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?

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.”

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.

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.

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.