Here in France, a guy has just been arrested and charged with racially-aggravated assault on an African man in Paris and desecration of a Jewish cemetery in Lyon (he drew backwards swastikas on the gravestones, the idiot). The psychological profile of this young man has now been made public, in an effort to explain his motivations, and we learn that, if you can believe it, he had 'a desire for recognition and a fascination for the media'. Jesus Christ! Isn't a 'desire for recognition' one of the most basic components of human psychology (anyone remember Hegel?), and isn't 'fascination' for the media pretty much the only attitude they sanction, the attitude that they demand through their tyrannical organisation? This reminds me of the time the British TV presenter Jill Dando was murdered and her killer was identified as a 'loner (oh, aren't they always?), obsessed with sex, guns and celebrities'. Please. Show me one person living in the first world today who isn't obsessed with sex, guns and celebrities. Sometimes the breathtaking hypocrisy of the media makes me angry; sometimes it just makes me laugh.
As I was walking to the swimming pool today, one of the women hustling for business outside the live sex shows on the boulevard de Clichy berated me on the street for not giving her 'un petit sourire' in exchange for her hackneyed come-on. I was annoyed by this, but only because she was right...
After all, if I can't get any of these women in Paris to talk to me, to smile at me, even to look at me sometimes, it is because I walk around with a mean scowl on my face most of the time (rather like the one in that profile picture over there
). Hell, if the hardened women in the sex industry are intimidated by me, what must the wallflowers and housemouses in the library think?
I must try to smile more, but it's difficult: I have inherited from my mother what T. Coraghessan Boyle calls 'a parsimonious mouth'...
It's a funny situation, though, when you think about it: I was annoyed at having people aggressively try to sell me sex while I'm going about my business; she was annoyed that I'm in such a hurry to go about my business I can't even take two seconds to be civil. The iron law of capitalism: everyone's annoyed.
(Speaking of which: I am beginning to realise that Jacques Rivette, the subject of my Big Project here in Paris, is something of a specialist in le cinma de l'nervement...)
As I was walking to the swimming pool today, one of the women hustling for business outside the live sex shows on the boulevard de Clichy berated me on the street for not giving her 'un petit sourire' in exchange for her hackneyed come-on. I was annoyed by this, but only because she was right...
After all, if I can't get any of these women in Paris to talk to me, to smile at me, even to look at me sometimes, it is because I walk around with a mean scowl on my face most of the time (rather like the one in that profile picture over there
). Hell, if the hardened women in the sex industry are intimidated by me, what must the wallflowers and housemouses in the library think?
I must try to smile more, but it's difficult: I have inherited from my mother what T. Coraghessan Boyle calls 'a parsimonious mouth'...
It's a funny situation, though, when you think about it: I was annoyed at having people aggressively try to sell me sex while I'm going about my business; she was annoyed that I'm in such a hurry to go about my business I can't even take two seconds to be civil. The iron law of capitalism: everyone's annoyed.
(Speaking of which: I am beginning to realise that Jacques Rivette, the subject of my Big Project here in Paris, is something of a specialist in le cinma de l'nervement...)
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I like that.
Boys that don't smile draw me in towards them. I have to find out what is inside. I, on the other hand, smile too much, and my face is an open book.
My sister worked a part time job at a grocery store while she was at university. She told me about this one old lady who was all spiffily dressed up who asked my sister to carry her groceries home for her. When she showed my sister to her pantry, it was filled to the top with the exact cans of stuff she'd bought that day. It appeared to be her only social outing.
T. Coraghessan Boyle. I forgot about him. I remember reading a completely funny story of his about Fugu in Harpers. And a book about an illfated grow op. wow. long time ago.
I'm with Swoo: fuck guns and celebs. Gimmee sex. Thank you.