Homework while I'm gone

OK, so I'm going away again! I have meetings in southern France. Cannes, Nice and Marseille. Won't be back before next week. Sigh...

Your homework while I'm gone: Please answer the following question:
"Is blogging a substitute for a repressed artistic need"?
I'd really like to know. Please fill that comment box!

And for those of you who live in the New York area, I urge you to go and see my friend Hélène's show. Hélène is my fabulous artistic director friend who lives in NYC. She's completely crazy and directs a theater company in Dumbo. Their plays deal with the franco-American relationship, stressing clichés, complete exaggeration and burlesque.

In their latest show, they travel around NY ferries dressed in pink air-hostesses, saving the lives of passengers (I think). They will get to be part of Murray Hill's show, a famous drag-king and I so wish I were in NY to see it.

Till then, have a great weekend.

kiss kiss

My favorite color isn't grey

Guess what Mickelino’s been trying to organize for a month ? Yes, you’re right, a European meeting in Paris. I’ve been working my squeezable ass® off to rent a venue, book the hotel, restaurants, check out how many Brits were vegetarians, AND I have to present to whole damn thing by myself AND for 2 whole days! As if that wasn’t enough, the unions in this country have decided to organize a general strike on the first day of my meeting. i.e tomorrow morning. (in 5 hours! i.e what the hell am I doing on this blog now?)

That’s just great! No trains, no flights, no Métro, nothing. I can’t postpone the whole thing now. It’s too late, everything is booked and paid for. Guess who’s going to be sitting alone in a big meeting room commenting stupid Power Point slides to himself for 2 whole days?

I hate this country.

And I hate this clown president of ours who's "done it again". After the comments on Finnish and British food (ok, he wasn't entirely wrong but like me he should've shut up and been nice), here comes the "I can't help making sure the whole world understands how limited and obnoxious French people are" comment.

If at least people were demonstrating against the real problems: Chiras is one, but how about the absence of Will & Grace on French TV, or why is Six Feet Under dubbed in French, and why don't we get any news about Angelina Jolie's future baby?

I'm on strike. Merde alors...

Devil Inside

... or the post that makes you stop reading Mickelino's blog...

Inspired by the Mary Poppins’ post where Delicious Babsbitchin’ tells us how she flew for the first time, I’d like to tell you one of my childhood embarrassing stories as well. I’m not really proud of it but what the hell, I have a nice ass™ so I don’t care what you think. (god I’m starting to sound like Babs too! Babs have you entered my body or what?).

I must have been 5 years old. My parents used to work late so some ugly lady would pick me up at the Kindergarten and would bring me back to her place until my mother would show up around 6 o’clock. Her apartment was on the sixth floor of a modern building. She lived there with her hippy husband, her 2 kids, her 45 noisy birds and her 300 cats (at least, ok slight exaggeration, have to say it’s an exaggeration or Rhino won’t believe me again!).

I hated the place, it was very dusty and smelt of cat piss and bird seeds. I especially disliked those cat creatures that would run between my feet and begged for my 4pm hot-chocolate and cookie snack. I don’t know why I disliked those cats so much since now as an adult, I’m actually quite fond of those small animals, but I just did and I constantly had the urge to hurt them, and make them understand how ugly and disgusting they all were. I can’t explain. I must have been a 666 kid (call me Damien) or something and then Satan just left my body later, not finding it interesting enough. (that’s also what some of my boyfriends did but later, the devils…)

But at the age of 5, Satan was apparently still a tenant in my little brain and made me his messenger to deal with Pillipop’s fate.

Pillipop was the family’s favorite cat. He was grey … or brown, I can’t remember. But he was very tiny. And if I saw him tiny through my 5 year old’s eyes, believe me, he must have been really small.
One day, as Pillipop was crawling between my feet, purring all his affection on my calves, I silently grabbed him by the neck, the part where you can hold cats without hurting them, (so compasionate of me) walked towards the window, opened it and threw the little brat through the window.

Yes, I threw Pillipop from the 6th floor.

Now I don’t know how a 5 year old manages to open a big window, but I just remember throwing the cat and feeling very pleased.

Rather satisfied with myself, I returned to my 4pm snack and sniggered.

A few minutes later, Ugly Nanny called the cat. I don’t remember much but I know she sounded worried. I was slowly drinking my hot chocolate while she was running all over the place. Pillipop was nowhere to be found.

Then a terrible feeling of anguish overwhelmed me. Satan must’ve just left my body and my freed brain was telling me now how bad I had been.

I felt bad for days and refused to go back to Ugly Nanny as I thought the other cats would’ve had time to plan revenge on me and above all, I couldn’t stand seeing the sadness and pain on Ugly Nanny’s face. I was a criminal. At the age of 5.

Convinced that I would go to a kids prison where they only showed black & white Eastern-European cartoon.

A few days later, Ugly Nanny told my mother how Pillipop must have jumped out of the Sixth floor as a neighbor had found him downstairs, alive and kicking, just stumbling a bit. Isn’t that amazing? she said.

I told this story to my parents a few years ago only. I don’t think they believed a word of it. Since then I’ve been extremely scared of heights and can’t stand hot chocolate.

… and now I want a cat.

… and I live on the fourth floor.

meow...

Ambiance Caliente

So I went skiing last week. No need to tell you how great it was, ‘cos you probably don’t care and this blog is all about moaning and not about the good stuff that happens to me. So let’s focus on the tough times...

As you may have read below, I went skiing for a week with 5 healthy people. We bought our trip through a French organization for (turned out to be) sporty Yuppies who are eager to give up on their comfort for a week and play tough in the snow. I didn’t know about that part though. Luckily nor did my fellow travellers who are as urban as I am and as little prone to “the return to nature” as I am. Good thing.

So when you get to the hotel after a long night bus ride (I was unaware of that part too when I booked the trip), the least you expect is a warm room, a hot shower, a TV and mini-bar. Right?

Well, forget it, ‘cos we’re talking sports dictatorship here. I hadn’t realized I had paid a lot of money to actually get tortured, smile and be thankful.

The scenery around the hotel was awesome, fresh snow and perfect sunshine. But again, no need to expand on that.

The first piece of good news: The gas-heating system didn’t work. Evidently the first thing you’d do is to ask to talk to the manager to find out when the problem would be fixed and logically, how many free drinks you’d get at the bar while waiting for the radiators to start working again. That’s what Barbie-Baby (see below for explanation) and yours truly did.

When you intend to complain about something and if the manager you’re aiming the complaint at is a 55 year-old laconic wart-face mountain dweller, always bring your gorgeous Barbie-Baby friend and she’ll turn him into the most helpful example of customer service. Barbie-Baby’s charm didn’t work on Wart-Face and we were kindly reminded that the main objective of this association was sporting and fresh air and not Hilton-comfort for Parisian sissies.
We were not happy.


Not happy.

So we went skiing. That was good but again, no need to ramble about positive things.

When we came back from our skiing adventures, we were welcomed by a flip-chart in the lobby saying: "The heating system doesn’t work and there’s no hot water. We are not going to be able to fix it for a few days and you’re all going to have to enjoy refreshing ice-cold showers.” With lots of smileys around on the piece of paper.

In order to calm down from these emotions, I needed to light a cigarette at the bar to recover from the shock. At the bar, I started moaning with one of the other tourists who replied that a cold shower had never hurt anyone. That’s when the fire drill went on and I got yelled at by the bar-tender who kindly reminded me that this place was for non-smoking sporty people and not for spoiled Parisian junkies.

I smiled at the bar-tender, whose nice suntan made him look like chewable caramel eye-candy (but definitely no need to be too positive, especially not now) but the analogy I made then between this place and Guantanamo was not very popular.

That took the cake. We decided to call the head-office of the company in Paris in order to complain.
We called the Head-Office

The place was getting colder and colder. I hadn’t taken a shower since I arrived. However when I felt through the cigarette smoke that my armpits smelt of the scent of a porn club’s back room in the summer time, I decided I should take it upon myself and have a shower anyway.

Have you ever taken a shower with water close to freezing temperature in a minus 20 degree environment? Have you ever been so close to having a heart-attack that you just think you’ve just been crashed by a giant iceberg as, for a few seconds, you stop breathing? Well, you get the picture.

The head-office in Paris told us that they had no idea this was happening and that they were going to get in touch with the hotel manager at once. So apparently nobody else from the hotel had complained and either they were really enjoying the cold showers or they were happily bathing in their own after-ski sweat.

Then we went skiing again. Skiing in front of the Mont-Blanc everyday was amazing, having coffee in the afternoon sun was exquisite and skiing down almost empty pistes (off-season) was just the best. But I’m getting carried away here and you may start thinking that I actually enjoyed it all…

The hotel manager didn’t get back to us, the receptionist did. She was in tears saying that she was so stressed out and couldn’t sleep at night because of this gas problem (couldn’t help laughing a bit there) plus we had been so naughty and called the head-office so now the whole local team (hated our guts and was going to make us pay for that) was very worried and concerned.

We finally got our free drinks in small plastic cups. The heat and the hot water came back 2 days later and we could start enjoying the rest of our trip. Went skiing. Lots of sweat. 2 kilos of sweat went away everyday. 3 kilos were added back every night by the delicious cheese-fondues and fine Savoy wines we pigged out on.

Oh and I forgot to mention the Evening entertainment! We had also chosen that trip for the “Ambiance Caliente” promised on the brochure. Ambiance Caliente, in Alpine French, apparently means putting a cheesy looking entertainer on a stage who tells lots of jokes about women being stupider than men and gay men taking it in the ass all the time (“ouch ha ha ha”). That was very funny. Even funnier was the feedback we all left about the “entertainer” on the end of week’s customer survey.

And finally, some more pics that were taken throughout our trip in order to make the whole thing a bit more glamorous. As you can see in all of these pics, I really DIDN'T have a good time!

So healthy!

Le Frog hates to jog

Le fact: I've packed my 1987 ski overall and my Estonian woolen hat and I’m going skiing for a week with 5 friends.

Le concern: I have seldom traveled with more than one person and I hate sports.
I usually mix well with other people. I'm quite sociable and get along with most. However, this usually lasts for 2 days and then I can't make any effort any longer. That's when I turn into this anti-social monster and feel like being on my own all the time. I yawn at people's face, I point out how loudly they chew when they eat, I make fun of their accent, I repeat what they say using a nasal high-pitched voice as a poor imitation of how they sound, I correct their grammar and finally I start picking my nose in front of them as I don't give a damn about making a good impression anymore. I'm horrible!

Le setting: Let me give you a brief overview of the situation in order for you to understand why I'm worrying. I’ve changed my friends' names in case they would want to sue me in the future.

Le Friend #1: We’ll call him Jean-Pierre Lamour. Jean-Pierre is a handsome straight 35 year old guy. A real metrosexual, likes to look good, spends hours in front of the mirror and could appear to some as a closet case. He is fit and loves to speak in lyrical but sometimes cliché terms: example: Good looking women are as beautiful as roses but can sting you in the heart if you don’t water them with endless love.
I’m very fond of him though, he’s a very sweet guy and a great friend.

La Friend #2: Sporty Dorothy is a hyperactive 32 year old girl, who jogs, rows, plays all sorts of sports, sleeps 4 hours at night. Has a loud and catchy.. no catching (as in contagious) laughter and likes to organize everything and gets upset if things don’t go her way. She's adorable though.

La Friend #3: Scary Mary is a friend of Sporty Dorothy. I don’t know her but she sounds really scary.

La Friend #4: Barbie Baby is 31. She is very beautiful and all the boys fall in love with her as soon as they meet her. The boys love her, the girls hate her. She’s very smart and successful in everything she undertakes She has a tendency to tease other people all the time especially me.

Le Friend #5: Favorite Mr. B, 30 years old. The strong silent type who likes to analyze the situation before speaking. After a while, FMB will ask you all sorts of nosey questions in order to get to know you better. I mean, very nosey questions. FMB is successful at all sports even though he may not have tried them before.

Mickelino: 33 years old going on 47, a bit chubby, very lazy and genuinely worried about spending a whole week with sporty people. The only thing Mickelino would like to do on his vacation is to sip on a cocktail, smoke cigarettes, sit on a terrace overlooking the Alps, wearing a veil on his head and dark sunglasses , go to cheesy karaoke bars at night and choose the restaurant.

Don't misunderstand me, I love skiing. That's about the only physical thing I can do properly (yeah yeah...), but I have problems with "in your face" healthy people who keep on screaming "we're so healthy, we're so fit, in corpo sano blah blah..." all day long. My theory has never been in corpo sano..., rather in vino veritas. Therefore, I'm mostly worried about my nasty tendencies to say things as days go by that I might regret later.

What is going to happen to me?

I love silly questions

During my various trips, I collected great questions people have asked me about France and being French. Here are a few of them. All of them are true and none of them were meant as a joke unfortunately.

All remained unanswered.

I should also add that most of these questions were asked to me when I was in the States, although lack of world knowledge is not only an American specialty, as Thais and Swedes haven't proved to be much more knowledgeable.

Finally, I should also add that the French are not much better either (although according to one of Nomad's old posts, we are 24% better hung that most other nationalities).

Is your last name France?

So you're from Bordeaux! Yeah right! How can you come from a place named after a drink, I mean nobody comes from Coca-Cola for crying out loud!

So you're from Bordeaux! Whereabout in Paris is that?

But you speak English! I thought there were rules against that in your country! Is that true that you strangle muslim women with their own veils?
Do you have the Internet in France?
Is it true that you hate Americans?
Is it true that you worship Saddam Hussein and support terrorism?
Is France a country that still exists?
Are you still at war with Germany?
Is true that most Frenchmen are gay?
Do you really tongue-kiss your friends and relatives?

Now people, I'm sure you've collected a great deal of silly questions about your respective coutries while traveling. I collect silly questions. Talk to me!

In the Navy, the real story

In 1995, Jacques Chirac became president and as his first thank to the people, Chichi decided to get rid of the compulsory military service that every single French boy had been trying to avoid for years by using various tricks such as pretending to be mentally sick, perverted or drug-addicts. (the gay thing didn’t work unfortunately). Yours truly had left the country to discover the world but also to disappear from the surface in order to not be found and sent to the army, ‘cos in spite of my interest in a man in a uniform, I felt that I’d rather keep the man in my fantasy rather than in real life.

The damn French Embassy in Stockholm finally found me (read other post about the darn embassy – here). They sent me a nice little letter to remind me of my duties towards my country and that if I failed to show up at 7 am on February 3rd, I would be considered a traitor and sent to jail upon return to France.

I would have happily become a traitor and never ever return to France if my family hadn’t lived in this country. I was 25 at that time, which is quite old for military service, but thanks to never-ending studies I had managed to postpone my doing this useless duty.

I had already gotten a full time job in Sweden, I was involved in a serious relationship and could not afford losing 10 months of my life, away from boyfriend and work. So I decided to do the *big Spiel* and sent a letter to Chirac. I thought, it was better to aim high right away.
In the letter, I explained more or less that losing the safety of my life in Sweden, losing income and my dear lover boy would probably turn me mentally unstable and did he really want to be responsible for that? That’s more or less what I wrote, in a more subtle way of course with a few polite words and right punctuation. I never received any answer from Chirac, the only thing I got back was a free train ticket and a blue-white-red invitation to some dusty Navy base in the south of France. However, my letter to the president was kept in my file and followed me around until the end of my military time. I became famous as the guy who tried to go behind the army’s back by contacting Chirac. That made me very popular…

10 things I learnt during my military service

1- UNIFORM 1: A man in a uniform looks better in your fantasy than in real life. French Navy uniform are so tight and uncomfortable that there is absolutely no room for any movement or extension ofany organ whichsoever.

2- UNIFORM 2: The pervert who designed the French Navy uniforms (bell-bottoms and tacky striped T-shirt à la Gaultier) in the early 60’s was a sadistic man who deserved to be thrown overboard.

3- MARCHING: The first three weeks of your military service are the most meaningful ones. I learnt things that really turn me into a man. This time definitely made me understand human values and the pleasures of evolving in a group, live with my dear fellow human beings really.

During these three weeks, you are served an intensive military training, you do all sorts of health and mental tests etc… But the most meaningful part of these three weeks is the marching. I loved the marches, they really turned me into a better person. Marching at the same speed as the guy beside you is a challenge, but it’s oh so useful in your civilian life afterwards. I was really thankful to the Navy for teaching me that! Basically we marched for about 6 hours per day, it’s amazing to see that some people did need the 6 hour-practices, as I realized some people do walk funny (I’m one of them). Then we would wait a lot between different marches. Later during the day (and that’s the part we all looked forward to) we got to practice shooting. But I didn’t get to do that as I pretended I had stomach problems, this is a trick I’d learnt. Blame it on the stomach when forced to shoot. Apparently, stomach problems can make you lose concentration and balance and you could hurt someone.

4- FAGGOTS, WOMEN, SISSIES and RETARDS: were the kind words commonly used by our superiors to encourage us to march straight.

5- HOMOEROTICISM: is widespread however not in the Navy. For the first few weeks everyone worried about the lack of sex thoughts we all had. We even started thinking whether they had put something in the food to prevent us from butt-slapping each-other in the showers. Concentrate on the marching please.

6- BUTT-SLAPPING: in the shower did occur every now and then though.

7- PUNISHMENT: No S/M torture table just cleaning chores. One morning I forgot to make my bed. I was punished. Had to clean the floor between 2 and 4 am. Meaningful. Made me reflect on what a bad person I was really.

8- SHIP: Don’t know, never went on one, never wanted to either. They kept me on land as they thought I would be more useful there. I had a strong impression that most professional Navy men were not too eager to sail away either. They were more interested in participating to local events in their white uniforms and occasionally play war. I read that many military men and women left the army when France went to war in the Gulf in 1991. It suddenly became too close for comfort.

9- LE POMPON: is the little red thingy on all sailors’ hats. There is a tradition in France that you should always ask a sailor to touch his Pompon and it’ll bring you good luck, love, sex and children. Not sex with children luckily.

We were always stopped on the street to have our pompon touched, usually by women. A lot of giggling accompanied the touching. Some of the sailors went out at night wearing their uniform, a real chick magnet.

10- USEFUL: I did wear my uniform when I went to a Leather Club once. But that’s another story...


PS: I took these pictures this afternoon. The pics, as usual, have nothing to do with the text.

Dilemma

You are at a party. 1) Do you prefer chatting with somebody who asks you lots of questions and seems to be interested in who you are? Or 2) do you prefer somebody who won't ask questions but let you speak about yourself only if you want to (that requires that you take the initiative to talk about yourself without having been asked any questions). Do you think it's polite or rude to ask questions to somebody you don't know, at a party for instance? (and I don't mean too personal questions here) I'm seriously wondering you see so I'd like to know what your opinion is.