The dreams, they keep crumbling

All right, so we're not world champions, let's deal with it.
Now to the interview. Well, it would be nothing short of a miracle if I got this job.
First of all, the test. All IT and then some. So when they said "we want to interview you", I thought, man, that's it, I'm that good that I passed that one even though clearly I knew nothing.
Well... no. The girl on the phone cleverly dropped DA bomb at some point in the conversation, going "I'm sorry, we haven't reviewed your tests yet, we've got a bit of a backlog", and that whole beautifully crafted card castle went fluttering gracefully but undeniably to the floor. And I refuse to pick up the ruins. I want to live in denial.
Because I really want to keep goiiiiiiing... Because. Get this. There are three phone interviews in total. And then. If you pass them of course, but let's pretend - for the sake of argument, also because if you wake up a sleepwalker, they headbutt you in the chest. Hmmm. I'm getting all of my experiences mixed up.
Right.
If you pass the various phone interviews... they fly you in for a face-to-face one!!! They fly you in!!! A translator!!! They fly a translator in!!! And if you pass that interview... there's a relocation package!!! And it would be on the beach!!! Who cares that it's IT when it's on the beach!!!
Yeah, let's stop with the exclamation marks. If it doesn't pan out, well, I don't know. I'll just join Zidane and we'll set up some sort of community of the disgruntled, I guess.

Who's laughing now, huh?!

Bleuargh. There you go.
Not only did Italy... Not only did Italy... nope, can't say it...
But Zidane expelled...
And ending on a f%#@ing penalty shoot-out...
F%#@rhhhh%#@!!!
Oh fuck it. Fuck. FUCK. There. Slightly better. Slightly.

Here we go here we go here we go

Hmmm. Not sure... This certainly wasn't the game I was expecting. Sure, we're through, so all's right with the world. But it is Italy we're talking about in the final, and unless we were trying to lure them into a false sense of security that we intend to shatter in spectacular fashion come the first minutes of the game Sunday evening, I shall be a bit worried. Have I mentioned that Italy cannot win the World Cup, especially not against France? Well, it cannot. I simply won't allow it.
Also, just so you know and/or acknowledge just how fair I am, I have officially withdrawn every horrible thing I may (or may not, but may is more likely) have said against Barthez as well.
Hoss - this was all about soccer, by the way.

It's fun watching football games in bars, it really is (Hoss - football, soccer, I'm really just trying to confuse you now, I'm mean like that...). Of course, shouting yourself hoarse in a smoky environment (smoke to which you obviously contribute, being French and all) when you haven't got much of a voice left to begin with, what with still being ill and all, and when you have a job interview, over the phone, in English, the next day, may not be the cleverest of moves, but I never really pretended I was clever, did I?
So what should I really hope for, a job in the US or a French win on Sunday? Man, I am torn. Och, I'll just go for both and hope for the best, shall I? Yeah, think I'll do that...

All bets about Sunday (not about the interview, thankyouverymuch) in the comment box below. Knock yourselves out, but I reserve the right to laugh Monday if it turns out you were wrong. I'll start. 2-1. For France, naturellement. (I also refuse to think that this may go into a penalty shoot-out.)

And you will know, my name is the Cold, when I lay my unpleasantness upon you...

Today is the fifth day - and a bit - that I've been ill now, with a mother of a cold. And a very insistent one, that - typically, that only happens with germs and general nuisances - grew quite fond of me over a very brief period, apparently. Sort of like the Alex Forrest of colds, really. Well there ain't no rabbit for you to boil here, missy, no use outstaying your welcome.
I'm not a very pleasant person to talk to when I'm ill. Especially not if you're an overly concerned neighbour - although I acknowledge that it's sweet of you to care, phoning me three times in two days when I'm already trying to get rid of a cold is not a good move: you will understand, I'm sure, that I can't really afford to waste my dwindling strength on two projects at once.
I'm also not very nice if you're the Post-Office, and I'm waiting for a parcel that was sent, and paid quite dearly for that matter, as express delivery, and that I still haven't received a full week after it's been sent. So I will pay a visit to you, germs, fever, sneezes and coughs in tow, and I will not be pleasant. And I will not be pleasant to you when I phone your customer service to give you a piece of my mind, and I will not be pleasant to you when you phone me back to keep me posted - pun not really intended. Especially since you're aware of my complaint, and you cannot possibly think it's unjustified, and still you try to out-unpleasant me. Just so you know: you can't - and I don't even have to be rude to be that unpleasant. And when you tell me that I'm about to receive it and you wait because you expect me to thank you, I will out-wait you. And you will sound silly when you give in and wish me a pleasant day.
Man, I hate colds so much.

So maybe I was wrong

France beat Brazil. And they played really well (I think, but, hey, clearly, what do I know...?!). I can't show it that much because I'm ill and sofaridden, but I'm really quite happy inside.
So I guess that means I've been owing Zidane an apology for a couple matches now. Here: sorry. There.
Still. I was right about Domenech.

Transition

Because I need one.

Jenn

If you haven't read Jenn's words, or seen her photos, you've been missing out - hugely. A beautiful mind, a beautiful young woman, a beautiful person.
Jenn passed away Thursday night. There is nothing that can be said here that will ever make this even close to bearable. She was robbed of her whole life, her loved ones were robbed of her whole life.
Jenn was one of the truly amazing people I am lucky enough to have met in that unlikely cyberworld. Of course we'd never actually met, but does that even count? She said to me recently that "when i end up in paris again one day i (will) bang on your door & demand that you drink wine with me...", and I so wish I could tell her that she's not off the hook...
Jenn showed me that writing could be a thing of joy, even in sadness.
Not this time.
It dawned on me yesterday that everytime I snap a picture of anything, everything, I think of her. Jenn showed me that photography was retaining a little of your childhood spirit, and letting it loose in the world. And I wish I'd told her that I am so very grateful to her for that.
It is possible to miss people that you've never met. I didn't want to know that.

Whatever happened to the "global village"?

I was watching a documentary the other day, The Yes Men, about two guys trying to undermine the WTO from the inside - pretty funny, in a Michael-Moore sort of way - when suddenly, disaster struck.
The translator doing the subtitles was obviously working straight from the video and didn't have a script. And when, at some point, one of the guys said something like "every columnist in the US", s/he didn't understand. Or rather, s/he understood "communist". And of course proceeded to translate "communist".
Now. A translation usually goes through a quality control. Subtitles supposedly go through a quality control too. That means that at least two more people didn't think there was anything wrong with that.
The same kind of annoying thing has already happened several times - let's face it, it's easy to spot mistranslations in subtitles, especially when you're, like me, actively looking for them, but still... - but the one that also stays is when some alleged translator had misunderstood "when he'd been wronged" and translated "when he'd been wrong". Which I'm sure you'll agree does alter the meaning slightly.

There's a job offer that keeps popping up on my e-mail: a very, very big company in NYC is currently looking for a French translator. In fact, they're looking for me, but they're in denial. Someone with my experience, in my field of experience, etc. Me, right?
Except they're not going to hire me. And believe me, I've applied. Three times. And I'm going to apply again. They said they were looking for the right person. Based on their ad and my resume, I can only assume that the right person will already have the right to work in the US because they're not going to sponsor. As they've been looking for a couple months now, they'll have to settle soon, because nobody looks for translators for ever. So they'll hire someone who doesn't meet their requirements, but hey, at least they won't have to sponsor. (By the way, I'm not saying I meet their requirements. I'm saying they could at least bloody check.)

So there you have it. That's the main reason why I haven't really been updating this thing quite so regularly as in the past - nice little bit of understatement, that. I'm not, in fact, a big fan of the bitchy whiny attitude - no, I'm not... - and it seems that all I want to be doing these days is bitch and whine. And it's going to last a while, I can tell.

They'll probably name a disease after me, you know

Or a particularly nasty and vicious neurosis. Something.
Apparently, I am, at certain times, hypersensitive to sound. All sorts of sound. Especially the disbelievingly non-stop PA announcements or whatever they're called that they were killing me slowly with on the train.
They were telling us that we were going to be 35 minutes late. Now that's annoying but we can deal with it like adults, I'm sure.
Yeah, at first I could.
And then they started translating everything they were saying into 3 more languages. All the announcements we had, we got them in French, Dutch, German, and English. All of them starting with the annoying Thalys jingle. All of them. Some of them were told on the oh-so-obvious spot by the train guard, who oh-so-obviously didn't really speak either Dutch or English. You'd think that while we wait in the scorching heat in an unventilated train is not the best of times to increase our blood pressure like that, wouldn't you? The Thalys people, they don't seem to mind. They must like living on the edge.
Especially as the train is crowded, and of course, of course, there will be people trying their mobile ringtone, making sure that it is loud enough - not to mention silly enough - to be heard in such a loud environment as a train. Because the mute option is taking too much of a risk, isn't it. One might miss a crucial phone call, and one certainly doesn't want to have to wait a whole 90 minutes to talk loudly and self-importantly.
By the end of the sound-testing phase, I was ready to gouge some eyes out.
Which is the exact moment that one of the guys out for a teenage romp in Paris with his pals, a couple of seats up, chose to start shuffling his deck of cards (no, that is not, in fact, a metaphor) repeatedly, getting ready for some devilishly daring game of solitaire (still not a metaphor). I just had to shoot him a look. And not a come-hither look either. Which he didn't see anyway because he was sitting with his back to me. Yeah, I was murderously annoyed, but not particularly brave. But his mate saw me and said a couple words to him. The shuffling stopped and I tasted power. It is good.
A couple minutes later, the shuffling was back on the cards. Power is also fickle.

So that's my excuse, huh...

You know what, it's kind of hard to write anything when Blogger is so obviously up the proverbial creek without its trusted cyber paddle.
Even if I did think of something funny to write about - which I don't, so don't hold your breath here, 'cause, well... you'd die - the fifteen minutes and four refreshes it takes for each page to load up on my screen before I even make it to the "new post" thingamajig do tend to make me let go of the plot entirely, as proved by the single string of profanities that seems to be going round on a loop in my head. And I've watched Deadwood, so that's a single, long, string of profanities we're talking about here. It is in fact possible that part of said string escaped the confines of my head and made it past my usually pristine lips. They're probably tainted forever now.
Yeah, so maybe my lips weren't so pristine nor my grasp of the plot so perfect to begin with, but I'll blame Blogger anyway.

Help! Help! I'm being repressed!

A funny thing happened yesterday. Not funny strange, funny ha ha. Well, not really funny ha ha, more like I-really-want-to-rip-your-bloody-throat-open-with-my-nails-bitten-raw funny.
You see, the people I'm talking to about a potential job are dangling the opportunity in front of me, but they have perfected the "tantalisingly close" thing to a work of art. So yes, but not quite. Or maybe but we're not completely ready just yet.
Also - or should that be hence - I am in the shittiest of moods today. You'd think that that could have happened when I was at my parents' and I had people to get angry and snap at for no reason except the intense satisfaction of seeing a look of utter incomprehension on their faces while their mouths opened and closed in a near-perfect impersonation of a fish that racks its brains for a killing repartee but can't find one, wouldn't you. No, surprisingly, that went quite well. And now, I'm back in Paris, where the weather is an absolute crime against my humanity, and there's no one around that I can calm my nerves on.
Well, I guess I am simply going to have to pay the unemployment agency a visit tomorrow and kill someone, then.

Slow come-back

Not quite fully "back" in Paris yet, so Voice of a City got a sort of a half-cooked rant, and you get a sort of a mumble.
But you know you're my favorite child, don't you.

So long, and thanks for all the fish

Today is Towel Day.
Do Douglas Adams proud and carry one around with you all day, why don't you. It might not give you the answer to Life, the Universe, and Everything, but, should the planet come to an untimely demise today, you'll find it can come in very handy indeed.

Now have a good weekend, everyone.

Bleuargh

Things are a bit all over the place right now, hence the temporary silence (enjoy it while it lasts, though. Or hopefully you enjoyed it while it lasted. Whatever...). Plus I'm nursing a right arm that decided to simply quit on me over the weekend, and it turns out that my right arm, even though I'm left-handed, is evidently a lot more useful to me than I ever thought, seeing as I couldn't do much for two days, apart from whining and crying and wishing that my life was completely different and blaming it all on my parents, because somebody had to be blamed, and I don't need to remind anybody that I'm single, now, do I.
Point taken, right arm. Come back now.
When it does come back*, there are a few things that need taken care of. I am however feeling all over the place too, bordering on out of control.
Soooo... Don't mind me while I huddle into a corner and lick my mental troubles into permanent scar tissue.
Oh, and also. There is only so much "anne, you're inadequate" shoved in my face that I can take, and I had to look up "UMD" today, because the Doom DVD, and UMD then, is out in France, so that quota was reached fast. Who on earth comes up with a technology but doesn't make sure that everybody knows what the acronym means before advertising for Doom?? And while we're on the topic. Doom??? Was there a need, a point, a redeeming feature?
Yeah, I'm in a foul mood. But you were kind of warned.
Completely off topic (or... is it?) , I'll be at my parents' for the next few days. Yeah, I take it very seriously, that blaming game... Anyway. If you don't hear from me by the end of next week, call the police. I mean that.
In the meantime, I want, nay, I need, a new haircut. Think about it, and get back to me. Ta.

*Truth be told, it has come back. But I could still do with some sympathy.

Words of advice

It's better to have been drunk and be home when the wind's blowing like mad than to be sober and out (when the wind's blowing...). No?
That's what I thought.
Also, and let's be serious here for a couple of seconds. Are there any restaurant managers among you? Well, you listen very carefully, people. Cockroaches. They don't look too good in restaurants. I'm just saying. Especially when they're huge big ones, of the kind that's not really supposed to exist in France.
First, spotting the presence of one because it's very very close to my bag will make me suspicious of your hygiene standards, and you don't really want your customers to be suspicious of your hygiene standards, now, do you?
[Ooops, a sound very similar to a gunshot has just been heard outside of the flat. That would be way too much excitement for one evening. If people start screaming and crying now, I may never get to the end of this post.]
And second, the sheer size of it will also make me wonder if the "restaurant" operation is not simply a cover-up for a chemicals business you might have going in back. Especially considering a hugely famous actress* is having dinner in that same restaurant. Think Kate Moss meets X-Men if you're lost.
Nevertheless, if you're going to have cockroaches roaming your fine establishment anyway, you might want to tell your waiters that squashing them is not advisable. Unless you really want more of them. A lot more of them. Which is your right, after all, but you're going to have to make a choice after a while: customers or cockroaches... And William Styron wrote it better than I ever will, it's a difficult choice to live with.
The good thing about cockroaches in restaurants, though, is that if you spot them before the waiter, alcohol's on the house.
[And about that gunshot? Apparently it wasn't one. Phew.]

* Yeah, OK, maybe not hugely famous.

Da Vinci load

So... The Cannes Festival started tonight, The Da Vinci Code is about to hit the entire planet, and I'm already sick of it.
It's so unfair that, having only just escaped Tom Cruise, we now find ourselves at Tom Hanks' mercy... The thing is, I'm probably going to go see it. I'm weak that way. And let's face it, it's not like I'm overbusy these days.
But how many unsubtitled Uzbek films will I then have to watch to make up for that? And I can't really use the obscure 'French' movie thing these days: there are no aloof pseudo intellectuals left to smoke and talk about death and sex, they're all busy trying to break some code about Jesus having sex before his death.
By the way. People, people, people. What is this thing about taking "Da Vinci Code" tours? Do you really think that the truth is going to leap at you from the Rose Line in Saint-Sulpice? Do you? Do you? Has it never occurred to you that it hadn't even fully occurred to Dan Brown? Who wrote the book? Has it never? Has it never? (Funnily enough, that doesn't sound half as snappy as "Do you? Do you?") Let's be serious for a second, now shall we.
And that stance of mine - good lord, I'm actually taking a stance - has nothing to do with the heated debate that's been featured in almost every news edition for the past week, between those who want to believe and, well, those who want to believe.
Once a year, we all believe that an initially pagan fat man in red does indeed manage to climb down chimney conduits to deposit presents that, again, we believe we deserve. You'd think that once that little feat is achieved, we could suspend our disbelief for a couple more pages and go along with a novel.
Hold on. I'm contradicting myself here, aren't I? Bugger.

Random thoughts

Yep. That bad. And that took me about 15 minutes to write.

Ready, steady... Oh, that's right. I can't do steady.

No, this is not, in fact, a post with lots of relationship advice and the secret cure to commitment-phobia in it. Those of you who were expecting that may now move on to the next page of Google results.
So many of you take pictures without even realizing how hard it is for us normal (or... you know...) people, that you're probably never going to understand this, but anyway, here goes my cry for help, understanding and maybe a little pity. With summer come longer days, beautiful dusk and night "light", and endless opportunities to shoot away, especially at night. And endless opportunities for me to snap, tremble, delete, snap, tremble, delete, etc. And I suppose I should really be grateful for digital cameras. Just think of the number of forests for whose destruction I'd be single-handedly responsible if I was using a camera with real, processable film in it...
Still... Frankly, it's annoying. I have tried a lot of things to remedy this problem, and none of them's worked. This evening, I tried a friend's shoulder. He moved. In fact, the picture with his "help" was a lot worse than the one without. Which is just typical, isn't it. Just when you're hoping you'll be able to rely, maybe even rest, on a man's shoulder, he fails you.
Honestly, though, this isn't about relationships.
Maybe I should just wander about with a telescopic tripod. (Minds. Out of gutter. Now.* This is not about relationships, I said.) Toss it in the bag with the umbrella (just in case), the wallet, the cheque-book, the sunglasses (if I'm taking the brollie, I sure as hell am taking the sunnies), the book, the MP3 player, the lipsalve, the tissues, the cell phone, the streetfinder, the camera, the Japanese ashtray, the huge keyring... Why am I bothering with a lady-like purse or even a girlie bag? A wheeled suitcase is obviously the way to go here. And at least my pictures would be showing the actual target, instead of a blurry mass of bleeding colors.

*They weren't? Sorry. Blame Coupling.

Frank

Courtesy of Monkey0.

For Jenny, visiting her great-grandmother had always meant stories galore.
Back when photography was a novelty, Louise had perfectly understood how important it was to have souvenirs, tangible images of people and places. The way they were, that way they would always be.
All it took was for Jenny to reach into the treasure trove of photographs that her gran had accumulated over the years.
The tradition was this. If Jenny was staying the night, they would settle on the sofa after dinner, Jenny would pick a photo at random, and Louise would tell the tale. The ritual, because no tradition goes without a ritual, included hot chocolate and marshmallows, plumped up cushions, and Danse Macabre on the stereo.
That day, two pictures were sitting on top of the big leather chest that Louise used for her photos. Jenny took one look at them, smiled at her gran, and said:
"Well, I don't think I need to look any further. Now who is this dashing young man, this... Frank... pray tell?"
"Oh, Jenny, no. Please pick another one."
"Gra-a-an! Come on, you know the rules. I pick the picture, and you tell me the story..."
"This is going to be hard for me, you know. There's a reason those photos were out, but they really should have been put away."
Jenny looked closely at her gran, gave her a kiss on the cheek, cuddled up to her on the sofa and waited, head resting on the crook of her great-grandmother's neck, one hand wrapped loosely around her.
"Frank. See the ring on his wedding finger? It was a present from me. We weren't married, not even engaged. We were just very much in love. It... It was very good. He was very good to me."
Louise paused.
"But he's not Granpa."
There was no interrogation in Jenny's voice, just some sort of vague understanding.
"No. That, he was not. For some reason, our... affair... was frowned upon, to put it mildly. We had to hide every time we were meeting, we were even thinking of eloping. I was afraid it would have killed my parents, but I was willing to take that chance."
"Killed your parents? Oh come on, Gran."
"Oh it would have been terrible, Jenny, about that I have no doubt. That was three quarters of a century ago, remember. So even if it hadn't actually killed them, the shame would have been a much worse fate. Thankfully... for them, they were..." Louise's voice faltered. "... spared the indignity, I suppose."
"What happened? Gran, are you OK?"
"He got shot in a hunting accident. He hated hunting. My father had threatened him into joining. Not threatened threatened, of course, but, you know, used his position of authority, to say the least. There was never a doubt in my mind that my own father killed the man with whom I was in love. That was 77 years ago yesterday. I left my hometown after the funeral and never saw my parents again." She looked at Jenny. "I'm OK, petal. I met your great-grandfather a couple of years after that. He was very good to me too."
"Oh Gran, that's..."
Louise's eyes were filling up, but no tears were shed.
"It's OK, sweetheart. These things happened."

You're forcing me to do this

Listen, people of various charities who choose to phone at lunchtime, dinnertime, and any time in between. I respect the job that you're doing as a member of, you know, the various charities that you represent. And I wish I could give more, to all of you, and end war, hunger, poverty and sexual frustration in the world.
OK, so that last one's not a charity. But I am pretty sure that if it were one, you would raise a lot of money for that. A lot.
So, despite that obvious oversight, which I just might tackle soon, I respect you, your job, your causes, etc. Nevertheless, you are going to have to stop calling me. Honestly. Everyday, a couple of times a day? There is such a thing as overdoing it, you know.
Now, I am more than willing to contribute to a joint effort, but I cannot do this on my own. Especially in these tax-paying times. And it does feel like you're relying exclusively on me. Which is an easy mistake, I guess, as I am a very reliable person.
However. You see, I am unemployed. In fact, there is a good chance that, if things continue down the slick, soap-covered slope they very clearly have embarked on, I might have to take full advantage from one of your charities. So you calling me at any time of day is not only a textbook example of "not efficient", but it could be construed as moral harassment. I could probably sue you for moral distraught: everyday, several times a day, you manage to make me feel completely inadequate and unhelpful. And you know, someone like me (reliable, then) needs to feel helpful. Obviously.
Yeah... So I would probably lose this particular case... and there is no such thing as bad publicity for you... Crap!
All right. Fine. Fine. I'll just take on standard telemarketers then. 'Cause there's a whole 'nother post in that.