I can’t do everything at the same time, I’m only human. Quit gay chatrooms, quit chocolate, quit depression… There are some definitive incompatibilities in that list, I’ve got to make a choice. But whichever choice I make I can’t be satisfied.

In Télérama this week: It is evident that the American’s resolution to attack Irak depends on the dollar’s exchange rate. So you now know what you have to do: sell your dollars! Yes, I’m obviously aware that if speculators had some kind of a political conscience, it would show. But everyone, at their little level, can do something: just change your little ten-dollar note that sits in a souvenirs drawer.

(This post void where not applicable and in the U.S.A)

I did the dumbest thing (or close) yesterday. Hence the previous post, because I hate doing something stupid. Especially when I know that it’s gonna come back and slam my face into the mud when I least expect it, and when it’s most embarrassing. Crap. I’m so weak. I’m pretty sure I’m gonna do the same thing again today and the next days. I know myself. And, if I had a choice, I’d never get in the same room as myself again.

Nothing to say today. At all. I feel… disappointed. In life. I could install Opera 7 and test it right away, but I’m not in the mood. I’ll let you try it out for yourself, and I’ll review it tomorrow if I feel more like it. Right now all I can imagine is burying myself in a hole six-foot deep for the rest of my non-life.

I have fifteen blog scraps waiting patiently in my notepad. It’s a nice theoretical concept to write down ideas when they come, and use them later. But then, the whole difficulty appears when it comes to transform them into articles, outside the original context, and make an interesting blog out of them.

The good thing is, it also means they will be better than if I wrote them right in the moment. But, well, I’m not here to write a book. Well, I am, but not here. Not right there. Not for free. It’s only fine as long as I haven’t got a good idea for a novel.

Which situation might last, though.

I’m pretty sure the job I’m made for is that of a script doctor. But you don’t get to be one right away. You have to learn or something. Or have relations or something. Or be lucky or something. Or take your fingers out of your ass or something. All sorts of somethings I don’t know how to do.

I recently found out I’m referenced on a French gay sites directory. I’m even the only site in the blogs section. It’s nice (even though I feel kinda lonely there) and they do send a fair number of visitors here every day (well, not like millions, but half a dozen is something). But I want to object to a little part of the description they made: He’s obssessed with his age (27 years!). (I suppose the exclamation mark denotes how stupid of me it is—or is it the opposite?) And it’s just wrong. I want a refund. Ok, I didn’t pay, I didn’t ask. But I still demand a rectification. Let me call my lawyers. Oh, wait, I’ve got a blog, so I might as well write my corrections here.

First, I’m not 27. I will only be next week.

Then, I’m not obsessed with my age. I don’t really care about turning 27. I don’t think I’m old, I dont examine my reflection in the mirror to spot the newest wrinkle, I haven’t got problems with age itself. What’s wrong is what I’ve made of those twenty-seven years. 27. That’s an age when you’re not allowed anymore to be a parasite living in the back room and pillaging his parents’ fridge. An age when you just can’t stand there, without the least project for your future. When you it’s not legitimate not to do anything constructive in order to change the situation. Late, lazy students can be 26. They can’t be 26.

That’s why I’m upset by the thought of an upcoming birthday. I can deal with getting old. But not here, like that. I still have exactly nine days to find an income, an apartment, a husband and a dog. Afterwards it’ll be too late. Last year, I launched my blog to see if I was able to write, and I lost thirty pounds to see if I was able to look good. This year, I’ll have to beat that, make even better achievements, and I’ve got absolutely no idea what they can be. Besides, with the two December job offers that eventually fell apart, I can’t say I’m quite enthusiastic about the way this year has begun.

I’m still waiting for a sign.

(Ok, so I spent the first weeks of the year not being single. Maybe it won’t be such a bad year after all.)

1. In the middle of the day, how do you check that your breath is acceptable?

Just like everyone, I breathe into the palm of my hand. Which isn’t of much use: mouth and nose are connected so that you just get used to the smell and can’t notice it anymore. Anyway, these days, I always have sugar-free mints in my pockets. And then, I never have a bad breath. No. Never ever. My teeth problems are pretty much under control, I don’t think my liver is in trouble, so all that’s left is what I eat. And I wouldn’t eat something that stinks.

2. Have you ever been tempted to pay for a porn site visit?

I even paid once (it was cheap: a 1.5 € phone call granted access to the site). Most of the people who answer this questionnaire will say, or have said, that thanks to Kazaa you don’t need porn sites anymore. But it happens that I like pictures better than movies (because you can let your, uh, mind wander off on any given picture, instead of having to follow the rhythm imposed by un uninspired so-called director), and nothing’s more convenient than a webpage for viewing pictures.

You’ll tell me there are free sites with free pictures, and I’ll answer that’s the reason why I haven’t got a BadPuppy subscription. I think porn sites have the same business model as software companies, in relation to piracy: when you’re an adult, when you have an income, and you can afford to, it’s just simpler, faster and more efficient to pay a subscription to a good site rather than having to hunt all over the web for good, original pictures. So, when I’m rich, I’ll definitely pay.

3. How much time do you stay under your shower?

Between fifteen and forty-five minutes, I’d say, depending on whether I’m dirty, and whether I’m late. Ok, forty-five minutes might be a little bit of an exaggeration, but it’s pretty close.

There’s nothing I like more than water. Not even sex, not even chocolate, not even scarification: just plain nothing. Since I can’t spend my nights sitting in the sand watching the ocean surf, I might as well take advantage of my shower time to meditate under the falling water.

However, sex under a shower is nice, too. (Haven’t had the opportunity in a long time, by the way. Any offers?) And sex under the shower while eating chocolate should be… well, disgusting. I don’t like to mix sex and food, they’re mutually exclusive. Which makes sense, considering food is actually a substitute for sex.

(For those who didn’t figure it out, and can’t be blamed because they don’t know me enough yet: I was kidding, about scarification. I obviously do enjoy it much more than water.)

(For those who didn’t figure it out, and this time they can be blamed and ridiculed: I was kidding again.)

4. Are you irresistibly attracted by the need to play with the hot wax of a candle?

I’m more attracted to the flame than the wax. That said, there was a time when I used to take my mother’s pressure cooker, fill it with water, light up candles, burn paper in it—and I even once melted candles in a pan to pour the wax into the water. So I do have a thing with wax. But I still prefer to play with flames: when I’m in a bar, and not playing with my straw, I keep running my hand over the candle, warming my palms, etc. And, at the time we had a country house (a farm, actually), I could spend hours in front of the fireplace, turning logs over and over, reviving the flames, burning twigs. A nice little pyromaniac I am. But isn’t it somehow natural to be fascinated by fire?

5. What is the song that most often flashes back to you from your childhood?

Well, right now, I can’t find any. And then, songs don’t flash back from my childhood: they quietly stay where they are. My internal jukebox’s slots are all occupied by recent songs, and there is no place to be wasted for oldies.

6. Are you one of those who, though not believing in astrology, can’t help reading their horoscope in the first TV magazine they happen to read?

I don’t read my horoscope in Télé 7 Jours anymore since the resident astrologist told me to play the lottery, and I didn’t win anything.

So I’m actually one of those who, though believing in astrology, don’t read their horoscope. Too general. I’ll be willing to believe the day someone makes a personalized horoscope for me—except that I don’t actually want to start believing in horoscopes, because it would become too constraining. I’m happy with judging people from their signs: at least that is helpful.

7. How often do you check your website’s logs?

These days, every two hours, because I wanna see if the English version catches on (and there’s no reason it would, considering I haven’t done much to publicize it yet). But, on average, it’s more like once or twice a month, just to see how my readership evolves.

By the way, there’s been a real explosion in the last few days. I don’t know where it comes from, but I’m definitely happy with it. Just keep it coming!

Note to self: do not blog right after a rowing session. (A short session, I don’t mean to brag.) There was so little blood left in my brain when I wrote this, I’ve had to correct an incredible number of stupid mistakes when I proof-read it.

You can’t quite realize from a photograph. It looks bigger. Well, not exactly, but you just can’t judge of the size. You’re used to what you’ve got, and you think everyone’s must be roughly the same size. (Oh how original I am today. Shouldn’t there be some kind of law against pretending you’re talking about sex and then revealing the real subject at the end? It’s been so used and abused…) I met two boys in two days, and both of theirs were so small. So tiny they were ridiculous, compared to mine. (Ok, I said it was lame, why am I going on with it?) Except that, since I’m talking portable phones here, I’m the one who looks ridiculous. No wonder: the last time I bought a phone must have been three years ago, and I went for a cheap (but cute, at the time) one. And now I find out that, in three years, phones have become so tiny—even the cheap ones. When I looked at their pictures on the web, I thought they were cute, that the buttons were well designed, the shape was elegant, and having color displays and wallpapers was cool; but I didn’t think about size. When I saw them on display, among their kin, all more or less of the same size, I didn’t quite realize either. And yet, now, telcos are offering cute miniature phones to their long-time customers for as low as one euro. And I’m here with my Nokia 6110, which was very good at the time, but has gotten somewhat old in, what, five years? Eek. (For those who weren’t there: in the meantime, I’ve had a 3210, but the battery died from years of being plugged in to the charger 24/7 because I never ever left my room, so I digged back for my old 6110, which was a better phone, and not bigger anyway.) I, too, want a phone as small as a lighter. A little Samsung, for instance, with its mini-screen on the lid, so cute. I, too, want to buy it for one euro from my telco. Except that they won’t ever offer me that. Because they don’t like me. They hate me. It’s unfair. I want to be loved. But my contract gives me free communication on nights and weekend, and they profoundly hate those of us who subscribed to that one. (Why did they offer that anyway? Well, everybody makes mistakes, I guess.) And yet, for the couple of years I’ve had that, I never really used it. I’m an autist, I don’t really enjoy speaking on the phone, and I don’t spend my life chatting. Well, I do, but just no orally. So I’m only keeping that subscription in the case I would, someday, maybe, ever, have someone in my life that I’d want to spend my nights calling on the phone. (And I’m pretty sure I’ll be lucky enough to be have my phone line terminated right at that time—either by the telco’s decision, or my bank’s.) And do you think they’d be grateful to me for paying them every month for something I don’t use? Do you think? Nah, they probably don’t even have that option in their database. And I’m stuck with my old 6110.

It’s the second time in two days that I’m going out of my home (wow! but it’s not over) to meet someone I barely know (yahoo!), with whom I have hardly chatted before, and in a non-sexual context (oh, damn! no, I mean, wow! well, I mean both, actually). Those who don’t know me may not realize how exceptional that is: it commonly takes several weeks for someone to drag me out of my bedroom (except for a sex encounter—uh, actually, even for sex). But not this time. Let’s go and see a movie! Ok, why not? Let’s have a drink! Sure, let’s. Am I becoming a social person? It is so not me. Of course, if they hadn’t both been cute, I’d never have gone there. But it’s still quite an achievement. Except that it will be hard to keep up with it, economically. Because it requires a subway pass, and enough change to pay for a mango juice in a Marais bar (mango juice, that sounds so cute). Does it mean I’m gonna have to work in order to meet people? Could that be a valid motivation for me? On the way to my appointment, I was considering how I should redesign my site, make it more spectacular, in order to add a make Garoo work button, so I’d be contacted once in a while, should it only be once or twice each year. Am I going to really do that? In, like, real life? Can’t be sure. But it would allow me to offer boys drinks, and also to buy a digital camera, and hence have an additional reason to meet people. And to keep me busy. And maybe even making my own photography portfolio. Okay, so, how does one find a freelance job? I can’t remember.

Funny that. No, really, funny. Ten minutes before I saw Punch-Drunk Love, I was just wondering if I shouldn’t, maybe, try buying an illimited movie pass (because we have that here—it may be a French exclusivity, I don’t know). For 17 € per month, I would be able to see lots of movies, in original version and on a big screen, in a nice, modern theater that’s generally not too crowded. For 17 € per month, I could spend every afternoon watching a new movie, and launch a new sub-blog with daily movie reviews. For 17 € per month, I would have illimited content for this site, plus a daily motivation to get out of my bedroom. Bliss for a small price.

Funny, I said, that, right after I started considering that option, I watched a movie I didn’t like. However, I’m not sure which way I’m supposed to understand this sign: does it mean I should stop spending money over movies, or I should have a pass so that I’d never regret buying a ticket again. But I don’t believe in signs anyway, so why am I asking that?

But there are also a few drawbacks to consider. The fact that it’s 17 € a month, which means a new subscription I’ll have to pay each month, even if I’m not in a wealthy period (and, considering how the year has started, I’d better be careful, shouldn’t I?) The fact that the pass won’t be of any use without a subway pass, so I’ll be forced to buy one, briging the total to 77 €. And the fact that I already pay a subscription to Canal+ (a French private channel) and there’s no way I’m terminating that.

It won’t be an easy choice. I guess it’s going to depend on what happens in the following weeks, regarding my birthday, and regarding my work (or lack thereof).

Oh, but the UGC pass can also be offered. Maybe I’ll have to upload an ID picture here. Just in case. You never know.

Well, no, it wasn’t just vaporware. It wasn’t just one of those myriad ideas that spring in my mind and just vanish silently a few days or weeks later. There it is: the English version of the site is online, as you may, somehow, have noticed by now. Because you’re reading this in English. Yes you are. Really. Probably because you clicked a switch to english button at the top of the page. (By the way, I must think of something to do with that button. I’m just realizing that most people might assume it just links to a Google translation of my blog. Damn. Must find a wording as clear and concise as possible.)

As I was chatting with Xarro, I managed to formulate the exact reason why I wanted so much to launch an English version. It’s not just megalomania—well, there’s some of that, too, it would be hard to deny. It’s mostly a question of community, and belonging.

In the French blogosphere, I’m both actor and spectator. I write a blog, I read blogs, I comment blogs, I blog about blogs (occasionally). In the English-speaking community, I’m only a lurker. I read lots of blogs, but I don’t even dare post comments, because I couldn’t add my URL as a signature. It’s not just a matter of publicity: I would feel like posting an anonymous comment. Hey, I am Garoo, for crying out loud, not some nameless webless John Doe! Uh… what did I say about megalomania again? Forget it.

For… uh, a few days… ah, right, for the last ten days, I’ve experimented with writing everything both in English and in French. Hiding it from the readers, just for me, in order to see if I could make it—seems like I can—and laying out a few rules. They’re simple: first, if at any time I feel too lazy to translate an article, I just won’t, and it won’t be a big deal at all; second, what I write about TV won’t be translated because it’s only interesting to the French audience (it’s either about French TV shows, or about American series that we get with a one-year delay—at the very least). Once this ground has been laid, it seems to work quite alright. For the last couple of days, I’ve been translating the text without really thinking about it (which can be demonstrated by thinking: Oops, I didn’t translate that one, did I? Oops, I did too!), and it can only become easier by force of habit. So all is well, isn’t it?

Now all that’s missing is a few readers. Ok, an awful lot of readers. (Please? Pretty please?) I don’t know if I’ll dare post comments on English blogs right here, right now, right away. I’m shy. I’m self-conscious. If I were just defined by one word, it would be that one. Oh, well, and I haven’t got that much to say, so I’ll wait. But it will come. And then I will either see my readership triple, or the door be slammed onto my face. Oh well. It’s not like it has never happened to me before.

I like Doc Tomorrow’s brand new meme: the google-wish. Since there are no permalinks on his blog, and since it’s in French anyway, I’ll summarize: you simply choose a google referrer in your logs, and try and satisfy the visitor’s original request.

As chance would have it, I just modified my statistics display scripts, to display directly and in human-readable format all the search engine referrers. (I shouldn’t have written that, now all the people whose blogs are parent to mine will want the same thing.) (Ok, hold on a second, I’m waiting for my site administration page to load up, damn that unreliable Internet thingy.) So. What google-wish am I going to take care of today? I haven’t prepared anything, I just discovered that concept, and I’m sleepy. Damn, helping people is not that easy. Can’t find anything I can take care of right away. Oh, well, in the meantime, they’ll have to just live by themselves, and I’ll get back to it later, when I’m more inspired. Or maybe it’s just not my thing.

Anyway, why do so many people come upon my site by searching bukkake? I guess not so many French-speaking sites mention it. Well, those guys can always wait for me to fulfill their google-wish. Just like those who search for corpse pictures (that comes regularly, too). Are they trying to discourage me from blogging, or what?

I once read a piece (maybe I linked it here, I don’t remember, and I’m certainly not going to search for it) where the author explained that he couldn’t stand how, everytime he told someone he was a writer, the guy answered oh! but I’ve always dreamt of writing a book! As if writing couldn’t be a real job, only a hobby; as if those who earned a living with their art didn’t do so because they had talent, but because they weren’t able to work for real (well, that’s still a little bit true, but not the way people think—not because they’re too dumb to work, but because they can’t put up with it).

It certainly doesn’t happen only to writers: it’s just more common for them than for painters, for instance, because the skills required to make a beautiful painting (and I’m not mentioning modern art here, because it’s a completely different problem) is much more evident to the viewers.

Well, I just noticed that it also applies to webdesigners. Every other time I tell someone what I do, they answer oh, cool, you’ll have to teach me. Right. Man, I get paid to make websites (well, when I do make any). Couldn’t there be some kind of reason for that? Like, it’s a job, you don’t learn it through a one-week training course with pillow breaks? Like, you can’t learn it all, it requires—come on, let’s say it, I can, especially now that you can’t comment my blog anymore—some kind of talent? Huh? Nah, couldn’t be. Oh yeah, and I’m pretty sure they ask the same thing of doctors, or mechanics, or nuclear physics researchers. It’s just that you don’t see as many of those in chatrooms.

Oh, I’ve always dreamt of building a neutron bomb! Will you teach me?

(Damn, I’m gonna get profiled by Echelon now.)

1/ Have you ever endured the horror of a car deodorant hooked up to the rear-view mirror? Which one? What was it like?

When I had a car, I had a vanilla tree hooked up to the mirror. Because I love vanilla scent. I remember that a guy I dated then couldn’t stand the smell of car deodorants, and I had to hide it in the glove compartment at the time. But I really liked it. Why not? And it’s cute. A little yellow cardboard pine tree (because vanilla trees are yellow). If I had a car again, I’d buy one immediately (unless it’s a new car, because we’ve never had a new car in the family, so I’d want to enjoy the smell).

2/ Without too much explanation, how much time do you devote each day (on average, in the context of your own "routine") to what you really like? Sleep is excluded.

If sleep is excluded, I’d say… zero minute. On average. Because.

3/ What is the city name that makes you less want to go there? Is there any conscious reason?

Huh.

4/ Do you feel ill at ease in the company of people you consider more intelligent than you?

It depends.

I hate it when someone looks down on me. So I couldn’t stand someone who’s more intelligent and condescending. But then, he wouldn’t qualify as more intelligent, since he’d be a dumbass.

So, someone really more intelligent? Mmh… I can’t say, I think it never happend to me.

5/ Does the Easter Island scare you ?

Why would it? It’s cute: giant rabbits and eggs of the same caliber, all decorated and bouncing everywhere (uh, the rabbits are bouncing, because, well, the eggs, huh, splash, you see).

Ok, must be another island. No, it doesn’t scare me. I know that, in the 80s or something, scary stories commonly used that location as a scenery. But, for some reason, it didn’t stick with me.

6/ When you’re bad-mouthing someone, do you have that paranoid instinct to check if that person’s number hasn’t been dialed by accident?

I don’t often bad-mouth somone. Maybe the paranoia is so deeply anchored in me that it stops me before I even start. But, when I’m saying bad things on ICQ, I’m always afraid Trillian would blow a fuse right then, and send what I’m writing to the wrong person. And, when it’s by mail, I sometimes check two or three times the message in my outbox to see if it went to the right address.

But I don’t bad-mouth people anyway. Well, really, I don’t do that often. And never in a mean way. Well, scarcely. Unless it’s about people that I’m in conflict with, in which case I could repeat it to their face.

7/ What percentage of your own vision of existence is an extrapolation from fiction, and not reality? (Overcomplicated formulation! To give an example, I have a certain idea of the way the CIA works, but I have to admit it almost only comes from the movies.)

I don’t know, I guess I’d say something like 5 or 10%.

Well, 5 or 10% of my understanding of real world. Because my conception of mysticism entirely comes from fiction. Since I don’t have a witchcraft expert in my family to teach me the truth.

8/ What is your favorite urban legend?

Uh.

9/ Would you write differently (I mean style, of course) if you went back to the pen, and gave up on word processors?

No, my style is rather independant of technique. Maybe I’d write a little more concisely, because I reached a point (a long time ago) where writing on a keyboard is faster, easier and less tedious —and less dirty too, since I’m left-handed.

I remember that time in high school (eleven or twelve years ago… eek) when my French teacher noticed I had typed the notes for my presentation, and she told me I should try typing my essays too, and they would be better. She was probably right, but I never accepted to do so, because I didn’t want to be singled out, I didn’t want to show off by turning in typed documents. I guess that, nowadays, it would be quite common, and there must be lots of high school students who do so. But, at the time, I was… well, i was a nerd, obviously.

10/ You find out that the Earth will be destroyed by a meteor, 65 years from now. Do you secretly wish you’ll die naturally before it happens?

I think I’d commit suicide a few hours before impact (so that I have enough time to miss myself and try again, and so that I do it only when impact is confirmed and inevitable, not like in the movies, where the planet is saved ten minutes before the end of the world), in case apocalypse should be painful. I think many people would do that.

Oh, no, better yet: since it would be a pity to kill myself while Bruce Willis or other was saving the Earth at the last possible second, I think I’d take a massive dose of sleeping pills, so as to be in deep sleep when it happens. In the movies, they have substances that almost cause a temporary coma. That’s what I’d need. Nothing better than going in your sleep. Well, one thing better: going to bed for your last night on Earth, and yet waking up the next morning (well, unless you’re agonizing in pain and you were expecting to be euthanized during the night).

He took comfort in the thought that, someday, he too would be so handsome and muscular that nobody would be able to resist him. And, that day, he would find revenge for all those years of rejection by snubbing everyone, those who had turned him down and those he had never known. The thought was a much needed relief, after days of fruitless cruising. That would teach them, he thought as he was spreading a thick layer of peanut butter on his diet biscuits.

I didn’t make much of my childhood. I didn’t make much of my adolescence. (Except that I wasn’t a an infant star. I haven’t had all those benefits. I haven’t got my nose into coke either, but, well, if it’s a requisite of wealth, I’ll start anytime.) Extending your adolescence crisis through your entire life, to make up for lost time, is fine when you can afford it. But you can’t.

Oh, but it’s not my fault anyway. The media and other multinational companies are making sure nobody grows up anymore. How much time does decadence take? I always thought the downfall of a society would span at least a few centuries. But maybe not—maybe it’s more like 40 years. Late 1960s, the western world discovers that leisure is more interesting that work. Late 2000s, the western world is annihilated by World War III.

And I’m not even gonna spend those last years having fun.

(Can you see now why I haven’t blogged that much lately?)

I never could handle frustration. Any kind of frustration. Life is all frustration. Job, frustration. Shopping, frustration. Cruising, frustration. Sink blocked and I have some dishwashing to do, frustration. I’m all made to be handsome, rich and famous. And it’s not gonna happen. Compromise, compromise, compromise. No can do.

What is the biggest daily effort for you?

Waking up? Showering? Cooking? Washing the dishes? Going from my bedroom to the toilet, and back, fifteen times?

Pretty much everything.

I guess the worst, these days, is having to get naked (ooh, naked) in the cold bathroom.

How often do you check your mail ?

Depends whether I’m doing something or not. When I’m bored, it can be every five minutes. Huh, I’m realizing right now that I think I’ve already answered this in another questionnaire. Oh well, bygones.

When you’re in a crowded bus or subway, do you leave your seat to the old lady who just came in, or do you pretend you haven’t seen her and hope someone else will surrender?

I look the other way. And what is that old woman doing there anyway during rush hour?

What’s the first thing you picture when you imagine yourself 50 years from now?

Buffy’s grave, at the end of episode 5.22.

Sorry, but it’s really the first thing that comes to my mind.

Hey, fifty years…

Do you consider your toilet to be clean? Who’s in charge of cleaning them?

No. Nobody.

I hate dirty toilets. If I lived alone, the toilet would be so clean you could eat on it. Which is an absolutely disgusting idea.

You have lost a bet. Which would you rather do: spend the afternoon in a retirement home taking care of the bedridden; polish shoes for three hours; or watch [insert the name of the TV show you hate most] entirely?

Well, I don’t see any reason to hesitate. I spend enough time in front of my TV, watching junk: going through another stupid TV show is not gonna kill me. I think. Maybe it’ll be lethal to a couple million neurons. But I’ve always dreamt of having a lobotomy anyway. No, seriously. Well, half-seriously. Ever seen the movie Frances? Great movie, strongly recommended.

What do you think of the theory saying that some viruses would have an extra-terrestrial origin?

Huh. Why, what for, how, where from? Oh, it’s because of Smallville, right?

I don’t know. I can’t see why viruses would be extra-terrestrial, and hippotamuses wouldn’t.

Alright… I hope nobody noticed how uninspired I was, tonight.

75% now, easily. I’ll reach the 100% tomorrow for sure. Someone just give me a Kalachnikov, I’ve got some cleaning up to do.

Must. Log. Out. Must. Go. Out. Into the real world. And do something. Anything. Except jump under the subway. Or maybe…

Bien sûr… une usine désaffectée de 1500 m², pensez-vous. En plus, elle est aménagée exactement, mais alors, vraiment pièce par pièce, comme le loft de mes rêves. Conclusion : soit j’épouse Zazie, soit je fais fortune vite, très vite. Et comme, pour la première solution, la place est un peu prise en ce moment, il ne me reste plus qu’à gagner de l’argent. Je vous ai déjà parlé du garoothon ?

De toute façon, la dernière fois qu’en entrant chez quelqu’un je me suis dit que c’était aménagé exactement comme il fallait pour que j’emménage, ça ne m’a pas réussi, alors je crois bien que c’est raté avec Zazie. Les béliers ne m’aiment pas. Snif.

Great. I’ve only spent two afternoons in a chatroom, and my misanthropy dial is already back to 60%—at least. Give it a couple of days (and that’s an optimistic take) and there you go, I’ll be free of any urge to get out of my bedroom. Looks like no subway pass for me in February. Oh well, I couldn’t afford it if I wanted.

Note to self: never drink Pepsi Max when the toilet is blocked up. Never. Ever.

This week, I thought that I could go for a change and, instead of ice tea, order a pack of Pepsi Max cans. (Huh, do you have Pepsi Max or is it only a French brand? The commercials looked international, so I guess you do.) I figured it wouldn’t be a problem to drink one can a day, during a meal. And, indeed, I don’t feel like my teeth are self-destructing, so far. But I’m just wondering how my bladder could put up with the three or four liters I used to drink each day, before I decided it wasn’t worth letting my teeth dissolve in acid.

I’m not an addict, it’s cool, I feel alive.

Oh, I probably have already used this quote in a food-related post before. I would have.

There’s another feeling, linked to celibacy, that I had forgotten. The link is less direct, but still real. It happens when I’ve spent the whole day online in chatrooms (and on, uh, well, other derivatives that decency and, uh, more importantly, self-esteem, prevent me from mentioning again—oops, looks like that link won’t give you any results, since I don’t expect to ever translate posts that old; too bad). That is, when I’ve done absolutely nothing of the whole day, and there’s no hint that tomorrow will be any better. And I hate going to bed with that thought. Oh, well, I know I’ll finally fall asleep, I can’t help it. But I’ve been sleepy for two hours, and resisted. How I don’t like that. How I had forgotten that. At least, even when I spent the day home, I knew I was gonna go out the next day, or the day after. Now, nothing’s sure. My monthly subway pass (uh, there has to be a better way to name it?) has already been used enough in the past two weeks that I won’t feel guilty if I don’t go out. So does it mean that I’ll just stay home until February (but which year then?) or, on the contrary, that I’ll be free of the pressure and will go out everyday? (In any case, everynight would be more like it.)

At least, there’s already an improvement over the previous months: right now, I’m feeling like meeting some people, having drinks with strangers, and doing all those things you do outside of your home [when you’re a single fag]. But I have no idea how long the mood will last.

By the way, shouldn’t I quit putting my site’s URL in my chatroom portrait? I’m really wondering. On the one hand, I’m not sure it makes me look every attractive. Nah, I’m not saying this as a blogger’s inferiority complex: it’s just that most of the people I meet online find the whole blog deal more stupid and ridiculous than anything else. But, on the other hand, that makes a selection. A good selection, because I can’t imagine marrying someone who wouldn’t understand my blog. (And that’s only one of the many, many requirements. You have no idea. No, trust me, even if you think you have an idea, you’re far from the truth.)

But then, it’s not all about being married. Hey, I’m young and single. I’ve got things to do!

I’m beginning to think that this bilingual blog thing isn’t going to work. That the time I spend writing the English version would be better used by working more on the French text. That my writing suffers. I’m spending less time on each version and, when I want to change something right before I send, I have to find enough courage to edit both versions simultaneously. And you should know my courage supply is limited.

I’m still giving myself some time to get used to the system, so we’ll see. Or maybe I could stick to the concept, but only translate a part of my blog into English. Depending on the post’s interest or… my laziness. But I don’t want to give up—I’ve spent one day internationalizing the site’s scripts, and I don’t like my programming to get trashed.

In fact, I’m not quite satisfied with the way I’ve written for the past couple of days. And I’m wondering whether it comes from a general lack of inspiration, or more specifically from having to write everything twice. So we’ll just have to see if the blog can come back to its, uh, former glory (yeah, right, as if) or if I must give up on English.

Oh, and there’s also the fact that I’m afraid of writing terrible English. Ok, not terrible, but not good enough for native readers. I don’t want to look like a French grad student writing a paper for his teacher. I don’t want it to be obvious that I’m French. But maybe that will be sorted out in time—I haven’t written much English for a while, so I may have to get used back to it.

No, this isn’t gonna be about George Bush.

I have convinced mennuie (well, it wasn’t hard, because it didn’t cost him much) to let his readers change the way pages are displayed.

I had already mentioned that : all you have to do is add id="mennuieblog" (if you’re mennuie, the point being that every site should have a different id) in the <body> parameters. Then everyone can edit their browser’s personalized stylesheet and make the changes they like.

Ideally, browsers should have some way of imposing CSS rules upon a site depending on its URL, instead of relying on the webmasters adding stuff to their code. Well, maybe some browsers already do and I haven’t been notified.

See the rest of the article for more information on how to use this.

I realize… that far too many of my sentences begin with I realize… It doesn’t look good, and I’m really wondering what it means about me. That I’m that big dork who discovers life everyday? Uh, nah, couldn’t be. Could it? Couldn’t. Let’s say it’s just a sign of the way my memory works, of my perpetual state of amnesia, my ability to discover the same things again and again, for a thousand times. Which is sometimes fun. And sometimes exhausting. Well, anyway.

I realize… that I had completely, absolutely forgotten what it meant to be single. In fifteen days. I don’t waste time, do I? Well, I waste plenty of time, but just not when it comes to forgetfulness. Looks like the previous paragraph wasn’t a digression after all. So I did remember there was this thing called a chat room where I used to go when I was single, but I only remember the nice parts: that it kept me busy in the evening, and that my sixteen hours awake (to be accurate, let’s say between thirteen and sixteen) went by faster when I was there.

But I had totally forgotten the depressing part of that activity. It’s like when you go shopping and you’re poor, but only worse. Because, in a store, the products you dream of don’t give you a disdainful not my type, bye. They’re more polite. And the items you don’t want don’t throw themselves at you, shouting I like you! I like you! (And now I’m picturing an army of Furbies, oh please save me from them!) Or so it seems. Maybe you don’t go to the same places as I do. Well, I tend to avoid the little shops where salesmen are liable to jump at me. Because I’m that kind of autistic customer who doesn’t like to be botered. But I digress, as usual.

So… Depressing it is. And it’s only my first night. But still, I’m really amazed by the way I can rediscover that, suddenly, after only a couple of weeks. This thing was so easy. Alright, I wasn’t in love, I wasn’t experiencing perfect happiness, but it was still… fine. And I know that some people—lots of people—are perfectly able to be content with that. Comfort. And I just can’t. I need to go the Ally McBeal way. Over and over again. When the screenwriters finally decided to grant Ally a husband, they had to cancel because he went to detox, or to jail, I don’t remember. Will it happen to me, too? When I find love, will I lose him because he uses too much drugs? Oh, that would be so me. I just have to be attracted to that kind of boys—tortured, anxious, self-destructive and all.

Oh crap. I’m back to square one.

And I am not allowed to complain, because I’m the one who chose to start again.

Hey now, do you really think I’m not gonna complain? Is this one of your dreams of yours? Then wake up, because I couldn’t say I’m enjoying it.

In the end, I’ll have been non-single just long enough to go through a real breakup. Couldn’t just stop returning calls. Fortunately, it went fine, with dignity and all.

I’m not going to get into the details because, as reluctant as I may be when it comes to writing about my private life, it’s even less conceivable for me to start telling other people’s lives. But there’s just one thing I’d like to know. When the guy you dump says You could have told me over the phone, he doesn’t mean it, does he? Well, he means it, but it’s wrong, and he would have said just the opposite (and with more indignation in his voice) if you had actually done that, wouldn’t he? You agree that he would? Good. I just needed to be sure.

Yesterday, I couldn’t help wondering if it was an omen when a friend of mine talked to me about crabs. But if it’s a sign, what does it mean? That I’m going back to a life of debauchery? I can’t affort debauchery, you have to go to clubs, bathouses and crusing bars, and all of that is too costly and I just spent all my money on some clothes to make me look good. That I’ll just have crabs? Oh well, why not, that won’t kill me. They’ll keep me company on long winter nights. Oh, come on, will the two virgins in the back of the room stop acting disgusted? It’s just nature, nothing wrong.

Comme je n’ai toujours pas vu un seul épisode entier de la redif d’Urgences en quotidienne sur France 2, je n’ai toujours pas écrit de post sur ce que ça m’inspirait. Et, comme, sur Internet, si vous ne faites pas ce à quoi vous pensez, quelqu’un le fera à votre place, c’est déjà fait : vous pouvez retrouver ce que je pense de cette rediffusion ici. En voyant un morceau d’épisode, le premier mardi ou mercredi de la rediffusion, je n’ai vraiment pu penser qu’à une seule chose : Derrick. A fond. Enfin, à pas-fond, précisément.

Je sais que la principale évolution, outre le rythme de réalisation qui a suivi les modes (qui s’est MTVisé, comme diraient certains), est qu’ils ont maintenant un budget suffisant pour se payer des hordes de figurants. Mais, dès le départ, la série était annoncée, et reconnue, comme hyper-réaliste. Alors, la réalistité des hôpitaux, c’est la version de l’époque avec les couloirs déserts, ou la version actuelle où on a le temps de mourir de vieillesse dans la salle d’attente bondée ?

Non seulement je me réveille à midi pile au lieu de traîner toute l’après-midi dans mon lit, mais en plus j’ai L’amour n’a pas de loi, des WhatFor, dans la tête. Ca fait mal. Me voilà puni pour être allé lire Actustar hier. Il y a des punitions d’une cruauté…

Ah, au fait, pendant que j’y pense et avant que je pique définitivement du nez. Non, ce n’est pas un bug de mes nouveaux scripts bilingues, c’est normal que la plupart des titres de posts français soient en anglais. Je ne sais pas exactement pourquoi. En fait, ça a commencé avant, parce que pour une raison qui m’échappe et après laquelle je ne cours pas spécialement, les titres me viennent plus naturellement en anglais qu’en français. Alors, pourquoi m’embêter à chercher une traduction ? Ca marche très bien comme ça.

Et puis, ce ne sont que des titres.

I just realized I am more and more reluctant to write about the same topics every blogger does, to link the same sites, to express my opinion (which cannot be unique) on the same subjects.

And that, just as I’m about to open the English version of my blog. I already can’t cope with the fact that a couple of other French blogs might say the same thing as me; it’s suicidal of me to enter this big world of blogs that all say the same things at the same time.

I’m writing fewer and fewer articles these days (but still a lot—I started with a very high posting rate), but the writing is more elaborate. Which is a good thing. But there are more and more ideas and tidbits that don’t make it to the blog, and just lay on the editing room’s floor (i.e., in my Treepad notes). And I’m not sure whether this is good or bad.

Actually, it’s a step back towards the origins of this journal. In the beginning, I used to take notes for a few days, and then sort through them and leave out what wasn’t worth posterity. It’s less extreme now, as I’m still posting everyday and several times a day—and I hope it’ll stay that way. Maybe it’s the way of things. Maybe it’s the way of my things.

When I started the blog, I never planned to offer a window wide open into my soul, into my spirit, into the ethereal void that doesn’t fill up my head and exerts a negative pressure against the walls of my skull. I just intended to write. And filter stuff out. Filter a lot of stuff out. Because that’s what I do. There’s absolutely nobody who’d know everything about me; it wouldn’t make sense if my blog’s readers knew more about me than my friends do.

Funny that’s not what I wanted to write about originally. So this was about uninteresting posts and taking part in global memes. Nah, I think quick links with not much of a reflection from me should stay in the minilog. Maybe I should change the minilog so that I could type a couple of lines of comments for each link. Or maybe I’d get confused?

Anyway, here’s my resolution for the blog: more personal writing, less uninspired linking and quoting. And I’ll stick to it. At least until tomorrow.

This post is a little sloppy. It’s four in the morning, I was already sleepy at midnight. Why am I not in bed yet?

I hate that: feeling like it’s later than it actually is. I woke up this morning at eleven, now it’s not even midnight yet, and I can hardly keep my head up already. Having a cold is not a human experience. Makes you act against your own nature. I can not go to bed at such a time, I have to go through my nightly blog patrol, it’s vital. I’ve already postponed it for two days because I was too tired or too busy. How am I gonna live with this? My bed is calling me. It knows my middle name, and it knows how to lure me into its sheets…

There’s a real, tangible improvement in my room’s new layout. It wasn’t planned, but now there’s some kind of a separation between the desk part and the bed part.

Ok, said this way, it doesn’t look like much, or maybe even less. But it’s important, psychologically. Or not. But I think it is. Well, it’s not gonna change my life, but now there’s an itinerary (of at least, what, seven feet?) between my bed and my seat. Before, I could just lift my butt from my chair and slide onto the bed, directly. And it makes a big difference: now, when I’m on my bed, I’m really in sleep mode. Not like I could just sit up suddenly and check what’s on my screen, or crawl up to the keyboard.

I know I sound like I’m getting worked up about nothing, but I don’t really get worked up, I’m just writing this to fill up the blog. Uh, no, that’s not what I meant to say. The thing is, really, by splitting the room into two areas, while keeping a large enough common space, I feel like I’m living in a loft. Well, a big studio apartment, at least. Anyway, that’s why I feel like my room is bigger than it was. So, if you decide to reorganize the room you live in, think about this: it’s not a good idea to set your desk up so that it’s directly in front of your bed.

Have I written this only to try out my simultaneous translation, or would I have posted it anyway? Well, I’ll never know…

I spent most of last night and some of today translating previous posts into English. I’ve had this weird idea that I could make garoo.net bilingual. Again. I realized that, since I was spending more time on my writing these days, I could probably go through the process of translating everything and, basically, posting twice as much text.

I don’t know how good or bad this idea is.

I’m afraid I might lose my soul. By trying to write both in French and English, I might lose my style in French and become uninteresting, and I might also write poor English that just stinks of a bad translation. The whole thing may just be crappy.

It wouldn’t be a big deal if the English translation was so poor that nobody would read it—wasting some of my time has never scared me. But it would be awful if the French version lost the little bit of style it may have.

That’s why the English version isn’t online yet (well, that and the fact that I have to change all the scripts and translate the static pages). The whole thing is still in an experimental stage: I’m gonna try and write everything twice, starting now, and see how it works out. Can I keep the rhythm? Can I keep the motivation? Can I write good English and good French at the same time? Is there any point to any of this?

She would almost make me want to have mice, or rats. Probably because I’m weak right now. Or because I just tidied up my room, and all this void space distresses me. Or because my secret dream is putting my cat up into a cage, so that I always have it in sight like an animated plush toy, but without all the messing and tearing and scratching and eating electrical wire. Fortunately, a terrarium and all the necessary gear are too expensive for me to start this, right here, right now. I can still think about it again when I have a home and some money.

So, let the half dozen people waiting in my inbox (how can you hold in there? it’s so small, it doesn’t look comfortable at all) not panic, or at least not worry, or better yet, keep on not caring: I just have a cold, with a red nose and wet eyes, not that I’m sad or anything, but my eyes are fragile, they’re real sissies, and, so, well, my brain is not available to answer to e-mail.

Well, yeah, your brain is much more important to writing mail than a blog. I think. As far as I’m concerned, at least. I don’t like it when people I talk to are gliding ten feet above the ground, I find that rude, so I’m not gonna inflict it on my e-pals. Whereas on my readers, yes, I am. Because. And yet.

Oh, and I’m definitely not satisfied with the page header. I don’t know who made it for me, but it really doesn’t fit my site. What, you’re saying I would have done it? No way, it must be a gremlin, I only make those graphics that are nice. That’s the big advantage of sharing your computer with imaginary creatures from outer space: I can pretend not to be responsible for my failures, and people just believe me.

1. Lors d’un moment de blues, à quoi pensez-vous pour que ça passe ?

Pour quoi faire ? J’aime bien les moments de blues. Ils sont essentiels, ça fait partie de la vie, il ne faut pas chercher à les évacuer de façon si volontariste.

Dans un moment de blues, je pense à ce qui me fait blueser. J’y réfléchis. Je fouille. Ensuite, soit je vais mieux, soit je ne vais pas mieux. Et, dans le deuxième cas, ben, j’attends que ça aille mieux. Parce que ça finit toujours par aller mieux, quelques décennies plus tard.

Vous allez me dire que je ne suis pas à montrer en exemple, parce que c’est avec des principes comme ça que j’ai passé trois ans en reclus. Mais ça se discute : je n’ai pas d’ulcère, je ne fais pas de tension, je dors très bien la nuit. Je n’échangerais pas ma place avec ceux qui choisissent de mettre leurs angoisses de côté et de continuer la fuite en avant jusqu’au plantage.

2. Quelle personne célèbre souhaiteriez vous voir tenir un blog ?

Zazie. Sans hésitation, Zazie.

Tiens, elle a un nouveau site. Qui, comme l’ancien, est en cours de reconstruction. Ca fait quoi, deux ans ? Je n’ai jamais vu son site autrement qu’en cours de reconstruction. Je m’en vais aller lui faire découvrir l’importance d’Internet, moi…

3. De quel dessin animé auriez-vous voulu être le héros / l’héroïne ?

Jeanne et Serge, coup de foudre au match de volleyba-all.

’Nuff said.

Je crois que je voulais être Jeanne.

’Nuff said.

Non mais, quelque part, c’est logique.

Oh et puis merde, hein.

Ah, et j’ai aussi dû rêver d’être celui des Cités d’or qui avait le condor. Il me semble me souvenir qu’il était d’une certaine façon l’Elu, le seul qui avait le droit au condor et pour qui le condor était fait. Et, forcément, le concept d’être l’Elu, j’ai l’impression que ça me plaît. Je suis plus narcissique et élitiste que je n’en ai l’air. Ou alors, j’en ai complètement l’air, et je le suis donc juste autant qu’on pourrait le croire. (Et le premier qui ramène mon admiration de la série Buffy à ça, je le casse en deux. Comme ça, tout net, d’un coup de souris à talons.)

Je me demande si je n’ai pas mal compris la question. Elle est au passé ou au présent ? Parce que, si elle est au présent, la réponse est plus facile : Lain. Je ne voudrais pas être Lain, je suis Lain. Oh, je suis loin d’être le seul, on l’est tous un peu, nous les hommes, euh, je veux dire, nous les blogueurs. Mais, voilà, quoi. Lain. C’est normal, ça a été écrit pour nous.

4. La critique (littéraire, cinématographique, …) est-elle utile ?

Oui.

J’ai déjà eu ce débat, sur différents forums. Je défends la critique, pour une raison simple : la plupart des gens ont autre chose à faire que de lire tous les livres, ou de voir tous les films, qui sortent dans l’année.

Bien sûr, choisir les films qu’on va voir en fonction des critiques, c’est biaisé. Mais ça reste le moins pire : ça vaut mieux que d’aller voir un film au hasard (enfin, abonnement illimité mis à part) ou en fonction des têtes d’affiche. Ou du titre, ou de la couleur des affiches, ou du nombre d’explosions dans la bande annonce.

Ce qui est important, c’est que la critique soit aussi objective et, surtout, relative, que possible. Une bonne critique de cinéma (je parle de ciné parce que, euh, je ne lis pas de livres, alors je ne vois pas l’intérêt de lire des critiques littéraires) ne dit pas qu’un film est bon ou mauvais, mais explique tous les défauts et les qualités que le critique lui a trouvés. La différence ? C’est que j’ai déjà lu des critiques de films dans Télérama en me disant que les défauts qu’ils trouvaient à un film seraient plutôt des qualités à mes yeux, et du coup des articles négatifs m’ont déjà donné envie de voir des films. Le tout, c’est de savoir écrire une critique, c’est de savoir lire une critique, c’est de savoir relativiser.

Donc, oui, les critiques de Télérama sont utiles. Et tant pis pour les frustrés qui sont aigris d’en avoir des mauvaises, de critiques. Deal with it.

5. Quel est le dernier achat dont vous auriez largement pu vous passer ?

Erf. Comme si j’avais les moyens de faire des achats dont je pourrais me passer. Enfin, il y aurait la bague. Ou le collier. Ou la montre. J’ai déjà parlé de tout ça, et ça ne fait pas une somme conséquente. Il y a aussi le blouson et les jeans et le gilet, j’aurais bien pu m’en passer aussi. Mais ce n’est pas du vrai superflu, quand même, d’acheter des fringues une fois tous les deux ans.

Alors, un vrai achat inutile ? Non, vraiment, je… ah, si, voilà, je sais. Ca date de l’automne 2001. C’est un truc électrique. Avec des, euh… avec des potentiomètres. Et puis, euh… un adaptateur secteur. Et… voilà. En fait, j’en écris suffisamment pour me souvenir de quoi je parle, lors d’une éventuelle relecture, mais il est hors de question que je vous dise de quoi il s’agit.

6. Y a-t-il des collections que vous trouvez absurdes ?

Je trouve toutes les collections absurdes. Enfin, les gens collectionnent ce qu’ils veulent tant que ça ne me concerne pas, je n’y vois pas d’objection, chacun s’occupe comme il peut. Mais, par principe, je trouve le fait de collectionner absurde, oui, c’est le mot.

Quel est votre degré de tolérance vis à vis d’un fumeur qui enfreint l’interdiction dans un lieu public ?

Est-ce que ça va être une habitude, de poser chaque semaine une question dont la réponse logique sera je ne fais rien parce que je suis une mauviette ? Il ne faut pas jouer avec l’ego des blogueurs…

En l’occurrence, bon, la plupart du temps, ça ne me dérange pas trop. Sauf quand il s’agit de cigarettes qui ont une odeur vraiment forte (ça inclut certaines vraies cigarettes). Auquel cas je fais comme tout le monde, je fais semblant de ne pas avoir remarqué. Et, si possible, je m’éloigne.

The advantage of removing the comments system is that I don’t need to write about my site’s redesign so that your comments are posted in the right place. Ok, right now that’s just what I’m doing, just to mention that it’s nice I don’t feel obliged to do it. So let’s take advantage of the moment to remind you to reload the stylesheet(w) if the layout looks broken, and also to say that the page header is temporary, I’ll need to have a better idea later.

I spent three entire summers, plus the accompanying springd and falls, living as a hermit. Some years, I didn’t even get out for groceries, thanks to (because of) virtual supermakets. And, now, as a new year celebration, I’m going out at least every other day, right now when it’s minus five (Celsius, don’t know about Farhrenheit and, uh, well, couldn’t be bothered to look up the conversion). No wonder that my throat is sore now.

You know, throat aches are unpleasant. What do you mean, you knew? Well, duh. I can’t always speak about stuff that never happens to you. I can’t write only about my redesigns and the january sales. Sometimes, I’m a man like every other and I catch a cold. Well, I’ve got even worse revelations for you. You know, when I’m always talking about |junk] food? Well, after I’ve eaten it, I.. digets it. Yeah. Like you. I’m not only a virtual icon, you see. I also have a heart.

If you prick us, do we not bleed?

I realize that, when I’m reading my own blog, I instinctively skip paragraphs enclosed in <SPOILERS> tags. Now who’s been posting spoilers on my site?!

No blogging tonight, though I was home, because I was busy: I felt like redesigning my room again. It’s a seasonal thing and, well, I was in the mood for it so it would have been a pity to let the opportunity go by.

I know a redesign is a success when I feel like my room is bigger than it was. Now, that’s really the case: the room’s volume has tripled, the walls and ceilings are clear, there’s light all around, the old boxes have been discarded, the television is right in line with the computer screen… It’s all perfect, I feel like I’ve moved out. Which is precisely the feeling I needed.

C’est marrant, mais rien qu’en entendant les extraits de la chanson Tous les hommes (dont le refrain fait Tous les hommes, tous les hommes, nous ne sommes que des hommes) j’avais le vague pressentiment que ça devait être la nouvelle comédie musicale de Presgurvic. Bingo !

Oh, bien sûr, on pourrait reprocher la même chose à d’autres paroliers. C’est une bonne façon de faire retenir le titre d’une chanson, c’est important pour que le matraquage en radio débouche sur des ventes de singles. C’est du branding, tout simplement. Mais, là, c’est d’autant plus facile de le reprocher à Presgurvic que le reste des paroles est toujours tellement bête et ne rattrape rien.

Vivre, c’est dur de vivre…

1/ Vous rappelez-vous le buffet-bar de vos parents ? Quelles images son évocation fait-elle naître ?

C’est l’avantage (je suppose) d’avoir déménagé tous les un ou deux ans sur les dix premières années de ma vie : comme on n’a pas traîné de mobilier de ce genre avec nous (en tout cas, pas que je me souvienne), je n’ai pas de souvenir aussi marquant.

2/ Après les théories "stégosaure mutant croisé avec un lion" et "comte dégénéré maquillé en maori", vérité doit être faite : quelle est votre théorie sur la bête du Gévaudan ?

Euh, je n’ai pas franchement de théorie sur la Bête. Un loup enragé, un loup-garou, un 4x4 avec des pare-buffles peints en forme de dents, je ne sais pas et je m’en fiche un peu.

3/ Avez-vous un goût particulier pour une ou plusieurs sous-marques alimentaires ? Exemple : préférer le Leader Quick au Nesquik.

Berk. Non. Jamais de la vie. Quelle horreur.

Enfin, avec du Leader Price, ça me paraît impossible. Mais avec les marques d’hypermarché, c’est toujours possible de tomber sur quelque chose de bon, oui. C’est quand même moins cheap.

4/ Eprouveriez-vous une forme de plaisir à faire partie de ce qui, de l’avis général, est une élite ?

Ca dépend de l’élite et, surtout, de sa mentalité. Je suis tout prêt à faire partie d’une élite avec grand plaisir (on est mégalo ou on ne l’est pas) à condition qu’il ne s’agisse pas de vieux cons prétentieux bien contents de se sentir au-dessus du commun des mortels.

Oui, je suis plus intelligent, plus beau, plus doué et plus intéressant que 99,9 % de l’espèce humaine, mais je veux pouvoir faire semblant de ne pas le savoir !

5/ Prendre un café ou autre chose au distributeur nécessite d’introduire une pièce : le paiement est donc apparent. Pourtant, prendre un bain ou boire un verre d’eau au robinet implique aussi une dépense précise (différée, certes, mais inéluctable).

Pas pour moi, je vis chez mes parents. Et pas pour mes parents non plus, vu qu’on est dans un logement de fonction. On va continuer en prenant le téléphone comme exemple, plutôt.

… Eprouveriez-vous un malaise si le montant de votre dépense s’affichait en temps réel [sur votre téléphone] ? Et échangeriez-vous le principe des factures contre un paiement par pièces "en direct" ?

Evidemment qu’on dépenserait moins si on voyait l’argent s’écouler sous nos yeux, et bien sûr que toutes les boîtes qui en veulent à notre argent en sont conscientes. C’est tout le principe de la carte bleue, non ?

Enfin, indépendamment du malaise de voir l’argent filer, il faut dire que c’est quand même bien pratique, les abonnements. Quand on sait être capable de garder les pieds sur terre, c’est très bien. Et ça va, je suis à peu près raisonnable, quand je veux.

6/ Quel est l’objet que vous possédez depuis le plus longtemps ? Pourquoi l’avoir conservé ?

Ca va être difficile, vu que je ne jette jamais rien. Je stocke. Tout. Les programmes télé. Même les prospectus. Les emballages de machins vaguement électroniques. Mes vieilles disquettes 3.5 " avec des tonnes de choses qui ne serviront jamais à rien. Mes vieux vêtements de quand je mesurais un mètre douze. Alors, mon plus vieil objet ? J’ai forcément des jouets dans les cartons au placard. Si le placard ne compte pas et qu’il faut voir dans la vie courante, mmh… oh, non, vraiment, je ne sais pas, il y a trop de choses.

7/ Quand vous croisez un policier, éprouvez-vous un sentiment de culpabilité fulgurant ? Et si ce n’est pas le cas, qu’éprouvez-vous tout court ?

De culpabilité, non. De peur, de parano, oui. Comme tout le monde, c’est la nature. Et puis, en ce moment, ils sont aux ordres de Sarkozy, alors ce n’est même pas à tort.

8/ Pensez-vous qu’une société ou personne ne croirait pas en un ou plusieurs dieux aurait une chance de tenir, voire, serait préférable aux nôtres ?

Ca dépend : une société dans l’absolu, ou une société humaine ? Parce qu’une société humaine, je ne suis pas persuadé, non. Il fait trop froid pour réfléchir, normalement je devrais me lancer dans tout un pavé philosophique, là, mais je ne le sens pas. Et puis, dans la mesure où on ne peut pas connaître le sens de la vie, ce qu’il y a avant et après, c’est impossible de ne pas inventer la religion, non ?

9/ Au départ, m’a appris Antanagor, Fantasia de Disney devait sortir régulièrement, agrémenté de nouvelles séquences (les plus anciennes disparaissant au fur et à mesure). Quelle séquence sortie de votre esprit dément auriez-vous voulu voir ?

Je n’ai jamais vu Fantasia. Alors, euh, bah, je m’en fiche un peu, de ce qu’il y a, n’y a pas, n’y aurait pu tavoir, dedans.

10/ Avez-vous déjà vécu la fin d’une peur comme une vraie et triste déception ? (ex : "Tiens ? Un loup, c’est juste un chien en plus joli, pas un truc de cinq mètres de long avec cent-trois dents ?")

Pas que je me souvienne, non.

1. Someone you deeply love is horribly murdered. The person you know did it gets off. Do you take justice/revenge into your own hands?

Oui. Enfin, en tout cas, c’est tout à fait envisageable. Ca dépend de qui et combien ils sont, ça dépend s’ils sont faciles à trouver et à tuer, ça dépend si j’ai des couilles.

Mais, sur le principe, oui.

2. If you learned you were going to die in two days, would you have any regrets? If you suddenly got a five year respite, could you avoid those same regrets?

Bien sûr que j’aurais des regrets. Et je suppose que, oui, avec un délai, je pourrais les combler. Mais ça, c’est la théorie parce que, en disant ça, je devrais aussi partiri du principe que la vie est courte et qu’il faut que j’en profite maintenant que je l’ai, sans attendre qu’on m’annonce ma mort prochaine.

Enfin, c’est pas comme si j’étais le seul à ne pas le faire.

3. What’s the greatest fashion faux pas – wearing clothes too big, clothes too small, clothes ten years out of date, or clothes for someone ten years older than you?

Bah. M’en fiche. Enfin, à choisir et vu les vêtements que j’ai achetés hier, je suppose que je devrais dire que le pire est de porter des vêtements trop petits. Sauf quand on est une fille avec un corps de rêve, ce que je n’ai pas prévu d’être dans un futur proche, lointain ou même imaginable. Trop de contraintes, c’est encore plus difficile d’avoir un corps de rêve pour une fille que pour un mec, parce qu’il ne suffit pas de faire des tonnes de sport.

For a week, because I had made changes to improve security on gayattitude, we kept receiving emails from subscribers who couldn’t log in anymore.

I couldn’t find the bug, couldn’t reproduce it on my computer, neither with Mozilla nor Explorer, even when I disabled cookies, or JavaScript, or anything. Most of those who had the problem were using the AOL interface to connect, and I hadn’t wasted time to conclude that, well, AOL being crap and all, it was too bad for them but I wasn’t going to look any deeper into it.

And then, today, I had an epiphany. I’m an AOL customer. The AOL interface is running all the time, it’s the first icon from the left on my dock. That stupid (Explorer-based, but with its inconsistencies of its own) browser is here on my computer. I can test and reproduce that bug and see what it’s about.

One hour later, here we are, the bug is fixed. (And now the site is unaccessible without cookies, which is a pity but looks inevitable. Win some, lose some.) I don’t if it was very wrong or very right, but my security update used to test the visitor’s IP address in order to verify that it was the same person who logged in. I don’t know, maybe I’m thick, but I find it logical that the same person should have the same IP. Well, looks like I shouldn’t, because it doesn’t work. When you use AOL’s included browser (which is hardly a good idea, considering how unpleasant idea, but, well…) you’re using a proxy. Okay, that’s really not original. What is (or at least to me) is that, for each page you view, you’re using a different proxy, which means your IP address, as seen from the webserver, is different.

How cute.

It seems to me that all log compilers consider that one IP address equals one unique visitor. So, beware if you have many AOL users among your readers: your statistics may be skewed by their stupid, impolite system. Damn AOL. Well, not that it’s any news.

That’s me, going shopping the day before the sales begin. Well, it’s not just me, since I wasn’t alone in the stores, but I never said I was the only dork in Paris. So, how could I make it right? Well, obviously, by going shopping again today!

When I went out yesterday, I was desperately wanting to change my style. Fed up with the leather jacket (with a torn pocket, because I always tear up that part of my jackets) and, more importantly, fed up with tight trousers. I’ve always preferred large, wide trousers, and always bought them tight. Really. Go figure. Fifteen years ago, I had one pair of large jeans, but never wore them, because, well, I don’t know, I kind of felt ridiculous or something or whatever. And then, today, I realized the sales were beginning. Sales are magical: I can buy baggy pants and a jacket that fits them, change everything in the same day, and not end up ruined. Not entirely ruined, at least. Afterwards, all I’ll need will be skater shoes, bleached hair and a face piercing, and then I’ll be ready. For nothing.

No sooner said than done. I mean, the clothes, because I think I’m gonna wait a little more for the piercing, tatoo, scars and all. There we go for an afternoon at the mall. Huh… does everybody take a day off for the sales? And I thought I would take advantage of my slacker’s timetable to enjoy empty stores. No way, the cheaper stores were packed with customers. Ok, excuse-me, it’s my first time here, never been to sales before.

A new jacket, that should fit whatever trousers I choose to wear, even though I expected it grey and it’s green, well, slightly hued but plain enough: 35 €, ka-ching! And I should have bought new gloves too, because violet-grey with green-grey looks awkward. Two wide pairs of trousers: 35 €, ka-ching! Two boxer shorts, because I like boxer shorts and because I’m planning on becoming an underwear model after a couple of decades working out: 15 €, ka-ching! And I still haven’t found the backpack I want—but that’s not an issue anymore, considering the number of pockets my new jacket has. I’ll always find a place to put the digital camera (when it has a working battery, and a larger MemoryStick).

After a nice day of shopping, here I am, poorer than before, but less out of date than I was. Well, I don’t know actually: nobody’s seen me in real life yet (or in unreal life either) with those clothes, so maybe I’m getting ahead of myself here. And I think my jacket’s too large. And it’s cold out there. And I wish I had some money on my bank account. And, uh, well, we’ll see.

Oh, and why did I answer no, when the salesman asked me if I wanted to keep the hanger with my jacket? We’re all out of hangers here…

A few days ago, I was thinking about the fact the Google doesn’t work on my site, and I had to code the search box myself. And I realized why Google hates me. Because they’re jalous. That I’m a great programmer. That I don’t work for them, despite my talent. That my site is so great. That it’s in PHP.

All my pages have addresses like index.php?page=xxx&etc. Which is bad for so many reasons, but I just found out a new one: Google (and probably other search engines too) sees all my links begin with index.php, and decide they all point to the same pages.

The webmaster guidelines say: If you decide to use dynamic pages (i.e., the URL contains a ’?’ character), be aware that not every search engine spider crawls dynamic pages as well as static pages. It helps to keep the parameters short and the number of them small.. And it’s true that my biography, for instance, though its URL is index.php?page=ego, is indeed on Google. But the blog archives aren’t, because the parameters are farther away, or they’re bigger, or they’re not named page. I don’t know exactly, but the point is, all that’s left of my blog is the home page. Then how can I expect people to find me by chance, while they’re looking for online porn?

By the way, this problem isn’t only mine. Dendromatt suffers the same fate, which isn’t surprising considering the site’s scripts are siblings of mine. But, more importantly, chances are it also affects B2 users. MovableType, GreyMatter, Pivot or WhatHaveYou bloggers have nothing to fear, but B2 uses the same URL format as me, so you should beware.

If I were the administrator of the garoo.net web server, I could use Apache’s mod rewrite to transform the URLs into more human-readable, and google-readable ones (as the B2 creator obviously does). But I’m not. I could move the site to the server we own, but I don’t like the idea of putting every single site of mine on the same machine, or even the same network. So I’m gonna have to reorganize everything, change the whole site structure, move everything around, and overhaul the blog administration interface to generate files every time I post.

Or maybe I can just decide to live without search engines. It’s a nice alternative. A simpler one. How many readers would I actually gain if I was referenced correctly? Half one?

Et une montre à dix euros, ça n’a pas non plus de manuel. Elle bippe toutes les heures. Une petite inscription chime sur le cadran tendrait à indiquer que c’est une option désactivable dont on veut me prévenir qu’elle est activée. Sauf que la petite inscription alm (pour alarm, ou alors j’y comprends vraiment plus rien) est elle aussi allumée, bien que le réveil qui va normalement au-dessus soit éteint. Je n’ai pas envie de devoir retourner devant les Galeries Lafayette pour demander à une vendeuse de stand extérieur, à la goutte qui pend du nez (c’est très chic, ça doit fait partie de la panoplie locale ?) (oui, je sais, il fait froid, c’est un métier difficile et tout et tout, et puis c’est un métier, et ça donne un salaire, et fermez vos gueules d’abord), comment on coupe le bip horaire. J’ai bien envie d’ouvrir la montre pour arracher ce qui pourrait ressembler à un truc qui fait du bruit, mais j’ai un peu peur que ça marche moins bien après…

They’ve found something more stressful than the Good bye! Mrs AOL shouts at me when I get disconnected: they’ve added a second one. First one when the connection is lost, and second one… when I’m back online. After the modem has dialed, right when the interface is telling me that connection is established and I’m gonna be online in a couple of seconds, the lady says Good bye!

Which, obviously, makes great sense.

And is not stressful. At all.

I hate this sound. But whatever I replace it with, I’ll hate it the same way after a week of disconnections.

Bien sûr, pour dix euros, la montre est livrée sans manuel. Et livrée avec l’alarme règlée sur deux heures du matin. C’est tout à fait logique, et je suis sûr que c’est pour rendre service aux clients. Parce que, comme ça, ils ne risquent pas d’oublier qu’ils doivent s’occuper de la supprimer, l’alarme. Moi, ça va, je ne dormais pas. Quoique je commence à avoir pas mal sommeil.

On Sunday, I wrote about my surprise in front of a gay couple, holding each other’s thighs, in the subway. That blog drew many reactions. Well, two reactions at least.

Sof: maybe […] they think, as I do, that keeping on hiding won’t help things get better.
And Daria: If those guys you’ve seen don’t live in the same world as you do, I wonder in which world you live?

I’m not a proponent of hiding from the straight people’s eyes. Or I wouldn’t post here, and on gayattitude, pictures of gay prides, and I wouldn’t have marched there several times (when I was young and I had people to go with—I’m not gonna get all prettied up and march all by myself, that’s against my nature). I just find it great that two guys would hold hands in the subway, I admire them. Ok, that’s too strong a word, but I praise them. What they do is great. But.

But the problem is, precisely, the world I live in. A world where, four or five years ago, as I was young, pure and innocent, I tried walking through Paris, hand in hand with my boyfriend. A world where I spent a couple hours meeting disapproving looks from a fair share of the people we walked by. A world that led me to promise myself I’d never use my couple again for militant purposes, because that’s not what it’s meant for. That’s precisely why I appreciate the courage they need, deep within them, to show off in the subway, absent-mindedly, in such a natural way. Because that’s what has struck me: they weren’t a couple of shaved-head militants with Act-up t-shirts, but just two forty-somethings just like any couple, except they were both male.

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that those two comments are from heterosexual women. Because most straight male are more embarrassed by this subject than women. And because gay readers probably understand what I’m writing about (or maybe they’ve left to laugh at me from a distance and they’ll never come back—either way, I header nothing from them, including those on my ICQ contact-list). And I don’t think the situation could have changed that much in just a couple of years. I’ve already had this discussion with Daria: it’s hard to realize what minorities go through, when you’re not faced to what they have to bear everyday.

I’ll have to remember that, next time I have an opinion on the evolution of racism or the other nice constructs of our society.

1. "Selon que vous soyez puissant ou misérable, les jugements de cour vous rendront blanc ou noir". Pensez vous que cet adage soit encore d’actualité ?

Euh. Bah. Oui, sans aucun doute ? Ce qu’il y a de bien, avec des proverbes séculaires comme celui-là, c’est que ça évite de dire que c’est mieux ou pire maintenant qu’avant. C’est juste pareil.

Par contre, blanc ou noir, ça a un peu mal vieilli, faudrait reformuler l’adage.

2. Comment expliquez-vous que certains laissent trainer une pellicule dans l’appareil photo pendant trois mois pour ensuite choisir l’option du développement en une heure ?

Je ne l’explique pas, je ne laisse jamais une pellicule traîner dans l’appareil photo. A la gay pride 2002, je me suis tapé les Champs-Elysées, un dimanche d’été, pour avoir mes photos en une heure le lendemain même de la marche. C’est dire.

Bon, et puis, les gens sont cons.™

3. Léchez-vous la languette quand vous ouvrez un pot de yaourt ?

Beurk. Je ne mange pas de yaourt. Jamais. Je n’aime pas le yaourt. Beurk. Yark. Mais, non, je ne lèche pas la languette des Danette. Parce que c’est fait pour se manger dans le pot, pas sur une feuille aluminisée. Alors avant de détacher complètement la languette, je récupère à la cuillère le gros de ce qui attache au couvercle, et voilà. Pourquoi ils ne font pas des languettes au téflon qui n’attacheraient pas ?

4. Lorsqu’une personne vous passe devant dans une file d’attente et qu’elle ne l’a vraisemblablement pas remarqué, comment réagissez-vous ?

Je regarde à droite, à gauche, pour voir si quelqu’un a remarqué. Si personne n’a vu, je fais comme si j’avais regardé ailleurs depuis dix minutes, et pas vu que j’avais perdu une place dans la ligne. Si quelqu’un a vu, je deviens tout rouge et je m’enfonce sous terre en me recouvrant de mes propres excréments pour camoufler ma présence (désolé, je viens de regarder Human Nature).

En bref, je ne fais rien.

On n’est pas là pour se battre, non plus. Et je suis une tapette.

5. Contrôlez-vous le ticket de caisse après avoir réglé vos achats ?

Pratiquement jamais. Ni le ticket, ni la monnaie, sauf quand il s’agit d’une grosse somme. Enfin, le ticket, vraiment jamais. Bah. Faut faire confiance à l’honnêteté des gens. Non ? Non, c’est vrai, faut pas. Mais je fais confiance à mon destin. Non plus ? Bah alors, je n’ai confiance en rien ni personne, mais je ne suis pas près de mes sous. Comme je disais, je vérifie quand il s’agit d’une grosse somme, et la définition d’une grosse somme dépend bien évidemment de mes revenus. Quand je serai riche à en crever lors d’une grève de l’esclave payer pour déféquer à ma place (deux fois en deux questions, saleté de film, désolé), je ne vérifierai même pas la monnaie sur mes bons au porteurs en milliers d’euros.

Je ne me laisse contrôler par personne, c’est pas pour me laisser mener par mon porte-monnaie.

6. Quelle est la personne qui ne doit absolument pas connaître l’adresse de votre blog ?

Ben, c’est trop tard, ma mère est déjà passée. Soit elle n’est pas revenue, soit elle a fait semblant de ne pas voir le wish-list pour que je ne sache pas qu’elle est repassée.

Sinon, ça serait dans l’ordre d’importance d’abord la famille, puis tous les gens avec qui j’ai couché ou suis susceptible de le faire, et enfin tous les gens qui savent qui je suis.

Mais, pour tout ça, c’est trop tard. Et puis, non, ce n’est pas vraiment mon style, de raconter des choses vraiment intimes. Ce n’était pas l’objet de ce blog à l’origine, ce n’est pas l’objet du blog maintenant. Il y a juste eu un passage où j’ai eu besoin d’exprimer des choses, mais c’était une erreur, j’aurais dû les écrire ailleurs.

7. Pourquoi répondez-vous aux questionnaires comme celui-ci ?

Par habitude. Parce que, des fois, je n’ai rien à dire, alors c’est bien de trouver un questionnaire auquel répondre et que, par la suite, on prend l’habitude d’en mettre régulièrement sur le blog. Et, surtout, parce que ça permet d’écrire des choses, d’aborder des sujets, dont on n’aurait pas l’occasion de parler autrement. Je raconte mes journées et ce que je vois à la télé ici : de moi-même, je ne me mettrais pas à philosopher sur les languettes de Danette, alors que c’est intéressant. Enfin, que c’est… euh, ben, ça fait partie d’un blog, quoi, ces aspects-là. C’est important. Pour un blog.

Bon, et puis, aussi, parce que tu me ferais la gueule si je ne répondais pas à celui-là, non ? Mais c’est la dernière raison, hein. La raison subsidiaire. Je suis comme tout le monde ici, je l’aime bien ce questionnaire.

Yes, there are titles on today’s articles (well, on the two I’ve already posted—I’m not committing to anything for what’s to come). And not concept titles, because it’s not my thing. I just realize that what I write from hand-written notes taken during the day, is very different from when I type as I think. To make the text readable, I have to work more on it. It has to be more elaborate. And therefore it fully deserves a title. So it gets a title. Well, one different title per post, because it would be weird if every post had the same title. Well, that would be quite a concept. It would be stupid and pointless, but it would be a concept. That’s the whole concept of being a concept anyway.

Usually, when I get a chance to walk around Boulevard Haussman, I always get into nostalgia mode. Which I like to wallow in. I wrote about it not long ago, by the way, since I had seen the Christmas displays there.

When I was in high school, I spent my lunch breaks at the Printemps (yeah, I was already quite the social guy), so I get a bit of a madeleine (de Proust) everytime I go back there. Even though the store changes more than a madeleine recipe (and, today, I found the layout to feel quite empty—too much space, not enough products, looks like it’s the way things to in department stores these days), the structure remains the same. I know the escalators personally (even the weird green of the, uh, ramps? hasn’t changed for ten years), the stuff displayed is always chic and pretty, well, it’s a pleasant place to go shopping. Not that I’d buy anything there, because I can’t afford that.

So, usually, as I said, nostalgia mode. Which is pleasant. But, in the end, today’s shopping session left me more depressed than anything. Let’s not mention the fact that I still haven’t found the bag I’m looking for (does it really exist? it’s not that important, I know that, if I find it, it will be too expensive for me anyway). Thats not the problem.

First, I am left without any cash in my wallet (and my Christmas bank check hasn’t been credited yet). Seventy-five euros vanishing all at once, and I only have one new pair of jeans (that was the emergency, I’ve got only two wearable pairs of trousers; both are too tight, one is worn out and the other is torn torn between the legs and sewn back with… superglue). No, I haven’t spent 75 € for a pair of jeans, I’m not that crazy, I’m poor: I only bought a bunch of stuff I didn’t need, like you always do. Cheap necklace, cheap ring, cheap key ring, I didn’t need any of these but they were cute and the price, in euros, looked tiny. Five euros sound so much cheaper than thirty francs. But it all adds up. Plus a ten euro watch, but that one was needed, to replace the unwearable digital Swatch I bought a couple years ago (even though, for ten euros, I’m not too optimistic about this one’s life span). Wasting money, now that’s cool. Save Karyn! Uh, nevermind.

But there’s more important than money. Because money is not happiness. Right. Whatever. The thing is I’ve been insulted, offended in the worst possible way. By a store. By a franchise. Silly me, I’ve wanted to try on pants at H&M, because they’re cheap and nice. Oh, what a mistake. A deadly one. Note for future reference: H&M only makes and sells clothes for anorexic [pretty] people. Honest. When I finally found pants that I could button up (and I’m far from obese, I promise, really), it was two meters tall (and yet I’m tall, too). So what, are they trying to say that I’ve got Michael Jordan’s waist size? Oh I know I’m getting myself a reputation as a fat, lazy man. I shouldn’t even save the post. Well, I don’t care because I’m not single (ta-da!), but I do care because I’m a histrionic narcissistic paranoid megalomaniac. And I’ve only got a couple of kilos to lose. It’s just that I don’t sniff coke, I don’t throw up after I’ve eaten my brocoli (well, no, of course I don’t eat brocoli), and my thighs are too muscular to fit in trousers my size (yes, I’ve got muscular thighs and fuck off, I’m not here to prove it to you, and I’m not here to lie either, what would be the point of that?). Anyway, I’m not worthy of H&M. I’m beginning to understand why their clothes are nice and cheap: by making them available only to fashionable shrimps, you get advertised in the trendiest clubs, for free. Nice business plan, but doesn’t help me. C&A jeans are not as nice. And the ones I’ve finally bought are just a bit… shorter than I wanted. True that multiplying sizes and heights, when you sell pants, poses an inventory problem, and a choice problem for the customer. But then, I definitely and absolutely wanted new pants right now, today, so I bought them. I bet they’re gonna end up to be ugly and fragile and lousy and crap. Wouldn’t they?

That’s the sound the top of my skull made, last night, when it encountered the icy ground at a speed a little bit too high for my taste. No Schplof!, no Creek!, just Oh shit! and, although it makes for a less spectacular story, I guess I shouldn’t complain. Less spectacular also means less dangerous, usually.

When snow melts and then it gets cold again, did you know it becomes ice? Did you know it gets slippery where accumulated snow hasn’t been wiped out? Did you know it could make you fall back, breaking your skull, getting into a coma and meeting God? Oh yeah, you knew? Well, I didn’t: I live in Paris, and we don’t get this kind of thing. Especially in my room, which I didn’t leave that much for the past years. No snow, no ice, just old mouldy breadcrumbs just that close to becoming sentient and writing philosophical treaties. But I digress. So, boom, I fell, ass to the ground, shoulder to the ground, skull to the ground, in that order—not a real backflip this time, I should get some more training.

Despite the lack of coma and near-death experience, it’s still the first time I knock my head this way, from all my height. Well, almost all my height: consdering how my left hand feels, I must have had enough time to soften the fall a little. Just enough not to kill myself (can one actually kill themselves by falling this way?). Fortunately my hand is not messed up enough to prevent me from typing—what would become of me if I couldn’t write? But still, the knocking, that feels weird. It’s the kind of thing that usually sends you into E.R., with Abby Lockhart disinfecting your scalp after she’s counted the reflections of her lamp in your pupils and discussed her love life with the rookie of the year (oh, by the way, I missed the rerun of the E.R. pilot this afternoon, I had forgotten, damn—but I wouldn’t have rushed home just for that anyway). I don’t want to over-dramatize there, but… oh yes, I do actually, why wouldn’t I, when something happens to me, for once? So, do you realize that, for the tenth of a second, as I felt my skull hit the ground, I wondered if I was going to pass out and die here, stupidly freezing to death, lying unconscious on the icy tarmac, never knowing if I would have turned out to be a good Président de la République? Can you imagine?

Well, I didn’t even see my whole life in flashbacks. No, not a single one actually.

Probably that it would have been boring. Like Spike said last Saturday: cuppa tea, cuppea tea, almost got shagged, cuppa tea. Well, since I’m not Giles and I don’t drink tea, you’d have to replace it with Pepsi, but the idea remains.

So there, for the first time in my life I hit my head, I’ve lost at least three milliliters of blood and I had to get disinfected, but not by Abby. Though I didn’t lose in the bargain: my student doctor has shorter hair, but he’s male, and he exists in real life (unlike the men in E.R., which I don’t fancy that much and, besides, who probably couldn’t use Derma-spray in real life). So, well, it’s alright. And all is fine now. I’ll live.