I swear I have friends.

"Don't spend the night alone. Call me if your roommate doesn't take you out."

- Text from concerned friend, 8:21pm

Happy New Year guys!

Rooftop angel

Jesus Christ! in an Irish lilt

A moment of fear in the slide and scrape

Then safe.

Overdose.

Two things I thought I'd never get sick of: dessert and movies. My sojourn with two friends (like real friends, not the dessert and movies) has been one of marathon baking, channel surfing, and oversleeping. Somehow there were enough hours in two days to accommodate all these activities in excess. My waistline too is probably accommodating to the indulgences. Tea and books detox here I come.

P.S. Merry Christmas

Too many levels of brilliance and love.

Well, baste my steaming puddings!

Top Christmas movie lists are all the same, it's really quite dull. Everyone knows It's A Wonderful Life and A Christmas Story are musts, so why repeat what's agreed upon?

Here's some non-generic Christmas cheer featuring a jarringly friendly but still hilarious Blackadder and appearances by Hugh Laurie, Stephen Fry and Miranda Richardson. Imagine a tea-party with Prince George, Melchard, and Queen Liz. Best tea-party ever.

While we're on the subject of the genius that is Rowan Atkinson, his bit part in Love Actually is also absolute gold.

Alan Rickman - Videoclip - Love Actually - MyVideo

"Ready in the flashest of flashes" --that is a total Blackadder moment they must have deliberately referenced. God, who needs Bing Crosby when you've got this guy's wit and charm.

All I want for Christmas.

This is currently my desktop background. Colin Firth gorgeousness aside, Love Actually is actually the best Christmas film. But Colin Firth doesn't hurt. To do: Bridget Jones viewing, which I know I will be hating at the very same time I'm lapping it up. Otherwise known as the continuation of vicariously living through romantic comedy characters to get through a solitary life winter.

No big deal.

Home alone = walking around in my underwear, feeling badass in general

Then again, I am a wuss.

It should have been a sign when I was whimpering with my scarf across half my face during "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows" that I was not going to be able to handle "Black Swan." But watched and handled it I did, if barely. All this to say that it was absolutely gripping, beautiful, stunning etc. Long story short? Ballet dancer is cast as lead in "Swan Lake," goes crazy and turns into evil Black Swan. Dun-dun-dun.

Things to love?

1) Natalie Portman.

In the lead role of Nina Sayers, Portman legitly confirms in my mind that she is a stellar actor and atones for the second hand embarrassment she gave from the Star Wars movies. People can give her flak for being a privileged snot with a Harvard degree saying dumb things about the recession and eating bagels blah blah.....who the fuck cares. Girl is amazing in this, not only for pulling off the dancing (trained her ass off for a year...at 28, I don't even want to imagine the pain), but working that face on so many levels of looking shit scared without slipping into monotony or camp. In this case, Aronofsky's close ups actually serve a purpose other than gratuitous voyeuristic gazing (looking at you, Angelina Jolie in "The Tourist"). As a character, Nina Sayers is absolutely fascinating and believable, taking the archetype of Perfectionist Ballerina to a whole new level. This isn't just a typical portrait of backstage cattiness, bathroom purging and sexually charged student-teacher, student-student relationships (quick shout out to hot as fuck Vincent Cassel and Mila Kunis here). This is narcissism, insecurity, paranoia, jealousy, sexual repression and awakening all rolled into one clusterfuck of schizo-neurotic-I-don't-know-what.

Basically, any time Nina is alone and there is a mirror in the room (which is probably every 5 minutes), you know weird shit's about to go down.

Dun-dun-dun.

2) The music.

I would have put "soundtrack," except that erroneously gives too much credit to Clint Mansell's "original score." Tchaikovsky is the master here, come on. Don't tell me after listening to the above that you were't imagining yourself standing on a cliff in an angsty Titanic pose with waves crashing up beneath and fire raining down from above. Because you totally were.

Sometimes I wish classical music was still pop music to us the way it must have been to people of its own time. I'll bet Swan Lake would have been topping the charts and playing in all them classy clubs. And instead of dirty grinding people would be drunkenly and dramatically swooning, twirling and arabesquing into each other's arms. Damn, what I'd give to go to a club like that.

3) The pretty.

Rodarte's costume design

Okay, so the whole Manichean imagery and colour schemes were kind of in your face and literal (white=good! black=evil! pink=childhood!) but between the gorgeous dresses and makeup, ghostly lighting and grainy cinematography, you've got something of an aesthetic feast going on. Which really complicated the viewing experience for a wuss like me trying to strategically orient my scarf.

How to make Big Decisions.

There is stress that motivates and stress that suffocates.

There is stress that propels and stress that weighs.

There is stress that makes you want to conquer the world and stress that makes you not want to get out of bed.

There is stress that makes you a Head Bitch In Charge and stress that makes you a bitch, period.

Know the difference.

Positive visualisation.

Dear GRE,

You are going to get your ass kicked. I've had it with your soul-sucking. I've had it with you making me miserable and a depressive bitch all week. Who do you think you are, strutting around with your invisible magic elves judging how clever I am, giving me anxiety attacks. I don't fucking need this. I'm going to be heading your way tomorrow with an ego like Kanye West's to destroy you. I'm going to make you my bitch. And then I'm going to ingest a fuckload of alcohol and nicotine into my system to celebrate. I'd let you finish, except Imma finish you first. PREPARE TO DIE.

-V.

Screw(ge) plans.

"Yeah, I'm going to be alone over Christmas, watching Bridget Jones and eating Ferrero Rochers."

this is the fantasy

to live in champagne's bubbly

jazz in jazz beats take me back to the 60s

blow kisses to necks of lovers of nobodies

linger on skins for minutes of eternity

mother don't matter

father don't bother

brother do better don't fall for this family

don't give up on me but please forget me

don't give up on me but shame me then leave me

city engulf me, paris adopt me

pour me a sparkling drink of lonely

light up my lungs my sex my body yes

elevate then deflate me

Maternal instincts.

"So I was talking to [someone's mum] the other day, your friend whatshername Connie is going to London for the holidays."

"I know. And I think Lydia's back in HK already."

"Oh right, isn't it like her 'summer' vacation? That's a long time she has off. She should visit you, ha!"

"Well you know, she only has one plane ticket to spare. Plus, I think her family wants her home."

I don't think she got the hint.

saturday saints.

gin goes in

time slows down

like lips blowing smoke

secrets come out

My love is rekindled.

Dear Ryan, or "Dr. Party Pants, DRA":

Why was I not aware of how amazing/ridiculous your Facebook page is? Why is your new site such a mind fuck/assault on the senses? Why do I keep caring so much?

Whatever. You know from my first letter that I'm not up this video-gamey-metal-screamy alley. So I'm somewhat appeased by the news that you'll be releasing a double-album with the good ol' Cardinals again. But like, I dunno, looking at the track list, should I be worried about songs like "Star Wars" and "Kill the Lights" (which I presume won't be a cover of Britney)?

I'm such a terrible fan. I don't mean to be condescending. I do have faith in you, on account of this gem:

Ryan, what is this nonsense about you being half-deaf?! It's utter bullshit. So here's my pep talk. After more than a year's hiatus, you obviously still have it. You don't need this electric futuristic experimental clowning around. You don't need to tack on some band to your name. You don't even need an audience. Just be that traveling hobo-country-prince you were born to be with Mandy as a sidekick. It is the way to go, trust.

And yet, having said all that and despite my nostalgia, I must end with this: Ryan Adams, never change your crazy ways.

Sincerely,

Victoria

Carrot or stick?

My mum just called with the sole purpose of telling me about a childhood friend who is in grad school doing neuroscience and has a scholarship covering everything and then some, making her self sufficient, plus her mum bought her a house because living in Texas is apparently dirt cheap. My mum says "I was thinking, if you go to the US for grad school, I'll buy you a house too. It would be worth it." Then she starts talking about how difficult it's going to be for me to get real job despite my good grades (it's true, thanks for the reminder), and how it is very worrisome that my brother too is looking into "social sciences" (said with a hint of hysteria) for uni.

I don't even know.

Sex on legs.

She doesn't need Paris.

Fuck November.

My friend is having a "Fuck November" party on Friday.....god do we need one. We have a mini "fall break" this long weekend where we get Monday and Tuesday off. In an alternate universe, I would be spending that time in Sydney. But it's not happening. I have a grand total of $300 in my bank account.

I hate how November just kicks me in the face like that, 3 days after my birthday.

I hate how November is when it starts getting dark at 5pm.

I hate how November is when it starts getting cold.

I hate how November is when the onslaught of deadlines begin.

I hate how November is the month of withdrawal after the fall play.

I hate how November is just one long, agonising wait for Christmas and winter break.

Is there anything good about November? Maybe this song, which is about how soul-sucking November is anyway:

21.

12:50am and I'm having my first glass of wine.

No more milestones to delay the definition of "adult" but fuck growing up.

I should grow up.

Things to keep in mind when you are in a play.

1) Just because you are a bit in love with every other actor and crew member does not mean you should act on it.

2) The "drama bubble" is dangerous. Amazing but dangerous.

3) The drama always leaks.

3) None of it is real.

4) All of it is real but you'll always wonder.

5) The curious phenomenon of the Cast Party is a wonderfully evil double-edged sword. Anything and nothing can happen. It's hard to know which you'd prefer sometimes.

Folgeschäden

tariq and maya

one dark one blonde

saw the other in a mirror

saw the other in naked light

felt the other in secret shadows

tariq and maya; one dark one deutsch

now you see him now you don't

do you doubt when he shouts?

do you doubt when he leaves?

do you doubt when he refuses to speak?

and what about when he breathes

deep into you chest to breast?

now you know him now you don't

tariq and maya

one dark one light

what devil sleeps between you at night

tariq and maya

one dark one blind

one turned on the other with a poisoned mind

Oddly comforting.

"Maybe unhappiness is the continuum through which a human life moves, and joy just a series of blips, of islands in the stream. Or if not unhappiness, then at least melancholy..."

- Salman Rushdie, The Satanic Verses

Soultastic.

The one naked dream I have I'm owning it.

I'm pissed off about something and walking angrily around the house. Enter bedroom of male housemate, snatch clothes off the bed. Exit bedroom.

Housemate from room: Were you just naked?

Me: I don't care.

How to wreck your clothes and look like a tool.

"To 'vintagize' a t-shirt, wash it at too high a temperature and then let it lie around wet so the wrinkles are fixed in place."

- H&M Fall magazine

Summer sins.

This was the summer where I had no job or class, went to too many deck parties, climbed up a roof, got high on a roof, curled up in bed with the spins.

This was the summer I went to my first big concert in Toronto, watched old Hollywood and French movies, ran at sunset and baked at midnight.

This was the summer I painted to blues rock, discovered a modern day Bob Dylan and bought two harmonicas.

This was the summer I fell in love with a new city, smoked for a month, overindulged in macarons, finally enjoyed French lessons, danced by the river, wore my shoes out and almost got killed on a bike.

This was the summer I slept in a lot, bummed around a lot, stopped worrying so much, took a break from thinking, spent more time dreaming.

I think it's time to get back to the worrying.

Pilgrimage.

Setting aside the aftermath of unpleasant skin allergies for a moment, the day I made contact with poison ivy was in fact quite a special one. My dad and I decided to make a trip out to his village in the countryside where he was born and raised. We have no relatives who live there anymore so I'd never been, and the last time he went back was some 16 years ago.

For the hour that we were there, my dad walked around like a celebrity offering cigarettes to the neighbours and asking them if they remembered him. They all did, but the fun part was seeing how reactions ranged from "Oh my god it's you!" to "No shit, it's you." But mostly they were happy to see us.

We found his old house, which was abandoned and had clutter around it but otherwise was in good shape.

A gaggle of geese waddled across our path.

We found a well of spring water from the mountains.

Made our way up to the top of the hill through prickly grass and plants to visit my grandma's grave.

My dad is a pretty easygoing workaholic, if that even makes sense. What I mean is he left a lot of the disciplining and parenting to my mother. She was the one who dished out the curfews, beatings, lectures and sex talks (which consisted solely of teenage pregnancy horror stories). My dad just kind of let me get on with it. So sometimes I forget how real of a generation gap exists between us, which is what I was confronted with once I stopped admiring the landscape like some asshole tourist and started imagining what it would have been like to grow up in such a place.

You know that Simpsons episode where Lisa finds out all the women in her family are, unlike her dad and uncles, geniuses? I get the impression that might be the case with the male members of my family (we'll see about my brother). My grandpa on my mum's side never went to university, and basically worked his way up in a factory to become an engineer, and ended up inventing some kind of tractor for the Russians. Something like that. He's also a self-taught musician, artist, and calligrapher. And my dad (also an engineer) worked his ass off to not only get out of a peasant village, but a country that had been intellectually, socially and economically stunted by the Cultural Revolution shit show. He was among the first group of students to go abroad. That's such the norm these days but back then, people didn't just pack up and leave China. Back then, an international scholar from China was something of a unicorn.

The generation gap between me and my grandpa and my dad basically boils down to the difference between possibility and necessity. All this to say that I feel like my indecision over my own future is a luxury. And maybe seeing it that way will take off some of the existential edge this year.

(P.S. Thanks, dad.)

Just focus on the pretty stuff.

This film doesn't have a release date in North America yet, but here in Hong Kong it was our pick two nights ago for a family movie night. While it was enjoyable enough to pass some 2 hours, the more I think about it the more I begin to feel ambivalent.

Set in WW2 Shanghai right before the Pearl Harbour bombing, the plot revolves around American agent Paul Soames (John Cusack) investigating the murder of his friend Connor (Jeffrey Dean Morgan). While navigating the webs of alliances and corruption between the Chinese and Japanese, he falls in love and finds himself taking sides in an escalating war that could cost him his life. I guess you would classify the film as a mystery drama or thriller, but although suspense is maintained, the audience is very much walked through the story and there aren't any ingenious twists to keep you on your toes. Let's just say that when all is revealed, it's nothing jaw-dropping.

Can we talk about this badass cast? Well, except maybe John Cusack, who will always be that jerk guy from High Fidelity to me. Although he did carry the film better than I thought he would, I'm not sure if I've seen a sadder slimeball of a spy. Ken Watanabe plays Japanese Captain Tanako who has a shady alliance with Chinese mafia leader Anthony Lanting, played by Chow Yun-fat. The last film I saw Chow in was the atrocity of Dragonball, where he gave me enough second-hand embarrassment to vanquish all my childhood traumas, so it was good to see him back in a dignified role. Finally, Gong Li (flawless, perfect, doesn't age, goddess) takes on a femme fatale inspired role as Langting's wife Anna, who is secretly part of the Chinese resistance unbeknownst to her husband.

Although all three Asian leads give strong performances, the fact remains that they were cast for star power more than anything else, and what's more, typecast in roles that honestly could have been played by anyone who looked good in uniform, a trench coat, or a cheung sam. I really wish Hollywood would start giving more cred to Chinese and Japanese actors who are capable of so much more than lending an "authentic" aesthetic or delivering moral maxims and mysterious or sinister smiles. It's not that these characters were stereotypes or strictly one-dimensional, but their ~inner-conflicts and secretz~ were just as unoriginal and predictable as the classic trope of White Man Falling in Love With Married Asian Beauty.

Can it even really be called a spoiler to say that sexual tension brews between Soames and Anna from the very moment they sit opposite each other at a casino table? While there's nothing inherently wrong with Anna's sensual charm and Soame's understandable attraction to her, what bothers me is the way she eventually reciprocates these feelings. There's a really uncomfortable scene when Soames confronts her about using everyone in her life for the cause of the resistance, which according to him is really a personal vendetta for her father's death. It's not that he's yelling in her face and literally shaking her by the head --there's nothing wrong with an intense, angst-filled face-off between a man and a woman. It's the fact that it's immediately after this violent outburst that Anna "crumbles" and throws herself into his arms with tears streaking down her face. OMG ANGRY PASSIONATE MAKE OUT TIME, DID NOT SEE THAT COMING.

I know I shouldn't be surprised by such a gratuitous hook-up --I was basically waiting for it to come and go so I could get over the awkwardness of sitting between my dad and brother --but I have a real problem with scenes that show a woman's favourable response to displays of aggression. In this case, it's made worse by the inconsistency of Anna's character, who a) does love her husband and b) is very much her own woman who takes charge of her own operations, so you can't even argue that her submission is in keeping with the gender roles of the time period. Speaking of gender roles, I guess I also shouldn't be surprised that the betraying nature of a woman is a recurring theme throughout the film. But I can still be annoyed.

In theatre, it can be a backhanded compliment to say that the "production value" of the play was amazing when everything else was a shit show. While Shanghai is far from being a drag and will at least have you going with the motions, what I liked best about about it was probably the cinematography and throwback to film noir with some great compositions of light, shadow and rain. I'm also a sucker for that period look of the 1940s, and the grit and glamour setting of Shanghai was especially visually delicious due to the multiple national sectors the city was divided into at the time. Interesting fact to note is that filming took place in Thailand due to the sensitive subject matter, which led to the original filming permit in China being taken away. Chinese government: 1 Weinstein Company: 0. At least the two-block set that was built in Bangkok looks pretty amazing. Add to that the suits, fedoras and umbrellas and you just might forget the other inadequacies.

This stunning queen thanks you for your time.

Um.

"...Ghana is already a dumping ground for Europe's electronic waste, with containers full of broken cell phones, computer hard drives, and TVs arriving each month in the port of Tema, near Accra. European laws prohibit the export of this dangerous waste, but labeling the trash as a "charitable donation" offers a loophole."

- Sylvie Stein, "The YIMBYS"

Lessons from the Middle Kingdom.

On relatives: If you engage in conversation with any adult over 30, something like 10 minutes will be dedicated to how tall you are, how much you've grown, how much you can still grow, how tall your brother is, how much taller he can still grow, how tall you both are compared to every other kid they know. I don't know what it is about height that's so grippingly important, but it's probably some national inferiority complex.

On traffic: When I got into my first taxi, I noticed there were no seat belts in the back. Then I started wondering whether the customary bars implemented between the front and back seats were meant to protect the driver from shady clients....or me from a shady driver. Then my driver started yelling across the car to talk to another taxi driving beside us, whilst still driving himself. Then I figured I had a shady driver and reached for my seat b--nevermind.

On streets: 6 lanes, no pedestrian crossings. Do or die.

On food: The French have an ally in frogs' legs. And it tastes better than chicken. And yes, that is a piece of tortoise shell. And yes, I passed on that.

On Mao:

If there's a market for getting oneself photoshopped in a manly handshake with the guy, he evidently still matters.

Heroin chic.

I finally figured out the needle-looking tracks on my arms are in fact poison ivy rashes that I probably got from wading through the mountains looking for my grandma's grave (not even exaggerating).....fack on a flying fuck. So of course I did the sensible thing and started Googling everything about it, finding gems of valuable information:

"The oil from poison ivy is extremely stable and will stay potent -essentially forever."

THANKS, POISON-IVY.ORG. And no thanks, I do not want to view your "rash slide show."

Familial obligations.

Caffiend.

In Tours, there were no Starbucks or Second Cups. I didn't see a single person walking around with a to-go cup. And I didn't go a day without un café. Usually with a macaron to nibble on. Once with a cigarette. Always on the patio. Never for an all-nighter.

Ordering a dainty but potent shot of espresso was the best (and cheapest) way to justify sitting at a sunny table for 3 to 4 hours reading, writing and -my personal favourite -people watching. What we call coffee shops they call salons de thé. Sounds way classier and reminds me of the literary and art salons of 1930s Paris, but really they were pretty small and normal looking with the bonus of outdoor seating and good pastries.

Funny thing about Tours and coffee though -and I wonder if this is true of other areas in France -is that, at least in Place Plumereau (which is a local and tourist hot-spot), hot beverages are not served after a certain time at night. So quite literally, you cannot order a coffee, decaf or tea after 9 or 10pm even though the creperies and little restaurants stay open until well after midnight. We kept forgetting this fact when we were out late, and finally after being embarrassingly reminded yet again by a friendly waiter one night, we asked (out of curiosity, not indignation) why this rule existed. He gave us this very amused grin before giving his best shot at an unconvincing answer.

"That's a very good question. I've lived here all my life and I'm not sure why it's this way. But hot beverages take a longer time to prepare, so maybe that's why."

A longer time to prepare, really? Compared to a crepe or one of your mega-gelato-fruit-chocolate-everything dessert creations? Personally, I think it has more to do with money and turnover of tables since coffees are the least expensive item on the menu for the most disproportionate amount of acceptable "sitting-time." Or maybe French people just don't drink coffee and other hot things at night. Maybe that's considered totally plebeian. Maybe the French way of night dining is to inadvertently get drunk off an opaque glass of heavily concentrated sangria. Not that I did. (I totally did.)

Weird rules aside, the best espresso I had was actually in Langeais, a tiny town 30km west of Tours with a castle smack bang in the middle, hanging out with the other buildings like it was the most normal thing in the world.

I wasn't exaggerating about the castle thing.

It was the morning after I'd arrived here on my weekend biking trip with Christie that we sat down for a breakfast coffee at this place next to our hotel (which deserves a post in itself). There are several reasons why this particular instance of caffeine consumption stands out in my memory.

1) It was genuinely an amazing coffee, the kind where the bitterness isn't acidic and leaves a natural sweetness behind in the back of your throat.

2) I stupidly spilled 1/3 of it, being the klutz I am.

3) Everyone else around us was drinking alcohol. At 10 in the morning. There was a table of around 8 old, gruff men who looked like they could have been war veterans, and they were leaving when we ordered. Leaving behind empty bottles of wine and champagne.

I bet they had an amazing Sunday.

"And as we sat there listening to the carolers, I wanted to tell Brian it was over now and everything would be okay. But that was a a lie, plus I couldn't speak anyway. I wished there was some way for us to go back and undo the past. But there wasn't. There was nothing we could do. So I just stayed silent, trying to telepathically communicate how sorry I was about what had happened. And I thought of all the grief and sadness and fucked up suffering in the world and it made me want to escape. I wished with all my heart that we could just leave this world behind. Rise like two angels in the night and magically disappear."

- Neil McCormick, Mysterious Skin

Mood booster.

Rarely do I ever repeat the living daylight out of a track.

You can incept me anytime, sir.

She don't want a sweetheart.

source

Salle V12

A month is somewhat a weird length of time to spend in a small class -in the case of Tours, 18 students. Sure, you come to know everyone's names and faces, work with some more than others, chat in the hallway while waiting for class to start, give each other the side-eye when the Madame seems particularly on edge. But for the most part you're stuck in a limbo between knowing each other enough that you would make eye contact, smile, say hi if you saw one another in the street, and not knowing each other half as well enough that you would actually hang out as buddies. It's probably only in the last week, even last few days that you begin to feel more comfortable as an entire group (or maybe this is a sentiment that accelerates with the knowledge of a fast approaching departure) and by the time that familiarity starts to set in it's time to bid adieu.

Maybe that's why I hold onto the nicknames that quite naturally slipped into my head during those lazy afternoons when I tuned out of class and discreetly stared at people (in a non-creepy manner). I can't be the only person who has secret monikers for people I am acquainted but not familiar with. It's never done in a nasty spirit (unless if they're nasty people), but more so due to the fact that they often possess or exhibit something in particular that I come to remember them for. They're not distilled descriptions based off of first impressions either, though I admit I can be quick to judge sometimes. Anyway, in this case it was a cumulation of mini-observations that led to quiet "I dub thee" moments. And so in the spirit of nomenclature, I would like to fondly introduce just a few.

1) The pair of Spanish lads -Lisp Boy and Jesus -who sat next to each other and shared some bizarre, unconscious need to constantly open and close their thighs. I'm not kidding. Some people jiggle their leg, some click their pens. These guys...opened and closed their thighs. Every day. Not only that but they would often be synchronised; Jesus would be doing double time of Lisp Boy. And in case you have me down as a total perv, know that they sat right opposite me, facing me, so it was really hard not to notice.

2) "Cherie" -a guy, whose real name sounds like the French word -who really was a sweetheart, from Pakistan, had been learning French for 10 years, spoke it practically flawlessly but also ridiculously quickly. Had an amazing shriek of a laugh that would just come out when the teacher supposedly said something amusing. He was a total keener as well and described our first French Lit class as "orgasmic."

3) Brit Girl from Nottingham who over-pronounced her rs but had such an adorable accent I probably spoke to her in English just so I could hear it more.

4) Rapunzel who was Columbian and had amazing, frizz-free ebony hair that looked like it came out of a Pixar movie.

5) Spanish Grace who reminded me so much of my high school best friend Grace from the way she sat to the way she gave presentations. Sometimes her accent was so strong I didn't know which language she was speaking. Incidentally, high school Grace is also a language wiz at both French and Spanish, and one of the nicknames we had for her was Senorita Shrimp. COINCIDENCE? I would like to meet my own European doppelganger some day.

"Inspiration could be called inhaling the memory of an act never experienced."

- Jonathan Lethem, "The ecstasy of influence: A plagiarism"

Maybe the only thing I really regret about my time in Tours is that I didn't pull out my harmonica by the Loire.

The jealous girl friend.

That's girl friend, not girlfriend. My experience so far with every close friend who's gotten into a relationship has been less than rosy. I'm not annoyed that they have a boyfriend and I don't, I'm annoyed that my status as a girl friend gets shafted so painfully obviously it's like I'm in a second-class friendship.

I don't intend for this to be a hater/rant post and I'm not doing a "bros before hos"/"chicks before dicks" spiel either because I get that priorities drastically change when you're in a serious relationship. I'm fine with not seeing and hanging out with my friends as much as before, and I'm also fine with seeing and hanging out with them and their significant other together. I'm amiable. When I don't like the boyfriend, I can still be civil. Whatever makes my girls happy, I'm cool with. What grates me is how the new relationship totally encroaches on and changes the dynamics of my (much longer) girl friendship, and not for the better. And in that respect I feel like I have a legitimate bone to pick, if only to remind myself not to do the same in the future. So here goes.

Even disregarding third-wheeling and outright ditching, what little girls-only time I do get is always in the shadow of the invisible but palpable presence of the Boyfriend. This is totally fine when I actually have an interest in interrogating my friend on the latest developments of a crush or budding romance, but the fun kind of wanes significantly after they start going steady and I'm still going out to lunches where the sole purpose is to discuss said relationship and all its wonderful and not so wonderful moments.

I get that as a good friend I'm supposed to listen to these things that are important to my friend's life, but when it's seriously the only thing I get to listen to? It's a drag, frankly. Half the time I'm agreeing and aww-ing over how lovely everything is (and I am genuinely giddy and happy for them if they keep the circle jerk under 15 minutes), and the other half I'm listening to all their problems and giving out advice I'm pulling out of my ass because I sure am in a position to be sharing my wisdom and experience.

I sometimes wonder if the reason why I'm suddenly faced with this onslaught of couply-topics from my girl friends who are girlfriends is because our previous conversations revolved so much around Being Single, Boy Crazing and Boy Hating, and now that one of us isn't single well, that strikes a lot of that commonality out. That's actually a really depressing thought. I would hate to think that my closest female friendships are all heavily founded on interest in the opposite sex like some awful chick flick. I don't think that they are, and I don't think that I would feel any better if I also had a boyfriend because even though that would even out the grounds of conversation, the last thing I want is to be exchanging and comparing nauseating couply pieces of information.

The fact remains that I am single, of course, which makes it infinitely worse. Because somewhere in the tedious, one-sided lunch we're having, the conversation always, always takes a turn for the worse when we're finally done talking about my friend's happening love life and inevitably turn to my non-existent one. The question never fails to come up to facilitate this cringe-worthy change.

"So, what about you? Anything?"

And then I have to sit there like a lame duck saying no, or mention some hot guy I saw on a poster who was totally looking at me. The worst part is the way they ask that question. It's the same tone you'd use if you found out someone's pet cat just died, I'm not kidding. There's all this concern, like I'm sorry you're missing out but don't worry, something will happen soon. You'll fulfill your end goal in life in nabbing a man and you won't be sad like I used to be anymore.

FUCK'S SAKE.

All I'd like is for them to sometimes -not even every time, but sometimes -separate their individual self from their couple self, and come out to lunch as the former. Can we talk about that TV show, or that awesome book, or the plays I'm thinking of directing, things I've been writing, my summer in France, your last year in London? Maybe I am completely unenlightened about the bubble of love that completely envelops one in bliss, but is that really so hard to do? Do guys also exclusively talk about girls when they're single (I know this bit is true) and girlfriends when they're not? Fuck it, next time just invite me out for a menage-a-trois.

Au revoir, Tours

Je suis revenue.

Prochaine déstination: HK.

(Ne pas inquiéter, je vais raconter les souvenirs quand je suis bien reposée.)

Cueille le temps

C'est plus difficile que j'ai imaginé d'adapter vraiment.

Et ce sera difficile de partir.

Je m'inquiète trop quelquefois.

here on the third floor level with the rooftops

i could be hemingway with a harmonica

all i need's a typewriter cigarette and

i'd be set

i'd be in sync with

the screeching sparrows screeching fugues and symphonies

one frenzied flock per seven words

it'd be like clockwork

it'd be like eureka

it'd be like finally outrunning my better half

Je suis à Tours! Donc je dois parler et ecrire en français.

Je l'adore ici beaucoup beaucoup.

Je prends des cigarettes aux matins, des macarons aux midis, et des décafeinés aux soirs. Alors j'exagère un peu, mais c'est plus ou moins comme ça.

C'est plus ou moins comme un rêve.

FRANCE IN TWO DAYS.

MUST PACK LIKE BAT OUT OF HELL.

OMGOMGOMG.

Project Old Hollywood: The Harder They Fall

I am light years behind on my classic movie viewing and reviewing due to laziness and having found an unpaid position of literary research and archiving for a writer. I am under a confidentiality agreement not to reveal anything but suffice it to say the English nerd in me is busy drooling over Important Writers. As a side note, one of the volunteers looks uncannily like my mother even though we're the same age -I mean ridiculously so, from physical appearance to the way she sits, walks, her mannerisms, her general aura. It's really psyching me out. But I digress.

I must have seen The Harder They Fall practically three weeks ago so it's not fresh in my mind anymore but I'll do my best. This was my first Humphrey Bogart film and his last before he died. I don't know whether to call that ironic or not but it's a neat parallel no?

Summary: The basic story of this film noir revolves around corruption in boxing. Bogart plays a sports journalist who tries to revive his career by working with a bunch of crooks to promote a new boxer from Argentina called Toro Moreno, whose enormous physical size is completely offset by his utter lack of skill. Shady fights, manly angst and moral dilemmaz ensue. When recounting my experience of this film I seem to naturally gravitate towards my gripes -not to say that I didn't like it, but it wasn't mind-blowing or anything.

Gripe #1: Poor acting and awkward scripting

This mostly applies to Mike Lane, who plays Toro. As far as I can tell, he was cast purely for his appearance and size, so I guess you can't blame the poor guy for delivering his lines like Tommy Wiseau. My friend defended his wooden portrayal on the grounds that that was how his character was meant to be -thick and bovine. Toro. Get it? But to borrow some wisdom from Tropic Thunder, you don't go "full retarded." And like Mark Waters noted about it taking a nice girl to play a mean one, it takes someone intelligent to play someone dumb. That's why it's called acting.

Gripe #2: Bogart and Sterling

I get that in this "manly" film it would be foolish of me to expect a strong female role, but my main problem with Jan Sterling's character Beth Willis, even as an undeveloped side-dish, is the utter lack of chemistry between her and Bogart's Eddie Willis. They are completely unconvincing as a couple, let alone supposedly loving husband and wife, which makes all the drama surrounding their relationship hard to get into. I'll give her credit for sassing out the head crook Nick Benko (played by Rod Steiger) in one scene though. Which leads to the one thing I consistently enjoyed:

Rod Steiger

Okay, so he may have had it easy playing Asshole-In-Charge Nick Benko, but he got some darn good ranty and oh-snap lines and delivered them at lightning screwball-comedy speed, and was in general a fabulous Angry and Stressed Man archetype that kept me entertained. Besides him, the one other thing you should watch this film for is the Toro Bus which I can't find a picture of but just know that it's amazingly camp.

Coming next: Bonnie and Clyde

"Epicurean wisdom has a melancholy backdrop: flung into the world's misery, man sees that the only clear and reliable value is the pleasure, however paltry, that he can feel for himself: a gulp of cool water, a look at the sky (at God's window), a caress."

- Milan Kundera, Slowness

To that I would like to add: a gig with friends, a day off work, a 6km walk, a nectarine.

Allow me to pop a jaunty little bonnet on your purview and ram it up your shitter with a lubricated horse cock

I'm on a post-midnight movie binge these days, in addition to and as a counterbalance to my trips through the past with the classics. I think I deliberately wait until a ridiculous hour to justify selecting a mainstream blockbuster that I can veg out to in bed. I don't even mean that in a snotty way, because all the movies so far -Inglourious Basterds,The Frog Princess -have been darn excellent. I'm just catching up on the buzz from months ago, that's all. I'll admit that my mouse has maneuvered towards and away from clicking Valentine's Day several times, but I do have some standards, still.

My latest late night viewing was In The Loop, which is somewhat an anomaly considering I'd only heard of it once on the gossip forum I frequent (what? at least it's not Perez) and it didn't generate any buzz here in North America, though it was nominated for an Oscar for Best Adapted Screenplay.

The political satire on the behind-the-scenes madness between the British and US government's fangled negotiations, miscommunications and decisions over starting a war in the Middle East contains everything I love about British comedy a la The Office -deglamourised docu-drama with a healthy dose (i.e. excessive) of swearing in amazing accents and deliveries, and most of all, as evidenced in the trailer, CHOICE, GOLDEN QUOTES. By that I don't mean dialogue that's all look-at-me-I'm-soooo-clever-and-trippy (I'm looking at you, Diablo Cody), but lines that are actually convincing and hilarious.

See what I mean? Tom Hollander (Mr. Collins in the film version of Pride and Prejudice!) is almost reminiscent of Ricky Gervais in The Office, and Peter Capaldi (Sid's dad in Skins!) is my anti-hero of all losery bully anti-heros and second favourite Scotsman after Craig Ferguson (suck it, Gerald Butler).

This is a government department, not some fucking Jane Austen novel.

Seriously, IR nerd or not, do yourself a favour and get on this. Then check out the TV show it's based on, The Thick of It, which I am searching up this very moment. And on that note I'll have to say, "Fuckity-bye-bye, then."

Summer baking

An ongoing/on-off project

Still on my detour: Micmacs à tire-l'arigot

I promise I will get back to those old Hollywoods (I started Roman Holiday) but continuing my French streak, I went to an advanced screening of Jean-Pierre Jeunet's new film at the Varsity a few days ago. Having seen and loved his quintessential Amelie and darker creation Delicatessen, I was understandably excited about Micmacs à tire-l'arigot, which translates into "madness all around."

Dany Boon plays protagonist Bazil, an unremarkable video store worker who memorises entire scenes of dialogue from movies. Caught as collateral damage in a freak shoot-out one night, he ends up losing his home and job and finds himself on the streets scraping by. When he discovers that the landmine that killed his father and the bullet lodged in his own head are respectively manufactured by rival arms companies, he plots revenge on both with a group of zany comrades who also lie on the margins of society. Think Ocean's Eleven, circus-style (there's even a contortionist). But instead of slick suits, high-tech gadgets and Clooney coolness, these ragamuffins get by on street-smarts and creative inventions made of scrap. Most importantly, they have the time of their life doing it, and their childlike glee is infectious.

The best thing to be said about Micmacs is that it is a funny, funny film -a rare compliment for most summer flicks that are blatantly marketed as "comedy." The mischievous ensemble cast are absolutely delightful and the overarching satire on arms trade and procurement is more refreshingly portrayed than Iron Man 2's run of the mill "oh noes evil privatised weapon manufacturers appropriating the army" spiel. Although there are some awkwardly placed moralising moments towards the end of the film, these are largely eclipsed by the master prank of epic proportions which leaves the credits rolling on a high note. It's not even a spoiler to say there's a happy ending by the way, because it is exactly Jeunet's world of dusty palettes and carnival music where you know shit's gonna go down for the bad guys and everything works out for the good ones.

Bjork at MOMA's "The Artist is Present"

Woman, dost thou not age???

I also kind of want to pinch her cheeks.

An open letter to Ryan Adams

Dear Ryan,

Let me begin by saying I really, really like your music. I will never tire of listening to Gold, I love what you did with the Cardinals, and I love Easy Tiger even though it was a bit of a whore for Starbucks. I love your endearing douchiness and pretensions in interviews, and I can put up with those hipster glasses and the bad blonde dye job you had and Mandy Moore because when you're on the ball with those lyrics and guitar, you are on. And when you dress well along with all that, you can be kind of hot.

See?

Needless to say, I was mildly devastated to learn that you were calling it quits for a while because of hearing problems -I haven't even had the chance to go to a concert yet. So to find out just today that you are coming out with a new album that was recorded back in 2006 should be incredibly joyous news right?

Except. WHY DOES IT SOUND LIKE THIS.

Ryan, what are you doing? This is even more confusing than Halloweenhead. Why, WHY are you singing like that? Is this a tragic side-effect of being deaf in one ear? And did I just hear you scream "Metal, metaaal!" And can you explain to me what a "Sci-fi metal concept album" even is??!

Ryan, I need to tell you that only someone like Bob Dylan can get away with doing whatever the fuck he wants like put out a crazy, kind of terrifying and unlistenable Christmas album because well, he's Bob Dylan. But you, you can legit sing and play the guitar! Why pull a Joaquin Phoenix? Go back to country. Go back to harmonica intros. Go back to sweet female harmonies. Go back to lines like "Everybody wants to go forever/I just wanna burn up hard and bright." Just don't, you know, actually self-destruct like this.

Love,

Victoria

And now for something different: La Règle du jeu

So I ended up going on a tangent from Project Old Hollywood. But some of the more interesting things in life you stumble upon by mistake. In this case I was searching for "The Rules of Engagement" on YouTube out of boredom, and found "The Rules of the Game." When I realised it was a French film that had nothing to do with Neil Strauss, that sealed the deal. I've been meaning to brush up on my listening skills before leaving for Tours in July (cannot wait, by the way).

"La Règle du jeu" (1939) is directed by Jean Renoir, who is indeed the son of impressionist painter Pierre-Auguste Renoir.

Look familiar? Le Moulin de la Galette (1876)

The film depicts and satirises the personal, absurd and trivial dramas and conventions of the French upper-class before WW2. In the insulated world of high society, everyone is having an affair that everyone else knows about. Ready? Aviator Andre Juriex is in love with Christine who may or may not return those feelings but is married to Robert de la Chesnaye, who knows about his wife's affair and has a mistress himself called Genvieve, of whom Christine is also aware of. And then there's the triangle between Christine's maid Lisette, her husband Schumacher, and Marceau the new servant. Oh, and Renoir himself plays Octave, who tries to mediate Christine and Jurieux's relationship whilst dealing with his own possible affections for the madame.

Complicated? Personally I enjoy a film that demands your attention and kind of forces you to keep tabs on everything. The web of he-loves-she-loves relationships culminates in a big hunting party at La Colinière -la Chesnaye's country estate -in which all kinds of confrontations take place (and lots of dead rabbits). Suffice it to say that chaos ensues and approaches farcical heights. One of my favourite lines is when la Chesnaye, mid-fistfight with Juriex, stops and says "Yes a revolver just went off, what do you expect?"

I would compare this film to Shakespeare's problem plays in that you don't really root for anyone and are left with a kind of uneasy, "ick" feeling at the end. It's hard to feel sympathetic towards any of the characters not because they're scheming liars, but more because they're bad at it -or equally good. They're either kind of pathetic or kind of slimy. There is no master manipulator or villain -cheating and lying are almost normalised to the point of convention so that the intrigue of plotting, self-interest or bad intentions is lost. Those who are kicked out of the house are therefore exposed not for their infidelities, but for their lack of etiquette and proper conduct. Renoir essentially cheapens the art of backstabbing in a way that leads you to dryly conclude, "poor little rich people."

Existential Mathematics

"the degree of slowness is directly proportional to the intensity of memory; the degree of speed is directly proportional to the intensity of forgetting"

- Milan Kundera, Slowness

We all got mommy problems -celebrate them badass style.

"Suffering, then, is the fundamental notion of hedonism: one is happy to the degree that one can avoid suffering, and since pleasures often bring more unhappiness than happiness, Epicurus advises only such pleasures as are prudent and modest."

- Milan Kundera, Slowness

Project Old Hollywood: Singin' in the Rain

Having blazed through season 4 of Ugly Betty in 3 days and now catching up on House episodes, the couch potato in me wants to work my way through old Hollywood as well because, to borrow a cliche, they don't make 'em like that anymore. Besides, it's classy.

My housemate Emma and I finished "Singin' in the Rain" (1952) last night and adored it. Here's why:

1) The dancing. You know how people say how much fun life would be as a musical? Unfortunately musicals like this...

...would only make life an endless cycle of embarrassment. Now if my life was an extended tap dance sequence, that I would be more than happy with.

Wikifact: Debbie Reynolds' feet were bleeding after filming this sequence. She had no previous training in dance but had a gymnast background. Also, Gene Kelly insulted her lack of dance experience and was a dick to her in general. Fred Astaire found her crying under a piano and volunteered to teach her how to move like pro.

Gene: -10 for being a dick

Fred: +15 for being a gentleman

Debbie: +20 for sticking it to the bully

Speaking of points, the one who wins the most in my opinion is

2) Donald O'Connor. Yes yes, I know Gene Kelly is a total dreamboat...but see above for the jerk factor. Also, did you know he wore a toupee? That's a wig for those of you who don't know French. Not so dreamy now eh? Eh?

But back to the actual movie...O'Connor plays funny man Cosmo Brown, who totally stole my heart as the often neglected but much more intelligent and less douchey sidekick of film star Don Lockwood (Gene Kelly). As lovely as the eponymous song is with the lamppost and umbrella and a sexy drenched douchebag (har-har), Gene just doesn't.... make you laugh. Watch and learn buddy:

Donald O'Connor: +100 for pioneering Lady Gaga's piano quirks and running up the wall like a ninja

3) The metafilmajigness. In addition to being a delightful movie musical, "Singin' in the Rain" is also a really interesting and hilarious look at a seminal period in the history of film: the decline of silent movies and birth of talking pictures, or "talkies." This transition is nicely framed in the context of the successful The Jazz Singer (1927), the first ever motion picture that featured synchronised dialogue sequences (and a film worth watching in itself). In the face of this new technology and competition, John Lockwood and his unfortunately tinny co-star Lina Lamont (played by the beautiful Jean Hagen) try to follow suit in The Dueling Cavalier, a film-within-the-film that comically reveals all the problems of synchronising sound and image (see link since YouTube is a bitch and won't let me embed).

Up for more meta-trickery? Okay, so in the film Lina Lamont's voice is so terrible when it comes to making The Dueling Cavalier that Kathy Selden (Debbie Reynolds) has to dub all her lines and songs. In actuality however, they simply used Hagen's normal voice and Reynolds herself was dubbed for two of her songs. Gotta love it when Hollywood mindfucks with you like that.

At the risk of giving you some second-hand embarrassment, I leave you with this to rest my case that "Singin' in the Rain" is too cool for even Usher to emulate. Good job bro, but it just aint the same without a toupee.

I got mad skills from my mama.

Heard it through the grapevine today that the boy I spent the entire first term crushing on is gay.

Highlight of my day.

party chronicles

i.

the second time in my life I had a whole cigarette

we had our longest conversation yet

you said since when did you smoke then

sat by me and waxed drunken lyrical about

sexual experimentation in high school

girls racing to kiss the boys at prom

I listened and kept forgetting

to turn my head to exhale

(sorry about that)

when we went indoors you told me

to take a final drag on the staircase

then stubbed what was left

on the sole of your sneaker

told me to save it for later

I said that was real classy and pocketed it

then I watched you and ross down

two tequilas

feeling accomplished guilty and wistful

ii.

when I was all over you saying

you’re a cool guy

what I really meant was

fuck you

iii.

there you were waving

two slices of pizza in my face

(they were put together like a sandwich)

insisting I take a bite

I ferociously declined

on the grounds that they would

be crusty cold but you promised

so earnestly that they were warm

that before I knew it

my teeth had sunk themselves

into cheese and pepperoni and

god were you right

god

bless you for being an honest man

iv.

you ran like a bat out of hell

yelling I’m going to climb that tree

next thing I know you’re up in that damn tree