Dumb tourists
One of my goals for this trip is to demonstrate to the French that Americans are an ok bunch of people. After all, we did elect Barry. Who better than me to be this agent of change? Alas, mission “America – OK” was aborted at 1500 hours yesterday, two hours after landing on French soil.
Our journey from the airport to our apartment involved four trains. As we were about to board our final train, I noticed that Zach was no longer carrying his camouflage backpack. After it was determined that Zach could no longer go on living without the two Webkinz animals inside his backpack, I was sent on a retrieval (sub)mission. You know where this is going, right? I certainly did.
I arrived at the Gare du Nord station for the 2nd time that day. The station was (not so) mysteriously empty. Police were holding back hundreds of angry French commuters from boarding the train. A large perimeter had been set with barricades. The idea was to minimize carnage due to a bomb which had been left in a child’s camouflage backpack. After 20 minutes of being questioned/lectured by 10-15 law enforcement agents, they came to the conclusion that I was just another oblivious idiot American hell bent on de-sanctifying the French way of life.
Well, that was day one. Thirty more to go. Here’s the view from our apartment’s patio/balcony:
A view from the top...
I could stitch together a few more frames, but then you'd really see nothing...
Last month I accepted my last rental dollar from Shut-In. To celebrate/mourn the loss of Pittsburgh’s friendliest agoraphobe, we dined at Pho Minh. Awaiting S.I.’s arrival, I surveyed the neighborhood’s general state of decay. Plastered with hipster art/music advertising, the adjacent edifice appeared fit for neither habitation nor commerce. Pondering this catalogical dilemma, I spied a hot babe unlocking the building. “Would you like a sneak peek?”, asked the H.B., “The gallery crawl is tonight.” “Uh, ok”, I nodded with bovine acceptance. After a minute of inspecting my inspection, it occurred to H.B. that a loitering middle aged white man = perv, and that it might be wise to move me along. Safely outside the building, H.B. resumed her sales pitch. ”20-30 storefront galleries participate in the crawl. Some even have live music.” Just then S.I. arrived, leaving me to file the episode under “hmmmmm”.
Several weeks later I found myself in Burlington, Vermont, on the 2nd floor of a hipster boutique trying on $40 t-shirts. The gentleman behind the counter lit up when he heard I was from Pittsburgh. “Shit man”, he raved, “half my friends are moving to Pittsburgh. The art scene there is exploding. Pittsburgh and Miami are hot RIGHT NOW. Dude, everyone is soooo done with New York.” “Uh, huh”, I nodded.
So there’s that. More hmmmm I suppose. For what it’s worth, here in Paris (yeah I said here in Paris), no one seems to be talking about Peetsboorg.
Several weeks ago I embarked on a self-guided walking tour of Montreal. Block after block sprawled sweet-azz old school architecture. At ease, and in my urban element, the cacophony of ethnic textures jabbering in French further buoyed my enthusiasm. I looked back to see if my kids were enjoying the tour. Indeed they were. They were busy playing “don’t step on the sidewalk cracks”.
Later in the week we found ourselves strolling the streets of Burlington, Vermont. It was Jazz week. From every corner of downtown, both good (wrong notes played at the right time) and bad (wrong notes at the wrong time) jazz was shoved down my ears. The downtown area, being car-free, was filled with sidewalk cafes, and their ilk. Greedily devouring a Ben and Jerry’s cone, Zach paused for a moment and said, “Dad, I’d like to live in a place like this. You don’t have to drive anywhere. Everything you need is on this street.” Perhaps the trip was not completely lost on those kids.
Even the Creperie had Jazz
Today Asia opened a massage parlor. At five cents a pop, (a bargain in these uncertain economic times!) her clients were treated to a three part massage. First she measured the width of her client’s back with a “Fat Max” tape measure. Second, a terrycloth bag filled with rotten hard rice was microwaved and placed on her client’s neck/shoulders. Once her client had fully relaxed, she relentlessly jabbed their back with an orange spiky ball.
Her first client reacts negatively to the smell of hot rotten rice. This type of massage is not for everyone.
Her second, and final client gets measured.
Nothing beats a spiky-ball massage. It’s almost as much fun as mowing the lawn.
Two weeks til real food and real cheese. Anyone in Paris need a massage?
On December 31, 1999, with 30 minutes left in the millennium, I found myself frantically crazy-gluing my glasses. They had broken moments earlier when I had been hit by a newspaper ball held together with masking tape. My $700 Sarah Palin frameless/rimless glasses had been purchased a year earlier for $35 at a Taiwan night market. The glue-job worked as advertised, and within minutes I rejoined the dodgeball game in my backyard/courtyard. Down to their last player, my team had suffered badly in my absence. My return, however, turned the raging tide. With unstoppable force I triumphantly picked off six opposing players to win the game, ending perhaps the greatest night of my life. Indeed I have lived a full life.
One year later, I stood by my window, surveying the historic battlefield. I could not help but notice that there were two teenage girls in my backyard/courtyard smoking a fat J. One of the two girls, Sarah, I recognized as a student in my Math class. The next day in class, Sarah announced in a whisper, “Mr. Neill, I peeeeeeeed on your lawn”. So there’s that.
Years of toiling in Pittsburgh have retarded my sartorial sensibilities. This is ill-timed in light of my “move” to Paris. I don’t want to look like a bumbling American, ya know. Not to worry. Bored with learning French, I’ve redirected my energy toward absorbing Parisian fashion. It has come to my attention that Parisian men dress real gay. This is problematic. Not only am I not gay, gaydars tend to clock me in the hopeless/clueless range. So…what to do, what to do. Here’s what: Last week I saw the gayest looking sneakers I’d ever seen. So I bought them! Paris here I come! And yesterday I went to the mall! The mall! I haven’t shopped at a mall in 20 years. I bought Lucky and BKE (Buckle) jeans. Weeeeeee! I mean Ouiiiiiiiiiiii!
In other “news”, I’m not sure what to do about my afro. I know we don’t talk much anymore, but just so you know, I’m three months into a year-long haircut strike. Unfortunately, follicle results appear to be sabotaging my anti-bumbling scheme. So there’s that.
Nothing a little Murray's Pomade can't fix!
I’ve often thought about moving to a shiny preassembled boom-town – Charlotte, NC, Anytown, AZ, but most of all, Austin, TX. What would make me want to live in an oven for 7 months/year? Free babysitting via Zach/Asia’s Aunt and Grandfather! All that changed on January 1, 2009. Here’s how it went down:
Have you ever watched the Dog Whisperer? None of that dog psychology amounts to much in my book, but I do love when that dog dude “walks” his dogs by taking them on a bike-ride. Those mutts get one exhausting workout! And so, Zach and I took our canine for a celebratory New Year’s bike-ride in Austin, TX. Zach, having never experienced the joys of riding bikes on a flat landscape was quick to ditch me. No biggie. The rendezvous point was a park at the end of the trail. It’s not like I wouldn’t be able to find him. Thus I took a longer, alternate route, in hopes of surprising the boy. As the park came into view, I was forced to slow down in order to cross a stream. Scanning the horizon, Zach was nowhere to be seen. In a mild panic, I began to call for him. Just then, fool dog spotted a potential mate, and was off to the races. This caused the leash and my bike chain to have a bad mix-up. Down I went. As I called for Zach while untangling the chain/leash, doggie upped the ante by shitting several feet from a white-trash family frolicking in the stream. Out for a holiday stroll, another family appeared. As they walked by, the dad looked at me, shook his head, and said to his kids, “Humph. Too much going on.” It was at that moment that I decided to live out the remainder of my days in Pittsburgh.
Unrelated, but this song makes me want to bake and eat a fluffy pink cake.
Well, there goes another weekend. Here’s what I have to show for my efforts:
- I taught Zach how to play Texas hold ‘em. The old lady wanted in on the action, so the three of us gambled the night away. Zach won.
- I ate vegan sausages. It’s not a product I can endorse, worse perhaps than turkey bacon. How does one make turkey bacon taste less awful? Cook it in bacon grease.
- I attended my first dance. Ever. Check out my date:
February 25th,2009 |
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People always be asking me if I’m gonna load up on Parisian museums. As the Puerto Rican kids used to say, hells no. Museums bore me and make my legs achy. Sort of like when your girlfriend/wife shops for clothes while you mindlessly trudge forward, guiding the cart like a broken ox. Not that I would know.
Worthy of achy legs:
- The blurry impressionist stuff at Chicago’s Art Institute.
- The shrunken heads at Chicago’s Field Museum. I hadn’t seen them since I was a boy, so a few years back I dropped in on them. No luck. I was informed that the heads have been in storage for 20+ years because “they’re not very PC”. Nice job with that.
Today, for no good reason I dragged Shut-in to the Andy Warhol Museum. *Yawn*. Stripped of his aura and hype, little of Andy’s work warranted attention. The highlight of the trip was a Cuban sandwich from the basement cafe. Yumzies!
Fun fact #1: In college I tried to switch my major to Art. I was told that my grades were too low, and that I’d have to stick with Math. Fun fact #2: Shut-in has an Art degree, and he agreed that Mr. Warhol was a lame.
In other “news”, yesterday Zach and I danced to this song. Afterwards we listened/sang along 6 more times while clearing furniture and playing living room hockey. Aside from the potential “losing teeth” aspect of the game, living room hockey is maximum father/son fun.
February 14th,2009 |
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This was the last photo taken before it all went wrong. While we may have colored outside the lines from time to time, we were essentially a happy family.
At 2:35 pm yesterday, disaster hit. I turned into one of “those” parents. You’ve seen them, monsters who coach scream at their kids while their children try to have fun playing sports. Sure, Zach may have been grossly out of position (right wing) on every play, but seriously, who cares? Tonight I am filled with shame, and my vocal chords are ripped to shreds. I vow to return to my old ways.
