This post, and all the nonsense contained therein, is dedicated to all the people who e-mail me and get no reply, because I'm a jack-ass who has time to download cartoons and check sports scores, but doesn't have time to concentrate for five minutes to write a pithy, witty and grateful e-mail to the people who love (and possibly worship) me. In particular: Al, Zach, Robin, Maebh, Eileen, Erica and various Korean adolescents, this one's for you. I got a cell-phone today, for some reason I find them to be more useful in foreign countries. I hope I'll be able to bring it back to the states with me, though. It works on those Sim cards that you can buy here in tobacco stores and bakeries (of course), so I don't even know if it will work other places in Europe. Another well-researched investment by Andrew. At least this one has an option for English, so it's already 10 times more advanced than the antique phone I rocked in Korea. Speaking of Korea, I got a job offer in Taiwan by e-mail today. Don't know how they got my information, but apparently word travels fast via the interweb. I gave it short-shrift as I am committed for at least a month to a new job in Paris. This one is much like the internship I outlined earlier with one glaring difference: I am to be paid. Not very well of course, but a pittance nonetheless. I'll be a content-writer for a company launching a web-site with an interactive interface for users to personalize their study of languages, i.e. I'll be writing funny questions for French people trying to learn English. Still slanging the same EFL dope, this time in front of a computer. Again, most of this work can be done from home, which leaves me in dangerous proximity to the delicious cheeses. Must wrench myself away from this decadent country with its midday glasses of wine and sweet sweet pastries. Shaved my head on a whim, and apparently left some attractive patches just behind the apex of my scalp where I couldn't see what I was doing. "You shouldn't have done it alone," my cousin scolded me. Like most things in life, I quipped (In English, in my head, five minutes later). Trying to improve my French the traditional way--by reading comic books and mouthing the words aloud. There's one series in particular that I find to be awesome and for the most part understandable called Aquablue. It is set in an underwater universe with an Aquaman-esque protagonist who is able to communicate with various sea-creatures. This more than satisfies my whimsy for marine mammals, which I just can't get enough of, in the news or in a comic book form. It's actually not fair to call them comic-books, because really these are bound, hardcover graphic novels called bandes desanimes(sic) which are quite expensive in France, but are an uber-popular sub-culture, enjoyed by little kids to adults. I don't remember if I ever mentioned the Korean comic-book that depicts the teachings of the Talmud, but here there's a b.d. titled The Rabbi's Cat. I would read that. Then again I read the USA Today because they have bright pictures and pie charts. I would go so far as to say that the comic culture in France rivals the Asian Manga culture to a certain extent, though the anime in Asia is far superior. Also I find that the French truly enjoy cinema as a general rule. The theaters are always packed, and if you start a conversation about movies with a French person they are likely to be well-versed in all aspects of cinematic genres and histories. Good work Frenchies, though I'll remind you that your unabashed appreciation for the work of Jerry Lewis, Buster Keaton and Laurel and Hardy will only get you so far.

The parade of long-lost cousins continues for me, I seem to meet a new one once or twice a week. This has been an amazing aspect of my trip here, I'm now surrounded by family that I never had a chance to really know, and I'm definitely digging it. Its kind of surreal to be here without my mom, who grew up with these people, who have welcomed me almost as an extension of her. It's more surreal and actually quite sad to be living in the house of my uncle, my mom's brother, who past away 3 years ago, and be surrounded by reminders of him everywhere. His paintings, his writings, his clothes, his friends and memories are everywhere, as are his children. No, there's only four of them. My goal for the next entry is to have some pictures.

Really, if I don't e-mail you, it just means that I'm a bad person, it's not a reflection of you at all, but you already knew that.

While I was thinking about terrorism and carefully planning my entry, I was also eating a chocolate pudding. I pulled the lid too hard and now I have chocolate splotches on my face, on my prized yellow sweatshirt and worstly on the lenses of my glasses. I was about to read some articles about the Spain bombings--remember that I'm striving to be more informed of stuff, so that I might cultivate an opinion, which would then allow me to discuss things with people in a particular language, which theoretically would lead to several positive outcomes. But then came the chocolate, then an article about sea lions which intrigued me more than photos of wreckage, gatherings and speeches. Perhaps it just wasn't meant to be. Here's the sea lion article though. It had the word abduction in conjunction with a marine mammal: you can't blame me for my curiosity. The country of Spain did figure prominently in my day, as well as the rest of the world's, I suppose. I scored a little internship with an British website which advertises events in Europe. I wrote up a super corny article about a Paul McCartney concert in Paris (I'll link it if it gets published, which they promised me it would) and voila, meet your new "Profit-sharing freelancer" for some website (I'll link it later, because I actually do know the name). I cover Spain, writing up concerts, exhibits and cultural hoop-lahs in the hopes that customers (largely in the UK) will purchase their tickets directly from the site rather than through another web company. The "profit" lies therein, meaning that I would get a tiny commission from all the sales of events that I have written up, though truly the "profit" lies in the fact that I'm getting some experience in writing and getting published. That said, I'm one of only two people covering Spain, which is a popular destination, much cheaper than France or England, which is promising. On the other hand, Madrid was just bombed by some fringy (or mainstream, I didn't click the link, remember?) terrorist group, killing over 200 people. So there's really a lot going on in Spain. I'm sure the Spaniards just can't stop talking about the Norah Jones concert in May. I am admittedly excited even if I don't really know the nuts-and-bolts of the site, I'm sure I'll learn quickly. I don't know yet whether it's a good thing or a bad thing, but I'll be working from home, or from wherever I have an internet connection, because all this stuff is done from afar, and each writer is in fact an administrator on the website. It is a shame because the office is in fact an incredible apartment of a British lady near Odeon, whose assistant is a looker. But this in fact might be a good thing, as this is definitely not full-time work, and I do have a few prospects for such work elsewhere. This would allow me to write at my own leisure whenever I'm home.

Tonight I went to the premier of a film from New Zealand at a woman's international film festival outside of Paris, not far from where I'm staying (my aunt's house, lest you get delusions of grand Parisian apartments). Enjoyed that. My dream of playing basketball with a bunch of French amateurs who played so poorly that I would seem a Harlem globetrotter in comparison died (or at least became deferred) shortly after it was hatched. I attended one practice session of the local club Wednesday night, and found myself unable to breathe, in a state of near-vomiting after an hour and a half of humiliating drills and poor play by me. I blame jet-lag and terrorists, anything but cigarettes. Speaking of, my cousin Patrick, who has the unenviable task of shepherding me around on the weekends with he and his friends, has nearly completed his short third short film, an unapologetic, defiant tribute to smoking. I saw it for the second time today, and it remains baffling. It's dark and bizarre and allegedly touches upon issues of freedom, (la liberte!) conformity and sanity, but I really don't know what to say about it (a phenomenon I am not unfamiliar with). There's one point in the movie where the patient, played by Patrick, who has been committed to a sort of detox center for smokers, confronts a group of people dressed as cigarettes and pummels one into the ground and kicks it several times for good measure. The noises the cigarette makes while being kicked are brilliant. In any case, I must say that I find all my cousins, but Patrick in particular, to be quite unique characters. As I am still getting used to being here, and not speaking French as well as I like, I realize that hanging out with me is as probably not fun as it is in English, as any of my English speaking friends can attest to. I'm ending all kinds of sentences with prepositions now, not great form for an up-and-coming profit-sharing freelancer like myself.

By the way, my spell-checker suggests that I should replace "McCartney" with "myocardium," which under most cirsumstances I would do without a second thought, but tonight the surname remains, as the erstwhile Beatle indirectly secured me a job.

Paris. To be brutally honest, my first week in France has been frustrating, mostly linguistically, but also in terms of cheese consumption. The French language is complex, and really requires my full concentration just to maintain an accent that passes muster. I try to absorb as much as I can simply by listening, but remaining silent amongst all the word play and punning that goes on leaves me equally vexed since I feel like I have things to contribute. The difficulty for me is to express thoughts in a way that isn't completely moronic and glib. You see, I understand for the most part everything that is being said, or at least the general feeling behind it, but to keep up in these exchanges that are layered and nuanced and typically French is at times overwhelming, especially for someone who doesn't know feminine articles from masculine, and rarely can get the subject and verbs to agree with one another. Why won't you agree with each other?!?!? Occasionally I give up and just say shit in English, but this unchecked aggression cannot stand, as George Bush Senior once said. Which brings me to politics, the other pressing issue of late. The French, young and old, are interested in American politics moreso than any group of Americans that I spent time with in the States, including myself, with whom I spend a great deal of time regularly. They want to know how the electoral college works, the merits of the bipartisan system, whether or not Bush junior will be re-elected, why the American people are so apathetic politically, and what the deal is with Michael Jackson. Sadly, their interest in the politics of my mother country has exposed my own ignorance on a number of fronts. Granted, I spent a year in South Korea, but if anything that should have made me more aware of US policy and practice, since the 'Ko is enormously influenced directly or indirectly by almost every action the US takes. I just have to admit that I'm not a very politically attuned person, despite the fact that in the last two years I've been traveling extensively and talking to people who want to know what living in the US is like, and in fact I have allegedly been teaching some of them. Interesting that the burden of justifying or condemning the actions of one's country falls on those who are not living there. So then to try to explain a system of which I know little, which has recently defied both conventional logic and legal precedent, in a language which I am still learning, to a group people who know me not, is quite the task. Imagine too, that the French are equally or more aware of their own politics and problems, which are complicated and baffling in their own right, and you get the impression that in general the French have a rather keen political consciousness. If their (perceived) disdain of Yanks is based even somewhat on our (perceived) lack of political awareness, then I am certainly doing nothing for the cause. I would much rather watch old basketball games in French on the NBA channel than watch the news. Is that wrong? From the little bit that I did gather(when my cousin made my change the channel, after remarking that the t.v. room was becoming more American everyday), some Frenchman cooked his father and then ate him in a stew with rabbit meat and rice. Isn't that what all sons dream of doing, though? Actually, there is some ill shit going on in Paris and in France as far as terrorism, police brutality and racism is concerned, and I'm learning more by the day. Everyone here also seems to be of the opinion that Bin Laden has been captured already, and that the Bush administration is waiting for the right opportunity to release the details. Wouldn't surprise me. What would surprise me is if I joined a local basketball club, which I just might. We'll find out next week. Truly this is where the intersection of where sports and politics lies. If I had dedicated even a fraction of the time I spent watching sporting events immersing myself in the politics of the day, than I'd be a better man. But what are you going to do? I've seen some nasty dunks in my lifetime, anyway, including a few this afternoon when I visited the local gym. I've also eaten some wild cheeses of late, and I must say that I'm delighted but wary. Even the cheapest, most foul-smelling, lactose-rich piece of curdled goat's milk that I've tasted here seems to be suspiciously delicious, and I'm thinking it's time to ease up. I suppose that too, might play out in the next week.

"What time do the trains stop running?"

And then there was New York, big city full of trash, great museums, expensive cigarettes and good food. I spent a great week there, attending book parties with the hiperatti, riding the metro with the smelleratti, haggling over perogis with Polacks, and conducting an informal survey on the birthplace of hip-hop and graff writing. It's crazy just how much you absorb about New York geography through music, television and film without any actual knowledge of the city. And then you find yourself riding through Bed-Stuy, Brownsville, Red Hook, South Bronx and Queensbridge (actually I tried to stay away from all of those places because I'm afraid the perception might be the reality) and you're knee deep in the amniotic fluids of hip-hop. Then you watch a Woody Allen movie or two, catch the season finale of Sex and the City, and all of sudden you feel like you've been there when you cross 5th avenue for the first time, or walk along Central Park and wonder what the hell the goats are doing there in the middle of the winter. Ah, to be a product of this media-saturated generation is truly a blessing. It's like I've already been everywhere I've always wanted to go before I've actually gone, and then when I actually go, it's a little disappointing, because I feel like it's not as exciting as the first time I went, which wasn't actually a real trip at all. No, I exaggerate a little, because it was still quite the adventure, and Manhattan is quite the island, and our forefathers did well to liberate it from those shiftless Native Americans who weren't using it to it's full capacity. Well done, America. I daresay New York is one of those cities that I could easily live in, should the housing market completely collapse and usher in a new era of prosperity for entry level English teachers with bachelor's degrees. Here's to wishful thinking. In the meantime, I suppose I must be content to visit my friends there, who all deserve major kudos and props for their hospitality. And especially to Cia, who I promised would figure prominently in any subsequent blog entries which may arise. Cia has a great place (though one soon learns that any place in Manhattan is great) in one of the villages (the one that has gay people, but isn't famous for it) in which I slept for several days, and even folded up the bed afterwards, I might add. Through her I caught up with Colin, whom I haven't seen since high school, who one day met an old lady on a tennis court soon after parlayed his way into a job as an investment banker which requires that he carry a card with security clearance on it. I found that remarkable. Almost as remarkable as the Greek restaurant in Queens which doesn't have menus. You simply ask a Greek lady for delicious fish, and then she obliges you. I'm a big fan of these ethnic pockets even moreso than hotpockets. Sure we have a few in San Francisco, but nothing like New York, where the smells wafting through the streets signal not only the marked lack of sanitation but also your arrival into a micro-universe. I stayed a few days in Little Krakow, where the Polish people make jokes about other people in an attempt to take back the dignity they are denied in old jokebooks everywhere. I had a chance to visit the Indian neighborhood as well (in Queens), and a little Czech outpost in Astoria, but sadly I missed little Italy and even worse, Chinatown. But hey, forget about it, it's Chinatown. We have one of those too, and if I want to see inside-out ducks suspended from metal hooks in a shop window, I know where to go. I also missed the Statue of Liberty, but apparently there's one in France in a river somewhere, so I'll get to it eventually. And speaking of ethnic pockets, I did get a chance to visit the United Nations, courtesy of my friend Emily, who secured me a day pass which allowed me enough clearance to eat at the cafeteria. I think the UN is the only place in New York where you can smoke inside, unlike Paris, where you can probably smoke in hospitals. I wouldn't be surprised to find ash trays at gas stations here. The UN was definitely cool, and I even got to use those bizarre earpieces that translate the speaker's words automatically when I sat in on a meeting. To be honest, I kind of wanted to buzz in and ask a question, but as the meeting was some sort discussion on gender equity and AIDS education, I decided that it wasn't the time for my unique brand of brazen social ineptitude and impertinence; there would be time for that later. I managed to catch up with some college friends as well, David, Susan and Vince, who drove up from Philadelphia for a couple of hours just to hang. Greatly appreciated that. Also had my hair cut by a non-native speaker, who spent a good hour perfecting my coif, which is quite a task considering how little hair I actually have (on my head. I'm well aware of how hairy I am). This provided me with a good opportunity to speak a little Spanish, which he seemed to understand, which was encouraging. I only mention this incident because the situation was a little funny. I was mentally conjugating the verb to cut, meanwhile concentrating on not dropping my I-pod and at the same time answering Cia's cell phone, all the while wondering just how long this interminable haircut would last. Finally he let me go, and I think he wanted to shake my hand afterwards, or even give me dap (in the parlance of our times) but I ignored his noble gesture, gave him his money and went on my merry way. Finally I said goodbye to New York with one last trip on the subway, an epic journey that took me from Greenpoint in Brooklyn all the way to Far Rockaway and JFK international, and this was to say the least, apart from a prop plane I once took from Bangkok to Krabi, the sketchiest voyage that I have ever taken. I had to transfer trains four times with two suitcases, my precious I-pod and numerous hand-written instructions on how to get to the airport. Thankfully, a gruff New Yorker told me in his inimitable accent where to get out before laughing at me in a Soprano-like manner. I made it in New York without either chuds or pimps chasing me, which puts me one up on Homer Simpson, which is, in the end, the only thing I care about. So in answer to the question at the top of this post, which I posed naively on my first day in NYC, the trains don't stop running.
Cheers to New York. Had a great time, hope to be back, etc. Now we attempt to better understand Paris, about which I've seen far fewer films, so it will be a bit more difficult.

photos are up.