where art collides

12h40-13h32, 06-March-2013

Flight delayed, word of “extremely slippery” conditions on the road from Keflavik to Reykjavik, and My Missus just received a call from her bank asking if she is in the U.S. racking up charges on her credit card (she is not). All things considered, though, we could be in Bucharest…or Detroit.

Airports. Photo opportunities are to be had with just about every eye-blink at the airport. Building infrastructure that is not applied (or appropriate) anywhere else, a virtual gumbo of different peoples caring for a seemingly inexhaustible array of luggage styles and sizes, this gadget that gadget the other gadget and a gadget I never thought I’d see, the shoes!, strange vehicles purposefully darting here and there (Or to and fro? I am growing ever more certain that it is the closing in of the Cliché Cops that is causing the hair on the back of my neck to stand up.), baggage carrousels…? And, of course, I could go on. Everywhere I look I see pictures that deserve and demand to be taken by someone with far more photography skill than I wield, and — By gum! — it pisses me off.

Today my Eljay (everone should have one) is also in transit, heading for Austin from Londontown for another go at SxSW Interactive. Via social media this morning she reported seeing a Heathrow shop selling “freshly ground coffee & pastries” and quipped that she had “decided to pass on liquidised-coffee-flavoured pastry sludge for breakfast”. As entertained and thought-provoked as I was by Elj’s bon mot, though (and her spellings, though my faith is strong that the day wiill come when the Brits learn to properly speak and write English), I cannot shake the thought that there might be a business opportunity in it all.

Weather reports from Iceland continue to come across, with conditions worsening and a weather warning being issued for parts of the south and west (Keflavik, Reykjavik…). Heavy snowfall, strong gale winds of more than 20 m/s and blizzards…m/s? Into the icy maw of Scandinavian HELL we go (if IcelandAir actually opts to put 543 in the air today, that is)!

I spy with my little eye…a black leather-clad tallish blondish thinnish woman applying far too much lip gloss, a twentysomething student-type guy with his headphones askew (left ear in, right ear out) who is tapping his iPhone against his thigh like a drumstick (wooden, not chicken), a faux beige cowboy hat sitting atop an extensible luggage handle, a lost mouse who is considering making a break for safer harbor…a mouse? Heh no, I made that up. No mice in evidence today at CDG. None of the mammal variety, anyway.

When did Boeing start making planes with tip-up wings? Are new Airbus planes employing the same feature? Is it a design affectation or does it truly add to the flying/flight experience? If free wifi was in the offing I am sure I could find the question’s answer, thus proving yet again that instant information access does not always enable a sense of wonder.

And the Airmail beta? Those crazy kooky tinkerers just refuse to sleep! Build 143 turned up a short time ago, this following yesterday’s release of both Build 141 and Build 142. Feature me once, shame on you. Feature me twice…?

Flight 543 IcelandAir is now boarding. <Cue omininous violin music behind slow fade to white>

11h16-12h48, 05-March-2013

On the way back from walking My Missus to the Metro this morning I realized yet again (re-realized? re-re-re-re-re-realized?) that “walking-asleep” is when I am most open to abstract free-flowing creative thought. That said, I cannot offer a reasonable rationale for why I waited 2.5 hours before disconnecting AppleKory from the home net hive in search of today’s perch. Hmm…well, there was the just-released latest-greatest update to the Airmail beta that absolutely demanded installation…and then I just couldn’t fail to finish Steven Brill’s extraordinary article on the U.S. healthcare system in last week’s Time (Bitter Pill: Why Medical Bills Are Killing Us)…Twitter this, Twitter that, and no small amount of while-I-slept Facebooking to catch up on…

The other side of my table today features a guest star in the form of The Boy, whose two week Vacance d’Hiver (Winter Holiday) began yesterday. I won’t spend time or pixels here attempting to describe how passing time is vastly improved by the kid’s presence, but I could, I really could, and the words would flow like water from a busted East 100th Street fire hydrant in a Bruce Davidson photo…

Bouncing in my seat to what has to be a Two-for-Tuesday playlist…Jefferson Airplane’s “Go Ask Alice” led (and had to have been preceded by “Somebody to Love” as there aren’t any others by the band that are worth a spit), followed down the rabbithole by a fantastic 1-2-3-4 Leonard Cohen two-fer/Neil Young two-fer. Now enduring some 2000s-ish acoustic-sticky happy-in-my-angst half-song thing with a two-clicks-past-too-earnest voicing (you know, that RomCom/”Grey’s Anatomy” montage-ready sludge).

Spent some time with The Boy in the neighborhood Virgin Megastore yesterday afternoon. The store opened nearly 10 years ago, bringing with it a gulletful of hope and expectation for dramatic improvement on the oh-so-dilapidated Boulevard Barbes, however it is now in its death throes as evidenced by the diminishing inventory (oh, and by the announcement in January that the chain was filing for bankruptcy). Walking amongst the lightly-populated shop’s sad shelves and tables — and they are sad, helped to that state by far too many “Soldes!” signs and stickers and nicked-up product spread too thin — I found my thoughts settling into nostalgia for a time not-long-enough-ago-to-warrant-nostalgia when music and book stores were my best and favorite places of refuge. Barenaked Ladies captured the heart of my Single Guy existence best in song with Brian Wilson, singing:

“Drove downtown in the rain,
9:30 on a Tuesday night,
just to check out the late-night..record shop.
Call it impulsive.
Call it compulsive.
Call it insane.”

Of course, late-night bookstores sufficed just as well (way way back then?!) and they had the added enticement of coffee on site, though I never did manage to pin down whether there was a specific day each week when the new tomes were let loose upon the thirsty public.

OH. Must stop typing. John Lennon is here, singing about how a working class hero and how they are something to be, and attention must be paid. And now a band has magically appeared, helping John to convey power to the people (right on!).

At this point I might look up and stare a bit — out the window, at someone interesting-looking (or someone doing the same take-a-break stare), deep into and through some tchochke or kinda-neglected piece of hanging art whatnot — in pursuit of an ending, however today when I look up I see The Boy with his headphones earmuffing his head and realize (re-re-realize) that the priority has shifted definitively into procuring lunch feed.

16h42-17h50, 04-March-2013

Color me surprised this afternoon to discover that both of the newish modernish hip-coolish wifi-ready coffee houses in my neighborhood conform to the oh-so-dusty-European custom of being closed for business on Monday. Always learning in this life, we are…and always walking further than we intended as a result.

Less than three hours ago, right at the tail-end of a lunch best not recounted here, I had a truly great idea for a topic on which to write about today. I did, I really did. The thought made me smile, it made me laugh, it lifted my spirit and filled me with anticipation, and then it took a partner and danced straight out of my mind with nary a backward glance. Not that I am spending much time aching over subjects, mind you, but when you’ve got a good one by the tail (never by the nose) there is no escaping a slicing sense of loss when it breaks free and skips away.

Metaphors. I see I am not lacking for those today, oh no. Of course, me without metaphors is like a laundry basket without socks, or or or a bulletin board without thumbtacks. Uh, a money-showered celebrity without an entourage? Nope, it’s true…the good ones really won’t come when you call.

The chocolat chaud that was meant to share the ride today is already gone, and that is because it was not hot, not marginally so, and thus it was no more in three easy glugs. And that is especially bothersome, considering Le clair de lune, the neighborhood bar/café I tap-tap-tap from today, is part of an affiliation of like establishments called HotCafe. Ironic? Nah. The point isn’t nearly important enough to be considered so and should be released on its own recognizance.

At this point it is evident that the loss of my afformentioned certain-world-beating topic has left me in a place of riffing (read: scrambling, reaching, clutching, grasping, flailing…). Hmm. Should I write about Airmail, the rollickin’ new email program I started beta-testing over the weekend? Uh, no. Or maybe go on a bit about the dreamy handmade camera half-case my eyeballs and fingertips have been tingling over (for Leyna the Leica…avid readers will surely recall my naming psychosis) and that I am thisclose to ordering, as a 48th Birthday gift to myself from My Missus? Uh, no. My ongoing effort to integrate the complete recordings of both Louis Armstrong and Miles Davis into the TOK Tunes digital music library? No no no, heavens no. My surprise over CuzJ being a tad jealous over my imminent Iceland holiday, this despite his leaving days from now for Hawaii? Huh? Of course, I could just share a cat story…

And there it is again, that utterly brilliant topic, rearing its ghastly head as expected and just in time to miss the whole of today’s session of Fill-the-Cruelly-Oppressive-Blank-Space. Caged that slippery beast in a note-to-self this time, though, thus finally subscribing to the notion that writing is at least as much organization as inspiration (perspiration, preparation, presentation, elucidation, and mental masturbation aside).

13h32-14h34, 01-March-2013

As I start in today the free wi-fi at neighborhood café Le Carrefour is down. After the mild railing I gave myself yesterday for my susceptibility to Internet distraction, though, this could be more a good thing than a bad thing…provided what ends up on this page over the next 60 minutes or so is of any use whatsoever.

On Tuesday, issue #8 of “Hawkeye” hit comic shops (and the Internet…DLing comics is as easy these days as DLing television programs), and as has been the case since an old friend turned my eyes to the book some months back, it broke straight through the clutter and delighted me no end. A super hero who lives and interacts among non-Avenger types in an apartment building is nothing new — since the 60s, only “old money” such as Batman and Iron Man have had the dosh to crib out in stately manors — but Hawkeye is certainly the first who slumlords and acts as Super for said building as well. And though this guy may stand shoulder-to-shoulder with the likes of Captain America and Thor when the fate and future of the universe is in the balance, the adventures chronicled monthly in “Hawkeye” capture our hero when he is “off the clock”. Oh, and did I mention mention that Clint Barton…uh, Hawkeye’s dual identity is known to all? Such a premise alone would certainly promise the comic a spot on the top tier from the get-go, however it is the brilliant delivery by the dynamic duo (sorry) of writer Matt Fraction and artist David Aja that delivers on that promise. If you are not yet among those of us lucky enough to already be digging on “Hawkeye”, last month’s Issue #7 is the perfect hopping-on point from which to go backward then forward.

What? You don’t read comic books? Really? Wow, if that IS you, then take a moment to feel both proud and fortunate that you have made it this deep into the third millenium with anything resembling a relevant personal culture.

A long time ago, in a galaxy yadda yadda etc., a friend of mine dissed me but good, saying “Kory, don’t sweat it…someday you’ll find the one girl out there who is into comic books.” Now this friend truly had no idea that I still kept a bit of a toe in all-things-comics, though as zingers go it struck a hard and perfect bullseye at my geeky heart, and its perfect delivery made it worth more than a laugh-and-a-half…deep good-natured yukking all around. Little could either of us have known just how prescient that insult would turn out to be, however, as the mid-point of this newly-unwrapped month will mark 13 years since I was saved by My Missus, a girl who is not only into comic books (though super heroes are far from her cuppa) but who actually put in a good amount of time working in France’s quite-healthy comic book industry…and have I mentioned that her collection is epic?

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!”

Homeless person says “morning”

I looked down at her as she spoke and said “morning” cheerfully back but didn’t break my stride and carried on past her into Leicester Square underground station. What was her story? It was a very cold morning to be sat on the pavement. Why wasn’t she at home with her family? Was she on drugs? Her lips looked thin and blue.

Man with disfigured face

I sat at a table on the train. It was only after I had taken off my coat and unpacked my laptop that I noticed his face. His left side seemed to have some sort of growth. It wasn’t totally clear what was wrong. Was it something he was born with? Did he have a cancer?

Mixed emotions struck. I wanted to look more but didn’t want him to see me looking. Pity, revulsion, discomfort, embarrassment.  There was nothing wrong with him other than that disfigurement and it seemed to me totally unreasonable that I had those thoughts. I wanted to know the whole story though it was none of my business. I also regretted sitting there but by the time I had sat down it was too late. I was committed.

Man with metal frame on head

He had a metal frame on his head. Curious. I only saw him for seconds and then he walked off out of view. I wonder what his voice sounds like. What’s his favourite food? Is he an Aston Villa football fan? So many things about him I don’t know. All I can say is that he was probably in his late fifties, I would think.

Why?

What do you get a mother for Christmas? Someone who has room for no more gadgets, whose larder is stocked full for the winter and who has filled most of the wardrobes in their five bedroom house for two with the contents of several clothes shops. Could I give her youth and vitality?  No despite her years she has youth aplenty. Love she dispenses freely without strings. She can have some of this back though it isn’t part of the contract. Praises she has had more of over the years than she could shake her stick at, if she had a stick, and friendship comes naturally. She already shared with me her attitude to life.

All I can think of is a pair of socks and a big hug and thank you for being my mam.