foolisht's Open Salon Blog

Weird things I did in Paris (France, not Texas).

Fri, 10 Apr 2009 11:04:30 -0400

1. Easily the cheapest and tastiest breakfast in my neighborhood was found at the Gare du Lyon -- the immense train station that served as my local RER and Metro station. For about 6 euros, I could get an excellent cup of coffee with milk, a slab of buttered bread and a croissant (chocolate-filled, from time to time). Every other cafe nearby charged 8 euros for the exact same meal. So, being on a budget and with a sense of humor, I took myself to the train station every morning for a week until the woman at the cafe counter asked, somewhat confusedly, if I take the train every morning.

For the record, though the croissants of Paris are about as delicious as what croissants in Heaven must taste like, I was expecting it; but I'd forgotten about the simple delight of good French bread and good French butter. And when married together! Oh! La! La!

2. Having discovered that the French I speak, coming from my French family, is mostly too familiar and bawdy for polite company, I had a slightly harder time communicating than I had anticipated. Nothing grave, but I definitely pulled a blank face here or there, or said "oui" when the waiter asked how I wanted my steak cooked. Whenever that happened, invariably whatever French person I was talking to would smoothly and graciously transfer into good, accented English -- the show-offs -- with the attitude of "Oh, well, at least you tried." Now, being both obstinate and pig-headed, I would refuse to acknowledge any such English as was being spoken and would doggedly keep responding to questions and directions in French. The result was often two people communicating in two different languages that neither speak terribly well.

It was funny.

3. On those rare occasions when I did need to conduct a transaction in English, I would out of nowhere put on a French accent. Yes, that's right. I, American born and raised, whose accent is that flat nebulous California-Western American accent of TV stars and Valley girls, would suddenly and inexplicably have a difficult time pronouncing "th" and rolled my R's with Frankish panache to the confusion of whomever I spoke to. This happened three times.

4. I avoided the following: the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, the Louvre, and the Palace of Versailles. I don't like to sightsee (plus I've been to Paris a few times before and have already done that business). The most tourist-y thing I did was visit the Musee d'Orsay, that beautiful green and glass cathedral of Impressionist art that had once been a train station. Sure the voices were everywhere -- American, English, German, Dutch -- but at least I could slip on my earbuds, play every Bjork album my iPodholds, and wander around the galleries as slowly as I wished. Which I did, for about seven hours. It was amazing. Taking in the sheer architecture of the place while listening to "I'm a fountain of bluh-ud, in the shape of a giiiiiiirl" is a sublime experience.

5. Instead of the tourist stuff, I spent my mornings at the Gare du Lyon (for breakfast) and then in a particular part of Paris that I wanted to explore (meaning walk through and get lost in, often tripping over the cobblestones); my afternoons in a park (sunbathing in the Luxembourg, for example); my evenings in the cinema; my nights at cafes, where I tried to read books without getting eye-balled by the waiters. (Eventually one of them told me that it's bad for the stomach to read and eat at the same time.)

6. Whenever I heard American voices, I turned in the opposite direction. This became a rule. Most of my trip was spent wandering around the backstreets of Paris anyway, so if I happened to be in St-Germain-des-Pres, my head in an Existentialist fog, and I heard an American voice talking about "the dux maggots" on my left, I would have to -- no exceptions -- make a right turn down whatever street I happened to be passing. I got lost a lot.

(It wasn't that I was being a snob. I just wanted to be around French people. This is difficult to do in Paris.)

7. My desire to be near French people had become so intense that one day at the end of my week, I actually did board a train and traveled as far away from the capital as my budget would allow, which meant Orleans. I spent my Orleans day staring at the Loire river, walking to the edge of town and bottling some clean French earth for my grandmother, and combing the immense Gothic cathedral of that city.

At 7 PM I went into a local restaurant inquiring about dinner. The proprieters were distraught. I was too early for dinner, which didn't commence until 8 PM.

That's OK, I said. I'll just have a Perrier.

No, you must eat if you are hungry, said the proprietress. After some consultation between monsieur et madame, it was decided that they would prepare me a croque monsieur and a green salad for supper. That was the best they could do, they said. I accepted their offer gladly (who doesn't love a croque monsieur?).

At the end of my meal, the proprietress asked me why I was eating so early (by that point it was 7:45 PM). I explained that I had to catch my train back to Paris at 8:30 PM. She shook her head and lamented the poorly planned French rail system, which runs trains during the dinner hour. How can one expect to live?

8. That brings me to an observation, rather than a weird thing. One of the things I love about France, and one of the things I've inherited from my French family, is the need for and rhythm of life's simple pleasures. Especially when it comes to food -- meals are sacred -- but really just the general way people live. Work hard, sure, but then take a two-hour lunch (not in Paris, but in most places). Go out to dinner in the middle of the week. Sit and have a coffee in a good piece of porcelain rather than take it with you in a big paper cup. Sit in a park for an hour or two. I like it.

That was it, my week. I ate a lot of ham and cheese sandwiches and drank lots of cafe cremes. I spent more time outside than I had in months. I fed Parisian pigeons. I read seven books. I got lost 26 times. It was a wonderful vacation.

A conversation I had with a man at a bar.

Sun, 8 Mar 2009 18:03:30 -0400

Why Internet dating will eventually cause the destruction of contemporary society.

It's a Tuesday night, and Foolisht is meeting a potential whatever-you-call-them now at a local bar that she's never heard of. They have exchanged emails and text messages and so far, so mediocre. But OK. One rather awkward phone conversation, but then Foolisht has never been good on the phone and blames the apparent dead silences on her own inability to be sufficiently interesting. The bar the guy chose was a gaudy place with dark booths, and this makes Foolisht suspicious but not too suspicious. She goes.

Man is sitting at the bar, hunched over a drink. Foolisht smiles, which in many cultures indicates friendliness, and says hello.

Foolisht: (smiling) Hello.

Man looks up. He was lying about his hair, for one thing, but Foolisht is not so concerned with grays as she is with the fact that Man seems unable to make eye contact. He looks at some point above and to the left of Foolisht's head. Foolisht is tempted to ask him what he's staring at.

Foolisht: You're [name omitted], aren't you? I'm Foolisht.

Man: Yeah. Um. Hello.

Foolisht: I'll just, uh, sit here, OK?

Man stares at Foolisht's right shoulder.

Man: Um, OK. You want a drink?

Foolisht: Sure. Gin and tonic?

Man: What?

Foolisht: A gin and tonic, please.

Man: A what?

It is not loud in the bar. It's Tuesday and there are seven people in the entire place, including the bartender and the bouncer. The bartender hears the order even if Man does not and is whipping up a drink.

Foolisht: A gin and tonic.

Man: Oh.

Foolisht: He's making me one.

Man: Who?

Foolisht: The bartender.

Man: Oh. You told him?

Foolisht: I think he overheard.

Man: What?

Foolisht: I think he overheard when I was telling you what I wanted.

By this point the gin and tonic is prepared in all its limey glory, and Foolisht slips a ten across the bar while Man shifts his gaze to her elbow.

Foolisht: Here's to Tuesdays.

Man: What?

Foolisht: It's Tuesday, I was just making a silly toast.

Man: Oh. Yeah. Tuesdays suck.

Foolisht, pleased that an opinion has been offered: Tough week?

Man: Me?

Foolisht: Yes.

Man: No.

Foolisht: Oh.

Man: Yeah.

Foolisht: Uh-huh.

Man is now sitting in a three quarter position, turned slightly toward Foolisht but still not making eye contact. Strangely, he is smiling widely but it might be a grimace of pain.

Foolisht: So what do you do?

Man: Uh. I work in computers.

Foolisht: Yeah? That's cool.

Man: And I produce music videos.

Foolisht: Really? That's awesome, who for?

Man: Myself.

Foolisht: You're in a band?

Man: No, my friend is.

Foolisht: So you produce them for your friend?

Man: Yeah.

Foolisht: Oh.

A very uncomfortable silence ensues. Foolisht is about two-thirds through her drink and has a ten minute walk back to her apartment. She can already see where this is going -- or so she believes -- but doesn't want to cut out yet. Besides she just paid $10 for her drink and she's going to enjoy it.

Foolisht: I teach high school literature.

Man: Oh.

Another deep sea of silence.

Foolisht: I write, too.

Man: I write.

Foolisht: Really? What do you write?

Man: Screenplay.

Foolisht: Oh. (Foolisht has a deep and abiding dislike for screenplay writers but is trying to overcome her prejudice for those bottom-dwellers.) Tell me about it.

Man: It's not done yet.

Foolisht: I understand.

Man: It's about cops. Set in the future.

Foolisht: Oh.

Man: Mostly I produce videos.

Foolisht: Music videos.

Man: Yeah.

Foolisht: OK.

Man: Mm-hmm.

Another silence. This time Foolisht tries to see how long she can go without saying anything. Man is staring at her decolletage, which is a minor improvement, but quite, quite minor. In fact, it's a little creepy.

Foolisht: I think I should go.

Man: Really?

Foolisht: Yeah, I'm feeling sleepy. I don't think I'm being a great conversationalist.

Man: Yeah.

Foolisht: So it was nice meeting you.

Foolisht stands up and suddenly finds herself pinned against the bar because Man is leaning on her. Not hugging her. Not groping her. Not even inappropriately touching her. Man is simply resting his whole body against Foolisht's and in the process pins her against the bar. He is taller than her and smells like grapefruit and sweat.

Foolisht: OK! I should go.

Man: OK.

Foolisht: Yeah, OK. Thanks again. See you.

Man: I'll call you.

And would you believe it? He did.

Paging Doctor Freud.

Sat, 28 Feb 2009 16:02:07 -0500

This really can't be real. If it is, it should be recalled:

Seriously, why would you do something so horrific to your child? Potty-training is traumatic enough without having your mom stick a "SafeGlide" popsicle stick up your butt and then force you to poop in fun shapes.

Freud would have a field day with this.

Dating is the new hell.

Tue, 10 Feb 2009 14:02:30 -0500

(For some reason, all morning I've been thinking and talking in an Irish accent. It would behoove you to read aloud this post in your best County Clare accent, mostly because it's funnier that way. It also sounds slightly more important. There.)

I'll say this, and ye all must hear it:

I do not want to date anyone anymore. Unless he is some sort of superhero kind lobsterman carpenter who can do differential calculus and play the lute, and who'll pick up after himself and only wants the exact same number of children as I do, and when I do, and where, I will have none of it.

I'll have none of your farty LA industry hacks in sleek cars oozing with cologne and Rolex watches and Blackberries and more brand names than human being.

I'll have none of your screenwriters. Jesus Christ, are there fucking screenwriters in this city. Everyone is a screenwriter. Everyone. It's requisite. You can't live in this city without spontaneously generating forty pages of a script that in all ways is the exact replica of Good Will Hunting except that instead of a Will it's a Wilhelmina, and instead of Boston it's Portland, and instead of being a math genius, she can play Chopin's Fantasie Impromptu with her elbows.

I'll have none of your rock gods, hot as they are. At 28, I've begun to outgrow the need for a constant headache and my hearing is bad enough as it is. Nothing is more pathetic than a near-30 groupie.

I'll have none of your arty loft-living photographer/graphic designer/art directors that have begun to infest the old downtown banking district. I have no interest in your collection of mid-century furniture, and yes, I think a tattoo of Magritte's "Ceci n'est pas une pipe" on your dick is about the cheesiest thing I've ever seen. Yes, you!

I'll have none of your fusion chefs. I'll have none of your real estate agents or entertainment lawyers. Leave me alone,

I'll have none of your sensitive philosopher-cum-graduate students. I have no pity for your poverty. You're the ones who chose to go to graduate school in the middle of Los Angeles. Don't you know that you're supposed to go to grad school in the Midwest or New England, someplace cold and essential, preferably a small town where the bartenders know you and won't charge you for the second round? Of course you're having a hard time working here. It's gorgeous outside. Who wants to read Derrida and Foucault when it's gorgeous outside?

I'll have none of your post-college frat boys that live in the beach cities. I do not go to sports bars for several reasons but primarily it is because I have no interest whatsoever in your opinion of the NCAA. At all. Really. Take off your baseball hat, you're inside, for goodness sakes.

No, and while you're sweet and dopey, I want none of your idealistic midwestern or southern or whatever you are LA newbies. I have no desire to show you around and to hear how lonely you are and how empty this city is because in six months you'll know your way around and you won't think you're lonely anymore and you'll be just as vacant and self-absorbed as every other industry person who gives the impression that Angelenos are all of us vacant and self-absorbed. You're part of the problem, can't you see?

Do I sound strident? Good! I mean to be! I know some of you are thinking that I'll never catch a man with this attitude. Thank God! I don't want to catch a man with any kind of attitude! It sounds like some sort of disease, doesn't it? Caught a man, have you?

I am therefore taking my place amongst the confirmed bachelorettes of Los Angeles, and long may the day and the way be, and true I might end up in a Beechwood apartment with two King Charles Cavalier puppies that won't stop pooping in the house, but at least I won't be stuck with a screenwriter.

The end. Of my rant.

The schoolkids are putting on a play. So I reminisce.

Mon, 12 Jan 2009 23:01:29 -0500

When I was a sophomore in high school thirteen years ago (Jesus fuck, it's flying by), I auditioned for a role in the musical Guys and Dolls by singing the song "Master of the House" from Les Miserables.

1. I was auditioning for a female part, being female.

2. So I thought the best thing to do, to audition for a female part in a musical about gambling gangsters,was

3. To sing a song from an entirely different musical

4. That has no connection to the musical I auditioned for.

5. Oh, and I sang the part of the MALE

6. CHARACTER

7. VOICE.

Meaning, if you followed my logic, I did everything wrong.

And I didn't get a part.

Now I am an adult. I teach at a high school, which is putting on Les Miserables for the Spring Musical. I'm helping out because I could never resist the drama people. Today at auditions, one by one they went up there, the boys, the comic boys, auditioning for Thenardier by singing, logically, "Master of the House." I was thrown violently into my silly past.

Teaching high school is more or less a constant reminder that I was a Dorky McDorkerton when I was in high school. I mean, I was in the Jazz Band and ran for president of the French Club. When I ditched class, I wrote poems and read National Geographics.