. I think I’m retarded. The instructions are incredibly easy…you call the phone card number, input the code, then dial the number you want to call. I did just as the Indian man guided me, calling the phone card number and listening for instructions. The call was barred once, it failed three times, and went through four times. But when the instructions tell me that the card is not valid in French from what I understood, I just dialed it three more times. So I’m sure my parents will be delighted to see the American phone bill this month with several phone calls to a random non-existant French number.
I need to make a phone call using a phone booth at night, but all the ones near my apartment have homeless people sleeping in them. I wouldn’t mind using it, but then I’d have to stand on them. We could share the phone booth I suppose, and the homeless person could interject one liners in French. I could deal with that. At my internet café there are also several booths to make international phone calls, but they are exactly the opposite of sound proof. It’s almost as if people aren’t really talking on the phone, but are just speaking into a megaphone as their stupid conversations reverberate downstairs while I check my facebook account. This poses no problem if I were to call my parents since I would say nothing controversial. But if I want to call friends, I would probably say things that should not be heard by the people that work there nor the random tourists and Frenchies that check porn at the café. “Shut up. SHUT UP. He’s dating WHO now? OMG. Obama said WHAT? Get out. How big was it? No way. Did it hurt? Did the carpet match the drapes? Drapes, not grapes. Drapes. DRAPES. Like curtains. DRAPES. Forget it.”
France gets few movies from America. They’re just now getting Tropic Thunder and Hellboy 2. What’s really exciting is that we’re also getting Space Monkeys, or rather, Les Singes de l’Espace. Normally, my limited French vocabulary would see that film title and think it’s an avant-garde think piece about love set in the rural provinces of France. But no. Not surprisingly, monkeys and outer space is part of my limited French vocabulary, crammed in my brain next to the nouns zombies and toilets. I really should expand it with French words of the day, hopefully adding the French words for catheter, scurvy, and tubesocks by the end of the week.
21 Octobre 2008
Mardi
These past 6 days have been an absolute blur.
My friend Danielle from Irvine came to stay with me for about 5 days in Paris. It was wonderful to have someone I’ve been friends with for a long time here, especially one that has lived in France for awhile, and especially one that I’ve known for awhile. The banality of living alone in a hole in Paris was shared with someone else, so that was fun.
At the Opéra Bastille, my friend and I were approached by two guys, probably early twenties. They didn’t speak any real English, and since we spoke limited French, conversation was a bit one sided. The wingman attempted to distract me while his friend hit on my friend Danielle unsuccessfully. After offering us weed and indistinguishable booze, they attempted to corral us into going to their place. It was a one way ticket to mug and rape town, population: us, so we politely declined. It always surprises me how much audacity and blind courage men have when they see a pretty girl or if someone calls them a faggot.
The next night involved something I should never do again: things I would do back home. Movie, dinner, and a bar, all in one night. The night cost me 46 euros, which currently equates to about 64 dollars. That is unacceptable, no matter how much money I save with top ramen. To further exacerbate the situation and dig myself into a deeper rut, my Bank of America ATM card expired…it was a temporary one until my parents mailed me my real card, which unfortunately they forgot to do when sending me mail twice. After struggling to contact my friend all night, I stumbled home around 2AM to find her sitting on the ground in the lobby reading a book. She waited 3 hours for me to show up since she had forgotten her phone. What better way to spend a Saturday night in the most romantic city in the world than in my lobby reading Dave Eggers.
She left this morning, and with her I sent my American absentee ballot. I want to be able to say, “Yes, I helped vote for the first African American president,” “Yes, I helped vote against the Gay Marriage ban,” and “Yes, I helped vote for someone I’ve never heard of in Fresno County.” I really like the idea that my vote, insignificant and biased, was cast in another country. They should see my address and throw it into a negligible pile, only to be opened if a recount for the Republican party was needed in Florida.
Lundi
I went to two different places to attempt to receive my carte de sejour. I went in expecting to be turned away, so when I did the first time at 9AM, I wasn’t too disappointed. I didn’t know I had to schedule an appointment, and I don’t remember reading about that. So I went to Cité Universitaire, a much kinder and forgiving place for students to receive it. Instead of just getting into the long line and wait to be turned away, I went straight to the help section and struggled to talk to a nice woman about what I’m doing wrong. It almost becomes patronizing when they laugh and say, “Oh la la, your French is good don’t worry!”
I still have to think up 3 new story ideas for Wednesday, and then rethink one of my older story ideas for my directing class. I’ve always had this goal to make something interesting AND actually be saying something, and after a few pitches today, I realized that my stories are just goofy short films with punch lines. Almost like a vaudeville act, with jazz hands and a punchline drum roll at the end. I just can’t think up anything serious without a voice inside me saying, “stop being pretentious” or “you know you want to put in a robot.” It’s difficult when I know the pitches/exercises are assigned because he wants to know that we know the basics of storytelling…3 act structure, character driven, conflict, goals, blah blah. All I want to do is break the rules, even though I could never obey them in the first place.
To save money, I’ve been experimenting with Top Ramen. Today I added hot sauce, pepper, some tuna, and an egg. Frankly, it was delicious. But all I wanted was a Big Mac or an In N Out burger. My mom suggested I throw in some cabbage and carrots and maybe some beef, and then I’ve got a pretty awesome stew for less than 3 euros. Hopefully by the time I leave France after my masters program, I will have developed an arsenal of top ramen dishes and publish some sort of college cookbook. Though, I imagine there’s a limit to how many things you can add to top ramen until it just becomes a pile of produce and noodles.
15 Octobre 2008
Mardi
Sometimes I wonder if the students shown in French textbooks have any idea they are in it. They’re given fake names, phone numbers, interests, and e-mail addresses. I flip through the pages and look at all the various faces. Jean-Pierre likes to play soccer, and Lauren just loves to play the violin. Every now and then I spot an attractive picture and think, “I should e-mail them.” Then I wonder what I’d say. “Hey…I saw your pic and your address in a French language text book. You seem like a pretty cool person. I hope you’re real. Let’s get some lunch, yes?”
A lot of EICAR students went to see Dennis Hopper today at the La Cinémathèque Française, a lovely building devoted to cinema. We saw Out of the Blue, a depressing flick about a troubled family. Not my cup of tea, especially since 80% of the people I’ve dated told me stories of their family that were pretty much what was on screen. So with my dating history, I should have been attracted to the 14 year old faux-punk teenager as she unabashedly raised hell because of her broken home. I hope my taste changes with age, and instead of being attracted to beautiful crazy people, I’m only attracted to millionaires with monocles.
I realized today that I’m not a student of EICAR. My loan hasn’t processed, and my name isn’t on any roster or anything like that. I don’t have the internet or the phone, nor do I have residency. I’m like a glorified tourist acting like I live here. Technically I did just get a bank account, but I have no checks or an ATM. So I couldn’t use it if I wanted to. If a tree falls in a forest, does it make a sound? If a guy attends a school he’s not enrolled in, is he a student? These questions have often plagued philosophical debates for centuries.
16 Octobre 2008
Mercredi
It finally came. After a long day at school of various film exercises, as I was coming home I had an idea on the métro for my first 16mm film. Well, I’ve had several, but I’ve hated all of them. I’m supposed to pitch them on Monday. They were all silly punchline short films, which I’ve tried to stay away from, but these are more exercises in plot structure. I’ve been pushing myself in a direction I’m unfamiliar with, like when I cook something other than top ramen or try matching an outfit with colors other than black.
I know I tend to recycle ideas, but there are themes I just can’t shake off. The whole unrequited thing, disappointment, the quixotic, foxy boxing, wet t-shirt contests. You know. Films you can really scratch your noggin over. I’m a little disappointed that I want the aesthetic and technique of the film to be almost identical to something I’ve already done, but I figure I’m in a new country with a fresh slate. These fuckers haven’t seen what I’ve done, so I’ll just steal ideas from my other movies. Only I’ll be in Paris and shooting on film with actors instead of in Irvine shooting clay on a home movie camera.
I tried calling a friend back home today with a phone card I bought. I think I’m retarded. The instructions are incredibly easy…you call the phone card number, input the code, then dial the number you want to call. I did just as the Indian man guided me, calling the phone card number and listening for instructions. The call was barred once, it failed three times, and went through four times. But when the instructions tell me that the card is not valid in French from what I understood, I just dialed it three more times. So I’m sure my parents will be delighted to see the American phone bill this month with several phone calls to a random non-existant French number.
I need to make a phone call using a phone booth at night, but all the ones near my apartment have homeless people sleeping in them. I wouldn’t mind using it, but then I’d have to stand on them. We could share the phone booth I suppose, and the homeless person could interject one liners in French. I could deal with that. At my internet café there are also several booths to make international phone calls, but they are exactly the opposite of sound proof. It’s almost as if people aren’t really talking on the phone, but are just speaking into a megaphone as their stupid conversations reverberate downstairs while I check my facebook account. This poses no problem if I were to call my parents since I would say nothing controversial. But if I want to call friends, I would probably say things that should not be heard by the people that work there nor the random tourists and Frenchies that check porn at the café. “Shut up. SHUT UP. He’s dating WHO now? OMG. Obama said WHAT? Get out. How big was it? No way. Did it hurt? Did the carpet match the drapes? Drapes, not grapes. Drapes. DRAPES. Like curtains. DRAPES. Forget it.”
France gets few movies from America. They’re just now getting Tropic Thunder and Hellboy 2. What’s really exciting is that we’re also getting Space Monkeys, or rather, Les Singes de l’Espace. Normally, my limited French vocabulary would see that film title and think it’s an avant-garde think piece about love set in the rural provinces of France. But no. Not surprisingly, monkeys and outer space is part of my limited French vocabulary, crammed in my brain next to the nouns zombies and toilets. I really should expand it with French words of the day, hopefully adding the French words for catheter, scurvy, and tubesocks by the end of the week.
21 Octobre 2008
Mardi
These past 6 days have been an absolute blur.
My friend Danielle from Irvine came to stay with me for about 5 days in Paris. It was wonderful to have someone I’ve been friends with for a long time here, especially one that has lived in France for awhile, and especially one that I’ve known for awhile. The banality of living alone in a hole in Paris was shared with someone else, so that was fun.
At the Opéra Bastille, my friend and I were approached by two guys, probably early twenties. They didn’t speak any real English, and since we spoke limited French, conversation was a bit one sided. The wingman attempted to distract me while his friend hit on my friend Danielle unsuccessfully. After offering us weed and indistinguishable booze, they attempted to corral us into going to their place. It was a one way ticket to mug and rape town, population: us, so we politely declined. It always surprises me how much audacity and blind courage men have when they see a pretty girl or if someone calls them a faggot.
The next night involved something I should never do again: things I would do back home. Movie, dinner, and a bar, all in one night. The night cost me 46 euros, which currently equates to about 64 dollars. That is unacceptable, no matter how much money I save with top ramen. To further exacerbate the situation and dig myself into a deeper rut, my Bank of America ATM card expired…it was a temporary one until my parents mailed me my real card, which unfortunately they forgot to do when sending me mail twice. After struggling to contact my friend all night, I stumbled home around 2AM to find her sitting on the ground in the lobby reading a book. She waited 3 hours for me to show up since she had forgotten her phone. What better way to spend a Saturday night in the most romantic city in the world than in my lobby reading Dave Eggers.
She left this morning, and with her I sent my American absentee ballot. I want to be able to say, “Yes, I helped vote for the first African American president,” “Yes, I helped vote against the Gay Marriage ban,” and “Yes, I helped vote for someone I’ve never heard of in Fresno County.” I really like the idea that my vote, insignificant and biased, was cast in another country. They should see my address and throw it into a negligible pile, only to be opened if a recount for the Republican party was needed in Florida.
24 October, 2008
well it's been a long time, long time now
8 Octobre 2008
Mercredi
Like most students in school, I ate Top Ramen for dinner. What’s sad is that it came from a care package my parents sent – the top ramen, or its equivalent sold at the supermarket nearest me is too expensive for me. I never really liked it, but I’ll have to deal.
I still don’t have a bank account yet, so therefore no Internet. While at an Internet café today, as I was leaving I glanced at a man in the corner of the room. He saw me standing up and leaving so quickly tried to close a window, but it was a futile effort because he had about 3 more open. In the window I could decipher, I saw tons of small pictures of women with huge black dildos.
There’s something I always found a bit strange about pornography in public. I always wondered what kind of person it takes to be completely oblivious and just not care. I was always jealous when students at my other university saw strangers watching porn in the library – I wanted to witness such a brave pervert, unabashedly getting off while others stood agape. This is the closest I’ve been I suppose, and was just disgusted and disappointed. Strip clubs, burlesque shows, French films…the paid collective boner is something I’ve just accepted with straight males aged 18+. But this…this deserved scrutiny and analysis. My thesis on the pervert that looks up porn at a public Internet café ultimately points to one conclusion: boobies supersede shame.
There was a point during my film history class when some French students in the back complained. They said it was like they were back in a philosophy high school class. Until my French gets better, I have to bite my tongue. I wanted to turn around, and in perfect French (mixed with some cool slang), I’d say, “Bitch please. This isn’t my first time on the rodeo. I’ve taken 5 years of film history and theory. I can Mulvey and Foucault yo’ ass so hard you’ll be begging to go back to high school philosophy. I’ve learned all this and more, but a refresher helps.” I probably thought too hard trying to figure out a French word for “rodeo.” I also believe they were asking if the professor could speak in French. The international department at EICAR is taught in English. The professor got sassy back to them, and then ended it with “in THIS classroom, we speak English.” For the first time during my stay here, I felt as if I had some sort of home field advantage. If’n ya can’t speak my language, geet out of mah class. I was empowered, then as soon as the class ended I was bullied by a barrage of French conversations I couldn’t understand.
I believe I cheated my way out of beginning French. Like in most of my French classes home, for conjugation and such, I rarely understood the actual meaning of the sentences, with their pretentious words and superfluous vowels. We had to select the right nouns and conjugated verbs to make the sentence correct, and so I just looked at the words around it and copied their tense. I don’t know if that’s correct or not, but to me it seems like cheating. Someone got a perfect score so I assume they understood the test. I got a C, I think, even though you can’t fail an evaluation.
9 Octobre 2008
Jeudi
Today was, finally, a great day. It started off rocky with me feeling a bit under the weather. But the moment I stepped in The Village Voice, an Anglo-American bookstore here in Paris, I just got incredibly happy. Then as I bought overpriced textbooks, I saw a Sedaris novel with a post-it: “Thursday, November 6th, 7PM: David Sedaris.” My eyes lit up and I realized I finally get to meet the author I’ve been obsessively reading for, well, the past 5 months. I’ve already decided what I’m going to say to him when I ask him to sign my book: “Hello.” It’s going to be great.
For once a bureaucratic process here in France was quick and painless. I had an appointment with Banque Populaire at 15h, and because I was out with other students in my class buying textbooks and eating lunch, I was 30 minutes late. I’ve kind of taken the attitude that I need to start enjoying Paris instead of stressing over important survival things like food, money, and commitments. I felt as if he would be angry since I just never have the right papers for my student loan, but when I came in it looked as though he was looking for something to do, sitting in an empty office and waiting for something to happen. He even joked a couple times about all the signing we both had to do, saying his hands were going to fall off. Sure it’s the kind of treatment I would normally get in the States with menial meetings, but to do any sort of bureaucratic thing in France this painlessly was and is rare for me. For everyday spent here, I’ve had bad news after bad news, dead ends and such. So I deposited a measly 200 euros just to have something in the bank account, then left the place with the Paris sun shining down.
Next was to meet with Laure and Robert of EICAR to see how my loan was doing. I waited in a room with a bunch of French students, and for some reason I just imagined they were all talking about me as I struggled to understand a few feet away. “Who does this American think he is, wearing grey jeans and a brown jacket?” “Is he blind? Why are his glasses dark? Transitional lenses are SO 2007.” I wanted to make up a reason to get angry with them, but in reality, they were talking about a fair they had visited. Boring.
Robert turned out to be the friendliest person I’ve met while dealing with paperwork. It figures…he’s English. After explaining to me that I’m the first person to ever be doing this loan process, he walked over to Laure and got shit done fast. They laughed at me because I asked them if that was all…they just needed to sign something and that would give me permission to get 21,000 euros. I told them I have been dealing with long dead ends of paperwork, phone calls and e-mails, so to get something done this fast was new to me. I told them I had mentally prepared myself for waiting, just like getting my residency.
“Well we can’t control the way France handles your residency,” Robert explained. “But here at EICAR we don’t really make people wait when they don’t’ need to.”
Where was this guy before, and why did I just meet him now?
I still have to get my residency, a phone, the internet, etc. But nothing matters anymore. I’m going to meet David Sedaris and be completely disappointed that the author that has gotten me through the most stressful period of my life is a little weenie. A weenie I completely relate to, but a weenie nonetheless.
10 Octobre 2008
Vendredi
I have to wait a week until I get checks or an ATM card before I can get a phone or the Internet, two things I actually do need here. Which is a pity since I went to get those things today with a friend from school. What was I thinking? Did I really expect to walk into a shop and leave with something in hand? The bureaucracy is redonk here, as I’ve complained about to everyone all the time. I could get a gun, bomb ingredients and start a meth lab in America faster than I can do anything here.
I got a printer today so I can print pictures and decorate my place. Of course, I’m going to print the scene between Margot and Richie Tenenbaum and put it above my bed…I cannot find a finer piece to print than my favorite scene in my favorite movie. That movie is coming in my next care package from home.
After the phone debacle, we walked around La Marais district. It was nice to get a feel of the place. The place is like gay district of San Francisco, only I felt it was better. After checking out a gay bookstore, I decided I’m going to be a fool and get Foucault’s History of Sexuality, but in French. As if I already didn’t have a problem reading him, I intend on making things worse for myself by reading theoretical French. In a sex shop/bondage shop, they had a back room where someone was currently being spanked. If I were not sick and utterly exhausted, I may have found the situation comical or noteworthy. But instead, my exact thought was “What is the quickest dinner I can make tonight so I can pass out right away?” I imagine it was the same thought as the man getting spanked, and as he made one moan, I imagined his next thought: “Ohhhh, tuna casserole.”
I really enjoy it when I fool the French. They speak to me in French and, depending on the situation, I understand 10-50% of what they’re saying. As I was buying lettuce at the supermarket, an old lady accidentally took it and began bagging it as her own. Out of nowhere, without even thinking, I told her “No mademoiselle, that lettuce is mine.” As I walked out, I realized that the words that came out of my mouth didn’t require 3 seconds of thinking and translating…it was as instantaneous as my “Merci’s” and “Bonjours.” This made me very happy. This is the first step to language fluency. The next phrases I want to come out naturally are, “You stepped on my kicks, son,” as well as “You look like a tired faggot,” “This isn’t my first time at the rodeo,” “Work it out,” and “There’s a snake in my boots.”
Everyday when I come home, despite the loneliness and homesickness, I know how lucky I am to be here. Fucking Paris, for Christ’s sake. Come on. Studying film in Paris. What the shit is that? I never ever realize it until I get back home, get into pajamas, watch The Simpsons, and write in this silly little journal.
12 Octobre 2008
Samedi
I think I’m only going to do laundry in my bathtub from now on. I can buy string and clothespins and just string it along my room. I spent 10 euros today and didn’t even completely dry my clothes because I didn’t want to spend any more money. It cost 1 euro for 10 minutes of drying. Plus I look afool, dragging my baggage through the streets of Paris full of stinky laundry. Though I suppose it isn’t any different than me in Irvine, lugging my huge Santa bag to the laundry machines.
I watched the movie Blindness with some friends from school. It’s by the same director as City of Men, but I believe Blindness was even better. It was phenomenal and intense, thought provoking and inspiring. I cherish moments when I leave a theater in awe, because sadly it rarely happens for me. Once again it reaffirmed that I want to make movies. It was a brilliant microcosm for ethics, morality, law, and humanity. But what mostly blew me away was that it still followed the Hollywood scriptwriting formula – that evil formula that I always spat at. It took heed to the structure of acts, of catalysts, at all the 2nd and 3rd act turning points, everything. Despite all that, it found ways for me to go above and beyond the silly structure of storytelling and just compel the audience into thought and entertainment.
Afterwards we went to a bar, and as I walked home I was amazed that the city was still swarming with people. Past 2 AM I’m used to people calling it a night, but no, people were still out, staggering around drunk, still drinking and still laughing. It makes me wonder how many things I’ve missed when I stay home tired and fall asleep at 10PM.
So tomorrow is my day of rest, of contemplation, and I plan on mulling over at cafes to think of story ideas for class. It definitely helps to be inspired by such an amazing movie.
13 Octobre 2008
Dimanche
As I was opening my security window to let in some light this morning, there was this orange cat standing there, waiting for me. It scared the hell out of me. Sure, it was a cute little cat and not a giant spider, but that’s not the first thing I want to see when I wake up – something starting right back at me. Especially something that makes me sneeze and scratch.
I went to my regular café to ponder short film ideas, and while sitting a homeless person approached people asking for a cigarette. He looked at my Marlbaro menthols and his face contorted, and walked passed me. I was extremely insulted. This man, who has no home, money, or a fresh set of clothes, didn’t want something I had and was ready to offer him. Is there something wrong with my menthols? Not good enough for a man who has nothing? I wanted to argue with him and make him smoke it, make him enjoy the refreshing and minty poison he just missed out on. I felt as if my charity wasn’t good enough for a man who sleeps in a phone booth, and consequently, I was instantly degenerated into a position lower than the scum on his hands. Maybe if I smoked something fancier, like some designer cigarettes encrusted with diamonds. “Oh please sir,” he’d say. “Let me have one of your Louis Vuitton cigarettes. Or maybe I can have one of your Gucci cigarettes, forged from the best artisan tobacconists.” And I’d say, “Non monsieur, you don’t even deserve the second hand smoke emanating from the tip of this beauty. Only 1000 of them were made, and this is number 327.”
On the way to meet a friend from America, I saw one dog walking while another was trying to have sex with it. I imagined what it would like if this applied to humans. Someone is trying to have sex with you, and you simply don’t notice and just walk away to sniff a bush. I guess humans just don’t have the same rules as dogs. I wondered if the dogs even knew each other’s names, and if they would call back the next day. I imagined one of the dogs sitting near their phone, wondering “Why hasn’t he called?!” Or “I bet that bitch is with Fido right now. I’m twice the dog he is. Why I never!”
Later while I was with my friend, I had a second scrappy possibly homeless kid approach me for cigarettes, but when he saw that it was menthols, he declined. Do the French know something I don’t? I figure it’s a cigarette and it’s going to kill me…are menthols killing me faster? Do they give me hairy palms or cause impotence? Tell me!
While we sat at the steps of the Opera Bastille facing the…Bastille, there was a big tour group of rowdy French people. Someone pulled out a phone and played shitty house music and projected it from a megaphone, while some French guys took their shirts off and they all started to sing and dance. Then they took a drunk boy, probably no older than 16, and taped him to a light pole. Not many people were laughing, and it actually seemed as if they were being serious about it, while others proceeded to dance.
I have a lot to learn about the French culture.
It was good to see a familiar face, especially one on the same crazy boat as I am. Bye comfy, cozy life of America with your In N Outs and Dennies and bureaucratic system that just plain works. Bye friends and family who love you and have supported you for 23 years. Hello, new country new culture new language new lifestyle.
Using the the good ole scriptwriting act structure as a comparison for my life, I suppose this would be the second act turning point at 23 years old. I suppose the catalyst would be my decision to begin film around the 15-16 year mark. I would be going through the shift in location, which I guess mean Paris. Though, I suppose that means I’ll live to 120-130 years old, depending on how long the studio wants me to be. A directors cut would give me an additional 20 years of things that should have been edited out. I wonder what the rising action and climax is, and especially the annoying denouement. I hope a tacky hip hop song plays during the credits, receives a limited theatrical release, and does moderately well at the box office.
Mercredi
Like most students in school, I ate Top Ramen for dinner. What’s sad is that it came from a care package my parents sent – the top ramen, or its equivalent sold at the supermarket nearest me is too expensive for me. I never really liked it, but I’ll have to deal.
I still don’t have a bank account yet, so therefore no Internet. While at an Internet café today, as I was leaving I glanced at a man in the corner of the room. He saw me standing up and leaving so quickly tried to close a window, but it was a futile effort because he had about 3 more open. In the window I could decipher, I saw tons of small pictures of women with huge black dildos.
There’s something I always found a bit strange about pornography in public. I always wondered what kind of person it takes to be completely oblivious and just not care. I was always jealous when students at my other university saw strangers watching porn in the library – I wanted to witness such a brave pervert, unabashedly getting off while others stood agape. This is the closest I’ve been I suppose, and was just disgusted and disappointed. Strip clubs, burlesque shows, French films…the paid collective boner is something I’ve just accepted with straight males aged 18+. But this…this deserved scrutiny and analysis. My thesis on the pervert that looks up porn at a public Internet café ultimately points to one conclusion: boobies supersede shame.
There was a point during my film history class when some French students in the back complained. They said it was like they were back in a philosophy high school class. Until my French gets better, I have to bite my tongue. I wanted to turn around, and in perfect French (mixed with some cool slang), I’d say, “Bitch please. This isn’t my first time on the rodeo. I’ve taken 5 years of film history and theory. I can Mulvey and Foucault yo’ ass so hard you’ll be begging to go back to high school philosophy. I’ve learned all this and more, but a refresher helps.” I probably thought too hard trying to figure out a French word for “rodeo.” I also believe they were asking if the professor could speak in French. The international department at EICAR is taught in English. The professor got sassy back to them, and then ended it with “in THIS classroom, we speak English.” For the first time during my stay here, I felt as if I had some sort of home field advantage. If’n ya can’t speak my language, geet out of mah class. I was empowered, then as soon as the class ended I was bullied by a barrage of French conversations I couldn’t understand.
I believe I cheated my way out of beginning French. Like in most of my French classes home, for conjugation and such, I rarely understood the actual meaning of the sentences, with their pretentious words and superfluous vowels. We had to select the right nouns and conjugated verbs to make the sentence correct, and so I just looked at the words around it and copied their tense. I don’t know if that’s correct or not, but to me it seems like cheating. Someone got a perfect score so I assume they understood the test. I got a C, I think, even though you can’t fail an evaluation.
9 Octobre 2008
Jeudi
Today was, finally, a great day. It started off rocky with me feeling a bit under the weather. But the moment I stepped in The Village Voice, an Anglo-American bookstore here in Paris, I just got incredibly happy. Then as I bought overpriced textbooks, I saw a Sedaris novel with a post-it: “Thursday, November 6th, 7PM: David Sedaris.” My eyes lit up and I realized I finally get to meet the author I’ve been obsessively reading for, well, the past 5 months. I’ve already decided what I’m going to say to him when I ask him to sign my book: “Hello.” It’s going to be great.
For once a bureaucratic process here in France was quick and painless. I had an appointment with Banque Populaire at 15h, and because I was out with other students in my class buying textbooks and eating lunch, I was 30 minutes late. I’ve kind of taken the attitude that I need to start enjoying Paris instead of stressing over important survival things like food, money, and commitments. I felt as if he would be angry since I just never have the right papers for my student loan, but when I came in it looked as though he was looking for something to do, sitting in an empty office and waiting for something to happen. He even joked a couple times about all the signing we both had to do, saying his hands were going to fall off. Sure it’s the kind of treatment I would normally get in the States with menial meetings, but to do any sort of bureaucratic thing in France this painlessly was and is rare for me. For everyday spent here, I’ve had bad news after bad news, dead ends and such. So I deposited a measly 200 euros just to have something in the bank account, then left the place with the Paris sun shining down.
Next was to meet with Laure and Robert of EICAR to see how my loan was doing. I waited in a room with a bunch of French students, and for some reason I just imagined they were all talking about me as I struggled to understand a few feet away. “Who does this American think he is, wearing grey jeans and a brown jacket?” “Is he blind? Why are his glasses dark? Transitional lenses are SO 2007.” I wanted to make up a reason to get angry with them, but in reality, they were talking about a fair they had visited. Boring.
Robert turned out to be the friendliest person I’ve met while dealing with paperwork. It figures…he’s English. After explaining to me that I’m the first person to ever be doing this loan process, he walked over to Laure and got shit done fast. They laughed at me because I asked them if that was all…they just needed to sign something and that would give me permission to get 21,000 euros. I told them I have been dealing with long dead ends of paperwork, phone calls and e-mails, so to get something done this fast was new to me. I told them I had mentally prepared myself for waiting, just like getting my residency.
“Well we can’t control the way France handles your residency,” Robert explained. “But here at EICAR we don’t really make people wait when they don’t’ need to.”
Where was this guy before, and why did I just meet him now?
I still have to get my residency, a phone, the internet, etc. But nothing matters anymore. I’m going to meet David Sedaris and be completely disappointed that the author that has gotten me through the most stressful period of my life is a little weenie. A weenie I completely relate to, but a weenie nonetheless.
10 Octobre 2008
Vendredi
I have to wait a week until I get checks or an ATM card before I can get a phone or the Internet, two things I actually do need here. Which is a pity since I went to get those things today with a friend from school. What was I thinking? Did I really expect to walk into a shop and leave with something in hand? The bureaucracy is redonk here, as I’ve complained about to everyone all the time. I could get a gun, bomb ingredients and start a meth lab in America faster than I can do anything here.
I got a printer today so I can print pictures and decorate my place. Of course, I’m going to print the scene between Margot and Richie Tenenbaum and put it above my bed…I cannot find a finer piece to print than my favorite scene in my favorite movie. That movie is coming in my next care package from home.
After the phone debacle, we walked around La Marais district. It was nice to get a feel of the place. The place is like gay district of San Francisco, only I felt it was better. After checking out a gay bookstore, I decided I’m going to be a fool and get Foucault’s History of Sexuality, but in French. As if I already didn’t have a problem reading him, I intend on making things worse for myself by reading theoretical French. In a sex shop/bondage shop, they had a back room where someone was currently being spanked. If I were not sick and utterly exhausted, I may have found the situation comical or noteworthy. But instead, my exact thought was “What is the quickest dinner I can make tonight so I can pass out right away?” I imagine it was the same thought as the man getting spanked, and as he made one moan, I imagined his next thought: “Ohhhh, tuna casserole.”
I really enjoy it when I fool the French. They speak to me in French and, depending on the situation, I understand 10-50% of what they’re saying. As I was buying lettuce at the supermarket, an old lady accidentally took it and began bagging it as her own. Out of nowhere, without even thinking, I told her “No mademoiselle, that lettuce is mine.” As I walked out, I realized that the words that came out of my mouth didn’t require 3 seconds of thinking and translating…it was as instantaneous as my “Merci’s” and “Bonjours.” This made me very happy. This is the first step to language fluency. The next phrases I want to come out naturally are, “You stepped on my kicks, son,” as well as “You look like a tired faggot,” “This isn’t my first time at the rodeo,” “Work it out,” and “There’s a snake in my boots.”
Everyday when I come home, despite the loneliness and homesickness, I know how lucky I am to be here. Fucking Paris, for Christ’s sake. Come on. Studying film in Paris. What the shit is that? I never ever realize it until I get back home, get into pajamas, watch The Simpsons, and write in this silly little journal.
12 Octobre 2008
Samedi
I think I’m only going to do laundry in my bathtub from now on. I can buy string and clothespins and just string it along my room. I spent 10 euros today and didn’t even completely dry my clothes because I didn’t want to spend any more money. It cost 1 euro for 10 minutes of drying. Plus I look afool, dragging my baggage through the streets of Paris full of stinky laundry. Though I suppose it isn’t any different than me in Irvine, lugging my huge Santa bag to the laundry machines.
I watched the movie Blindness with some friends from school. It’s by the same director as City of Men, but I believe Blindness was even better. It was phenomenal and intense, thought provoking and inspiring. I cherish moments when I leave a theater in awe, because sadly it rarely happens for me. Once again it reaffirmed that I want to make movies. It was a brilliant microcosm for ethics, morality, law, and humanity. But what mostly blew me away was that it still followed the Hollywood scriptwriting formula – that evil formula that I always spat at. It took heed to the structure of acts, of catalysts, at all the 2nd and 3rd act turning points, everything. Despite all that, it found ways for me to go above and beyond the silly structure of storytelling and just compel the audience into thought and entertainment.
Afterwards we went to a bar, and as I walked home I was amazed that the city was still swarming with people. Past 2 AM I’m used to people calling it a night, but no, people were still out, staggering around drunk, still drinking and still laughing. It makes me wonder how many things I’ve missed when I stay home tired and fall asleep at 10PM.
So tomorrow is my day of rest, of contemplation, and I plan on mulling over at cafes to think of story ideas for class. It definitely helps to be inspired by such an amazing movie.
13 Octobre 2008
Dimanche
As I was opening my security window to let in some light this morning, there was this orange cat standing there, waiting for me. It scared the hell out of me. Sure, it was a cute little cat and not a giant spider, but that’s not the first thing I want to see when I wake up – something starting right back at me. Especially something that makes me sneeze and scratch.
I went to my regular café to ponder short film ideas, and while sitting a homeless person approached people asking for a cigarette. He looked at my Marlbaro menthols and his face contorted, and walked passed me. I was extremely insulted. This man, who has no home, money, or a fresh set of clothes, didn’t want something I had and was ready to offer him. Is there something wrong with my menthols? Not good enough for a man who has nothing? I wanted to argue with him and make him smoke it, make him enjoy the refreshing and minty poison he just missed out on. I felt as if my charity wasn’t good enough for a man who sleeps in a phone booth, and consequently, I was instantly degenerated into a position lower than the scum on his hands. Maybe if I smoked something fancier, like some designer cigarettes encrusted with diamonds. “Oh please sir,” he’d say. “Let me have one of your Louis Vuitton cigarettes. Or maybe I can have one of your Gucci cigarettes, forged from the best artisan tobacconists.” And I’d say, “Non monsieur, you don’t even deserve the second hand smoke emanating from the tip of this beauty. Only 1000 of them were made, and this is number 327.”
On the way to meet a friend from America, I saw one dog walking while another was trying to have sex with it. I imagined what it would like if this applied to humans. Someone is trying to have sex with you, and you simply don’t notice and just walk away to sniff a bush. I guess humans just don’t have the same rules as dogs. I wondered if the dogs even knew each other’s names, and if they would call back the next day. I imagined one of the dogs sitting near their phone, wondering “Why hasn’t he called?!” Or “I bet that bitch is with Fido right now. I’m twice the dog he is. Why I never!”
Later while I was with my friend, I had a second scrappy possibly homeless kid approach me for cigarettes, but when he saw that it was menthols, he declined. Do the French know something I don’t? I figure it’s a cigarette and it’s going to kill me…are menthols killing me faster? Do they give me hairy palms or cause impotence? Tell me!
While we sat at the steps of the Opera Bastille facing the…Bastille, there was a big tour group of rowdy French people. Someone pulled out a phone and played shitty house music and projected it from a megaphone, while some French guys took their shirts off and they all started to sing and dance. Then they took a drunk boy, probably no older than 16, and taped him to a light pole. Not many people were laughing, and it actually seemed as if they were being serious about it, while others proceeded to dance.
I have a lot to learn about the French culture.
It was good to see a familiar face, especially one on the same crazy boat as I am. Bye comfy, cozy life of America with your In N Outs and Dennies and bureaucratic system that just plain works. Bye friends and family who love you and have supported you for 23 years. Hello, new country new culture new language new lifestyle.
Using the the good ole scriptwriting act structure as a comparison for my life, I suppose this would be the second act turning point at 23 years old. I suppose the catalyst would be my decision to begin film around the 15-16 year mark. I would be going through the shift in location, which I guess mean Paris. Though, I suppose that means I’ll live to 120-130 years old, depending on how long the studio wants me to be. A directors cut would give me an additional 20 years of things that should have been edited out. I wonder what the rising action and climax is, and especially the annoying denouement. I hope a tacky hip hop song plays during the credits, receives a limited theatrical release, and does moderately well at the box office.
11 October, 2008
merde!
4 Octobre 2008
Samedi
I’m still not used to all the sounds I hear at night. They’re not spooky sounds. It’s mostly the distant cars’ rumble or a métro somewhere. But there’s one sound I can’t place. It sounds like people are playing chess upstairs, only the chess pieces are life size. Every so often I’d hear someone dragging a pawn to its place, then someone overtakes it with a knight. Each move involves a slow dragging process of what simply has to be giant chess pieces. I intend on challenging them one night as soon as I know how to say “Predictable, I saw that coming three moves ago” in French.
Today was my sightseeing day. After getting off at the métro, I looked at my map to situate myself like the other hundreds of tourists around me. I honestly had no idea which way was north and scrutinized the confusing street signs that don’t actually say what street you are on, but rather point to major parts in Paris I’m not familiar with. I didn’t want to get lost again so early in the day. I scratched my noggin, looked up from the map and saw l’Arc de Triomphe over yonder. Oh, okay. It’s probably the most triumphant arc I’ve seen, though I drew some pretty good ones in geometry. Next stop was the Tour de l’Eiffel. I threw myself on the métro, consulted my map, and got lost when I looked at the squiggley lines. I looked for any stones to see which side the moss was growing on, and then at the sun to see which way it was rising. The north star was not yet visible. Then I looked a little to the right and saw the Eiffel Tower. Oh, okay.
So I meandered to the most celebrated and romantic monument in the world and ordered 2 sausages, fries and coffee. Immediately after sitting down, about a hundred pigeons had spotted my fries. I sat alone in Paris surrounded by thousands of pigeons and tourists, eating wieners and kicking pigeons. Luckily, there were dozens of German tourist children raising hell and chasing pigeons away. I saw them as the Fourth Reich, defending my right to guzzle down wieners. I hope they’re around when I try and marry a man. Though the pigeons were a nuisance, I admired their ferocity, keeping Paris’ streets clear of any digestible waste. I assume they must also be employed by the French sanitation department, while their human counterparts clean up the cardboard and cigarette butts they cannot consume. I fear when the pigeons unionize and strike for better wages. This place will smell terrible.
My next stop was the holy H&M. I needed me a black scarf. This is to be my only frivolity for a month. I stopped by some giant fountain and sat on its edges to consult my map and its address, then stopped when everyone began taking pictures of me. I paused to look at what I was wearing, first. Had I forgotten to wear pants? No, they’re on. Apparently I was sitting on the Place du Châtelet. Founded to celebrate the victories of Napoléon, it now stands as a resting spot for my H&M excursion. While shopping, I was sickened by the standards of dress by Parisienne youth. I need something to feel superior so I don’t feel completely out of place. But no, they were all impeccably dressed, beautiful, and speaking French. They win. My coat made me look frumpy, I tripped when saying “Bonjour,” and I had a bad hair day.
Today was also the first day I experienced the mega-ultra-crowded métro. After a string of bad luck of being forced to hug the homeless and the elderly, my trip back home finally forced an attractive person to be all over me. Instead of smelling soiled pants and sewage for 20 minutes, I smelled cheap cologne and aftershave as he fell into my arms numerous times. He’s now carrying my child.
When I came home and cooked dinner, I filled my entire apartment with smoke. I was completely absorbed comparing Internet and phone prices between two companies. I scrambled to open my window, fearful of a spider, then ran around my apartment waving a scarf around like a lasso. In all honesty, my life in Paris isn’t too much different from my life in Irvine.
5 Octobre 2008
Dimanche
Last night was “Nuit Blanche,” an event from 7PM – 7 AM Sunday. The first step outside my apartment, I almost twisted my ankle in front of what looked like a goddamn D&G model, a look of concern on his face as I rubbed my ankle. I decided from then on that the hotter someone is, the more I hurt.
I lasted about 4 hours in an all night event. Basically museums are all open and free with various installations scattered throughout Paris. The lines were incredibly long so I only checked out installations outside, which were usually video projections or some semblance of performance art. One of the main ones I visited was the Tour Saint-Jacques, where artist Gu Dexin projected a film of the Tour Saint-Jacques over the Tour Saint-Jacques. A big crowd gathered around the tower expecting some sort of moving picture show, complete with moving pictures. I admit, I did too for 15 minutes, then I read the description of the artist’s work: “…son travail touché à l’absurde et au paradoxe.” I gazed at the film of the Tour Sant-Jacques on the Tour Saint-Jacques, and realized I’ve been had. “I get it,” my face grimly read, and I walked down La Marais to seek some gay trouble.
I stumbled onto a big billion dollar eyesore, the Museé National D’art Moderne. Disappointed at another long line, I bought a crêpe and instead watched some fire dancers and some performance art. 2 people were inside a tiny aluminum room with one wall of glass to peer inside. Above them read the neon sign, “Chambre de l’hôtel.” Inside, a woman straight out of a Truffaut film was moving and posing in slow motion, while a man wrapped himself in leather straps and constantly grimaced into a mirror. I looked at the sign again and thought, “I get it,” then walked away. Those are just some of the silly things I saw.
Several people tonight spoke to me, asking what the hell we were watching, and I was just incredibly happy that I understood what they had asked. However, trying to explain the absurd, irony, or performance art in a nutshell – in another language, one I don’t command – is something to be avoided. “Je ne sais pas,” I responded. “C’est vraiment. Je….je ne sais pas.”
It’s not the individual art or video projections that impressed me. I could see that stuff at a good night of UC Irvine’s Catalyst shows. It’s the fact that the entire city of Paris had an entire night devoted to it, and the streets were swarming with young and old for the sake of art. It’s amazing, and I feel like I don’t deserve it.
My day of laundry turned out to be unsuccessful. The supermarket was closed so I couldn’t buy detergent. I didn’t want to use the detergent they sold on a machine at the laverie because I’m allergic to everything imaginable. So instead, I went to church. I needed something familiar, something to feel a part of again. Even if my views on religion were different from everyone there, I appreciated everyone’s faith, and the gorgeous architecture psychologically designed to make me feel insignificant.
Everything was fine until I remembered that Catholic mass, towards the end, has everyone shaking hands with their neighbor and saying “Peace be with you.” I grew afraid, knowing that I didn’t know how to say this. A thought bubble appeared with a French teacher saying, “Don’t get distracted by words you don’t know. Use words you do know.” The closest translation I could say was “Ne pas guerre avec vous,” which I thought meant “No war with you.” No, no, that won’t do. I had the idea to let them say it first, and to repeat it like a parrot. Well, they said it, and I couldn’t even decipher the sounds they made. So I mouthed words to make it appear I said something even though I didn’t, which is kind of what I do when I make promises. I figured if they can’t read lips, I would be safe.
And now, because everything appears to be closed and I feel a bit under the weather, I decided to (mostly) stay in. I finally have begun real work on my friend Ryan’s performance art show called “Anal Foreclosure” that I shot around August 1st. I also watched some of my Slow Through Eden documentary, and my last short film. It has come to my attention that I mean well. I really, really mean well. I think I edit phenomenally and can flesh out a film pretty damn well, but when it comes to actually directing and communicating with another human being I falter. These last few products I’ve made, for once, I’m actually proud of. Like actually, for once in my life, proud of. I know the faults of my own work better than anyone else can, but still, beyond it all…I believe I’ve done incredibly well for the resources I have/had. I told my main film professor here that I’d show him my work when I gained some courage, and though that has not happened yet, I’ll have my portfolio ready to hand over.
6 Octobre 2008
Lundi
One simply does not look cool eating a banana. I usually bring one with me whenever I go out, and while sitting in a lounge at my school, I noticed a group of the cool kids sitting next to me eating. It was like high school again, and I tried to look at least inviting or “cool,” but that could not happen when a banana is being eaten. When opening it, there’s this weird dark end that is mostly unappetizing, so I ripped it off and had to put it somewhere. I couldn’t find a place, so I put it on one of the hanging peels, but it repeatedly fell on my crotch. I tried to pick it off and put it somewhere else, but then half my banana fell off onto the table. Then I picked up the fallen banana and examined it, thought about the 5 second rule, then placed it back onto its other half. Meanwhile, the black spot I had earlier removed was stuck to my fingers, and I frowned.
See, I imagine if I was sitting in a room and saw a fairly attractive, well-dressed boy struggling to eat a banana, I would find it endearing. I’d smile and shrug it off, thinking he was just having a bad day. But no. I think realistically if you see this, you imagine the person to be incompetent with poor motor skills, and probably horrible in bed.
School officially began today, though it was only one class. In just about two hours our teacher/professor gave more advice than almost a years worth of my production class at UCI, though it was more of a generic “rules of making cinema” kind of thing. But once he teaches the formula and once you know the rules, then you can break them…right? Like Charlie Kaufman?
We were partnered up and given a short synopsis to storyboard and pitch in front of the class. It involved a frog chasing a fly that almost dies from 2 cars, then eventually dies from a bike. We were only given a limited amount of time, and though it’s a good exercise in quick thinking, though I would prefer to spend a lot more time thinking out shots. But it was cool and fun to hear him explain subjectivity, objectivism and what not being applied to simple storytelling – the kinds of things UCI film students would just write papers about.
I came home to a wonderful care package my parents sent me, full of tuna, salmon, top ramen, cookies, Simpsons DVDs, and last week’s Wall Street Journal. I love my parents. I should be starting on my next storyboarding project (involving a frog, a man, and a woman), but I’m full of spaghetti and about to pass out at 9:30 PM. I also have to pitch 3 story ideas on Wednesday, and I only have 2. I’m struggling with the last one because, well, I’d like to throw in a serious and more personal story idea. My first 2 ideas are familiar territories (the kitsch…zombies and time travel). The last I really want step past my restrictions and fears and actually do something…gay. That sounds gay. But I’ve been opposed to so much gay cinema and gay themes because I hate the stigma and label they receive. It’s as if, when there are gay characters, a whole new set of standards (usually lower) are applied, and it’s dismissed as a gay movie to be stocked in the indie or foreign section at Blockbuster. Fuck that. And yes, coming out stories are always incredibly traumatic, but I don’t want to do that. I also instantly want to throw in pirates and robots, or make it a gay musical Victorian era time piece. I think I’ll just sleep on it.
Tomorrow is my first full day of class which scares me…I still have to find time during the week to take care of my residency, my bank account, getting a loan, etc. C’est difficile, but I love it.
Samedi
I’m still not used to all the sounds I hear at night. They’re not spooky sounds. It’s mostly the distant cars’ rumble or a métro somewhere. But there’s one sound I can’t place. It sounds like people are playing chess upstairs, only the chess pieces are life size. Every so often I’d hear someone dragging a pawn to its place, then someone overtakes it with a knight. Each move involves a slow dragging process of what simply has to be giant chess pieces. I intend on challenging them one night as soon as I know how to say “Predictable, I saw that coming three moves ago” in French.
Today was my sightseeing day. After getting off at the métro, I looked at my map to situate myself like the other hundreds of tourists around me. I honestly had no idea which way was north and scrutinized the confusing street signs that don’t actually say what street you are on, but rather point to major parts in Paris I’m not familiar with. I didn’t want to get lost again so early in the day. I scratched my noggin, looked up from the map and saw l’Arc de Triomphe over yonder. Oh, okay. It’s probably the most triumphant arc I’ve seen, though I drew some pretty good ones in geometry. Next stop was the Tour de l’Eiffel. I threw myself on the métro, consulted my map, and got lost when I looked at the squiggley lines. I looked for any stones to see which side the moss was growing on, and then at the sun to see which way it was rising. The north star was not yet visible. Then I looked a little to the right and saw the Eiffel Tower. Oh, okay.
So I meandered to the most celebrated and romantic monument in the world and ordered 2 sausages, fries and coffee. Immediately after sitting down, about a hundred pigeons had spotted my fries. I sat alone in Paris surrounded by thousands of pigeons and tourists, eating wieners and kicking pigeons. Luckily, there were dozens of German tourist children raising hell and chasing pigeons away. I saw them as the Fourth Reich, defending my right to guzzle down wieners. I hope they’re around when I try and marry a man. Though the pigeons were a nuisance, I admired their ferocity, keeping Paris’ streets clear of any digestible waste. I assume they must also be employed by the French sanitation department, while their human counterparts clean up the cardboard and cigarette butts they cannot consume. I fear when the pigeons unionize and strike for better wages. This place will smell terrible.
My next stop was the holy H&M. I needed me a black scarf. This is to be my only frivolity for a month. I stopped by some giant fountain and sat on its edges to consult my map and its address, then stopped when everyone began taking pictures of me. I paused to look at what I was wearing, first. Had I forgotten to wear pants? No, they’re on. Apparently I was sitting on the Place du Châtelet. Founded to celebrate the victories of Napoléon, it now stands as a resting spot for my H&M excursion. While shopping, I was sickened by the standards of dress by Parisienne youth. I need something to feel superior so I don’t feel completely out of place. But no, they were all impeccably dressed, beautiful, and speaking French. They win. My coat made me look frumpy, I tripped when saying “Bonjour,” and I had a bad hair day.
Today was also the first day I experienced the mega-ultra-crowded métro. After a string of bad luck of being forced to hug the homeless and the elderly, my trip back home finally forced an attractive person to be all over me. Instead of smelling soiled pants and sewage for 20 minutes, I smelled cheap cologne and aftershave as he fell into my arms numerous times. He’s now carrying my child.
When I came home and cooked dinner, I filled my entire apartment with smoke. I was completely absorbed comparing Internet and phone prices between two companies. I scrambled to open my window, fearful of a spider, then ran around my apartment waving a scarf around like a lasso. In all honesty, my life in Paris isn’t too much different from my life in Irvine.
5 Octobre 2008
Dimanche
Last night was “Nuit Blanche,” an event from 7PM – 7 AM Sunday. The first step outside my apartment, I almost twisted my ankle in front of what looked like a goddamn D&G model, a look of concern on his face as I rubbed my ankle. I decided from then on that the hotter someone is, the more I hurt.
I lasted about 4 hours in an all night event. Basically museums are all open and free with various installations scattered throughout Paris. The lines were incredibly long so I only checked out installations outside, which were usually video projections or some semblance of performance art. One of the main ones I visited was the Tour Saint-Jacques, where artist Gu Dexin projected a film of the Tour Saint-Jacques over the Tour Saint-Jacques. A big crowd gathered around the tower expecting some sort of moving picture show, complete with moving pictures. I admit, I did too for 15 minutes, then I read the description of the artist’s work: “…son travail touché à l’absurde et au paradoxe.” I gazed at the film of the Tour Sant-Jacques on the Tour Saint-Jacques, and realized I’ve been had. “I get it,” my face grimly read, and I walked down La Marais to seek some gay trouble.
I stumbled onto a big billion dollar eyesore, the Museé National D’art Moderne. Disappointed at another long line, I bought a crêpe and instead watched some fire dancers and some performance art. 2 people were inside a tiny aluminum room with one wall of glass to peer inside. Above them read the neon sign, “Chambre de l’hôtel.” Inside, a woman straight out of a Truffaut film was moving and posing in slow motion, while a man wrapped himself in leather straps and constantly grimaced into a mirror. I looked at the sign again and thought, “I get it,” then walked away. Those are just some of the silly things I saw.
Several people tonight spoke to me, asking what the hell we were watching, and I was just incredibly happy that I understood what they had asked. However, trying to explain the absurd, irony, or performance art in a nutshell – in another language, one I don’t command – is something to be avoided. “Je ne sais pas,” I responded. “C’est vraiment. Je….je ne sais pas.”
It’s not the individual art or video projections that impressed me. I could see that stuff at a good night of UC Irvine’s Catalyst shows. It’s the fact that the entire city of Paris had an entire night devoted to it, and the streets were swarming with young and old for the sake of art. It’s amazing, and I feel like I don’t deserve it.
My day of laundry turned out to be unsuccessful. The supermarket was closed so I couldn’t buy detergent. I didn’t want to use the detergent they sold on a machine at the laverie because I’m allergic to everything imaginable. So instead, I went to church. I needed something familiar, something to feel a part of again. Even if my views on religion were different from everyone there, I appreciated everyone’s faith, and the gorgeous architecture psychologically designed to make me feel insignificant.
Everything was fine until I remembered that Catholic mass, towards the end, has everyone shaking hands with their neighbor and saying “Peace be with you.” I grew afraid, knowing that I didn’t know how to say this. A thought bubble appeared with a French teacher saying, “Don’t get distracted by words you don’t know. Use words you do know.” The closest translation I could say was “Ne pas guerre avec vous,” which I thought meant “No war with you.” No, no, that won’t do. I had the idea to let them say it first, and to repeat it like a parrot. Well, they said it, and I couldn’t even decipher the sounds they made. So I mouthed words to make it appear I said something even though I didn’t, which is kind of what I do when I make promises. I figured if they can’t read lips, I would be safe.
And now, because everything appears to be closed and I feel a bit under the weather, I decided to (mostly) stay in. I finally have begun real work on my friend Ryan’s performance art show called “Anal Foreclosure” that I shot around August 1st. I also watched some of my Slow Through Eden documentary, and my last short film. It has come to my attention that I mean well. I really, really mean well. I think I edit phenomenally and can flesh out a film pretty damn well, but when it comes to actually directing and communicating with another human being I falter. These last few products I’ve made, for once, I’m actually proud of. Like actually, for once in my life, proud of. I know the faults of my own work better than anyone else can, but still, beyond it all…I believe I’ve done incredibly well for the resources I have/had. I told my main film professor here that I’d show him my work when I gained some courage, and though that has not happened yet, I’ll have my portfolio ready to hand over.
6 Octobre 2008
Lundi
One simply does not look cool eating a banana. I usually bring one with me whenever I go out, and while sitting in a lounge at my school, I noticed a group of the cool kids sitting next to me eating. It was like high school again, and I tried to look at least inviting or “cool,” but that could not happen when a banana is being eaten. When opening it, there’s this weird dark end that is mostly unappetizing, so I ripped it off and had to put it somewhere. I couldn’t find a place, so I put it on one of the hanging peels, but it repeatedly fell on my crotch. I tried to pick it off and put it somewhere else, but then half my banana fell off onto the table. Then I picked up the fallen banana and examined it, thought about the 5 second rule, then placed it back onto its other half. Meanwhile, the black spot I had earlier removed was stuck to my fingers, and I frowned.
See, I imagine if I was sitting in a room and saw a fairly attractive, well-dressed boy struggling to eat a banana, I would find it endearing. I’d smile and shrug it off, thinking he was just having a bad day. But no. I think realistically if you see this, you imagine the person to be incompetent with poor motor skills, and probably horrible in bed.
School officially began today, though it was only one class. In just about two hours our teacher/professor gave more advice than almost a years worth of my production class at UCI, though it was more of a generic “rules of making cinema” kind of thing. But once he teaches the formula and once you know the rules, then you can break them…right? Like Charlie Kaufman?
We were partnered up and given a short synopsis to storyboard and pitch in front of the class. It involved a frog chasing a fly that almost dies from 2 cars, then eventually dies from a bike. We were only given a limited amount of time, and though it’s a good exercise in quick thinking, though I would prefer to spend a lot more time thinking out shots. But it was cool and fun to hear him explain subjectivity, objectivism and what not being applied to simple storytelling – the kinds of things UCI film students would just write papers about.
I came home to a wonderful care package my parents sent me, full of tuna, salmon, top ramen, cookies, Simpsons DVDs, and last week’s Wall Street Journal. I love my parents. I should be starting on my next storyboarding project (involving a frog, a man, and a woman), but I’m full of spaghetti and about to pass out at 9:30 PM. I also have to pitch 3 story ideas on Wednesday, and I only have 2. I’m struggling with the last one because, well, I’d like to throw in a serious and more personal story idea. My first 2 ideas are familiar territories (the kitsch…zombies and time travel). The last I really want step past my restrictions and fears and actually do something…gay. That sounds gay. But I’ve been opposed to so much gay cinema and gay themes because I hate the stigma and label they receive. It’s as if, when there are gay characters, a whole new set of standards (usually lower) are applied, and it’s dismissed as a gay movie to be stocked in the indie or foreign section at Blockbuster. Fuck that. And yes, coming out stories are always incredibly traumatic, but I don’t want to do that. I also instantly want to throw in pirates and robots, or make it a gay musical Victorian era time piece. I think I’ll just sleep on it.
Tomorrow is my first full day of class which scares me…I still have to find time during the week to take care of my residency, my bank account, getting a loan, etc. C’est difficile, but I love it.
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