French Female Singers Who Ooze Sensuality

This song is INCREDIBLE. It’s by a band called Superbus, a European powerpop/rock band that hail from Frenchyland. The lead singer is a very good looking (straight) femme but this song is about the first time she had a crush on a girl. The song is just teeming with sexual energy. Even if you don’t speak French,  I implore you to give it a try. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-ig3g7U8wDM

-Another song pertaining to female sexuality is this one by YELLE courtesy of Tals “Krokidilia” Vatman. The music video looks both innocuous and psychedelic, but the message is dirty enough to make Lil Kim blush. The chorus pretty much informs us that, before she has sex with a male, she wants to see him in a pornographic video so that she can see the size of his dick and whether or not he has “Olympic” level skill in the sack. In the immortal words of Zhong Han: “Classic porn!” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5LawV-IR6h0

A Scotsman, a Bangladeshi, and an American Walk Into a Bar…

France story number two actually takes place in Geneva, Switzerland. My flight back to the States departed from Genève early the next morning, so I opted to spend the night in Europe’s clandestine banking and horlogerie capital. After eating at Europe’s most overpriced Indian restaurant (Rodd and I once spent a combined 200 CHF there), I wandered down the street to a British-themed pub that was showing the Arsenal vs. Blackburn match. Many a lonely pint later, a South Asian guy about my age walks up to bar to order another round, then asks me where I’m from. I tell him, then he wants me to guess where he’s from. It took me three guesses, but I eventually got it: the predominantly Muslim nation of Bangladesh. Naturally, my first question was: “What do you think of those two bitches Zia and Hasina who fucked over your country?” (I went on to tell him that I often cite Bangladeshi politics as the reason why we shouldn’t elect Hilldawg) .Now, there are only two kind of people in Bangladesh: the kind who embrace kleptocracy and can afford to send their kids to school in Switzerland, and the kind who can’t afford a bowl of rice. This kid was obviously the former, and in hindsight, my query was poorly phrased, because the odds of him being related to either Zia or Hasina was good to quite good. Well, the dude was impressed I knew anything about Bangladeshi politics, so he bought me a round (A piece of advice courtesy of SOS: knowing random political trivia about obscure countries gets you free drinks). After we cheers-ed, we both took a swig of our respective Guinnesses, then I deadpanned: “So, you’re a practicing Muslim?” Our nameless friend (I think it was Salaam) was not thrilled, so I quickly reverted to my canned speech about being Catholic and masturbating that I bust out following any incendiary remark against another’s religion. Crisis averted. Quickly changing the subject, I asked him what his father did for a living, and he basically admitted that his father ran a sweatshop (you stay classy, Bangladesh!). At this very moment, a boisterous Scotsman entered the bar and occupied the stool next to my new bff Salaam (this sounds like the lead in to a bad jokes ‘So an American, a Bangladeshi, and a Scotsman are in a bar…’). Me and the Scotsman did not get off to a good start. He tells us he’s from Inverness (as in Loch Ness) and I informed him that as a child, my parents took me to Inverness to “chase the myth.” He looked at me as if I’d offended his dead mother. “It’s not a fucking myth!” I quickly change the subject to, well, names. He tells me his name is Michael, but that all his friends in England call him Nessie, as in the Loch Ness monster. Well, I think this is the dumbest fucking nickname ever, but I refrain from divulging this opinion. This would be like if I insisted that everyone in D.C. call me by the mascot of my hometown, Mickey. He asks me my name, a seemingly innocuous question, yet Nessie somehow twisted it into a nasty one. “Sean, but that’s Irish.” “Yes, my family is of Irish descent,” I replied. “So, you consider yourself Irish?” He inquired. “Yes, proudly. I’m an Irish-American” “Well, you’re not FUCKING IRISH! Your family hasn’t been there for tens of generations (incorrect). You should call yourself American-Irish, if that. Fucking Americans don’t know anything!” I tried to explain (in vain) that, in English semantics, Irish-American is the appropriate terminology, but the barely coherent, illogical Nessie wouldn’t have any of it, so I relented. Since we couldn’t seem to find common ground in conversation, Nessie whipped out his phone, onto which he had downloaded a few videos, including a particularly grotesque video of a pig being decapitated, and its headless body running around and of course, lesbian porn. How tasteful, Nessie! As I’m rather squeamish, after watching the odious pig video, I had to excuse myself and get a little air, otherwise I’d be all pukeyface for the duration of the evening. Upon my return, Salaam and I learn that Nessie is a drug addict. And not fun drugs either. Nessie, realizing I speak French from my conversations with the barkeep, implores me to venture to the less salubrious neighborhoods of Geneva to help him buy the stuff. I inform Nessie that I’m supposed to leave the country in a matter of hours and really don’t feel like getting arrested. And that’s when the little voice in my head told me to call it a night. Nessie gave me his email, but, funny, don’t think I’ll be maintaining any correspondence with that chap.

Lamentable French Notes

-The focal point of Lyon’s skyline is the Credit Lyonnais building, colloquially referred to as “le crayon” (the pencil), a forty story building that pierces the Central French sky. I personally think this giant copper monstrosity (there is no other building within 25 stories of the CL building) mars the traditional atmosphere exuded by the rest of Lyon. Lyon is your vintage European city, filled with cobblestone streets, innumerable churches, and countless traditionally French boutiques like charcuteries (stores that only sell pork products who I secretly suspect of financing Jean-Marie Le Pen’s political campaigns). Now CL is owned by Credit Agricole and the building is primarily a hotel which is why I say tear it down! (did I stay there? Of course, the view’s the shizzle!)

I just alluded to Jean-Marie Le Pen, and for those of you who don’t follow French politics as if your life depended on it, he’s the leader of France’s ultra-xenophobic Front National (FN) party. Imagine AIDS, cancer, and diarrhea all rolled into one and you have Jean-Marie Le Pen. He advocates abandoning the European Union and kicking out immigrants (he ran a campaign for President that loosely translates to down with the darkies). If Le Pen had his way, all Arabs and blacks would be kicked out. What about Eastern Europeans, they’re white? non, au revoir. What about his Catholic brethren the Portuguese? Nope, see ya. He’s like Hitler, except instead of desiring a populace consisting entirely of blond-haired, blue-eyed Aryans, Le Pen wants everyone to have big noses and B.O. Not so shockingly, he’s denied the Holocaust on several occasions and claimed that the French National Team did not deserve its 1998 French World Cup, because the team was not French (it fielded mostly black players). And as a soldier in the French war against Algeria, he allegedly tortured captives on a regular basis. Want to hear the truly terrifying part? He came in second place in the 2002 French Presidential election, qualifying him to compete in the final run-off election. In what is a gross oversimplification of the French electoral process, the first round is a free-for-all, with candidates from each of France’s myriad political parties contending. The top two move on to the next round in a first-past-the-post election to determine the president (there’s no Electoral College or anything similar). Le Pen beat incumbent Prime Minister Lionel Jospin of the Socialist Party. But everybody in France is Socialist! This electoral coup was largely due to a fractured left and a consolidated right, but it is startling that almost 1/5 of French constituents were willing to back this despicable human being. This was an obvious manifestation of mounting tensions in bifurcated France between white French and France’s increasing immigrant population, who many white French blame for current economic troubles.

-A few weeks ago, a famous world city’s post office announced it would stop delivering mail to certain zip codes due to the pervasive danger in the area. Where was it? Lagos? Bogota? Los Angeles? Incorrect. It was Paris. The banlieus where immigrants live have transformed from, as French rapper Passi describes, neighborhoods reminiscent of a “historic” country to ones that are more like a desolate “African” one. The traditional immigrant communities have always been impoverished, but had resisted the culture of violence which is ubiquitous in American ghettos, largely because the Muslim communities never embraced the drug trade. Recently, with more non-Muslim immigrants entering the country, the drug trade is thriving in these banlieus and so is the violence that is inextricably linked to “the game.” A telling indication of the influence of the growing drugs in France is the fact that we are even beginning to see the glorification of drug culture in French music. The traditional French rap greats like Passi, IAM, Manau (a bunch of white dudes from Bretagne who rap over Celtic music about Gaelic tribal warfare…freaking awesome) and, of course, MC Solaar, never espoused drug trafficking in order to alleviate poverty. Most lamented the dismal conditions in suburban Paris, Lyon, and Marseille and racial tensions in France, but advocated government action to ameliorate the status quo, not supporting illicit activities to overcome poverty. Now, artists like “Le Criminal” (what a douche) lionize the easy riches and supposed good life of the drug game. Sound familiar to anyone? Like, perhaps, America? The next generation of immigrant adolescents will now be even less inclined to embrace education as a way to escape misery and will be far more likely to emulate the life that surrounds them on a daily basis; the life depicted in the lyrics of rap songs.

Clearly, I’m OBSESSED with Kebabs

For those of you who aren’t quite sure what a kebab is, it’s like the Turkish/Lebanese/North African version of a gyro, and they’ve taken Europe by storm. They shave meat off of the shwarma, put the meat into a warm pita, and adorn the kebab with veggies and delish spices. Now, you can see why I had roughly 15 in the past ten days. Furthermore, the Turkish word for kebab, döner, inspired the greatest Facebook group name ever: “I’ve Got a Boner for Döner.” I love kebabs so much, while I was still a French major Sophomore year, I considered writing my thesis on the prevalence of kebab culture in France and that it served as an indication of increasing levels of assimilation of Maghrebins into French society, (this was a very superficial analysis that I didn’t actually research, it was only in the idea phase, however, as the devastating riots of 2005 and 2007 proved that the omnipresence of kebabs is pretty much the ONLY way the North Africans have integrated themselves into French everyday life). I can even cite my all time top 5 kebabs in France:

5. In the summer of 2003, my friend Noah (aka #1 Jew) and I were famished in Paris’ Latin Quarter. Desperate for kebabs, we searched all throughout the narrow alleyways until we came upon a small street with no less than 10 kebab stands. We didn’t bother perusing, stopped at the first kebaberie where we were asked the most mind-boggling question: would you like frites on your kebab? Fries on a kebab, talk about life-altering! In addition to the top 5, this divine treat also made the pantheon of most unhealthy snacks ever consumed.

4. The kebaberie in Megève always produces a fine kebab. My reasons for citing this locale are manifold: 1) the owner knows my order by heart, even when I haven’t been there in a year, 2) I regularly see the owner out at the bar until three in the morning, so when I walk into his store at 2 p.m. the next day and order multiple kebabs, knowing glances are exchanged, followed by uncontrollable laughter, 3) this kebaberie has a sauce called samurai. It’s really thousand island dressing, but samurai is a much cooler name than thousand faggypants island.

3. It was 3:30 a.m. in Nice one winter, and my roommate Rodd and I have had a long evening of hedonism in my favorite pub in all of France, O’Neill’s, where they played U2’s Elevation Tour DVD on repeat all night long, much to my delight and Rodd’s chagrin (though Rodd did enjoy the crowd’s rendition of Wizz or Wizzout You). Here was our dilemma: our flight back to the States left at 7 a.m., and we were in no shape to board a transatlantic flight. There was only one remedy; we needed a greasy kebab, stat. At 3:30 in the morning, even in kebab-obsessed Nice, this was no easy task. After twenty minutes of searching, we’d resigned ourselves to defeat and began to dread what would surely be a miserable, vomit-inducing plane ride. At 3:50, our fortunes turned. Down a seemingly insignificant alley, we saw a kebab stand in the process of closing for the evening. I started screaming at him to hold on, in what would appear to be mock urgency, but for me and Rodd, there was nothing facetious about it. We arrived to discover that there was just a teeny bit of lamb on the shwarma. A look of dejection engulfed our expressions of delight (we thought we’d have to share, something neither of us are particularly good at), until the kebab master informed us that there would be enough for both of us. It might not have been the best kebab I ever had, but it surely was the timeliest, and ensured that I didn’t have an unfortunate incident en route to the Etats-Unis.

2. While studying abroad in Tours a few summers back, my daily kebab habit allowed me to form a number of rapports with various kebab vendors. One in particular, whom my friend Inaki dubbed “the most genius kebab man ever,” created a particularly delicious döner. In Tours, there is a city ordinance that mandates all bars and eateries close by 2 a.m. Our habitual routine was to leave the “Bar of Dirty Americans” (a term coined by Ms. Katherine Ross) at about 1.30 to ensure that we could easily secure a kebab. One particularly delirious Friday, we lost track of time, and exited the bar right at the stroke of two. My partner in crime, Berry, was desperate for a kebab this evening. Alas, due to the late hour, a lengthy queue had formed in front of the stand, and all hope looked lost for Berry. When our favorite kebab guy indicated that he had served his last kebab, Berry fell to his knees, looked up to the sky, and mournfully cried “Pas de kebab, pourquoooooi?! (No kebabs, Whyyyyyyyyy?!)” Fortunately, I caught the eye of the kebab guy as Berry was melodramatically scorning the heavens. Because I was one of his most valuable customers (I’m pretty sure I singlehandedly kept him in business), he motioned to me, and as he was closing the rot iron gate, signaled for me to come in. I hesitated for a second, because an alarm in my head was warning me that I was about to be raped. My apprehension was for not, as he prepared me two kebabs, and promptly snuck me out the back door. This may not have been the tastiest kebab that I had ever eaten, but the fact that Berry and I were able to (loudl y) enjoy kebabs and the rest of the crowd were left starving brought me an odd feeling of superiority.

1. The best kebabs in all of France are, hands down, outside of the Stade Gerland in Lyon. This might be just because I associate them with the sweet taste of victory.

And, yes, it’s official, I become weirder by the brog.

French Economic Woes

Last week, I described the French economy as “antiquated” and many people pondered “how could this be, France is a G-8 country, they must have one of the most sophisticated economies in the world?” Erroneous! The economic potential of France is significantly hindered most palpably on two fronts: their conception of “vacation entitlement” and their uncompromising observance of the Christian day of rest. Though the French are not the most egregious offenders in the work-reprieve department (this distinction belongs to the Swedes who take by far the most vacation days a year with a legally-mandated 32 days off), with an average of 30 (!) vacation days per annum, virtually the entire country takes the month of August off, absolutely paralyzing the economy (except for the services sector who are catering to the myriad tourists). France is lulled into a false sense of security concerning their excessive vacation because their neighbors, Spain, Belgium, Germany, and even economically driven Switzerland all have more than 20 days paid vacation a year, whereas economic powerhouses Japan and U.S. and A have, on average, a paltry 18 and 12 days, respectively. One of Sarkozy’s economic initiatives is to revitalize the economy by diminishing the number of mandatory paid vacation days in order to increase France’s efficacy in the global marketplace. Advocating less vacation time, no wonder he’s unpopular! In addition to their addiction to beach-bummery, France’s economy lags behind their G-8 counterparts because (once again, except tourist-related industries) the economy is nonexistent on Sundays. Obviously, financial sectors are closed throughout the world on Sunday, but in countries like America, Sunday is primetime for consumption: malls are teeming with teenagers eager to purchase the latest fashions; car dealerships are packed with prospective buyers; and restaurants are filled to the brim with hébdomadaire brunchers and sporting enthusiasts. While 21^st century American cities and villages are bustling, Sunday in modern France feels like the Antebellum South: nothing, from malls, to restaurants, to car dealerships, is open. The first Sunday I spent in France during this adventure was in Megève, an admittedly small town, so it was not all that shocking that the majority of the boutiques were fermé à clé. But, silly me, I presumed that in Lyon, France’s second city (anyone who tells you that Marseille is France’s second city eats babies) would not embrace such an archaic attitude towards the concept of the modern weekend. Wrong! For example, one of France’s largest malls, the Centre commercial à Part Dieu, with the lone exception of its métro entrance, was closed in its entirety (the real reason why I’m so pissed off about this was the OL Store was closed at 11 am on Sunday and I could not buy new jerseys for me and my bro). This is clearly a detriment to France’s economy when consumer spending outlets are closed on the days when consumers actually have the time to spend! I wouldn’t take so much issue with this predicament if France was still a country with a populace that actively practiced religion. Catholic mass attendance has dropped substantially in the past two decades, and the Huguenots aren’t faring much better. The only religion in France whose base is actually increasing is Islam, but Team Allah’s holy day isn’t specifically Sunday (theoretically, Islam’s holy day would be Friday, but practicing Muslims plus ou moins treat every day as a holy day, so it’s not really pertinent to the economic argument). Obviously, on religious grounds, the argument for omni-shut down is tenuous. Though traditions like Sunday libre and month-long summer vacances are quaint and admirable, these semi-utopian ideals prevent the French from competing with firms from places like China, Germany (where the concept of a non-festival-related day off is truly preposterous), Japan, and the United States. The French adore deriding the consumer-obsessed Americans, but if the French aren’t careful, blooming American acolytes like the Indians and the Brazilians (at least economically) may leave the French in their wake.

In the words of the great Wyclef Jean, “I love France, baby!”

Megève doesn’t have a lingerie store; it has a lingerie institute.

The Last of the French Brogs!

Dear friends, the next set of entries will be the last of the French blogs until the next time I venture across the pond. For those of you who are terrified of transoceanic flying (I brame Rost), do not fret, I have already returned to the land of barbeque sauce, free refills/ketchup, and Chipotle. This marks the end of predominantly French themes and indecipherable phrases en italique and next week will see a return to normalcy (well, at least, the Brog’s conception of normalcy). So, enjoy another update of your favorite declamatory though not necessarily erudite BROG!

French Television, Beware: Unintentional Comedy Only

French television is unequivocally awful, (The lone exception is Fort Boyarde where contestants participate in challenges for an hour in a seaside castle in hopes of winning treasure). The precursor to America’s Deal or No Deal was actually a Dutch show, but the French show existed prior to the American one, entitled A Prendre ou à Laisser. I’ll never forget the first time I watched it about four years ago. On the French version, they have one contestant from each of the twenty-two regions of France. They pan to a big screen with a map of France (divided into the twenty-two regions) and the computer arbitrarily highlights one section of the map. The person from this region is automatically the contestant. And if there is one thing I like more than Korean Pop, it’s geography; so, I decided to keep watching, assuming there would be some geographical twist at the end. Not only is there no geography involved, there is no strategy involved either. It is just a glorified guessing game that drags on for a whole hour. This is the worst kind of mindless shit on all of television (given my girth, I’m obviously a man who knows his television). At least shows like “Moment of Truth” and “Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader?” serve as a sort of microcosm of America (that Americans are willing to sacrifice invaluable relationships with loved ones for fifteen minutes of fame and a bit of cash and that the majority of America never reads and is not afraid to go on national television and demonstrate this fact, respectively). After seeing the French version of Deal or No Deal, I became so disillusioned with television, that I refused to watch for a week, aghast at what I’d witnessed, and terrified that I watched anymore there would be irreversible damage to my intellect. It remains my longest self-imposed break from television to date.

-In addition to spawning Deal or No Deal’s predecessor, France is also responsible for one of American Idol’s precursors called Star Academy. I don’t watch “Idol,” for obvious reasons, and I consciously avoid Star Academy as well (I do watch Eurovision though, but that has nationalist implications. Not to mention its rigged in Ireland’s favor J ), but it was on last night at the kebaberie so I watched for a few minutes. Star Academy is slightly different, because they often bring stars on to perform with contestants. Invariably, the accomplished star overpowers the rising one and the level of talent of the fledgling artist is hard to gauge. Last night, Ms. Kylie Minogue came on to perform…but with a dude! Kylie is IMPOSSIBLE to sing for team Y chromosome (and believe me, I’ve tried). Though Ms. Minogue’s physical appearance has deteriorated significantly (she’s like fifty at this point) since her peak years (think Bio-Dome), she put on a magnificent rendition of “Love at First Sight,” a cheesily addictive, though utterly trite pop song (I’m going with my gut and assuming that Kylie was not embracing ironic detachment and mocking the pop genre as a whole when she wrote “The stars came out and filled up the sky/the music you were playing really blew my mind/it was love at first sight/cause baby when I saw you/for the first time I knew/we were meant to be as one.”) The contestant, however, might as well have been a backup singer. Not only was his voice way too weak to compete with Kylie’s, he was unable to annunciate any of the English words properly, making for a truly atrocious performance (the only decent performance on Star Academy was when that one chick did the acoustic version of Parce Qu’on Vient de Loin with Corneille, which was absolutely sick, but that remains the exception to the rule). If they started making American Idol contestants sing in a foreign tongue, THEN I would start watching for that would constitute the ultimate in high comedy. Star Academy does have one redeeming quality: the host. He puts Ryan Seacrest to absolute shame. Evidently, the word molestation does not translate into French, because this guy was all over Kylie. When he went in for bissous (the kisses on the cheek), his lips definitely grazed hers. After that, one hand remained on her waist, while the other was interlocked with hers, and he refused to let go. I just wish I hadn’t been that guy in high school.

The French Did Get a Few Things Right…

The age of consent is still 15. Count it!

-As well, their train system (SNCF) is simply immaculate. I’m actually blogging on the TGV (France’s high speed train) as we speak. The difference between the United States and France is that France invested heavily in the infrastructure of a high speed network, whereas the United States merely haphazardly attempted to implement such a system. Granted, trains are not economically viable throughout much of the United States as a result of the large distances between major cities, especially out west. However, the northeastern corridor stretching from Washington to Boston is ideal for a high speed train network, and could potentially be an economic windfall for a rapidly fading Amtrak. The two major differences between this region and the rest of the country are relatively self-evident, but are the two principal factors why a real high speed train would actually be viable if the US were willing to spend a sizable chunk of change completely revamping existing tracks, (This is the principal reason why Acela is so pitiful. They only have modified tracks in small stretches of rural Rhode Island, Massachusetts, and Connecticut, meaning the vast majority of the trip takes place under 100 mph): the geographical proximity of cities along the Eastern Seaboard and pre-existing mass transit infrastructure. France has a similar corridor running down the spine of l’Hexagon between Paris, Lyon, and Marseille. The distance between these three cities is relatively the same as Washington-New York-Boston, but it only takes two hours to travel via TGV between Paris and Lyon, and only a further hour and a half to Marseille. Given the frequent delays at airports, the infuriating security screening process, and the added convenience of downtown to downtown to travel, it seems almost paradoxical that the United States has yet to embrace a genuine high speed train system.

B-U-T-T O-U-T (Da-da-don’t smoke, don’t smoke!)

I admit, I smoke on occasion: Habitually, only once or twice a week, and almost always after consuming considerable amounts of Guinness. My grand inhalation total comes to about a pack a month. Obviously, cigarette smoking is not a substantial facet of my personage (and I despise being labeled as a smoker, mostly because it has such a pejorative connotation in the States and smokers are invariably marginalized as a result). I do not smoke while sober because I find the taste to be oddly reminiscent of anus. But there are two occasions it is absolutely necessary for me to chain smoke: When OL is playing in a knockout round Champions League match and while playing blackjack. Unfortunately for moi, on January 2^nd, 2008, the French government implemented a unilateral decree (there was no referendum, no plebiscite, nothing) that banned all smoking in buildings. I thought it was a stupid fucking law when Ireland passed a similar ordinance a few years back, and I think this is an even stupider fucking law in France. Unlike in America, where most smoking bans were ostensibly put in place for health reasons, when they were actually instigated because of incessant complaining by the non-smoking majority (because American smokers consist of only a tiny fraction of the population compared to tobacco-obsessed China, Japan, and Bangladesh), the French law is actually designed to curb and eventually, decades from now, eradicate smoking in the country. Guess what? Not gonna work. Instead of chain smoking in the relative warmth of a cozy chalet-style watering hole, the interiors of many popular bars are deserted. Outside, however, one can find forty shivering Frenchmen huddled together, “braving” (it’s always funny to use the words “Frenchmen” and “brave” in the same sentence) the cold. Come printemps (springtime) à Paris, the ineffectiveness of this law will be pungently manifest to any pedestrian in the French capital. Lounging at a street-side café, sipping on espresso/vin, skipping an afternoon shift at work, engaging in philosophical discourse that inevitably devolves into tawdry gossip, and chainsmoking is as fundamentally French as croissants, fromage, and champagne (I would’ve included Berets, but they actually come from the Basque region. And, according to one legend, Basques hail from the lost civilization of Atlantis, which makes them not French at all). The absurd notion that the French won’t surrender (it’s also always funny to use the words “French” and “surrender” in the same sentence) to their desires to, well, simply-put, embody the French archetype is utterly farcical.