My name is Cédric Bozzi and this is my blog. Mostly, it’s an aggregate of my tweets and Instagram posts, but once in a while you may yet see an actual article here.
Last night I was eating mussels and tacos at the home of a famous American she-blogger who had picked up a photobooth’s walls to build a shower stall with them.
I know where the tacos come from, but the rest…
As soon as the elevator’s doors closed behind us, a few droplets of acid fell through the ceiling vents. Then the speakers played a message I didn’t really listen to, because we were all shouting, but it probably was very menacing. After which the droplets became a shower, and ate through our ears, hands, skulls, and the eyes and faces of those of us who were unfortunate enough to look up by reflex. Between two hysterical screams, I had the nerve to think I absolutely needed to pass out, or even have a heart attack, so I wouldn’t be
there for what was coming next, and that’s when I woke up.
If my real life is the one I dream of, and if this one life, where I blog and play a virtual life in There, is just a dream in my true, real life, then you can assume that my true, real self is currently in a coma. Good news for you: the longer this coma lasts, the longer the blog. Bad news: the day I wake up from here and back into my true, real life, where I’ve been digested by an elevator, will probably be the last time I go to bed here. Because I really doubt I survived the liters of acid that fell upon us.
If I never post again, you’ll know that the me you never knew is dead. And you’ll also know you only existed in my (or his) imagination. Which means you’ll know nothing, because you won’t exist anymore. Unless everybody’s dreams are connected, and all of you are the dreams of all the people in the real world. Which is a possibility that shouldn’t be ruled out after all, in a mixed The Matrix and Serial Experiments: Lain kind of way.
I wonder who are the other two people who’ll disappear from your world tonight (or disappeared last night—maybe I’m the only one who’s still artifically kept alive in a hospital room) because they died in that elevator. I think one of the two was Jack Bristow, in case that piece of information is of any use…
Damn, Guy Pearce looks so great. Every time I watch the movie. The man of my life is a drag queen who doesn’t exist (and who got ten years older since then).
The Priscilla opening scene reminds me I wouldn’t mind watching Torch Song Trilogy for a change. But I don’t think I have it on tape.
That’s all? Yes, that’s all. What have I been doing since… since Saturday afternoon? (Oh, I thought I had been away longer.) Well, I’ve been sucked into There. I hope it won’t last too long: I always end up getting bored with this kind of thing after a month or two. But, usually, this kind of thing gets boring because it doesn’t renew itself. I have absolutely no experience of online games, in fact. What have I done, I’m never gonna get back out of it.
I have finally been accepted in the There beta. Oh, it sure is pretty. But, first, it’s hardly usable over a modem (as soon as there are too many people, it keeps jumping all over the place) and, second, I don’t like at all the way this society works. Now, if I don’t want to work in the real world, do you really think I’m gonna go in a virtual world where you have to buy, sell, make, work, earn money and buy virtual dollars with your real dollars?
I understand they need to make a living themselves (and considering how long they’ve been on a free beta basis, they must have eaten through billions of dollars), but I still can’t like that logic. You even have to pay just to change your haircut! I’m frightened by the thought of evading a capitalist world by entering… another capitalist world. But the The Sims’ success seems to indicate I’m alone on that one (except that The Sims—the offline version at least—has cheat codes).
Anyway, at least, it’s pretty. Why doesn’t someone make an ICQ clone with an interface like that? A nice plugin for Miranda, only a hundred megabytes, it wouldn’t be too hard…
P.S. More precision about the idea: the killer feature missing from ICQ clients is designing your avatar (the same way as in There), which will understand the smileys in your messages and react accordingly to display your moods in a natural way. And I’m sure it could be done as a Miranda plugin. In the beginning, we could even do without 3D. (Then, after further development, everyone would design their virtual home, host it on their personal web space, and invite people inside for a chat.)
P.S. As for the problem in crowded places, it may not be due to the modem but a server bug, according to something I just read. You don’t care, but I just specify this for those who’d be interested, and I just can’t leave wrong information without correction, can I?
A clone of Exposé (the little interesting gadget from the next OS X) for Windows: still a bit primitive (and not very compatible with WindowFX, but one hopes it’ll get better), but it’s not bad at all.
Ca manquait un peu, en fait, le lien Contact dans le menu.
France 2 rediffuse Gilmore Girls quotidiennement à partir de lundi.
Ca alors, on dirait bien que ce sont des inédits de That 70’s Show qui passent sur France 2… à minuit.
J’aime très beaucoup Edouard Baer, et pourtant… Pour un Centre de visionnage de quelques minutes ça marchait très bien, pour un long-métrage La Bostella avec scénario ça marchait plutôt bien aussi, mais pour une émission sans queue ni tête de soixante-cinq minutes, pas moyen d’accrocher. Je vais plutôt enregistrer une redif de Cravate club en coupant toutes les scènes de Berling.
I think back about the way that I, like so many others, tricked myself into thinking I was useful as I was advertising for a useful vote, a vote for Chirac, at the last presidential’s elections second turn (when he was opposing the far-right leader), and I feel ridiculous in retrospect (because bloggers were not needed to get the other guy to lose, and because what happened next—Chirac taking his 80% and running away with them as if he had earned them himself—almost justified Laguiller, who said left-wing voters should abstain). I think back about the way that I, like so many others, felt sick as I watched the twin towers on fire, the twin towers collapsing, the twin towers gone, the smoke column towering over New York for a few days, and I feel ridiculous in retrospect (because I don’t feel the same way about the deaths of millions of Africans, Asians, or just Europeans from less prestigious countries, and because what happened next almost justified… uh, no, but because what happened next just isn’t glorious). I’m searching for an insightful conclusion to this post, I try to remember what my point was when I started thinking back about all that, and then I think, well, nevermind, it’ll make good filler. I already don’t have much to write about these days, it’s not the right time to throw articles away. Did I mention how bored I am right now?
There’s an twisted paperclip on my desk, behind the keyboard (I used its twin brother to fix the broken zip on my trousers; I had picked two of them in case I ruined the first one). I wonder what it would be like to stick it into my eye. Or I could twist it some more so that I could stick it into both of my eyes at the same time. You have no idea how bored I am tonight. Well, you’re beginning to get an idea.
I’ve got a feeling I’ve tried everything now: regular chatrooms, sex-oriented chatrooms, bars, clubs (as if my prince charming could spend his times in bars and clubs, ha!), saunas, cruising bars, cruising spots, I even tried the blog. Maybe some people are bound to be single for all their life, just because they’re too picky. Maybe some people are bound to be single and unemployed all their life, just because they can’t make compromises. I had already figured there was a connection between the two, but I hadn’t realized how obvious that link is: earning your living or settling with someone, in this shitty world, means abandoning your ideals, accepting the ambient mediocrity, and accepting you’re an integral part of it. Some will say that, where I wrote
ideals they read
illusions. And they may well be right, but it doesn’t change anything to the end result. Since the national lottery stubbornly refuses to grant me an allowance, I’m heading straight for either the piss-smelling piles of a bridge, or a psych ward. So I say when I turn thirty, in order to celebrate my failed life and prepare myself thoroughly for my future, I’ll start drinking bad wine and swallowing tranquilizers. At least that’ll be something new.
Anyway, the deal is simple. Either I have a destiny, and whatever it is there’s no point in getting agitated because it’ll happen, whatever I do. Or there’s no such thing as destiny, and I haven’t got any chance of becoming what I have dreamt of being for decades, because why me and not all those other people who have the same dreams, and I’ve got nothing to deserve to achieve them (and I’m not just talking about being rich—don’t care about the money), so there’s no point either in getting agitated because it won’t happen, whatever I do. It’s not that I’m bipolar, just that there are two options for my life, neither of which really incites me to move it. Well, right now, as far as the very short term is concerned, I’d have to find some kind of a job so I stop being afraid of my bank’s website (and so I can change clothes from one day to the next as well) but, as I said, motivation isn’t really there. What do I do when I get a job offer by email? (An uninteresting job, sure, and not one of those I can be happy about, but something short, fast, not too complex, and well paid.) I just let it linger long enough for the offer to expire.
Good thing that suicide is a form of concession too. Must be why I have never been seriously tempted.
C’est le tout nouveau concept de real-tv que M6 va proposer dès la première quinzaine de septembre : Tout les oppose !
Le concept est le suivant :5 gays et 5 machos vivent dans un bus…!
Oh, encore une émission qui va faire tellement de bien à la lutte contre l’homophobie…
La bonne nouvelle, c’est que sur cinq gays ils ne pourront pas prendre cinq moches, c’est pas possible. Hein, que c’est pas possible ? Rassurez-moi !
Finally, after months of presence in Iraq, Americans forces have found two people able to precisely say where is Saddam Hussein. Oooops, they killed them.
I understand how the Americans must be proud they executed Saddam’s sons, but do we really have to watch their corpses’ pictures full-screen for ten minutes? This is not C.S.I. makeup, people, but two real dead people on close-up shots.
L’avantage de la version cinéma de Cravate Club, c’est que Charles Berling ne surjoue pas à mort, et que ça devient donc beaucoup plus supportable. Et qu’on voit Edouard Baer faire une chorégraphie. (Avec Berling, mais c’est Baer qui est important.)
If I check my account balance, I’ll be in the red. So, as long as I don’t check my account balance, I won’t be in the red.
I’d like to completely redesign this site, make something colorful, bright, impressive, with some Flash and big, nice graphics.
But I think it just wouldn’t match my mood at all and I’d feel so ill at ease with it that it just wouldn’t last ten days.
I’d also like to hire a designer with more talent than me (or simply with another style) for a change, because I have done pretty much every single different design the brain I work with can yield.
I wonder whether I should launch a pledge for reader contributions for that (should always work better than a pledge for money). But the drawback is I’d have to answer to some of them
Hey your stuff is crap, do you really think I’m gonna put that on my homepage? and they might resent me and never come back and read me. Well, I’d be more polite, I always am, but the message would be that.
Too bad I don’t want to steal from wallpaper sites. Ah, integrity…
On ne peut pas dire que je meure d’envie de regarder Priscilla en VF.
Ca s’use un peu quand même, un tube de néon, ou c’est pratiquement immortel ?
So I spent the night at the Redlight. Arrived there a little after 1am, left a little before 4am. The club is perfect: large (yet full of people), air-conditioned (though in exchange the restroom’s faucets spit out hot water), the music is good (for me—I know some people who’d hate it). But the atmosphere is unbearable. Paumé had warned me:
unattainable stars. If you don’t wear peroxyded spikes, branded sunglasses and a boxer waistband flashing in the black light, nobody sees you. I wear none of these, and I don’t intend to change my looks anytime soon, nor to play the star. (I prefer to be one, hah hah.) Not to mention that it’s far too much mixed (as in sexuality-mixed) and the only thing that can differentiate straights from gays is that the former have a girl in their arms. Not convenient (well, it sounds like it’s quite evident, but sometimes they let go of the girl, and then you can’t guess). Basically, the dancefloor lacks couples (and more) of guys making out. And the dancefloor also lacks illegal smokes (to the point that you can’t go to the restrooms without being interrupted by the anti-drugs watch).
Well, what’s important is that I’m able to go clubbing by myself, dance by myself, and not get too bored. Let’s say that if it had been the Scorp instead of the Redlight, I could have spent a good night. (Now the last step is trying out the Queen: should be just halfway between those two). Next time I’ll try drinking a bottle of orange juice just before, since free orange juice at will seemed to work better for me than water.
However, as far as fate goes… nothing to see. Absolutely nothing to tell. Except that I’ve been given two passes for next Saturday night, and you could consider that to mean my destiny will take its time and won’t express itself before I go back there next week. But right now, you see, I’m thinking more of throwing them away right where I found the previous one, to benefit my karmic balance and stuff.
Wow. My site is down all Saturday, I spend the night out clubbing and, when I’m back (well, when I wake up the next day, actually), my e-mail is drowning under comment notices. You impress me!
By the way, I know for a fact, from my stats, that there are English readers. You’re not many, not many at all, but I know you exist. So why aren’t there any comments in English? Don’t be shy.
Un week-end de juillet… combien de temps avant que mon hébergement remarche ? Une chance que la base de données marche, je peux écrire. Dans le vide.
— Going out is bad.
— Ignoring a sign of destiny is bad, isn’t it?
There’s someone, living right next to me (like, fifty meters away or something), who’s liable to lose free passes to the Redlight in the middle of the street, here, even though I live ten miles away from Paris. So, if you’re young and handsome and have nice abs and you lost a free Redlight pass for this night, write me. (Yeah, I know chances are he’d read the French version, if he read my site at all.) But you’ll have to prove it’s yours. Or you’ll have to seduce me. Which might not be so much easier.
I believe far too much in Mister Destiny. It’s unhealthy. Since I found this pass last night, I’ve spent way too much time thinking about how I had to go out at that time (later than usual), miss the bus by just a few minutes, decide to walk instead of wait for the next one, and someone had to lose this pass at the right place, and it didn’t fly off (or it did and landed where it had to), and it was intact, and nobody picked it up beofre me, and I saw it, and I was curious enoughto pick it up, and… see where I’m going? Yeah, you see all to well that I’m just a desperate loser who prefers to see signs everywhere rather than try and work his life up himself. Sure. But that’s not really what I meant to say, because it’s my blog here, and I’m supposed to try and sell myself, somehow. Well, sell, intellectually. I mean, not really sell, since I’m not going to make any money here, but just generally show myself in a favorable light and flatter my megalomania.
Well, anyhow. Coincidences don’t exist, they say, sometimes. So, what if that little innocuous pass for a club I won’t name so that you can’t go and hunt the garoo there tonight (yes, I know it’s too late, I already named it, and I won’t bother to edit the first paragraph), what if this pass was the key to my future? Huh? Not necessarily my sentimental future, because I don’t feel really open to new encounters on that level (who am I kidding? I’m exactly in the mood to marry anyone just so I get out of this coma), but maybe my profe… process.. protec… oh, fuck it, a whole other aspect of my future. Something completely unpredictable, so I’m not going to try any further to predict it, particularly because it would prevent anything from happening.
Did I ever tell you that my only superstition (unless I’m forgetting something, but I think not) is that what happens to me is always, systematically, what I don’t expect when I least expect, and that (corollary) if I expect something it will never happen? (I’m obviously only talking about events that are out of my control here. Because, otherwise, whether I expect it or not, nothing ever happens, because I don’t do anything to make it happen. You figured that by yourself, didn’t you? I think I need a <span> so my parenthesized sentences appear subdued and the thought process of my post is clearer.) So there. I don’t even need anymore to go to
the Redlight that club I won’t name (besides, I can’t see why I’d advertise for them before I even go there, maybe I’ll hate this place), since I expect it to change my life, and I just established that it wouldn’t. Particularly as I have said (well, written) it in public, which multiplies by a hundred the chances that nothing will happen.
So I’ll just spend a bad night in a little club at Montparnasse and spend two hours in two different night buses to go back home one hour after I arrived there. Nothing special.
Wow. That’s quite a long text to be published at a time when my website is down.
Your IQ score is 136.
[…] We also compared your answers with others who have taken the test, and according to the sorts of questions you got correct, we can tell your Intellectual Type is Visual Mathematician.
Visual Mathematician? Wuh? The mail they sent contains a picture of Einstein labeled
Visual Mathematician—well, ok, being Einstein isn’t so bad, fine. Anyway, I think the result is a bit high, and the test looks easy (and short). But maybe that’s precisely because I’m a genius? So it’s up to you to take the test and publish your scores, so we can all compares our… things.
I’ve got a three-and-a-half-page text in my notebook, and don’t feel like typing it because I’m not so sure it’s quite relevant (as if that were the kind of thing I care about for my blog…). And it won’t have any kind of relevance past next midnight, so I need to hurry and decide whether I type it or throw it away.
As usual, when I went out last night, I started filling pages (well, one page) in my notepad, having ideas, thinking clearly, being inspired. And, as soon as I came back home, it all disappeared (well, not the page, I don’t use magic ink) and I don’t feel like typing what I had written down. It’s weird how being in my room can numb whole parts of my brain—particularly the motivation part. When I’m outside, I’m king of the world (well, yeah, I may be exaggerating a bit, but the idea is there), I could do anything (okay, I may even be exaggerating a lot, but still it’s the idea that counts, the concept—I love concepts)… except that there’s nothing really constructive I could do when I’m outside (especially considering it’s generally around 10 pm). I’m not gonna run into the first employment agency that crosses my path, am I? I’m not. What I need to do is manage to stay positive, motivated, even when I’m home. And I don’t see that happening, like, ever. See, I should really win the lottery, so I could get a nice, clean, bright and well-designed apartment, and it would be the stimulus I need to start doing something with my life. Can you hear me, Mr. Destiny? Just a couple million francs, so I could buy myself a little house in the suburbs. It’s not that much!
That, or a husband I could move in with. But which do you think is more likely? Yeah, we agree, don’t we?
RIAA might want to reevaluate their understanding of the market series:
Remember the old jokes from the 90s about how the internet was nothing but a place for free porn? Well, it sort of was, and still is, but you don’t hear about porn companies making a big fuss over people downloading free porn. You know why? They’re too busy making a large profit.
I probably have to recycle myself in the porn industry, if it really is the only area that’s still profitable on the internet. Who wants to be a model for the promise of a microscopic share of the profits?
Ca fait bizarre de regarder les redifs de Titus maintenant que je sais que c’est à moitié autobiographique.
As announced earlier, the comments link is now below the posts, so please if you could thanks a little pretty please, not get the wrong link if you want to comment. There.
That was the second immensely interesting post of the day. I’m outdoing myself here. And, since I shouldn’t go out of my room for the next two days because of the weather, I’ll probably even have less material to write. Yay!
Considering the weather forecasts for tomorrow, I’d better go out tonight. Well, I’ll just force myself. And, at least, tomorrow the temperature should be less numbing in my room, and my brain will stop overheating for a while.
Oh boy. Wasn’t that quite an interesting post?
Tiens, je parlais de la pub pour l’Humanité avec la marée noire de canards en plastique, et voilà sur quoi je tombe :
29 000 canards en plastique, jetés par-dessus bord entre la Chine et Seattle il y a plus d’une décennie, vont s’échouer sur les côtes de Nouvelle-Angleterre d’ici peu.
Vivement les photos.
I always hated thongs (I’m talking about the footwear kind—I don’t know if there’s a better word out there, sorry) and everything that’s basically a sandal. But I’ve got to say I hate them with a particular force when I’m curling up in semi-foetal position on the subway’s jump seat (as I often do) and my nose ends up twenty inches away from the filthy toes of a group of tourists. Actually, it’s not just tourists: everybody wears them now, even Paris residents, even gays, it’s horrible, a true crime against humanity.
On the subway subject, I find the gregarious instinct and lack of patience of Parisians astounding. It’s impressive to witness, a few minutes after the end of the National Day fireworks, everybody rush into the same subway, and packing up even more tightly than at rush hour, just in order not to have to wait for the next train. I can swear I’ve never felt so compressed in a subway before in my life (except when there were strikes, actually), and it was a holiday at half past noon. (And why didn’t I wait for the next train? Uh, let’s just say I was carried away by the flow. Oh well, I’m a Parisian too, so I can’t see why this paragraph shouldn’t apply to myself).
As for the fireworks themselves, not much to say, because we couldn’t see much from where we were standing (and yet lots of other people had chosen the same place). Okay, it was cute, but fireworks without the sound of explosions are just like watching them on TV—except that on my TV the picture would have been bigger. The most interesting point of the night was watching a boy of my group get his back signed by a French comedian. And I really should take my camera with me more often, despite the heat, the risks of loss or theft, and more generally the not wanting to carry a backpack around. I just miss too many opportunities.
For the first time tonight (I think? my memory may always be wrong, so I couldn’t swear, and I may be just offending someone here) I met one of my readers, someone I didn’t know at all before, or beyond, my blog. So, in order to protect the innocent, I’ll call him The Reader in the rest of this post. Except there won’t be any rest, because The Reader is one of this blog’s readers (did I make that clear the first time around?) and hence I can’t say everything I could want to. Or maybe I could, because I haven’t got anything negative to say, but if I don’t stick to that rule right away it’ll sound weird if someday I meet someone, hate him, and don’t mention him at all in my blog. Got the idea? My method is that the least you say, the least you risk saying blunders. I’ve already developed this habit of saying as little as I can about people who are liable to read the article. What I’m explaining here is diplomacy. Except that the simple fact of explaining it is poor diplomacy. But I need to justify the fact that I won’t say anything more about The Reader.
There. So, instead of that, I’ll give you a messy post summing up the various thoughts that have been cluttering my notepad.
These days, instead of counting my fingers while waiting for my train, I spend my time reading subway maps and discovering the area. Won’t go into details you don’t care about, like which of the forests around Paris is biggest, but I’m just wondering whether I should take some geography classes for summer. Always had a hard time with geography, but I realize it may be useful sometimes. (You know, some things you realize later than you should, that’s the way life goes.) Well, it’s not like I’ve got something else to do, is it?
I’m amazed at how many people get lost in Le Perreux-sur-Marne. Every other day I’m helping people find their way. Between that and the epidemy of Smart cars I mentioned earlier, I’m really going to think there’s a Bermuda Triangle right next to my home. I’m really scared. Well, sure, it’s better than getting mugged on your way home—but it doesn’t mean that can’t happen. (Nevermind that last part, I only wrote it out of superstition.)
It’s funny that I read Wil Wheaton’s post about his first book-signing session just a few hours before I had my first reader encounter. Too bad I had nothing to sign.
Since I realized it wasn’t that expensive, I’m really dying to have a photolog I would remotely update via phonecam. So I guess I really have to win the lottery, have I? I was quite skeptical in the beginning—actually, until I found out that French telcos weren’t going to miss the MMS train entirely as I thought—but I can now see that’s really the future of photologs. Not of blogs, because you’ll still need a keyboard in order to type lengthy posts like this one, but of a certain form of photologs. It’ll often be dull and boring, but it’s just like blogs: some individuals will manage to make something outstanding with it, and people will get ecstatic about that, and they’ll be famous, and as usual I won’t be an early adopter.
Speaking of which, I think the existence, and the unexpected success, of SMS (and soon MMS) is proof that the idea of pay-per-email (in order to eliminate spam) is more conceivable than you’d think. I’ve been thinking about this for a while, and I can quite imagine a parallel email system that would require a micro-payment to send messages. Just as if everyone went out and bought a second cell phone and published the number on their site so that readers could send SMS’s. Hey, that’s an idea. If I could afford it, I’d just do it. I already have an old battery-impaired phone that would do the job, I could turn off the ringer and leave it on all the time. But, well, I’m already wasting enough money on a phone line I never use, I’m not going to take another subscription just for fun. Still, it’s something one could really consider.
Just like pay-per-email. All it’d take would be that major providers, and major webmail systems, get together and establish a fee and a technical protocol, and we’re all set.
I feel like eating outside. All the time, every night. Sit at a table that isn’t my desk and doesn’t support a 17-inch monitor, eat something that doesn’t come out of my freezer, get served by an unfriendly bitch (you’ll note that I’m not so demanding), and preferredly eat with someone. Anything: steak and fries, or a kebab, or even a McDonald’s menu, provided it’s sold ready-to-eat and hot. And, while we’re at it, I’d like to receive a check every month so I could pay for my food, and my groceries, and my rent, and my clothes (did you know I only have one pair of trousers and two t-shirts I can really wear?). Something like a paycheck. But paying me for nothing, just for the fun of it.
So much for complaining: so now I do have someone I can think of when I close my eyes before I sleep. But when I was saying I missed that, I didn’t dare to specify that I would have liked it to be reciprocal this time. For a change. Yeah, it’s a detail, but it’s a little important somehow. I didn’t dare to specify it, and there I am, meeting a boy that’s cute, nice, pleasant, just my style and everything, and just isn’t that interested (yet he was supposed to be, virtually). Just my luck. Okay, I sound like I’m complaining, like I’m never happy, but imagine that the last time I was in a real relationship, where both of us felt something for each other, was in 1999. Not the same century. Even for people who believed we changed centuries in 2000, it wasn’t the same century. So I just want something! I don’t know how I deserved that bad karma, but it’s got to end at some point!
Windows XP : the file type association system from Hell.
C’est marrant, je trouve que Jonatan faisait (un peu) moins pétasse au début.
La majorité de mes lecteurs utilisent toujours MSIE 6. Pff. Zêtes nuls.
I just realized, after several months of doing it that way, that it’s completely absurd to display the comments link on top of the post, because it forces the reader to scroll up after they’ve read the article, which is slightly illogical, and particularly annoying after a long post.
And I have written this down here because it’s a bit too late to make the necessary changes right now without making mistakes and breaking stuff. I can only hope I’ll stumble on this post later and that it’ll inspire me to edit my templates.
I have a vague feeling the blog is harder on the eyes than before. It’s hard to tell whether it’s because of the semi-transparent text background, the page background’s pattern that’s a bit too present, or the margins between them that should be bigger. You may expect the design to be slightly adjusted in the next few days.
Erreur fatale. Appuyé machinalement sur la touche Mute de la télécommande pour remettre le son avant d’éteindre la télé. Me retrouve avec la dernière chanson de Lorie qui squatte en boucle dans ma tête. Help !
Ah ben, tiens, une idée. Pour combler l’ennui, vais m’amuser à écrire façon
Catharsis K-tar6 juste pour l’embêter. N’ai rien à dire du tout, alors vais avoir un peu de mal à remplir. Ai en fait le bureau couvert de feuilles extraites de mon carnet de notes à blog (mais l’emploi du
mon est-il autorisé ?) qui attendent d’être transcrites en posts, mais elles attendront encore un peu. Pas envie en ce moment. Une fois que les ébauches d’articles sont couchées sur papier, manque la motivation de les convertir en posts et de les publier. Et plus le temps passe, moins ces posts potentiels sont pertinents. Forcément.
En parlant de blogueurs : Dendromatt est entre la vie et la mort (enfin, son blog, pas lui) pour cause de conflit avec son hébergeur. N’hésitez pas à lui envoyer des mails de soutien. Par la pensée, puisqu’il n’a plus d’e-mail, non plus.
P.S. Aurais dû lancer le grand jeu
Ecrire comme K-tar6 en début de semaine, ou au moins en début de journée, plutôt qu’en fin de nuit de samedi, ça aurait pu donner un jeu plus marrant et lancer une mode.
P.S. Réaction de l’un des deux intéressés :
Pourquoi il faut que tu me colles avec K-tar6 dans le même article ? :) […] Le post-scriptum me met en sandwich entre deux K-tar6, c’est désagréable. :) Voilà qui est réglé.
J’ai envie de profiter de ce que c’est l’été, qu’il n’y a rien à la télé et que la saison de Six Feet Under est terminée, pour résilier Canal+. J’en suis même à me demander si je ne devrais pas résilier aussi SFR. Parce que c’est bien beau, de garder un abonnement hors de prix (enfin, relativement à ce que j’en fais) parce qu’il y a les communications gratuites illimitées le soir et le week-end, juste au cas où je m’en servirais un jour, alors que, même si j’avais quelqu’un à appeler, je ne pense pas que je passerais mes nuits au téléphone avec lui. Parce que c’est quelque chose que je ne fais pas, je crois. Pas mon genre, quoi. Pour que ça serve, il faudrait que j’aie un mari, et qu’il parte en province, et qu’on passe toutes les nuits au téléphone jusqu’à ce qu’il revienne. Et même si tout ça arrivait (mouarf), je ne suis pas sûr que ça rentabiliserait ces années à payer l’abonnement mensuel sans m’en servir.
C’est compliqué, les décisions… Faudrait que je fasse un vrai calcul, de la compta, avec des prévisions et tout. Le problème, c’est que ça doit faire trois ans, à vue de nez, que j’ai cet abonnement, et que ça veut dire que j’ai dépensé une telle fortune qu’il serait encore plus idiot de le résilier maintenant, sans en avoir profité. Plus le temps passe, plus ça coûte, et plus ça devient idiot de résilier, et plus ça coûte, et plus ça devient idiot… Arg.
From now on, you can send MMS’s to mobiles phones from all operators, as well as to e-mail addresses. |…]
The cost of an MMS is 0.45 €.
I can’t really decide whether it’s rather cheap, or it’s just that the price is in euros so it looks smaller. But that’s, what, the cost of four or five SMS’s? To send a picture, including by mail, that’s pretty sweet, isn’t it?
Oh well. Now I’m gonna want a camera phone. Gotta admit that updating a photolog from anywhere in France by phone is tempting. Well, 0.45 € per post, maybe that’s a bit too much? If you update regularly, it goes towards fifteen euros per month, so it’s still feasible, especially for someone who can afford a phonecam.
Pff, il fait trop chaud pour faire des courses.
Oh, a new design! Well, a semi-new design. Everything’s been reworked, the background is less dark and less sad, and the big white block has been shrinked by 50% in order to make the layout look easier on the eyes. All in all, I find it much better that way.
Note that if you’re not using Mozilla or Opera (and I didn’t even test with Opera, I just assumed it would work) this site won’t be displayed exactly as it’s meant to, because it uses transparent PNG images, particularly for the text background (which isn’t supposed to be completely white). I suppose that Safari, KDE and maybe even IE5 Mac could also manage these backgrounds correctly, but I’ll have to gather some documentation about that before I improve my browser sniffing. It’s not like it’s important, after all.
On the other hand, I may have been a bit heavy on the background. 162 KB… I’ll try and fix this later. Or maybe not. If, even on my modem, the downloading time is bearable, then it can’t be that bad.
(I forgot to remind you: don’t forget to shift-reload so that everything shows up correctly, and to empty your browser’s cache if you have crappy Mac software that can’t reload when it has to. Basically, if it looks broken, it’s your fault. That’s how the web work, isn’t it? Or so I’ve been told.)
It’s frustrating not to have anyone to aim for. That one ended up being an asshole, this one is disturbed and addicted to everything, and that other one is an asshole too (either I tend to hook up to assholes, or assholes are a bit too many out there—or both, certainly both) and now I have nobody to visualize, to imagine when I close my eyes in bed
at night in the morning, nobody to kiss in my dreams. I’ve got so much love to give (and there’s no limit to the amount of clichés I can write, if I want to), I’m so naive and sentimental, what am I gonna do with all that?
I’ve been told last night that I looked like a recent queer, the kind that came out of the closet six months ago. Me. Arf. I’ve only been going out in the Marais (the Paris gay district, if you don’t know) for seven years (and I started with the mag, an association of young sensible boys who don’t exactly care to look straight) and there was a time I went out in bars almost every night (uh, thinking back about it, I wonder where I found the money to pay for my daily Cokes… could it be that normal life isn’t as expensive as I think?). And yet, even in those times, I was like I am now. Well, no. I was fatter, pimple-faced, (even) less fun and less outgoing, but the point is I didn’t look more gay.
So I’m not easily influenced. I’m just who I am and you can’t change me. But why am I saying this as if it were surprising? Nobody ever managed to influence me into working, so it must be a sign, mustn’t it? I’m not easily influenced, big deal. At the time I wrote that article on my notepad, it seemed interesting, but right now I wonder if I should publish this at all.
P.S. Seemingly it wasn’t that clear from my post: I didn’t take that as an insult. I didn’t take it as a compliment either, because I wouldn’t mind looking like I spend all my time in gay clubs. It just amused me, that’s all. (Hence the
Arf in the article’s beginning.)
Woohoo. More than three hours after I have woken up, I finally managed to get online. Great.
As for what’s to come, it’s not promising. The only unlimited dialup subscription requires a 12-month commitment I’m not inclined to make; and DSL, with the dozen filters I’d have to buy, the risk it might not work because of our exotic phone setup and the 100-euro fee in case of moving or cancelling, is really not that evident.
All I have to do now is find a squat close to someone providing an unprotected WiFi network.
In Télérama this week: not only the fishes swimming in the Seine river downstream from Paris are becoming mutants (males developing female cells, etc.) but
the European Union is multiplying research about undesirable effects on men of chemical molecules found in drugs, of course, but also in aliments in contact with plastic film. Ok. I don’t really fancy having a testicle cancer because of plastic food wraps. Just not that much. You know. There are nicer ways to become impotent. Or, better yet, not to.
In order to meet your expectations better, Cario’s offers will evolve at summer’s end with the introduction of a complete range of DSL accesses from 128 to 1024 kbps. […]
This range will replace the unlimited access you have subscribed to. We inform you therefore that the dialup unlimited access will not be operational anymore after September 1st, 2003.
Sons of bitches. And, right now, my Internet access isn’t working anymore, so it looks like they may have decided to take some advance over their schedule. Oh, no, it’s okay, it’s working again. Well. For the next two months. So where am I gonna go now?
Could you crank up the misanthropy dial a bit for me, please? Yeah. Good. Perfect. It’s wonderful how the past 24 hours have confirmed I’ll be single (and, generally, a loser) for a while. An other while. And yet another. Till death do us part.
There is a such a fine border between refusing to go for the easiest, and the opposite, that I’m never quite sure on which side I’m living.
There’s an epidemy of Smart cars (not smart cars, I hope you understand me) close to my place, on the way to the train station. Decorated Smarts, advertising Smarts…
And what were all those people doing on my bus, and on my train, at 6 pm on a Sunday in July? It was not only Sunday, and July, but it was 6 pm! Which means it was too late to go out, and too early to go back home, considering the weather was nice and the sun had been missing for the whole past week. And why was I there? But I live a life opposite from everybody else’s, so I’m precisely supposed to be alone in the bus and subway. The world isn’t turning round these days. As it happens, maybe I’m gonna earn money now. Can you imagine? No, me neither.
But still. I’m scared.
By the way, since it worked for the karaoke night, and I only had to repeat myself a couple of times in order to get invited, could it work the same way from job and/or money? If I ask again for someone to give me money, in exchange (or not) for some kind of graphics work, would it have any kind of chance to be successful?
And apart from that, nothing to say?
Well, no, nothing to say.
Juste pour savoir, c’est quoi la différence entre des Chicken Poppits et des Chicken McNuggets ?
J’en suis à faire l’amour à un paquet de biscottes (mais sans Nutella, c’est déjà ça), ça ne va plus du tout.
Je travaille en ce moment en partenariat avec […] et fait la promotion sur lecteur […] MP3. J’ai de la marchandise très sympa tel quun lecteur […] à utiliser en prix pour des concours en Hollande, Espagne, France et Allemagne.
Je recherche des sites qui souhaiteraient travailler avec nous et recevoir des clips flash marrant pendant la durée de la campagne.
En résumé, je voulais vous demander si vous seriez intéressé pour recevoir un peu de matériel pour organiser un concours en ligne sur votre site.
Personnellement, j’ai bien aimé votre site et je serai ravie de recevoir une réponse brève de votre part afin de vous fournir plus dinformation ou de vous retirer de notre liste.
Déjà, c’est bien gentil d’avoir aimé mon site
personnellement, sauf que ça se voit un peu, dans les headers du mail, que c’est un mailing de masse envoyé à plein d’autres sites en même temps.
Ensuite, la prochaine fois, pour que je fasse une
réponse brève (désolé, j’ai fait trop long, là, peut-être ? mais au moins j’ai répondu vite — sur mon site, en tout cas, mais l’intéressée est censée le lire, du coup, puisqu’elle l’aime bien personnellement) exprimant mon refus, faudrait au moins me dire ce que j’aurais à gagner, moi, là-dedans. Pas d’argent ? Pas de lecteur gratuit ? Je suis un blogueur, alors je vaux pas cher et je vais accepter juste pour le plaisir d’avoir des animations Flash à mettre en ligne ? Pff, marketeuse pas doueé.
I don’t know what I need to find first. Man, money, career, home or gun? What am I supposed to start with? I need a miracle, or at least a shepherd’s star just for me. Just… something.
If only you could know how I envy the ability most of you have to adjust to the way this damn universe works, and cope with that thing people call life. Which, I may have remind you, is as pointless and useless as can be, and more.
Oh well, silly me. Most of my readers are bloggers, and most bloggers aren’t more apt to
normal life than I am. But then, what are we waiting for? Revolution, now!
Or we could also wait until a nuclear bomb falls from the sky and solves all our problems for us. And I’ve got kind of a hunch that’s exactly what we’re gonna do. Wait a little. Shouldn’t be long. (And we’ll have to thank Bush in advance, since we won’t be able to do it anymore once we’re dead.)
Uh… I wasn’t that depressed when I started writing this article, was I? I was? Oh, ok. I just hadn’t realized. Fuck, where do you begin when you’re 27 and you’ve got to start everything from scratch? I’m right in a vicious circle and I can feel my head spinning. And I just won’t faint.
I’d like to get onto a train, just right now. To spend eight hours in a train car, fsck in the toilet a man met on the spot, and arrive (completely exhausted) on the oceanside. Where I’ll find a big mansion expecting me, filled with furniture and audio/video equipment and computers and food (well, maybe not computers: after all, while we’re at it, I might as well try and make a real break for once). And two retrievers (one golden, one black—which I’ll name Pinky, of course, for those of you who remember what I posted, like, a week before) and a few friends, or a husband. Well, a soon-to-be husband, because there’s no way I want to begin this vacation by fighting with my husband about a supposed intercourse with a stranger on some train.
I just want to go on a holiday. (But not by plane, it’s too constraining, and I don’t feel like getting strip-searched at the airport, it’s never been my fantasy, thanks for the offer.) I really must get myself to win the lottery now. Or make friends with an old eccentric countess who’ll lay me down on her will (and only on paper, hence the necessity of her being a female aristocrat). And, as a bonus, that option will also automatically provide the mansion and its private beach. All the pieces are coming together now.
Imagine that the woman who was watching me as I wrote this text down on my notebook in the subway didn’t imagine for a second that she was in front of the garoo. Actually, it’s just as well. Having to start signing autographs in the subway would be terribly embarrassing, and I don’t know if I’d dare.
Interesting: People who use their cell phones while driving are dangerous even when they’re not on the phone. Not that owning a cell phone makes them stupid (hey, I have one—I never answer it, but I’ve got one). But people who phone and drive do it not because they’re so busy and can’t miss a call, but just because they’re bored, can’t be bothered to focus on driving, and hence want to do something to keep their mind busy.
In short: Humans are dumb.
Among things I never really stand: someone who’s dripping THC off all his pores and speaks to me like I’m an idiot because I need some time to put together his sentences and understand what he means.
I wouldn’t mind having a house like that of Thirteen Ghosts. Without the ghosts, but with all the walls made of engraved glass, moving all around, etc. But then, who wouldn’t?
Est-ce que les épisodes sont de plus en plus sombres, ou c’est juste parce qu’il fait plus jour qu’hier et que ça ne se regarde que de nuit ? Mes volets sont en panne… Sinon, pas grand chose à dire : deux épisodes assez bons, ni excellents ni mauvais, juste normaux, quoi.
Mmh, interesting: 26 Things, a scavenger hunt for photologgers, consists in illustrating twenty-six themes over the month of July. I’ll have to think about it; the weather is nice (well, except this week) and I’d like to be motivated again to use my camera. What better opportunity could there be?
Je rêve ou Hulk est atrocement mal fait, indigne d’un film sortant en 2003 ?
Woohoo ! Un excellent épisode, suivi d’un bon épisode, je suis bien content qu’on soit enfin entrés dans le vif du sujet de la saison, et ça justifie que je fasse un post malgré mes trois semaines de retard (et bien que je n’aie en fait pas grand chose à dire). Il va même falloir que je me force à l’écrire, ce post, plutôt que de regarder directement la cassette suivante. Surtout vu comment se termine le 7.08.
It’s been a while, I know you missed her.
Oy, mes jambes, mes précieuses jambes !
Regular readers of my blog, of my blog’s comments, and of some other (French) may have understood that I spent the night… no, I cannot write that. It’s not that I’m ashamed, not at all (well, there wouldn’t be any reason to be, but I’m just not), not that I can’t confess it, but just that… I can’t believe it myself. And yet. I accepted gVgVssE’s invitation in my comments (an invitation I had thoroughly requested, I must say) and spent four hours in a karaoke bar. And I sang. I know, I know, anyone who knows me can’t believe that. But it’s not the biggest part of it.
First a duet (Sweet Dreams, and thanks to Manu for accepting to help me lose my virginity), then a solo (Véronique Sanson’s Rien que de l’eau). Yes, me, myself, alone at the mike, on stage (well, it’s a small pub, but it’s still a stage). And yet there’s even more incredible.
I sang, and…
And I just didn’t panic. I wasn’t under stress before I sang the first time—well, I knew we would sing together, and we could blame each other for the missed notes, it was quite a limited risk (and, besides, I know I’m good enough at Annie Lennox songs). But there was no stress either before I sang for the second time. Alone, on stage, in front of strangers, with lights in my face and a video feedback, singing a song I hadn’t heard in months and I didn’t really remember that well. And still, almost no stress. Let’s say, a little stress, but no fright, no panic at all. Me. The garoo. The one who couldn’t audibly address a saleswoman, say, ten years ago (and I’m being nice with myself here). The one who had never, ever, sung in front of someone five years ago. On stage, and no stress.
I don’t know about you, but I just can’t get over that. (Well, I do know about you, you’re getting over it very well thank you, but it’s my blog here, so what counts is my experience, right?) And it’s actually not the best part yet. The best part is that I hadn’t listened to Rien que de l’eau for something like years, I had no idea how high it went, I screwed up big time, and still I didn’t run away. First stanza two keys lower than the instrumental (which was light on instruments, actually I think I could have went on this way and not shock the audience), a moment of panic, but I managed to deal with it and tell myself that, since I was there, the only option I had was to go on. (Okay, this sounds lame, like I’m telling you how I overcame being the only survivor of a Boeing crash, and all I did was sing a damn song. But, hey, it’s a blog, so let’s be dramatic for a while.) And, so, the rest of the song on the right key (uh, at least I think so, though I couldn’t exactly swear it), but inevitably sprinkled with squeaks because I wasn’t prepared for going so high. And despite all this, I didn’t run away. I don’t know what my face looked like on the moment, but I know I helf up and managed not only to survive, but also to catch up and sing correctly in the end, which may well be the biggest achievement of all. (Well, I’m talking from my own judgment here, because according to gVgVssE it was fine from beginning to end, and there weren’t that many missed notes, so I’m inclined to reconsider his supposed melomania.) In short, I’m amazed. Let me write this in bold type: I’m amazed. Let me insist: I’M AMAZED AT MYSELF.
Oh, right, I forgot a detail: it did help that I started with a rhum-coke (and heavy on the rhum it was—or was it on the ice?). I’ll have to update my various profiles to admit to being a social drinker. I don’t plan on becoming an alcoholic at all—it’ll be at worst one rhum-coke per night at a karaoke bar or at a club, so it should be fine. But one rhum-coke isn’t supposed to be enough to lift all your inhibitions at once and, if I had been drunk, it would have been quite noticeable in my singing. And even though most other singers were just as alcoholized as I was, some of them did go through heaby stress. So it wasn’t the alcohol singing in front of thousands of peop… uh, in front of thirty people. It was me. It was the garoo (yeah, I decided to talk about myself by saying
the garoo, because it sounds cute—don’t worry, it probably won’t last long), who has unsuspected resources.
And it’s about time those resources get used.
P.S. I finally turn on the radio (I wrote this post in complete silence, so I could focus on auditive memories), and it’s playing Here Comes The Rain Again. Must be a sign.
P.S. Since I have to come back to my usual low self-esteem (it’s more and more evident that this feeling is much more present when I’m in my room, in front of my computer, so maybe I should consider taking the appropriate actions someday), I must say I feel a little (just a little?) lame for writing this ecstatic post just about having sung two songs in a karaoke bar. All I can do now is try and reassure myself with the thought that I know many people who wouldn’t have done it. Yeah. It does work.