As I’ve come to settle in a bit, especially with Virgninie at the helm, I realise that France is indeed a world apart. My rules simply don’t apply here. It’s useless to over-think about why something is some way--the deck is different to begin with.
As it is if say, you as an Occidental move to China . . . but I speak and understand this language and life here STILL confounds me. There are no unreadable symbols--I understand it all.
But I still end up Not Seeing.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Monday, March 24, 2008
Forward To The Past
Want to relive the experience of ordering on the Internet circa 1995? Oh, it's sooo nostalgic. All you have to do is try ordering something from this place.
Instant time machine.
Instant time machine.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
The Other Ste. Catherine
The shopping street behind me in downtown Bordeaux goes on for about a mile, is pedestrian-only and is called . . . what else? Rue Ste. Catherine.
Where Speed Rabbits deliver pizza . . .
Saturday, March 8, 2008
French, Japanese, German, Chinese, *sigh*
About to embark on a month in Bordeaux. But with the realisation that my French leaves much to be desired . . . my honey speaks A-1 perfect English, so I don’t need to be on sentry duty, but it still pisses me off. Currently I’m very interested in getting back my childhood German and also making a foray into Chinese, but first things first.
But it’s a sad state of affairs when I can speak better Japanese than French, which seems to be the case. Quicker on my feet, with a recognisable dialect (Osaka-ben) and bigger vocabulary.
Graduation. I don’t even know how to say it in French! But I do in Japanese . . . I’d stab at “graduation” in French but I’d probably be wrong.
So, into the unknown. Good thing is that the French are very patient with foreigners and really appreciate it when you don’t “foreign” yourself out of the picture. Can you say “Parrlez youse inglez?” So, I have a plus on my side.
I learned French from the Belgians in Belgian Central Africa, so already I have a strike against me, but the French in Bordeaux (and the French that comes from the mouth of my honey) is so mellifluous, so pure, I guess I should just buckle down and get back into it.
And leave the German and Chinese for another day . . .
But it’s a sad state of affairs when I can speak better Japanese than French, which seems to be the case. Quicker on my feet, with a recognisable dialect (Osaka-ben) and bigger vocabulary.
Graduation. I don’t even know how to say it in French! But I do in Japanese . . . I’d stab at “graduation” in French but I’d probably be wrong.
So, into the unknown. Good thing is that the French are very patient with foreigners and really appreciate it when you don’t “foreign” yourself out of the picture. Can you say “Parrlez youse inglez?” So, I have a plus on my side.
I learned French from the Belgians in Belgian Central Africa, so already I have a strike against me, but the French in Bordeaux (and the French that comes from the mouth of my honey) is so mellifluous, so pure, I guess I should just buckle down and get back into it.
And leave the German and Chinese for another day . . .
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Cool Jobs
“Uhh, I’m an airline pilot.”
“Uhh, I’m a fighter pilot.”
“Huh? Tiger Woods’ caddy.”
“Uhh, I’m a gaffer for Marty Scorcese.”
“Uhh, detective with Homicide.”
“Ahh, grill guy at Boulud.”
“Umm, warden at that place Conrad Black went to.”
“Umm, Conrad Black.”
“Umm, wine dude in Bordeaux.”
“Uhh, I’m a fighter pilot.”
“Huh? Tiger Woods’ caddy.”
“Uhh, I’m a gaffer for Marty Scorcese.”
“Uhh, detective with Homicide.”
“Ahh, grill guy at Boulud.”
“Umm, warden at that place Conrad Black went to.”
“Umm, Conrad Black.”
“Umm, wine dude in Bordeaux.”
Monday, March 3, 2008
Hostile Natives, Gale-Force Winds and Other Thoughts
“Here, at the farthest end on the world, lay an enchanted but deeply melancholic land.” — Giles Milton: Samurai William
The watching of a tape inadvertently made of an Airbus A-320 almost crashing with around 130 souls on board brought to mind my own brush with disaster when my Air Canada 767 aborted a takeoff at Kansai airport (Osaka) and blew all its tires. Blew all its tires! I know it may not seem to be that scary, but let me beg to differ. Every time my airplane does anything beyond normal, it is grounds for serious worry -- even for me who has flown literally thousands of times.
Gotta say, I was terrified (but it's still 100 times safer than the ride to the airport).
But now reading Samurai William and realizing that it took William Adams (the model for Blackthorne in James Clavell’s Shogun) TWO YEARS to reach Japan from Europe, with about 5% of his original crew left — most had died by shipwreck, attacks by various hostile natives and disease — it makes an aborted landing or takeoff look, really petty in terms of risk. Sure, I was terrified, but only for about an hour. And it only takes about 24 hours from Montreal to Nippon for me . . .
All of those guys must have been terrified for two years straight!
And when I go to Bordeaux, France next week for a month’s stay to be with my honey, I know (well, at least hope) I won’t be greeted by hostile natives . . . or gale-force winds.
Fingers crossed, but in my pockets.
The watching of a tape inadvertently made of an Airbus A-320 almost crashing with around 130 souls on board brought to mind my own brush with disaster when my Air Canada 767 aborted a takeoff at Kansai airport (Osaka) and blew all its tires. Blew all its tires! I know it may not seem to be that scary, but let me beg to differ. Every time my airplane does anything beyond normal, it is grounds for serious worry -- even for me who has flown literally thousands of times.
Gotta say, I was terrified (but it's still 100 times safer than the ride to the airport).
But now reading Samurai William and realizing that it took William Adams (the model for Blackthorne in James Clavell’s Shogun) TWO YEARS to reach Japan from Europe, with about 5% of his original crew left — most had died by shipwreck, attacks by various hostile natives and disease — it makes an aborted landing or takeoff look, really petty in terms of risk. Sure, I was terrified, but only for about an hour. And it only takes about 24 hours from Montreal to Nippon for me . . .
All of those guys must have been terrified for two years straight!
And when I go to Bordeaux, France next week for a month’s stay to be with my honey, I know (well, at least hope) I won’t be greeted by hostile natives . . . or gale-force winds.
Fingers crossed, but in my pockets.
Saturday, March 1, 2008
Oll Inkorrekt
I just looked at my G.I. Joe collection (you know you have one and I know it too) and I just had some bizarre thoughts. Well, that’s par for the course, but . . .
A number of years ago I was somehow in San Francisco, somehow with a druggie friend, and somehow transported to one of the strangest spectacles I have ever witnessed (is there no limit to humanity’s depravity? Tell me it’s so)
I suddenly found myself in some dude’s apartment, and he obviously wasn’t just “some dude.”
He had very expensive digs — think Al Pacino in Scarface — and the lighting was subdued. There may have been candles, I can’t remember now.
But in his “living” room, there were about 20 or 30 mannequins, all dressed in various Nazi uniforms. You could tell they were authentic; not replicas, but real Nazi uniforms from World War II, because they had that stiff, starched look that old clothes tend to have. And indeed, our host confirmed this.
We’re talking Sturmbannführer stuff, people: overcoats, smart SS black dress, Oberleutnant stuff, hats, pistols, belts . . . you name it.
I’ve always been a WWII buff (because my dad flew 8th Air Force bombers) so naturally I was fascinated.
For despite the fact that the Nazis singlehandedly almost destroyed our civilization because of that tiny (so hard to envision such powerful maniacs as tiny, but it was so) blood-sucking leech Hitler (oh, the list majorly does not stop there; the usual well-remembered rota of deranged human beings — difficult to dignify them with that moniker, but I digress, and I’m glad my father bombed the FUCK out of them, because it’s what they deserved) . . . they had a perversely good fashion sense.
Think U-Boat captain (probably some of the few “good” Nazis of the war) . . . You know, those dashing turtleneck white sweaters that I can never seem to find, the requisite beards, the cap cocked at a jaunty angle, the pipe (the schnapps).
So, in spite of my obvious repulsion (akin to watching snakes being killed by mongeese) I had to admire the long coats, the smart pockets in the right places, the very GERMAN korrektness of it all
Just like my G.I. Joe Panzer Commander . . .
Cool, but only on a mannequin.
A number of years ago I was somehow in San Francisco, somehow with a druggie friend, and somehow transported to one of the strangest spectacles I have ever witnessed (is there no limit to humanity’s depravity? Tell me it’s so)
I suddenly found myself in some dude’s apartment, and he obviously wasn’t just “some dude.”
He had very expensive digs — think Al Pacino in Scarface — and the lighting was subdued. There may have been candles, I can’t remember now.
But in his “living” room, there were about 20 or 30 mannequins, all dressed in various Nazi uniforms. You could tell they were authentic; not replicas, but real Nazi uniforms from World War II, because they had that stiff, starched look that old clothes tend to have. And indeed, our host confirmed this.
We’re talking Sturmbannführer stuff, people: overcoats, smart SS black dress, Oberleutnant stuff, hats, pistols, belts . . . you name it.
I’ve always been a WWII buff (because my dad flew 8th Air Force bombers) so naturally I was fascinated.
For despite the fact that the Nazis singlehandedly almost destroyed our civilization because of that tiny (so hard to envision such powerful maniacs as tiny, but it was so) blood-sucking leech Hitler (oh, the list majorly does not stop there; the usual well-remembered rota of deranged human beings — difficult to dignify them with that moniker, but I digress, and I’m glad my father bombed the FUCK out of them, because it’s what they deserved) . . . they had a perversely good fashion sense.
Think U-Boat captain (probably some of the few “good” Nazis of the war) . . . You know, those dashing turtleneck white sweaters that I can never seem to find, the requisite beards, the cap cocked at a jaunty angle, the pipe (the schnapps).
So, in spite of my obvious repulsion (akin to watching snakes being killed by mongeese) I had to admire the long coats, the smart pockets in the right places, the very GERMAN korrektness of it all
Just like my G.I. Joe Panzer Commander . . .
Cool, but only on a mannequin.
Singing a New Tune
Well, I've gone and done it . . . written a tune for my honey in Bordeaux.
It's here.
It still has many problems; I'm working with all-digital technology, except for the microphone and I don't have the violin solo I want
But it's a fairly good sketch . . . what do you guys think?
Well, it's definitely not hip-hop.
Everything written and played by me
Lyrics are
You can come home now, baby
Now the day is done
Nothing left to keep you, baby
Caged without the sun
Leave it all smouldering, baby
And walk right out the door
Ain't nobody's business, baby
Who you're gunning for
Don't you look behind you baby
As you board the train
Thinking like a stranger, baby
Who won't be back again
Drink up all your worries, baby
And wander in the night
Smoke out all the losers, baby
You know you'll be all right
Chorus:
Only fools will climb a string into the sky
And maybe you will be the one who knows
The one who knows the reasons why
I know it's been a long day baby
You're going so far away
When the ticket man comes baby
There's a price you have to pay
Don't you let it get you baby
You'll find your way around
Take a little chill pill baby
Don't let it get you down
Did you really feel this baby
Was it always in the plan
Don't go to the edge 'n fly baby
Before you know you can
Is it all a dream now baby
The life you had before
Say you really miss it baby
And you'll be back for more
Chorus:
Say your prayer and take a walk into the rain
And maybe you will be the one who takes
The one who takes the midnight train
Bridge:
Riding all alone to who knows which tomorrow you'll find at
The end of the line
Leaving all the love but leaving mostly the sorrow and pain
It's all on the midnight train
You're on the midnight train
(Last line): See you on the Midnight Train
It's here.
It still has many problems; I'm working with all-digital technology, except for the microphone and I don't have the violin solo I want
But it's a fairly good sketch . . . what do you guys think?
Well, it's definitely not hip-hop.
Everything written and played by me
Lyrics are
You can come home now, baby
Now the day is done
Nothing left to keep you, baby
Caged without the sun
Leave it all smouldering, baby
And walk right out the door
Ain't nobody's business, baby
Who you're gunning for
Don't you look behind you baby
As you board the train
Thinking like a stranger, baby
Who won't be back again
Drink up all your worries, baby
And wander in the night
Smoke out all the losers, baby
You know you'll be all right
Chorus:
Only fools will climb a string into the sky
And maybe you will be the one who knows
The one who knows the reasons why
I know it's been a long day baby
You're going so far away
When the ticket man comes baby
There's a price you have to pay
Don't you let it get you baby
You'll find your way around
Take a little chill pill baby
Don't let it get you down
Did you really feel this baby
Was it always in the plan
Don't go to the edge 'n fly baby
Before you know you can
Is it all a dream now baby
The life you had before
Say you really miss it baby
And you'll be back for more
Chorus:
Say your prayer and take a walk into the rain
And maybe you will be the one who takes
The one who takes the midnight train
Bridge:
Riding all alone to who knows which tomorrow you'll find at
The end of the line
Leaving all the love but leaving mostly the sorrow and pain
It's all on the midnight train
You're on the midnight train
(Last line): See you on the Midnight Train
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