Attention all vegetable and music fans! We've always known that vegetables rock, but in Austria, some creative people have put together a band where all the instruments are made from veggies: NewBand watch out. The Viennese Vegetable Orchestra has cuke-o-phones and radish-marimbas, which are much tastier in the end than the Cloud Chamber Bowls and Spoils o' War. Listen to the sound samples. The music is actually really good. CDs are for sale too. Apparently all instruments are made into soup after a performance. Enjoy!

(Thanks to MizMaya for the tip on this one.)

So, I have gotten many requests for more pictures on my site and I promise you all that I really hope to turn Mandounette into a sparkling, visual spectacle soon. I even brought my camera out with me yesterday. Picnicking on the banks of the Canal St. Martin, the trees changed from the yellow-green of spring to their mature summer color, the bridges and benches filled with young people, drunk on wine. A funny guy jumping into the canal for the low, low price of 16 euros. A beautiful view (right: Le Pantheon, left: La Tour Eiffel) from a friend's balcony. Lots of drunken smiles. All of it was to be captured and retransmitted on Mandounette, but alas, it is Paris and there is not a bodega or Duane Reade on every corner. So after a half-hour of searching for place that was open at 9pm selling batteries, we had to give up. I tried to take a photo, but the camera wasn't having it. But soon, I promise, soon, I will share some images with you. Here is a little photo essay on my life since New York to tide you over.



1: Street festival, Rochester (September 2003)
2: Cornell West Campus, Ithaca (October 2003)
3: Lincoln Park, Chicago (October 2003)
4: Hostel, Amsterdam (October 2003)
5: Rue Erik Satie (November 2003)
6: Bois de Vincennes at dawn, Paris (December 2003)
7: Chateau de Vincennes, Paris (December 2003)
8: Paris Lover (February 2004)-Photo by Stephane

So, Wednesday night, while 99.9% of the Parisian male population was watching Monaco lose to Porto in the Europeans Champions League championship match, I was with the other .1% at La Cigale to see Blonde Redhead. I guess Blonde Redhead and soccer don't have a big crossover audience. The concert itself was very tame, very cool, very distant. But it was also very sexy. For some reason the sensuousness of the music doesn't translate as well on a recording as on stage. And although I was the same race as the vast majority of the other bobbing heads, I felt just as alien here as I did at Youssou N'dour and for one ironic reason. I'm a blonde. A curly-haired, natural blonde. Like a buoy in a sea of brunette, I danced when there dreamy ballads turned into real punk rock, while the others, lobotomized by weed and self-conscious introversion continued nodding at the same slow pace, occasionally grinding to a halt to ruminate. The band may be called Blonde Redhead, but not one member of the band (a japanese singer and two Italian brothers) can claim either of these labels and their audience, composed mainly of straight-haired brunettes, bangs falling behind their glasses into their eyes, messenger bags sprinkled generously throughout the crowd, happily plays into the paradox.

I always thought of music as being the most personal and self-defining of all art forms. It has this strange power to bring people together. Social groups (and to some extent socio-economic groups) can often be lumped together with a quick look a record collections and MP3 libraries. Headbangers, teeny boppers, goths, punks, opera queens, alternative culture, party kids, jazz cats. These labels that have come encompass a number of personality, political, linguistic, and fashion characteristics, were nonetheless derived from common musical tastes. My group of high school girlfriends was bonded together through a common love of Ani DiFranco, constantly challenged by my second string of artsy girlfriends who made their case for Tori Amos, or the artsy guys who opted for Rage Against the Machine. You can't really say the same about litterature or the visual arts. These tastes seem to focus much more on individualism. Why then does music seem to have this immense double power to form such strong bonds between people, while also creating huge rifts between the groups? Or maybe it is just because I am a music person that I notice this. Maybe if I was more of a book person, I would see how groups form around the appreciation of urban fiction or fantasy or the Beats. But still...

So Christina sent me this one. I always love filling out surveys about myself. I feel like I should keep every one of these surveys I do and track my answers over a lifetime. It is interesting to see how we change. Anyway, here are my answers. If you are so inspired, copy and past the text into an e-mail and shoot it back to me (mandounette@free.fr).

Voila.

1. What time is it? 4:57
2. Name as it appears on birth certificate: Amanda Beth MacBlane
3. Nicknames: Mandounette, Mandoune, Doudoune, Ydnam, the Amazing Amanda, MackDaddy, Dodecahedron Girl, Klogbeb—Chief of the Boombaba tribe
4. Number of candles on your last birthday cake? I don't think I had a cake… but I did receive sake juice boxes.
5. Pets: I really, really, really want a cat and we are going to get one when we move. We want to name him Clark Gaybeul. Until this glorious moment, I have to content myself with Stephane's cat impressions.
6. Hair color: I'm a blonde. I tried to deny it, with Manic Panic and mousse that makes it looks darker. But it is blonde. I feel like I should be having more fun.
7. Piercings: 5 man-made holes in my body. 2 in each ear and the nose one.
8. Eye color: Well, I have mutt eyes…they're kind of green and grey with little orange flecks in them. I have studied them for hours trying to figure out what color they are.
9. Hometown: Rochester, New York
10. Town you live in: Saint-Mande, FRANCE
11. Favorite foods: baguettes, smoked gouda, babaganoush, pain au chocolat aux amandes (chocolate almond croissants), yogurt, mangoes, Navratan curry, mujadara, the Cosi Signature Salad, my vodka sauce!
12. Ever been to Africa: Sadly no. But the Youssou N'dour concert I went to last week was like being in Africa.
13. Been toilet papering: No, never. I am no vandal.
14. Love someone so much it made you cry? Of course. And I can make other people cry too!
15. Been in a car accident? Yes. My favorite was the Bob Dylan concert accident. It had it all—a banana explosion, drunk and/or stoned drivers, people fleeing the scene, cops finding them hiding in a ditch, a serious case of whiplash…
16. Croutons or bacon bits? Croutons. Especially homemade ones.
17. Favorite day of the week? Well, it is Friday of course.
18. Favorite restaurant? Oooh! There are so many.
Top 3 in Paris: Bistrot Lucas (super French), Vy Da (Vietnamese), Kilim (Turkish)
Top 3 in New York: Jasmine (Thai), the Skylight Diner (super American), 3D Bakery (Jamaican)
Top 3 in Ithaca: Just a Taste (tapas), Pangaea (new American), The Moosewood (veggie)
19. Favorite flower? I don't really have one. I like carnivorous plants though!
20. Favorite sport to watch? Live: baseball. On tv: gymnastics and figure skating (I'm such a girl…)
21. Favorite drink? Stella's Bloody Mary
22. Favorite ice cream flavor? Berthillon pear sorbet or hazelnut gelato
23. Disney or Warner Bros.? Pixar. I guess that's still Disney for now. Oh, well.
24. Favorite fast food restaurant? Wendy's in the States, Quick in France
25. What color is your bedroom carpet? No bedroom, no carpet.
26. How many times did you fail your driver's test? 0. "I'm an excellent driver. Dad lets me drive in the driveway. I'm an excellent driver."
27. Before this one, from whom did you get your last email? The New Yorker
28. Which store would you choose to max out your credit card? Express, La Fnac
29. What do you do most often when you are bored? Blog, plan my dream life
30. Most annoying thing people say to me? Anything that comes out of the mouth of a man on the street that I don't know.
31. Bedtime? Midnight.
32. Who will respond to this email the quickest? Carey, if she hasn't already sent me this e-mail in the past
33. Who is the person you sent this to that is least likely to respond? Competition is tight.
34. Favorite TV shows? Futurama, Smallville, Alias, True Hollywood Story, Seinfeld
35. Last person you went out to dinner with? Stephane and Maya at the Creperie!
36. Ford or Chevy? I come from a chevy family.
38. Time you finished this email? 5:44

And what happened to number 37 I ask you?

I needed a little English-language television, so I turned on MTV and watched part of the UK hitlist and the number one song was one of the worst things I have ever seen/heard. The song is called "F*** you right back", by Eamon. I can't even believe that people get paid money to make crap like this. Here is a sample of the lyrics.

You thought, you could,
Really make me moan,
I had better sex all alone, (laughs)
I had to turn to your friends,
Now you want me to come back,
You must be smoking crack,
I'm going elsewhere,
And that's a fact

Fuck all those nights, I moaned real loud,
Fuck it, I faked it, Arent you proud
Fuck all those nights, you thought you broke my back,
Well guess what yo, your sex was whack,

Now imagine a the video taking place at a "sorority house sleepover" with girls running around in their underwear. And to add insult to injury, the music is the worst variety of R&B with pretty much no melody, very little rhythm and an affront to the blues everywhere, sung by a white chick with fake boobs. It is music like this that makes me feel justified downloading as I want, because, much like I hate the idea of my tax dollars paying for military operations in Iraq, I refuse to have the money I paid for a quality CD go into the talentless, shameful hands of everyone involved in this song and video.

And furthermore, I think the people who wrote the words to this song should have their rhyming dictionary confiscated.

For those of you that don't know, I am a bit of a Harry Potter fan. I have no shame about waiting in massive lines filled with children and parents and other adult geeks on the opening night of the film or the release of a new book. I even wore plastic Harry Potter glasses at the midnight opening for the release of Book 5. And while I love the books, I have found the first two movies to be very disappointing. First of all, Rowling's descriptions of the characters and places allows a lot of space for imagination and there is something restrictive about seeing the images fixed in stone. Harry Potter is too cute and Hermione's crimped hair in the first movie was a slap in the face to curly haired know-it-alls everywhere (not that I took it personally...). And second of all, the movies are just boring. The books are filled with such style and humor that, no matter how perfect the design of the film was, just didn't translate.

Nevertheless, I still feel a mounting excitement for the 3rd movie. Maybe it is because there is a new director, or because the 3rd book is when things start getting really dark (I think the Dementors are the most terrifying of Rowlings inventions). Maybe it's because I get to see it in France, where the cinemas, with their balconies and plush red seats, recall a more romantic era and where the subtitles will read "Poudlard" for "Hogwarts", "Nick Quasi-Sans-Tete" for "Nearly Headless Nick" and "baguette magique" for "Magic wand", which always makes me think of people swinging around loafs of French bread. Or maybe it's because I will be seeing it with Smilla (who is coming to visit!!!) on opening night, which illeviates the anxiety I was feeling wondering who would go to me, having left my band of Harry Potter faithfuls back in New York. But Smilla was the one who introduced me to Harry Potter and it seems perfect that she will be in Paris for opening night (which is June 2 here.)

Speaking of Smilla and Harry Potter, she sent me a link to the site of someone who is way more obsessed with Harry Potter than me, who has done dozens of illustrations and is even working on a Harry Potter tarot deck (that will be mine once she has finished). For fellow fans, I highly suggest checking out Nasubionna's drawings, if for any reason just to get you excited for the movie and for that warm-all-over-feeling caused by the magical, cathartic effects of these books. Click here to be happy!

So, American Express has released an ad campaign that is very fun. It has gotten a lot of publicity in the States, but hey, I'm not in the States, so forgive me if this is old. Anyway, thanks to MizMaya, I've had the pleasure of seeing these Internet only ads. Go and see them. And I highly recommend doing the "Oh, yes! Wyoming!" sing-a-long.

My favorite Washingtonian-cum-Londoner MizMaya has spent an action-packed weekend here in Saint-Mande. She is going to share some of her observations and then we will chat about some of the weekend's wackier highlights. And now, the M&M trilogy. Heeeeeeeeeeeere's Maya!

Bonjour, tout le monde! It's been quite an adventurous weekend. I arrived here via the Eurostar, which is the high-speed train from London to Paris, only 2 ½ hours. Very cool. Unfortunately, I slept through the Chunnel, but I'm told I didn't miss much anyway. The first difference I noticed in France as opposed to England was that the clouds are much lower here. (I'm kind of obsessed with clouds, so I notice things like that.) They were incredibly well-contoured, and they looked like they were all flying in flocks. I kept expecting to hear the "Ride of the Valkyries" as they flew by. (That could also be from having a friend with a Mac in high school, which had the Flying Toasters screensaver.)

The next thing I noticed was all the cows in pastures. England also has lots of green fields, but it's much more sheep country than cow country. There were A LOT of cows. I think this explains why France has such great cheese (well duh), and that the word for cow (vache) is now used as hyperbole (i.e. "oh la vache" or "c'etait vachement bien", which means it was really good, or more precisely "that was totally awesome"). Then I noticed that almost all of the cows were sitting down on the ground. Lazy Frenchies!

So I arrived in Paris at Gare du Nord at about 6pm on Friday. (The great thing about the Eurostar is that you leave from the middle of London and arrive in the middle of Paris, rather than arriving at Charles de Gaulle and being an hour away from downtown Paris.) Mandy and I took the metro back here to her village, which is absolutely charming. We bought a baguette and came back to her flat, where we began our adventures Ab Fab style with a bottle of champagne. Ah, France. It doesn't get much better. When Stephane returned from work (looking very chic, I might add), we went to dinner at their local creperie. (Ah, France.) A mediocre night of bar hopping followed, characterized by the funk/disco revival that is unfortunately taking Paris by storm (Quoth Stephane: "And that…is EuroTrash.") So by the time everyone was getting there buzz on (finally) until one of the pack discovered that her purse had been nicked, with her keys, phone, and all her identification in it. Total buzz kill. So as we waited for over an hour for Carolin to file a report, we got to witness Paris' finest in action, chasing down passing cars because they were bored and then going to get munchies for the team.

Saturday was a bit more of a traditional Parisian day. We walked up Boulevard St.-Michel to the Luxembourg Gardens, where we went to a cool exhibit about self-portraiture, ate baguette sandwiches in the park, and smoked hookah in our favorite place off Rue Mouffetard. (Ah, France.) Then we headed back here for dinner, where we ate and watched the finale of the Cannes Film Festival…

A MizMaya post

So we watched the Cannes award show, which is very different from the Oscars. The best part was Quentin Tarantino, who had been selected as the head judge. He looked very sun-burnt and psyched to be doing what he was doing. He also looked like he didn't understand a word and was pretty much listening for his name, a little like a dog. (Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, Quentin Tarantino, blah, blah, blah, blah.) He didn't seem to notice that he was speaking incredibly loud. There were all these different awards, the difference between which I could not decipher (like, the "Palme d'Or" is better than the "Grand Prix", which is better than "Prix Special", etc.). Anyway, the highlight of the evening was the Palme d'Or, which was awarded to Michael Moore for "Fahrenheit 9/11", about the connections between the Bushes and various Saudi families (including Osama bin Laden) and the lead-up to the Iraq War. I'm sure most of you have heard all the hype about this movie, which was being put out by Miramax, which is owned by Disney, but which Disney refused to distribute in the States because they're worried about losing their tax breaks in Florida, where the Bush Dynasty holds the reins. Isn't it great that the U.S. is so free from state control of the media and that freedom of speech is so respected?

Mandy and I watched as they announced the Palme d'Or, and it was amazing to see how emotional everyone in the audience was. We actually saw Quentin Tarantino wipe away tears. Michael Moore was also visibly moved, and we ourselves couldn't help but get emotional. We felt like we were really watching a piece of history take place. Michael Moore was very tasteful in his comments, and he said he hoped the award would allow the American people to be able to see the film and know the truth, which is all he really wanted. I myself can't wait to see the film (which has of course found a distributor in the U.K. early), and I hope the fact that it won is an indicator of more changes to come. I'm not in the States right now, but from everything I read and hear, it seems like people are finally fed up enough that they are getting motivated to bring about regime change. I just hope the energy being fostered by organizations like MoveOn is able to be sustained until November and that people stay engaged in politics, because governments never change anything unless the populace tells them to.

Okay, that's enough soap boxing.

I (Mandounette) would just like to add that Michael Moore announced that right before he was awarded the prize, a distribution deal for the States was offered. When will people learn that a controversy is always the best publicity…

Waiting for the Cannes results, we ended up arriving an hour-late to the Youssou N'dour et le Super Etoile de Dakar concert at Bercy. No big whoop though, as we seem to have been in sync with African time and the concert started shortly after our arrival. Other than being 2 of maybe 10 white people in the crowd (Youssou N'dour is Senegal's biggest star) and being about a foot shorter than everyone (West Africans are very tall people), we felt right at home.

While we initially felt a bit conspicuous, everyone was welcoming and more-than-willing to share their culture with us. And what a culture. This was more than just a music concert; it was a 4-hour dance party. It was open admission, so we decided to go down to the "mosh pit" area to get into the action. As soon as Youssou came on, people went crazy dancing. The arena was filled with beautiful (and I mean beautiful) young men and women dressed to the nines (many in traditional costume) enjoying themselves. For them dancing wasn't a matter of bumping & grinding and trying to get members of the opposite sex to go home with you. It was all about celebrating life. Sheer joy.

Or so we thought…

For the most part, dancing seemed to be primarily a means of self-expression and even of communication (mostly men danced with men and women with women in a sort of call-and-response fashion that allowed people to learn new moves through imitation and improvisation). But as we were the exotic ones, we quickly found male dance partners: an adorable Spike Lee look-a-like for Mandy (the only one under 6 feet tall) and a 6'7" Senegalese Adonis for Maya. They told us they came from the same village in Senegal: Dakar. We didn't understand half of what they were saying to us, but that isn't the point. We learned some great moves and also learned that dancing on the beat, the way we learned in 7th grade, just doesn't cut it.

So, 4 hours later, Youssou was still going strong, but the two white girls were fading and the last metro was approaching quickly. We were getting ready to make our escape from our 2 dance teachers, whose dancing had dissolved into the bumping and grinding we were so happy to leave behind. Spike Lee seemed content to get a phone number (not the real one, mind you, too bad there is no Rejection Hotline in France) and say "bonne soiree", while Adonis was a little less laissez-faire. A quick grab and pull by Mandounette freed MizMaya from an African liplock and we were on our way, relieved to be on our own again and filled with immense amounts of joy from Youssou's contagious energy. Legs burning, all moisture sucked from our bodies, we collapsed at home in front of Ab Fab episodes and a night cap of water bottles.

And it is all about audience participation!

So, talking to a very funny friend of mine about this weirdo dream I had (more details in a moment), I came up with a brilliant idea. Our limited knowledge of Jungian dream theories paired with transcendent creativity and a knack for bullshitting led us to some interesting conclusions, that were both silly and enlightening. My idea after this discussion was that I would post some of my weirder dreams on Mandounette and let you readers go wild with your interpretations. I really do believe that dreams are powerful communicators that make use of minute details and impressions that our conscious minds, overworked and distracted, don't have time to process.

I have had some real doozies in my lifetime. Many have heard of my May 2001 dream where I watched a building implode in NYC and saw hundreds of yuppies panicking about their lost palm pilots, only to realize in the end that being alive was much more valuable than all of their possessions, or the one where I was the 8-year old Estonian niece of a female serial killer who murdered her victims by suffocating them with a hot glue gun. As you can see, I need your help. Be wise, be creative, be funny, be serious. Analyze me! Share your own dreams and we'll pick your psyche apart. It will be fun! But please, please, please participate. Otherwise it will be a failure and I'll never know why I was riding that killer whale to save my mother, who was drowning in 2 feet of water because she was drunk (that's one of my favorites from childhood; and, just for the record, my mother has probably drunk a total of 4 wine coolers in her life).

So here it is, the first dream. It isn't as linear or detailed as some of my dreams but there are images that are very vivid and elements that scream out for interpretation. Here goes:

I found a frog in the woods by my apartment--a big fat one, healthy and moist and green--and took it home with me. I placed it in a box and tried to feed it and take care of it. A few days pass, I come home and find it in the box, completely white, like E.T. when they find him by the riverbed, but still alive. I realize that I must save its life, that it isn't too late, but it is in critical condition. Incapable of deciding on a plan of action, I wake up, having done nothing and filled with an overwhelming sense of desperation and sympathy for the poor creature.

So what does it all mean??? I await your brilliance.

Fun, kitschy, '40s-style political posters that Maya tipped me off on. I used to have a ghetto-style (read: laser jet printed) one posted at my desk, right next to my "Workaholics: Thank God It's Monday" postcard.

Take them literally if you are a Bushy, ironically otherwise. A little something for everyone! Haha! You can even buy posters, t-shirts, etc. at their CafePress site.

Yesterday I took my last written exam and when I came out, my head pounding from complex verb constructions that still confound me and nausea from yet another essay on love and power and 18th century Spanish aristocracy from the point of view of a 19th century French writer (really applicable material...), I was ready to go out. It had been a while since my last wild night, so when Carolin, my favorite german, mentioned the words "Open Bar," I was there. I put on my best dancing shoes, toasted the end of exams with a few glasses of champagne, and headed to a party at the once hip and now "passé" club, Les Bains (an old Turkish and Russian bath house-cum-Euro disco par excellence). Carolin failed to mention where we were going before and, had I known, I may have expected less, but still, "open bar" is a pretty seductive expression for a girl that once drank 8 tequilas (good ones) and a couple of pints of guinness and felt like a million dollars the next day. So, Les Bains it was.

My only other experience in a Turkish bath involved a frightening old Turkish woman who possessed a striking resemblence to Rumplestiltskin in a bathing suit, violating every part of me with a sponge and scraping off layers of dirt and skin until I was a painfully raw pink then cruelly dousing me in ice cold water, leaving me to lounge naked without even a safety towel on a big, hot rock surrounded by a lot of titties and bush. I can't say this experience was much different, but replace the scary Turkish woman with hoardes of sweaty French boys confusing dancing with molestation and about 50 times as many people in the steam room. Same amount of titties and bush.

Anyway, when you are a group of 6 really hot girls (I was quite impressed by us...), there is no shortage of attention that is at the same time flattering and really upsetting. So, to the tune of merengue and salsa tunes that were big 4 years ago in the US coupled, of course, with cheesy Eurotrash beats, we kicked off our shoes--the best dancing shoes are really no shoes at all, an opinion shared by Hagador Spartacus--and went crazy. To amuse ourselves we didn't allow any guy to dance with us if they had there shoes on and you'd be amazed how many men were willing to bare their naked toes.

Everything was just peachy until there was a change of DJ. And this is the part of the evening that I would equivocate with the cold water being poured over me after 40 minutes of warm water, massage, and steam at the Turkish bath in Istanbul. I was suddenly plunged into traumatic memories of 8th grade when, and I kid you not, "Rumpshaker" ("All I want to do is zoom-a-zoom-zoom-zoom-and-a-boom-boom"...) came on. The association I have with this song was so strong that I was transported from a cheesy Paris club to Home Ec with Ms. Mertens (the world's largest nutrition teacher), sitting quietly while the "popular kids" (who of course are now either fat, single parents or fat, mediocre conformists working for their dad's landscaping business) officially adopted this song as their anthem.

I relived the anxiety of trying to figure out who would be my roommates for the 8th Grade Washington trip, desperately seeking anyone who was not Larissa Masny--a nice girl, but who's cruel nickname "Big Bird" made being her friend akin to ingesting social cyanide. And as if this one song weren't enough, it was followed by "O.P.P" (yeah, you know me). Thank god Kris Kross didn't come on or I may have collapsed into convulsions, sticky with sweat and spilled Grey Goose, my bare feet waving helplessly in the air

I actually had trouble falling asleep when I got home because of the flood of embarassment, anxiety, and shame I felt thinking about middle school. Slushy shoes and pubescent clumsiness causing a nasty spill up the stairs and then sitting in homeroom while Allan Jeffers whispered the exciting news to 8th grade demon Melissa Lehr (who, last time I saw her, had begun to actually take on the physical characteristics of a demon.) Concert day when all performers were required to wear black and white, guaranteeing my label as a band nerd, one that I would have to reclaim with artsy, intellectual coolness in high school. The uneven bars in gym class, where my low center of gravity guaranteed that I would never be able to swing my legs up and over the bar. Pushing down a boy who I had once had a crush on (age 7) at a dance simply because a queen bee told me to. Oh, how awful people were. How awful I was! And perhaps it is the latter that is the most traumatic. Other people will always be shitty, but to recognize it in yourself is horrific. And all of this self-hate from a terrible DJing decision to play Rumpshaker.

Spring took a turn for the worst a week or two ago and I began to have flashbacks to the first 20 years of my life spent in Western New York where "spring" was a torturous illusion, each month captured in an optimistically, saccharine proverb: "March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb" or "April showers bring May flowers"; ideas obviously conceived of elsewhere. More appropriate to my childhood home would be "March comes in like a case of Seasonal Affective Disorder and goes out like borderline suicidal" or "A few days of hope in April bring May snowstorms." I guess here it wasn't so bad, just cold and rainy. And as I have been married to my books, notes, laptop, and notecards for the past few weeks, it hasn't really mattered to me anyway.

But TODAY, not only does it feel like spring, but I would go as far as to say that it is summer-like. We had a half-assed yet lovely picnic next to the lake (ok, it's more of a pond) before going to see the new Almodóvar (La Mala educación). I said to Stéphane that I felt a little guilty spending such a beautiful afternoon at the movies and he told me that I should be whipped for such a blasphemous statement. Such is the attitude of a born-again cinephile. In any case, he abandoned me after the movie and I find myself laying on the non-broken end of my bed (don't ask...) cuddled by French grammar and sunshine that gets my seratonin hopping better than MDMA.

I wonder if I would be a better person if I lived in a sunny climate. Would I be happier? Would I be more active and productive? Would I be all radiant and blond and carefree? Or is sunshine not the panacea that I think it is? But oh, how beautiful it is in my golden apartment. It almost makes me comfortable with the idea that I am forging a route in life so bizarre that even I am confused by it.

...in 30 seconds with bunnies. As Aimpianen (who sent me this link says) "cuz what's cuter than psychopathic bunnies? nothing, i say. nothing."

I think my favorite part is the sound it makes when you scroll over "Begin".

Make sure your volume is on.

Women take it upon themselves to, well, take it upon themselves...

www.takeoneforthecountry.com

Somewhat ridiculous, somewhat creepy. But I like the "Hooters" style t-shirts. Very discrete.

And I come back to find out that blogger has changed around the design of their site and, being in the midst of an exam-studying, and dissertation-writing haze and it confuses me. And Haloscan (my commenting service) has been a bit spotty. Sorry for the inconveniences. And please understand that it will most likely be slow blogging week for said reasons. Then again, with the added incentive of procrastination, I may actually blog more. We shall see.

Brenda Fassie, South Africa's answer to Madonna, died yesterday, apparently from a severe asthma attack, although considering her drug habit...but that doesn't matter. She was awesome and it is very sad. Here's an obit from BBC News. The news has inspired Stéphane to go on a pop-diva buying spree. What should we listen to first--the Brenda Fassie remix album or "Diana", as in Ross?

So, as Stéphane pointed out last night:

Only in France will you see previews for the new Godard (Notre Musique) before a screening of Van Helsing, which was actually advertised as "From the creator of The Mummy and The Mummy Returns.

This is kind of cool...and creepy.

http://www.fundrace.org/neighbors.php

Lots of Howard Dean supporters in Brooklyn (go Park Slope!) and the local Wendy's manager in Rochester is a big fan of Bush...

So, I have just been informed that Miss Mollie Tubbs, who had our senior ball (and my smash-hit poop brown prom dress) filmed for E! Fashion Emergency, may have gotten my smiling visage back on television. This time she was interviewed in regards to the final episode of Friends for Channel 10. They're running a story on the importance of friends as extended families for young people as we tend to get married later. They filmed a lot of her photos of "friends" and perhaps I will be there. So all you Rochesterians, be sure to tune in tonight at 6 PM!

They went like hotcakes! Congratulations to the Jasons who got them.

I have been informed that people are actually selling these accounts on ebay. Wow, maybe I should've done that. I could use the cash. But alas, I am just too generous.

If anyone wants to participate as a beta-tester for gmail, Google's new e-mail service with 1.0 G of free storage, let me know. As a tester myself, I have two invitations to offer to friends. So, if you are interested, let me know. First 2 to contact me get the invites.

Oh, how I love google. I have even created a new French verb: Googler, to google, which I use frequently. I'll use it in a sentence. "Je l'ai googlé pour etre sûo;r qu'il n'était pas un psychopathe."

Karebear sent me this link accompanied with the phrase "Doesn't it make you miss New York?" Yes. It does. I suppose it could work in Paris, without the pun-ny title. Click on the link at least to see some ridiculous photos...

"Pac-Manhattan is a large-scale urban game that utilizes the New York City grid to recreate the 1980's video game sensation Pac-Man. This analog version of Pac-man is being developed in NYU's Interactive Telecommunications graduate program, in order to explore what happens when games are removed from their "little world" of tabletops, televisions and computers and placed in the larger "real world" of street corners, and cities.

A player dressed as Pac-man will run around the Washington square park area of Manhattan while attempting to collect all of the virtual "dots" that run the length of the streets. Four players dressed as the ghosts Inky, Blinky, Pinky and Clyde will attempt to catch Pac-man before all of the dots are collected.

Using cell-phone contact, Wi-Fi internet connections, and custom software designed by the Pac-Manhattan team, Pac-man and the ghosts will be tracked from a central location and their progress will be broadcast over the internet for viewers from around the world."

Fascinating article about the "author" of the Nancy Drew mysteries from Salon.com.


My personal favorite: The Clue in the Diary (#7)
"As the girls passed other vehicles, Bess and George shouted and pointed toward the house on the hill.

"We'll need all the help we can get," Nancy said grimly, "if anyone is to be rescued."
(Referring to the explosion at Foxy Felix's expensive estate...)

So, when I finally got out of my apartment this morning (afternoon...) I saw billions and billions of people selling these flowers. (I don't know what they are called in English). Apparently, they bring good luck for the coming year (I guess it is from the pagan tradition, before "New Year" was placed on a totally arbitrary date). Anyway, I am posting this pretty picture (that I stole, shhhhh...) in order to wish all of you the best of luck. In addition, this May 1st seems to be a pretty important date. Ten new countries have entered the European Union ! How exciting. AND the war in Iraq has been officially over for a year ! um, yeah....

In brigher news, it is the Kentucky Derby today. (Picture me in a funny hat, wasted on mint juleps and straight bourbon when the mint runs out).... I am pulling for either Minister Eric or Smarty Jones this year. I know that Smarty Jones is the undefeated front runner, but he's got the best name. I wouldn't be sad if he wins. Well, my dinner has just been served (yes, I have a boy who cooks for me when prodded). Once again, I wish you all the best!