where art collides

13h38-14h35, 28-February-2013

The window for a personal word or two is a bit tight today, so let’s see how I do at minimizing distraction and matching my typing to my thinking (write now, edit later).

I have a tendency to name inanimate objects. My first car was Erin, my bicycle is Stella, my computer is AppleKory (Apple MacBook => Apple core => AppleKory), my first cellphone was Louis, Ouizi is my mobylette, my chef’s knife is Larmurlok…and, really, I could go on and on. I have no idea if there is a name for what is obviously a psychosis of some sort, but if not I am certainly qualified and able to put one to it.

Inhabiting the same Black Market Café I mentioned in Tuesday’s piece, I once again find myself bronzed in the afterglow of a too-quickly-finished Cortado. A few more visits will be necessary before I can hang the moniker haunt or hangout on the place, however early signs are good as the Cortados are meticulously prepared and presented and the owner/baristra’s musical tastes work quite nicely for me (on Tuesday Herbie Hancock’s “Maiden Voyage” helped me settle into my seat, and today he is playing wall-to-wall jazz manouche selections).

If only I could follow my “write now, edit later” directive. Getting away from my desk to blurb daily is proving to be a terrific idea, but doing so has done nothing to stanch my talent for multi-tasking (or, more honestly, “to improve my ever-diminishing ability to focus on one thing at a time”). Perhaps I should employ one of those funky new applications designed to minimize distraction from writing, or — better yet — opt NOT to hop on the free wi-fi offered in an increasing number of neighborhood venues….must move…forward.

My Missus and I recently started watching a new television program called “The Ameri☭ans”, which airs in the U.S. on the FX cable network. At some point if the show continues to prove interesting I may share some thoughts on it, but I bring it up here only as a means for opening a discussion of how strangely easy it is now to find fresh freely-downloadable broadcast content via the Internet. It has been more than 10 years since my bottom jaw crash-landed on my keyboard at the sight of an episode of “Friends” playing on my computer screen (downloaded using a then-magical peer-to-peer file sharing software called KaZaA, which is the direct digital ancestor of Skype), and yet I remain astounded that within minutes after a program is first broadcast it can be pulled down over the Internet in pristine high definition a/v quality. And I refer not to the use of such authorized for-profit services as iTunes or Amazon Instant Video, but to free-use technologies like Bittorrent and the ever-growing number of file sharing and uploading sites (e.g., RapidShare, MediaFire, Hotfile, 4Shared, depositfiles, etc.). When TNT shows an all-new episode of “Dallas” — an oh-so-guilty pleasure — on Monday evening in the U.S., I can cue up a perfect .avi file of the episode for a with-my-breakfast viewing on Tuesday courtesy of eztv.it, Transmission (Bittorrent application I run on AppleKory), and VLC Media Player. And this is true these days for virtually every program emitted on U.S. and U.K. television, be it scripted sit-coms or dramas, documentaries, so-called “reality” TV, or live broadcasts such as news programs, award shows, and even certain sporting events. Of course, all of this begs the question, “Who is recording all of this content and making it available (and so quickly, too)?” After all, there is absolutely no money to be made in creating the digital files and sharing them via the Internet, and we are long-past the time when making the effort to upload…well, anything, can be attributed to fulfilling the hacker’s credo of doing it simply to show it can be done. Do the uploaders do it out of the pure goodness of their hearts, hoping that the tiny signature character strings they tack onto the end of the files they offer will result in the gratitude, respect, and admiration of the legions of downloaders who draw entertainment from the fruit of their labor?

So the 5th episode of “The Ameri☭ans” aired last in the U.S.. I downloaded it this morning in about 9 minutes time, and tonight My Missus and I will watch it from the comfort of our Paris home at 57BB, after which I am sure to toss it out with the rest of the digital trash.

15h47-17h00, 27-February-2013

Less than five minutes at my perch du jour and already I’ve been abandoned by the espresso that was meant to accompany me today, the only evidence of which I cannot even lick off the inside of the cup. <sigh>

A myth it is, the supposed superiority of the espresso offered in the cafés of France. Typically, the lauded beverage so often held up as a paragon of culture, sophistication, and refinement compared to “American” is no richer/darker/stronger/more flavorful/truer. The fact is that despite the relatively small size of a café (the beverage and not the place at which you might order and drink said beverage…yes, that CAN get confusing), honest imbibers are often able to make out the bottom of their cup through the brown-but-not-so-brown liquid. And it isn’t because the sugar in France is especially strong that a half-teaspoon of the stuff applied tends to go a long-enough way. Now this isn’t to say that all of the café coffee (un café au café?) to be had in France is bad — Au contraire! — but it is long past time for the popping of the bubble of primacy afforded to “un café” over its English-speaking brethren.

There. I wrote it, I take responsibility for it, and once I publish it the French Café Police will be able to hold those pixels against me as they see fit.

A man wearing a nondescript baseball cap just wrested all attention by pounding his cellphone on the bar twice with great force. One has to assume that the thing was already broken, but if not it certainly is now.

Wednesdays are more a “valley day” than a “hump day” in France due to the school system, in which kids at the maternelle and primaire levels do not have classes while those at the higher levels only have classes in the morning. Thus, depending on their age and interests (and the needs and capabilities of their parents), on Wednesdays kids across the country participate in a whole slew of daycare arrangements, sports programs, music lessons, art classes, theatre groups, game clubs, and the like. And the competition to get into these programs can be downright savage, and I am not ashamed to admit that over the years — my being the at-home parent — I have had to throw the occasional hip-check to get The Boy on the list for Swimming, for Tennis, for Sculpture (yes, Sculpture…see the accompanying photo of today’s masterpiece)… Of course, it is all in the name of liberté, égalité, fraternité…and betterment-of-the-organism, so “No blood, no foul”, right?

12h40-13h47, 26-February-2013

Soaking up some scene at Black Market Café, a new 18th arrondissement coffee house up the hill from 57BB, noting three mysterious men through the window street-side, dressed all in white and moving left to right, and hoping the Cortado I just ordered is worth the 3.40€ I will eventually pay for it…

Most weekday mornings begin slooow. Shortly after The Boy made his debut some 11 years back I resolved to make it out of the bed every morning in time to walk My Missus to the Metro and my kiddo to his nounou (and later, to school) before returning home to start my day. This now long-held resolution is the proverbial two-birds-one-stone as it provides short-but-precious morning time with my family while also ensuring that my tendency to fall into bed late — most nights my head hits the pillow between the 2nd and 3rd wee hours — doesn’t result in my getting out of it late as well. An efficient system, to be sure, even if it does make for a bit of a “No Kory’s Land” that barring a work guillotine (read: deadline) lifts between 11h00 and noon…just in time to start thinking about lunch.

Lunch. All who have worked alongside me over the years will no doubt attest that the mid-day meal is a (worthy, yes, worthy) near-obsession with me, and this remains true despite the fact that these days I take most of my lunches solo. Yes, it is about the food (it is ALWAYS about the food, isn’t it?), but it is also about the deep need for a definitive break in the day, a separation, a chance to take a breath and lessen the pulse of backbreaking toil, and…oh, who am I kidding, it’s about the food.

As often as not it goes like this… <cue dreamy music at low volume, soften focus and add more white light, and cut to Kory staring past the monitor on a non-descript spot on the wall>

“Lunch. Am I hungry? Gotta eat. Asian? Could go for something with some crunch. Maybe something light today? It’s cold. A steak-frites might go over nicely. Haven’t had pizza for a while. Shame I have to get on the Metro to get decent sushi. Man, if only there was an authentic taqueria nearby. How long would it take me to get back-and-forth from _______? Thai food, now that could be really great. Stop thinking about sushi, Kory. Could I ever go for that great burger they make over at that place near the circle down the block next to that other place! Maybe such-n-such brasserie has confit de canard or bœuf bourguignon on the menu… I’m meeting My Missus for lunch tomorrow, so I should eat cheap today…wonder if there is something in the fridge that needs to be eaten. A grilled cheese sandwich, a bowl of tomato soup, and an icy-cold Coke…comfort food doesn’t get more comfortable than THAT!…sushi?”

<stop music, sharpen focus on Kory coming out of his Lunch Pondering Trance and reaching for his shoes, with no clue where his feet will take him once they hit the street>

That Cortado? DEFINITELY worth the 3.40€.

11h08-12h08, 25-February-2013

With the hopes of overcoming self-consciousness I begin from a place long in warmth, comfort, and hot chocolate (and short in wi-fi)…

In the first term of my freshman year at Yeshiva University a professor of mine whose name is lost in my memory tasked her Creative Writing class with the semester-long project of writing one page a day. She used the word ‘journal’ to describe the project, though there was no requirement to chronicle life events or deep personal thoughts. This professor simply wanted us to find the discipline to set time aside each day to write…about anything.

I can report that each of the students in that 1983 class successfully completed the project, to varying degrees and via a myriad of motivations and methods (which in at least three cases proved to be somewhat costly, at least when measured up against my $300/month budget). I can also report without a shred of self-congratulation or ego-tripping that my journal received the prof’s highest possible praise, though she affixed no grade to my stellar work at the end of the semester (or that of any of my classmates), merely the admonition that the reward was in the thing itself and that I should endeavor to continue the “exercise”.

Can I say that I was not the least bit disappointed at the lack of a hard-and-fast grade for that long-ago assignment? No, because I set a rule then that I plan to also adhere to now as I pick the effort back up nearly 30 years later: Write only the truth. (“What?! No ‘A+’? But I worked my young sweet hard thin shapely 18-year-old patootie off on that thing! Is she kidding?! <insert expletive>!) Now by no means does this rule require that I be completely forthcoming, nor does it absolve me of the occasional licensed omission (artistic or otherwise), however anyone bothering to visit this space going forward can rest assured that what they read will be free of fictionalization, exaggeration, and good ol’ fashioned fibbing (at least within Clintonian guidelines)…unless, of course, it is characterized otherwise.

So to borrow unabashedly from one of the greats (unless or until I come up with a clever closing line of my own that ranks)…”That’s the news, and I am out of here!”