part deux

it could only be so: no sooner had I posted about my current musical idée fixe, do I find out that they are playing another show (unannounced on their site as of yet) in London, on May 24 at the ICA.
Oh well, sometimes it's easier to just give in.

oh dear

it's official, my interest in Loney, Dear has now reached obsession status. Let's see:
- last week I listened to them 163 according to my last.fm, and that's not including my iPod. The actual total is probably twice that figure. And judging from today's listens it doesn't seem like the number for this week will be much lower
- I've viewed every single live video of them on Youtube, including mine (more than once, like I needed to say it)
- I looked at the upcoming tour dates, none of which are planned in London, and was actually trying to see if going to a Wednesday night concert in Brussels was feasible or not. Or a Tuesday-night one in Paris, for that matter
- I bored at least two people with how great they were and how a-ma-zing the concert was. I'm sure I used the word amazing, or awesome, or any other variation of it, more times than a thirteen-year old girl after a Justin Timberlake meet-and-greet at the mall
-I even emailed the guy today to say how much I appreciated the show and his music in general (thankfully managing to keep it under 5 sentences), and he answered me back to say thanks, and I gotta say I felt pretty excited when I saw he'd responded. I'm 29, have a pretty serious job and all of that grown-up stuff, but at that moment it was like I was a LOTR fanboy and Peter Jackson had IMed me "kewl tks"

So basically, yeah, I'm that guy.

This feels very much like Broken Social Scene circa 2003, or Kristofer Astrom circa 1998. Except with these guys I had one album to listen to, whereas in this case I've got four brilliant CDs to digest. And I don't really see how to get out of this bubble of loneyness. I can listen to a couple of songs by other bands, but I invariably get a craving and go back to my North Korean-like mono-programming.
Music, it's that serious.

eat simple

making my way up Oxford St yesterday around noon I started to feel the familiar hunger pangs which for some reason are synonymous with shopping for me. Like the automaton that I am, I made a few hops and arrived at my favorite house of snacks, Bar Remo. I hadn't been there in a few weeks, but as soon as I sat down, it was as if the hiatus had never happened. I was greeted with a 'ciao bello' that was even friendlier than usual, and no sooner had I told the waitress I didn't need a menu since I knew what I wanted she actually knew exactly what it was (large diet coke, tuna melt on a ciabatta). Big cities are cool when it comes to trying new restaurants, but I have to say that at times finding a sense of familiarity, especially for a recent arrivee, can make an unfamiliar town feel a whole lot like home. And if there's one thing that's true about eating at home, it's that it can make a delicious tuna melt that much more special.

Loney, a review

hindsight might be 20/20, but my foresight was plenty fine on Wednesday night apparently, when I decided to opt out of watching the footie game and go to Loney, Dear's concert. In the end Liverpool lost the game, and I witnessed a magical concert. The venue, Monto Water Rats (um...cool name?) was basically the back room of a theater-like bar, so big it was not. But I've been to enough concerts to know that a good gig can happen in any circumstances, on the biggest stage as well as in the dingiest setting. The two opening acts, whose names I'll pretend I did not hear, had their moments, but they kinda seemed like they were put here by the record label to get some experience under their belt, as their relation to Loney's music was imaginary at best. With their sets were done Loney, Dear frontman Emil Svanängen casually strolled upon the stage with his band and, after some equally casual instrument set-up launched into an opening salvo of poppy goodness that went on relentlessly until the end of their curtain-call. This was the sort of concert that, for lack of better words, makes you glad to be alive. Not because it's the most crazily inventive thing you've ever heard, but simply there's a group of people onstage playing their hearts out for their pleasure as much as their audiences, with lyrics that anyone having been in a relationship can relate to (aka everyone on planet Earth and beyond). This band does pop music right: as something that's cute, but not boring and overdone. They incorporate just enough folk and other various influences for the mix to achieve maximum palatability, seemingly without even trying.

Despite not having been "discovered" until this year, Emil has been making songs for a few years now. And so the setlist was a pleasant mix of the 4 albums he has put out, with a very easygoing rapport between the band members that added to the overall feeling of camaraderie. All of which the audience gladly ate up, grooving through the dancier numbers like I Am John and observing with rapt attention during the incredible version of In With These Arms. To be honest I was pretty giddy myself, and probably would have clapped along to a song if the band had started doing it, even though that's definitely my least favorite concert cliche of all time.
And since the new and improved me now remembers to carry around his digicam, I had the presence of mind to record a few digital memories for posterity.

Ignorant Boy, Beautiful Girl


Saturday Waits


Carrying a Stone

conundrum

tomorrow, for me, means a cornucopia of good tidings, almost too many to handle in fact. Witness:

• though not a surprise, tomorrow is hump day. One should never discount the psychological boost of hump day
• my co-favorite soccer team, Liverpool, is playing a hugely important Champion's League semi-final game against local mega-rich club Chelsea. There are many fans of Chelsea at the office, but us 'Pool fans have the heart of a champion. To mark the occasion I will wear my best red tie tomorrow, to counter the ocean of blue ones that should be present.
• 2007 Swedish phenom Loney, dear (he of sound advice 2 unfame) is playing a show near my place. He's not due to play again in London for the present, so this might be my last chance to see him play in a while.

Thus a dilemma presents itself to me: should I watch my team play in a game which promises to be both intense and spectacular, or go see my main man Emil Svanängen for my first gig in two months? If I don't watch the game the sport fan part of me will feel like I'm potentially missing an event people will be talking about...at least until next week's return game at Liverpool. On the other hand the Loney gig will probably have a bevy of cute indie chicks, and probably many Swedish ones as well, with many dudes staying home or at the pub to watch the game? Of course my intentions are gentlemanly, but I've only been here a few months, I'm not above making new friends.
But of course the final decision won't be made on a purely logical standpoint. It'll probably happen on my bus journey home, when I'll have a thought along the lines of "screw it, I'm going to...". After all, whatever happens, by tomorrow night another hump day will be over, and that's always good whatever life choices you may make.

lacing up

got an email at work today concerning a charity corporate soccer tournament. Excuse me, football tournament. I'm not really good at the sport, in fact you could even call me a very mediocre soccer player, but one of my favorite Sunday activities in Paris was getting together with friends at Bagatelle for an afternoon of the beautiful game. Having almost never played from ages 0-18 I'll never get over my gross technical shortcomings, but I try to use stuff I learned from other sports in order to avoid looking like a less-agile Mr Bean out on the pitch, to varying results.
Still, to make absolutely sure there would be no misgivings about my potential prowess, I made sure to be very clear in the following answer to one of the confirmation email questions ("what's the highest level you played at?"):

To be honest, occasional Sunday games in the park is the extent of my "experience". Though I haven't played since moving to London, 3 months ago

With this, and the upcoming training sessions, I'd be surprised if I'm picked to be in anything but the worst team, which is just the way it should be. But just wait for the corporate swimming tournament, and then I'll be talking up a storm about my uncanny athletic abilities. Some people are above trash talking, and I'm clearly not one of them (mostly because I like to have fun and reserve my buddhist tendencies to meditating weekend train trips).

not too shabby

this past February , basketball demi-god Michael Jordan announced his divorce from his wife of 17-years, Juanita. So what's the guy been keeping up to since then? Apparently, chilling in Cabo-San Lucas with other pursuers of the fairer life:

This picture just about made my day, if not my week. While chica numero uno has a very classic (some might say Austen-ish) pageant-girl party pose, chica numero dos takes the cake with her mystified yet entranced air. And they're cutting rug with Mike Jordan, possibly to the bopping sounds of My Humps or some such sonic twinkie. Truth be told I don't know if there's anything better in the universe than Michael Jordan on spring break. And if there is, I hope the Internet gives me at least a week before finding out. I can't be coming across glorious pics like this one too often, I need some moderation.

And speaking of the good life, here's the booty I was able to sneak past the tight Eurostar security. Something makes me think I'm gonna have to keep going to the gym four times a week for the foreseeable future...:

never far

with a weekend back in Paris planned for the weekend, I stepped through to the passport control line at Waterloo station this Saturday morning. A Japanese chick in front of me was doing some light flirting with the customs official checking her passport, he seemed to enjoy this, as I probably would have. It was then my turn to present my passport. Being a believer in good manners and all-around courtesy, I said "bonjour" to the guy. But since his gaze was still intent on said Japanese lady, no doubt entertaining chaste thoughts of how some clever line he could have regaled her with. So he then turned to me, who had been standing there for a few seconds now, and said his own "bonjour". Thinking he was simply being courteous back to my initial greeting, I did not offer one back, waiting for him to do his 2.1 second check to ensure my passport had the right color. Alas, so preoccupied his mind must have been with my predecessor, he must have not heard me say hello first, and so repeated his "bonjour" with the friendliness usually reserved for people with a passport color very different from mine, all the while focusing his now less-than-copacetic look on me. His passport check still lasted 2.1 seconds, but those were much less jovial than my general mood was until that point.
In a way, I felt this was sort of a "welcome back", showing me that although my life may have changed, I could still count on unsmiling civil servants to make sure I felt I was coming back to familiar waters. French people's rudeness is generally quite exaggerated abroad, but such random acts of surliness feel, oddly enough, just like home to me.

animal instinct

as I was walking to the Tube station this morning on my way to work, I happened upon one of those atypical-typical city sightings that make me regret not having my camera on me: a group of four or five policemen on horses on their way nonchalantly making their way down Gray's Inn Road. Apparently they were off-duty or something, because they had some sort of training gear, like they'd gone for a stroll to exercise their equestrian compagnons. I've seen mounted police before, but this was quite unusual to see at the start of rush hour. Of course I kicked myself for being camera-less and just went about my business.
Five tube stops later, I'd just made my way out of the station when I heard the same rumbling of hooves on the pavement, except this time much louder. Apparently all police horses are let out at this hour or something, and here I had a whole gang of them going along Oxford Street, to the bemused attention of passers-by. That's when I remembered I now own a halfway-decent cameraphone, and had the good sense to correct my missed opportunity of 20 minutes before.

And then they blocked a street as they made their way to their stables/police station/who knows where, and people didn't get annoyed but just watched the spectacle as absorbed as four-year olds at a puppet show. It sure was nice.

louder

seriously, what is up with teens listening to their music on their cellphone's "speakers". I see this more and more: a bunch of youngins (thank God unfortunately this seems to be limited to the under-15, apparently that's when their sense of reality kicks in. Which begs the question: is 15 the new 7?) walking around while "blasting" some top-40 tune on their latest Nokia. Not only is this annoying when it happens in a closed-off space like the bus, it's actually PRETTY FLIPPIN RIDICULOUS. Cell phones speakers are kind of loud, but without any definition at all. The result is that it sounds like the music is coming from some underwater radio station. Yet the kids seem to love it, acting as though they were circa-80s LL Cool J rocking the humongous boombox. Except, really really small, with no bass at all and much more expensive.
On the flip-side, they're not listening to music through their headphones, which means they might actually retain their hearing longer than I will. So who's really dumb now?

St Cloud-stock

the initial lineup for this year's Rock En Seine festival was recently released, and unfortunately it looks like I won't be making the trip back to attend. Having been two years running, I'm a big fan of the concept: major rock bands as well as smaller acts playing in a nice park on the outskirts of Paris, enabling you to experience a rock festival without that funky tent smell. This year ReS is scheduled over three days, as opposed to two, meaning more bands will be there, but there really aren't any that pass my personal test: would I pay the full ticket price just to see this one group? Of course I didn't go before just for one band, but each time I found one of the days where there was a band I loved and a few I was interested in, and was very happy overall. Like Broken Social Scene last year, which played a great , life-affirming show, under light rain which actually made the experience more memorable.
Among the acts programmed so far are Arcade Fire, The Hives, Jesus And Mary Chain, Klaxons, Tool, Bjork and Craig Armstrong. Out of these I guess Arcade Fire would narrowly pass my test, because I have tremendous love for their songs, but I saw them two years ago (at ReS) and do not feel the need to see them again. Seeing JAMC live is an intriguing prospect at best, and out of the other announced bands (with more to come) there's none that really blow my mind. The 3 day pass goes for 98 euros, so I'm guessing a day pass will be around 40 ducats. Not that outrageous if I was seriously into 2-3 acts, but as it stands I'd just rather go to some indie shows in London here and then. Like Loney, dear on April 25 at a venue 5 mins from my place (I am so wearing shorts and flip-flops to that one), or Grizzly Bear and Band of Horses in May at Scala. Music is one of the rare artforms where smaller often means better, so until I get tired of overpriced beer and generally feeling old at these things, I will do my best to keep my indie-yuppie cred alive.

preach!

I don't always agree with what this blogger writes, but I thought this recent post was particularly spot-on. Kinda sad, but very truthful. My generation can be a bit lame at times, and I'm not hopeful that the following ones will pick things up.

witty like Sunday morning

this is an example why I should carry around my digicam more. I've been past this store countless times since moving here, yet this weekend was the first time I had the opportunity to take a picture of its great sign.
I often feel self-conscious when taking pictures in public, but I'm trying to force myself to overcome that mental block because, although I'm a very average picture-taker (note my avoidance of the p-word), they're always fun to look at later. Plus Flickr is harder to stop than Pringles once you open an account. It is a beast that needs to be fed, constantly.
Next up: going up to the top-floor of the double-decker I take home from work and filming the journey home. I'm sure Oxford Street will provide scenery as enthralling, if not more, as what I filmed in my Lelouch-like On The 39.

does this mean I'm old?

home is a fickle concept for me. Having moved around quite a bit growing up, the notions of roots and origins were, well, foreign to me. Home was wherever I lived with my parents and siblings, and though I loved going back to France for the holiday and seeing other family members, that country did not seem like home to me. And neither did it when I came back as a fresh-faced 18-year old to study. Hence, in part, the title of this blog. I have a French passport, but don't really feel like that defines me. Living in the land of cheese for nearly ten years did make me appreciate it a lot, which is good because that was one of the reasons I wanted to move there, but overall I never felt any sense of loyalty to the country I imagine some who have lived there all their lives might have. That isn't to say I harbor any particular apathy toward France; I might not want to live there permanently, but I will always feel a need to come back to visit, if only because there are plenty of people I care about there.
That said, if I had to say where home was for me, I would probably answer Paris, because it's where my parents live, and as all children now live elsewhere (in 3 different countries actually), is generally the rallying point for our semi-regular reunions. In fact, even though I moved out for good 4 years ago, the entry in my cell phone for my parents' number is still "home". If (cliche-alert) home is where the heart is, I have no doubt where that is for me. We're not the gushy type in our family, telling each other "I love you" constantly like in 7th Heaven (and if we're having arguments, they're generally not resolved by minute 42), but we're pretty close. This was definitely a factor in my decision to bolt for these greyer skies, as I did not feel like I would lose out anything in my relationship with them.
It's probably one of the reasons why the following lyrics by matt Pond PA resonate so much with me, even though I'd be the first to admit they're no Dylan material (then again when your all-time favorite line of lyrics are "but the feelings that stay with you now / get lost over time somehow" your tastes aren't based on pure wordplay, to say the least):

i’m going home, back to new hampshire
i’m so determined
to lay in lakes
and see my sisters
i will hit my brother
and hold my mother

Now I've only been to New Hampshire in passing, and I don't even have one sister, but these words mean the world to me. It reminds me how fantastic it feels to go home again, that familiar feeling of comfort and general peace. Of course the habitual arguments might spring up here and there, but in a way they are part of the relationship too. Family means no bullshit, and growing up into adulthood you learn to appreciate this. Doesn't mean everything's Rockefeller-peachy either, after all being annoyed by family is a near-obligation, but these aren't the things I remember after a weekend or more with la familia. I realize it isn't always that easy, that many people have the bad luck of being in abusive family relationships, or maybe worse, not having family at all, which is why I think someone in my situation can feel fortunate to have had good people like them put up with my punk-ass for so many years. I don't have my own family yet, but when (if?) that happens I can only hope to replicate what I see as a successful model. Although if we could avoid the middling-to-bad eyesight and mediocre teething that would be the bee's knees. Not that I'm complaining, no sirree, that is definitely not what blogs are for.

quibbling

one of the advantages of having lived in Paris means that you get to see "your" city on the big screen a lot. Countless films have been shot there, and to the knowing eye there's always a small detail waiting to be recognized (mostly so you can bore other viewers with your stories about how you once bought a poulet-croudités from that boulangerie). Recently I watched Paris Je T'aime, a collection of 18 shorts about Paris made by 18 different directors in so many neighborhoords. While the movie itself is more of a novelty project than a truly interesting oeuvre, some of the segments are decent enough for this to be a pleasant viewing. However, in the part with Nathalie Portman, which takes place in my old stomping grounds of the 10e, she goes to the Conservatoire du 10e for some acting classes. You see her boyfriend drop her off a few times in front of the place...except it really isn't. It's actually the town hall building, which is located just in front of the street where the Conservatoire is truly found. I should know, I partied at the Cons' after-hours, which to those in the know holds as much indie cred as saying you once shared a banana-split with Karen O of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs (you decide). I wonder how and why such a mistake could be made in a film where location, admittedly, is everything. It's not major, but it's the stuff you notice when you "know". Of course what I'm really mad at is that apparently Nathalie Portman filmed scenes all over my neighborhood (including pre-renovation Gare de l'Est, O how I miss thee) and nobody bothered to tell me. Just another classic example of Parisian rudeness, hmph.

Spaced out

despite having a few such titles among my favorite movies, science-fiction is not a genre I am particularly enamored with, to say the least. Too often I find these movies focus too much on the technological and futuristic aspects, jettisoning character development in the process. No such problem with Sunshine. The basic plot premise (50 or so years in the future, a team of astronauts are sent to the dying sun to try and reactivate it) and the strong team behind the movie (director Danny Boyle and writer Alex Garland) had this pegged as one of the can't miss releases of the year for me, and I wasn't disappointed. In fact I saw it twice this weekend, something I had never done before and usually associated with Star Wars or Lord of the Rings fanboys. But this movie really spoke to me, on a core emotional level. It was far from perfect, but the fact that it had some flaws (mostly in the last 20 minutes) made me relate to it even more, if that makes sense. At the heart of the story is an interesting exploration of how man deals with his humanity, and even though some of the plot points near the end were a bit questionable, they never took me out of the movie.

From a cinematic POV it had many different qualities, from an assured direction and cinematography, to terrific acting by all involved (Cillian Murphy was great as always, but the real revelation to me was that Chris Evans is actually a pretty decent actor. Oh, and Rose Byrne did make me a bit weak at the knees) and a great ambient-y score by John Murphy and Underworld. But what really made the movie successful, in my mind, was that all of the action took place on the spaceship, with these 8 characters. Very little time was spent explaining exactly what the problem with the sun was, or pontificating about the fate of humanity, with the complete focus being on the mission. For someone who's always been interested in these types of questions, albeit from afar, the blend of action and contemplation provided by this film was exactly the type of setting I needed to turn off my sci-fi oblivion.

take care

as a huge fan of modern technology-enabled communication means, I love that you can change countries, or even continents and still maintain healthy contacts with your friends and family. Skype, instant messenger and email are all great complements to the traditional phone call. I remember when I was growing up in Asia we'd call my grandma and have this little hour glass thingy to check the length of our phone calls. With Skype that sort of concern is but a faint memory.
Still, more ways to communicate doesn't mean you necessarily do it better, so it's up to one's motivation to make sure distance doesn't put a damper on your personal relationships. For instance this week I sent my first-ever care package to a friend. It only contained a mix CD and a short note, but it's nothing I'd never done before. The reason I did it is I because I often gave compilations of recent musical discoveries to this friend back in Paris and I thought that this gesture would be more appreciated than receiving an email with the same content. The whole process actually felt pretty fun, kinda like I imagine riding a horse buggy might be. I do anticipate I'll try to keep the habit.

Also in the same vein, I tried my hand at a crossword puzzle today. I'm pretty sure the one I tried out (from New York magazine) isn't considered a tough cookie like, say, the NY Times, but it felt nice to work on a potential new hobby. Still, I'm guessing the PSP which I recently bought might win out in the battle for my attention, old-school revivalism or not.

and so it begins

although it might not be evident to 99.99% of people living in this country (or continent), today is one of the greatest days of the year, also known as Opening Day. To put it in layman's terms, tis the first day of the baseball season, and thus all seems right in the world. Well, maybe not, but at least us baseball fans get to look forward to a few months of the real beautiful game.

I first got into the sport when I spent a few weeks in Massachussets back in the mid-90s. I was staying at a friend's who was pretty good at the sport, and this being summer, he played a game with his various teams almost every other day. I wasn't very familiar with it at first, but I quickly became enamored with the many facets of it, from the on-the-field action to the surrounding setting. Baseball is a very relaxed sport, to say the least, sure there's action on the field, but there's also a strong social aspect to it, much more so than any other sport I've witnessed. Indeed going to a game with friends is to me not simply about going to watch athletes throw and hit a ball around. It's also very much about just hanging out with said friends, or talking with seat-neighbors about anything from the pitcher's motion to the best itinerary to go back to Albany, and just basically enjoying being outdoors for a few hours. Like most baseball fans my love for the sport can border on geekiness (please remind me to never tell you about my fantasy baseball team), but I dig that it's not just about that.

Of course living in Europe isn't really conducive to sharing this love of baseball. There's fans here and there (mostly expats), but as far as I know, my brother's the only other Met fan I've ever met in Paris. Thankfully the MLB (baseball league organization) is very good at providing access to the games online, so for the past 3-4 years I've been enjoying as many games as I can of my team and others from the comfort of my home. Since many games are played during the day, the time-difference doesn't affect me as much as it does for other sports like basketball (for instance tonight's college basketball finals start at 2:00am here. ugh). And although I've come to enjoy soccer a lot since moving to France ten years ago, I'm glad I can still enjoy this personal pleasure of mine, for a few hours at a time.

where's the beef

as we all know fast food is bad for you. Bad, bad, bad. There's been a book and a movie about it, both of which I've both ingested (ha). There's also this quaint concept called common sense: if you eat too much of something that's got lots of fat, you're gonna become fat yourself.
But there's a reason why people, myself including, keep eating it, it's that it's the ultimate comfort food. Sure a lot of it, okay most of it, is gross, but the 8-year-old in all of us really likes it, so once in a while we succumb to the crave. For many, myself included again, that happens in a drunken stupor in the wee hours. Seriously, I cannot fathom how much it must suck to work at any of those fast-food joints downtown after midnight. Except for the Wiener Circle in Chicago, because the Wiener Circle is Awesome. But it's no revelation to say that fast food is here to stay

Overall I tend to stay away from fast food, thankfully in part because I don't like it too much anymore. But every so often I'll come across an ad for a new product from one of the merchants of fats and feel compelled to try it out. Such was the case with KFC's latest offering, the Honey BBQ Boneless Bites. Now at 7am in the tube seeing a poster for this might not make your taste buds whimper in anticipation, but on a Sunday with no known plans for lunch, it sounded like a most excellent idea.

Thus the trek was made this morning to my local bluegrass state poultrian establishment, like a man on a mission. Come to think of it, I kind of was a man on a mission. For some that means climbing Mount Everest, for others trying out a new delicacy of modern chemistry.

Here they are, the BBQ bites in all their sticky glory


Feeding the belly is one thing, but real men need intellectual stimulation too (um, and footy results)


Overall I wasn't disappointed: the honey BBQ sauce was very tasty, and the chicken breat tender. Since I try to keep these sorts of outings to a minimum (drunken shenanigans notwithstanding, although recently I am proud to say there have been less of those too), I'm glad that I enjoyed this experiment.

Speaking of which, after dining at Chez Colonel Sanders, I went to Sainsbury's to pick up a few essentials, and came upon this miracle of modern science: red Coca Cola. Now there's something that lies beyond the curiosity of even an adventurous lad like myself.