At 10:30 AM, I walked out the French TGV that had whisked me down from Paris in a little over three hours. I had been through Bordeaux many times on my way to Biarritz and the Pays Basque, but had never actually set foot in this city renowned the world over for its wine.
Today is a national holiday of some sort, one among the innumerable holidays the French have awarded themselves comme ca. Nearly all the stores are closed, except for a boulangerie here and a café there. So I wandered around, took some pictures, and got a feel for the city until it was time for dinner. Earlier, I'd spotted a popular local restaurant that looked promising.
The place was called L’Entrecote and there was a long line of people waiting to get in. I figured if they were willing to wait in the rain for a seat, it had to be good. Once I got in, I found out that life according to L'Entrecote was simple; the restaurant only served one main course and had an overwhelming choice of two wines: red or rose, both house label.
"A bottle of your red please," I said to the waitress.
"A half bottle for you, sir?" She seemed to doubt my manly capacity to hold my liquor; it became a point of principle to prove her wrong.
"No, a full bottle please, thank you."
After my small salad of lettuce and walnuts, after the ribeye steak smothered in bearnaise sauce with a heaping mound of fries on the side, after the six cheeses, and the café with the cream puffs stuffed with vanilla bean ice cream, covered in melted dark chocolate and garnished with finely sliced almonds, after I had dusted off the wine and given my irreverent waitress the stink eye – in short, after having thoroughly gorged myself, I paid the bill and left with my dignity intact and my digestion in a shambles.
I headed out to make friends with some other tourists at a local bar. Apparently this was a serious holiday for the French. No one was on the streets and hardly a bar was open. I had expected to find throngs of tourists pacing the sidewalks, but everyone seemed to have stayed in. Disappointed and tired, I headed back for my hotel.
But just as I was about to walk up to my hotel, out of the corner of my eye I saw five scantily clad young women in an otherwise abandoned bar. I stopped, thought for a second, and tugged at the door. It was locked and I turned to leave, almost relieved. Suddenly, the door opened behind me. I was let in and assured the bar was still open. I figured I’d have one drink before going to bed; that was a terrible idea.
I soon realized from the bartender’s frequent references to the young ladies as “whores” and “dirty little sluts” that this was not a typical bar. The bartender seemed to own the place. He was at least sixty, with a neatly trimmed head of white hair, a long pointed nose, and a healthy paunch that suggested he did not consult the labels on his food for caloric information.
I had a strange feeling the entire joint was working me over. The patron began to chummy up to me and the girls would glance over flirtingly. Confused, I just sat and stared blankly into my Lagavulin, wondering what I had gotten myself into. Suddenly, the eldest girl of the bunch—and also the least attractive—came up to me and began to strike conversation.
“What part of France are you from?” she asked me, narrowing her eyes in suggestive flirtation.
“I’m not French, I’m an American here on vacation.” I replied, nervously gulping my 14 year old scotch, feeling like a child of the same age.
“Where are you from in America?”
“California, southern California, Orange County,” I said quickly, trying to preempt her next two questions with unnecessary detail.
“You speak French very well,” she said coyly, looking at me through narrowed eyes and flashing her nicotine-stained teeth in what must have been an attempt at a suggestive smile.
“Thank you,” I said, looking away from her. I wanted to pretend she wasn't there, so I started carefully reading every alcohol label on the shelves in front of me. This seemed to ease my nervous discomfort. I was wondering how they pronounce Bunnahabhain in Scotland when she started talking again.
“Can I sit next to you?” she asked, almost shyly. How odd, I thought, that she is playing this game with me. I knew I should have left then, but my scotch was terribly expensive and I couldn’t bring myself to leave it half finished. Before I could make up my mind, she was sitting next to me.
She began to interrogate me, feigning interest in my hobbies, in law school, in whatever she could to keep me talking. I was less than obliging and kept all my responses as terse as possible, taking long slow sips of my scotch in the middle of sentences.
“This is a caberet, not just a bar,” she said, smiling at me again with her squinty eyes and yellow teeth. “It is a private club. My friends and I are dancers here.”
I looked at her with my best attempt at seeming obtuse. Frustrated, she took my non-responsiveness as a sign that I was either very weak linguistically or mentally.
“We’re strippers,” she said, cutting to the chase.
“I see.” That’s what I always say when I don’t know what else to say. Sometimes it fools people into thinking I am thinking something deep. I must have picked it up from Chauncey Gardner in Being There.
“Would you like to buy me a glass of champagne?” she asked. She had probably told herself that if this was going to happen, she would have to hold my hand through the steps.
“How much is it?”
“We have small glasses for 22 Euros and large ones for 44. I suggest that you buy me large glass.” Again, that disgusting smile. She really wasn’t helping her cause. There was no way I was paying over $50 for a glass of champagne, so I went on the offensive.
“What does it come with?” She looked shocked and offended. I had broken the code of courtesy between man and stripper.
After a few seconds, her emotion turned from indignation to self-pity and she began to think about her youth, not so long ago, when being turned down by an able-bodied young man in a deserted bar would have been impossible. I almost felt sorry for her.
“Look, I just wanted to have a drink before bed. I’m a student and I can’t afford to buy you drinks or anything else. Besides, I have a girlfriend.”
Outside, I laughed at my naivety. What did I think five young women in “fuck me” dresses were doing in a deserted bar in a deserted city? I laughed at my awkwardness, at my stubborn insistence on finishing my drink, at my revulsion toward the overripe stripper on the hustle. I felt like Holden Caulfield.
I couldn’t wait to go back to my squeaky little bed and forget all about my encounter with the nicotine-stained narrow-eyed champagne-thirsty stripper. I couldn’t wait to forget that I am 22 and afraid of sexual solicitation.
Read more!
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Compounded Miscalculations Can Result in Huge Errors
The last time I visited New York, I met up with two of my friends from Paris whom I hadn't seen in ages. We went to a very smart, quiet bar somewhere in the West Village. It might as well have been a bar in Paris. The lights were almost completely off, creating an air of intimacy. Each small round table could seat four people at most and in the middle was a tiny flickering candle that accentuated the facial contortions of whoever happened to be leaning across the table to make a point. As my friends and I fell deeper into conversation, we all three began invading the candlelight, sometimes all at the same time. I realized how good it was to see them again.
As the cigarette butts kept piling up in the ashtray and our black cocktail straws lay strewn across the table by the dozens, the conversation became more personal. One of my friends had just been dumped by his girlfriend. He had a thing for Eastern European beauties and she definitely fit the bill. The break up had really shaken him up and made him reevaluate everything in his life. He was a smart, successful young man with a blazing bright future. He had been to all the right schools, his parents were both incredibly successful; he was well read, well traveled, well spoken, had a great sense of humor and was always up for an adventure. But she had left him for a guy with his own home alarm installation business. She said that he worked too hard, that while he was traveling four days a week to Tennessee for his consulting job she had started seeing this other guy. This other guy had time for her, she had told him. He may not be as smart, but she respected him for having his own business and for being there when she needed him.
"What did I do it all for?" my friend asked. "When I was a kid, deciding what to do in my life, I thought to myself that if I went to a good school, got a good job, made good money and had some adventures along the way, I would be the perfect guy for any girl. I thought I could be with the girl I want and make her totally happy because she couldn't find anyone better. Now, I work 70 hours a week, I spend half my time in Tennessee, I spend all the money I make on my tiny apartment and drinks at bars, and my girlfriend left me for some nobody, some guy without even a college degree who installs alarms. Where did I fuck up so bad? If I had known this was all pointless ten years ago, I would have just dropped out and done all the things I wanted to do, instead of the things I thought I was supposed to do."
The emotions really resonated with me. I remembered the times in my 10th grade English class that I would stare at that gorgeous girl in the back corner who always wore low cut tank tops and a push up bra. We were constantly writing in-class essays and, when I ran low on motivation and my hand would start to get numb from writing so quickly, I would look up and just stare at her beauty. "If I do well on this essay, I can get a good grade in this class, and if I do well in this class, I can do well this semester, and if that happens, then I can do well this year. And if I keep doing well in high school, I can go to a good college, and eventually I can be successful. And when I'm successful, I can be with a girl like her." The logic seemed as infallible then as it seems absurd now.
In reflecting back on all this, and in thinking of my friend's predicament, I thought of the following parable:
A young boy once yearned for love and happiness as a poor man yearns for wealth. So he looked around to see what women liked and thought, women like guys in really nice clothes, a really well dressed guy. The clothes are a metaphor for accomplishments and titles and prestige, things with which people adorn themselves throughout life. So the boy set about acquiring money and pieces of clothing. And he bought some beautiful things at very dear prices.
And then one day he put it all on and strolled down the street, and he had a bounce in his step and a grin on his chin. And he looked at all the women and thought, "Surely they'll love me now! Behold how well clothed I am!" But to his dismay and disbelief, he was no more loved than when he was 10. And he couldn't see why! Men in far less refined garments were walking with women who seemed to really enjoy their company. Why was he not happy now, draped in the clothing of his accomplishments?
And then he saw a freshly cleaned window reflecting the light off itself. He caught his image in it, and he understood. The clothing didn't fit the man. Though draped in fine cloth, he looked like a beggar still. Because all this time, he had not done anything to grow himself into the clothing, into his accomplishments, to better himself from the inside.
Being superficial himself, he had judged the world to be the same. But the world was far more perceptive than he and quickly saw the fraud beneath the finely woven threads, saw the poor and hungry spirit of a little boy draped in the garb of a successful man, saw how his clothes hung awkwardly about his limbs, how ill they fit and suited his demeanor. And seeing himself thusly in the reflective glass, the man bowed his head and strolled on idly, meandering about the streets more lost than when he was a child.
And although I comforted my friend that night and told him that she just wasn't the one, that she didn't appreciate him, that she wasn't good enough for him, I couldn't help but wonder if he was right, if somewhere along the way we had just gotten it all wrong.
Read more!
As the cigarette butts kept piling up in the ashtray and our black cocktail straws lay strewn across the table by the dozens, the conversation became more personal. One of my friends had just been dumped by his girlfriend. He had a thing for Eastern European beauties and she definitely fit the bill. The break up had really shaken him up and made him reevaluate everything in his life. He was a smart, successful young man with a blazing bright future. He had been to all the right schools, his parents were both incredibly successful; he was well read, well traveled, well spoken, had a great sense of humor and was always up for an adventure. But she had left him for a guy with his own home alarm installation business. She said that he worked too hard, that while he was traveling four days a week to Tennessee for his consulting job she had started seeing this other guy. This other guy had time for her, she had told him. He may not be as smart, but she respected him for having his own business and for being there when she needed him.
"What did I do it all for?" my friend asked. "When I was a kid, deciding what to do in my life, I thought to myself that if I went to a good school, got a good job, made good money and had some adventures along the way, I would be the perfect guy for any girl. I thought I could be with the girl I want and make her totally happy because she couldn't find anyone better. Now, I work 70 hours a week, I spend half my time in Tennessee, I spend all the money I make on my tiny apartment and drinks at bars, and my girlfriend left me for some nobody, some guy without even a college degree who installs alarms. Where did I fuck up so bad? If I had known this was all pointless ten years ago, I would have just dropped out and done all the things I wanted to do, instead of the things I thought I was supposed to do."
The emotions really resonated with me. I remembered the times in my 10th grade English class that I would stare at that gorgeous girl in the back corner who always wore low cut tank tops and a push up bra. We were constantly writing in-class essays and, when I ran low on motivation and my hand would start to get numb from writing so quickly, I would look up and just stare at her beauty. "If I do well on this essay, I can get a good grade in this class, and if I do well in this class, I can do well this semester, and if that happens, then I can do well this year. And if I keep doing well in high school, I can go to a good college, and eventually I can be successful. And when I'm successful, I can be with a girl like her." The logic seemed as infallible then as it seems absurd now.
In reflecting back on all this, and in thinking of my friend's predicament, I thought of the following parable:
A young boy once yearned for love and happiness as a poor man yearns for wealth. So he looked around to see what women liked and thought, women like guys in really nice clothes, a really well dressed guy. The clothes are a metaphor for accomplishments and titles and prestige, things with which people adorn themselves throughout life. So the boy set about acquiring money and pieces of clothing. And he bought some beautiful things at very dear prices.
And then one day he put it all on and strolled down the street, and he had a bounce in his step and a grin on his chin. And he looked at all the women and thought, "Surely they'll love me now! Behold how well clothed I am!" But to his dismay and disbelief, he was no more loved than when he was 10. And he couldn't see why! Men in far less refined garments were walking with women who seemed to really enjoy their company. Why was he not happy now, draped in the clothing of his accomplishments?
And then he saw a freshly cleaned window reflecting the light off itself. He caught his image in it, and he understood. The clothing didn't fit the man. Though draped in fine cloth, he looked like a beggar still. Because all this time, he had not done anything to grow himself into the clothing, into his accomplishments, to better himself from the inside.
Being superficial himself, he had judged the world to be the same. But the world was far more perceptive than he and quickly saw the fraud beneath the finely woven threads, saw the poor and hungry spirit of a little boy draped in the garb of a successful man, saw how his clothes hung awkwardly about his limbs, how ill they fit and suited his demeanor. And seeing himself thusly in the reflective glass, the man bowed his head and strolled on idly, meandering about the streets more lost than when he was a child.
And although I comforted my friend that night and told him that she just wasn't the one, that she didn't appreciate him, that she wasn't good enough for him, I couldn't help but wonder if he was right, if somewhere along the way we had just gotten it all wrong.
Read more!
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
I nominate the head of marketing at Goldfishes as the new Secretary of Education
I've wanted to start a blog for a long time now, but -- like paying the money I owe the City of Chicago (or Societe Generale, or SFR, or the Gas Company, or whoever is financing my student loans) -- I never got around to it.
Last night my roommate Ben and I were sitting around watching Reno 911 when I offered him some Goldfishes. "I love 'fishes cause they're soo delicious, gone goldfishin'!" I said to him as I handed over the bag. I just sat there and shoveled goldfishes into my mouth, dazed in a whirlpool of my prepubescent nostalgia. After about 15 seconds, Ben started to talk; apparently he'd been thinking the whole time I was trying to find out how many goldfish would fit in my mouth.
"You realize how genius the marketing for kids' products is? I mean, the fact that you remember that stupid jingle after all these years, what does that tell you? These people knew exactly what created memories for kids and they used all the elements in the commercials they made. Can you imagine if they used that same skill to teach kids things instead of trying to sell them junk?"
"That would be unbelievable. You would sit at home and learn about math and science through an amazing series of jingles and adorable animated characters. You would never forget anything ever. We would have the best-educated kids in the world." I said back, warming up to the idea.
"Yeah, a guy would come up to you and ask, 'so, you know about quantum dynamics right?' and you would just look at him, insulted, and say, 'of course I know about quantum dynamics, you think I was never six years old sitting at home watching tv all day?'"
"Yeah dude, and the quantum dynamics cartoon would be on when everyone's parents are at work. So the more you know about quantum dynamics, the less your mother loved you. You can tell what kind of childhood people had based on how sick they are at quantum dynamics. Someone comes up to you and starts complaining about their childhood and how their mother was never around, and all you have to say back to them is 'Woah woah woah. Your mother wasn't around? Let me tell you a thing or two about quantum dynamics.' Quantum dynamics would be the cross that unloved children would have to bear the rest of their lives, and like the stupid goldfishes jingle, they'd never be able to forget it."
"Do you realize if we had this in America we would have the smartest, most educated people? The way this country absorbs whatever commercials feed them...if we could turn that into a way of delivering educational material..."
And then we both went silent for another 30 seconds as we contemplated the possibilities of a nation educated on jingles and animation.
"Ben!" I shouted, cause that's what I do when I get excited about an idea, "Ben, they already do this in Japan! In Japan, they use all kinds of media to teach kids crazy stuff. Remember the other day how you were telling me the reason the Japanese crushed our auto industry wasn't that they had better technology but that they had better management? Well guess what my friend Yohei used to do all day when we were kids. He would play this video game that made no sense to me. This was a baseball video game, but instead of playing baseball, you were the manager of the baseball team. So instead of using the controller to throw a pitch or hit a home run, you use it to decide the batting order, to deal with injuries, to manage the team finances and create revenue. And then once you have all your plans set, you sit back and watch the team play to see if you end up winning. Isn't that insane? While we were playing games that glorified the superstar athletes, Japanese kids were playing video games that taught them to be managers."
The ideas were rolling freely now, and I could tell Ben had something really good to say. But just as he was forming his thought, both of us noticed the TV again. Reno 911 was still on and Terry (or Tear Bear as he's affectionately called) was selling blow jobs at Tacos Tacos Tacos Tacos. The Reno police are on the scene, about to arrest him for prostitution.
"How much are you charging for a blowjob Terry?" the cop asks him.
"$2."
"$2?! Terry, look, the special here at Tacos Tacos Tacos Tacos costs $4.09. Don't you have any dignity?"
"Yeah. But my blowjobs don't come with fries and a drink..."
What were we talking about again? Oh well, let's just keep watching TV. Read more!
Last night my roommate Ben and I were sitting around watching Reno 911 when I offered him some Goldfishes. "I love 'fishes cause they're soo delicious, gone goldfishin'!" I said to him as I handed over the bag. I just sat there and shoveled goldfishes into my mouth, dazed in a whirlpool of my prepubescent nostalgia. After about 15 seconds, Ben started to talk; apparently he'd been thinking the whole time I was trying to find out how many goldfish would fit in my mouth.
"You realize how genius the marketing for kids' products is? I mean, the fact that you remember that stupid jingle after all these years, what does that tell you? These people knew exactly what created memories for kids and they used all the elements in the commercials they made. Can you imagine if they used that same skill to teach kids things instead of trying to sell them junk?"
"That would be unbelievable. You would sit at home and learn about math and science through an amazing series of jingles and adorable animated characters. You would never forget anything ever. We would have the best-educated kids in the world." I said back, warming up to the idea.
"Yeah, a guy would come up to you and ask, 'so, you know about quantum dynamics right?' and you would just look at him, insulted, and say, 'of course I know about quantum dynamics, you think I was never six years old sitting at home watching tv all day?'"
"Yeah dude, and the quantum dynamics cartoon would be on when everyone's parents are at work. So the more you know about quantum dynamics, the less your mother loved you. You can tell what kind of childhood people had based on how sick they are at quantum dynamics. Someone comes up to you and starts complaining about their childhood and how their mother was never around, and all you have to say back to them is 'Woah woah woah. Your mother wasn't around? Let me tell you a thing or two about quantum dynamics.' Quantum dynamics would be the cross that unloved children would have to bear the rest of their lives, and like the stupid goldfishes jingle, they'd never be able to forget it."
"Do you realize if we had this in America we would have the smartest, most educated people? The way this country absorbs whatever commercials feed them...if we could turn that into a way of delivering educational material..."
And then we both went silent for another 30 seconds as we contemplated the possibilities of a nation educated on jingles and animation.
"Ben!" I shouted, cause that's what I do when I get excited about an idea, "Ben, they already do this in Japan! In Japan, they use all kinds of media to teach kids crazy stuff. Remember the other day how you were telling me the reason the Japanese crushed our auto industry wasn't that they had better technology but that they had better management? Well guess what my friend Yohei used to do all day when we were kids. He would play this video game that made no sense to me. This was a baseball video game, but instead of playing baseball, you were the manager of the baseball team. So instead of using the controller to throw a pitch or hit a home run, you use it to decide the batting order, to deal with injuries, to manage the team finances and create revenue. And then once you have all your plans set, you sit back and watch the team play to see if you end up winning. Isn't that insane? While we were playing games that glorified the superstar athletes, Japanese kids were playing video games that taught them to be managers."
The ideas were rolling freely now, and I could tell Ben had something really good to say. But just as he was forming his thought, both of us noticed the TV again. Reno 911 was still on and Terry (or Tear Bear as he's affectionately called) was selling blow jobs at Tacos Tacos Tacos Tacos. The Reno police are on the scene, about to arrest him for prostitution.
"How much are you charging for a blowjob Terry?" the cop asks him.
"$2."
"$2?! Terry, look, the special here at Tacos Tacos Tacos Tacos costs $4.09. Don't you have any dignity?"
"Yeah. But my blowjobs don't come with fries and a drink..."
What were we talking about again? Oh well, let's just keep watching TV. Read more!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)