Austrian Consulate, Wednesday October 18, 6.30pm.
3 strudels, 1 1/5 cappuccino. 2 blue eyes barely awake emerge from a sea of hyperventilating and over-perfumed hairdos. “You look like your brother” the blue eyes say. Someone else turns to me and probably recognizes a familiar smile: “you must be Maïa. Very nice to meet you. Please send your borther our warmest regards when you see him next.” Then, whispering in the loving ear nearby: “her brother is that amazing guy who helps run the Center from Vienna. The business man who speaks 5 languages and is a star in the city basketball team. A wonderful man.”
The Words linger in the air, holding their breath for a second so the sound travels faster than the meaning.
Are they talking about my brother? The one wearing faded promotional tee’s and run down 1990’s Michael Jordan basketball shoes? What business man? What tie and suit? I mean yes, he does speak 5 languages, comes to think of it. Yes, he’s always been very good at sports, gentle and smart and soft spoken and funny. I already knew that. But I never experienced him summed up with words, and strangers’ words at that. I am stunned by this new and yet accurate description. “It’s about time you realize” says the full page of the company’s annual report, bearing his picture and a laudatory note form its President. I am chocked, I am proud, I miss him. For the first time, I feel like a mother who did not see her child grow. That child just happens to be my older brother.
The blues eyes say it’s time to go home. They wave good bye and vanish around the corner at the bottom of the strairs, leaving behind a soothing smell of spring.
Friday, October 20, 2006
Monday, October 16, 2006
Decaf, caf, caf
We all have our moments when we know we crossed the line. My line gets pushed over by caffeine and white wine. And neither of them help me understand the world better; I just look with wider opened eyes. Last night I was sitting –vegetating- in front of the TV (sue me), and despite the high dosage of nothingness around, I was somewhat listening to what was going on. In the name of Almighty Commercials, is it OK for Fat Actress Kirstie Alley to feed diet chocolate bars to 6 year olds as a Halloween treat? Someone got paid (A LOT) to come up with ideas like this. Is it really worth all the Four Seasons meals, the hour long team debates, the business flight to LA so some A.D. (Artistic Director) can get approved by a board of half baked Romeo and Juliet cigars? Things are far from being perfect in Cheeseland (we do sell mashed goose liver macerated in fungus as one of the highest New Year's delicacy; a treat for your body that no Maalox or hand sanitizer will ever defeat. And I do support that.) But diet chocolate bars for kids?
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Small talk
I can't beleive I found this piece of text from over a year ago. I guess I entered the city love/hate relationship long before realizing it. I am a New Yorker now.
January 24th, 2005
Hey, how are you? –Good thanks. You? –Good. –Cold huh? –Yeah. Freezing. Can’t wait for summer. –Me too. –How’s work? –Good. You? –Still looking for a new job… –Cool. I have to go. Nice talking to you. –Yeah, bye. –Bye.
Small talk.
What exactly pushes us to be eternally dull, boring and dangerously persistent? You meet friends of friends, hoping for nothing but a nice conversation. It happens you’re happy; it doesn’t you get over it. So why do we keep re-enacting those uncomfortable simulacra of interest? What good does it do to engage a conversation that is indubitably heading towards a dead end?
Like anyone, I grew up meeting my neighbors and their families knowing these bribes of conversations would never digress into a late night at Jenny’s Coffee Shop. But those are people I did not choose, just like my own family -you love them unconditionally (as I do) or you spend your life figuring how to. So outside of the immediate surrounding, why do we authorize ourselves to deliver automated speeches?
I am tired of pretending, wasting my time on shallow acquaintances, tired of expecting a punch line for a joke that doesn’t exist. Live and let die. Time to move on, eradicate the plethora of individuals who are welcoming hosts only if you promise not to stay. Exit overrated ones that label you “clinging type” when you show interest, and that call you back once they understand the inferior being that you are was not mesmerized by their outstanding wits.
Random people vanish with the last call of the bar. Let those empty shells vanish with them.
January 24th, 2005
Hey, how are you? –Good thanks. You? –Good. –Cold huh? –Yeah. Freezing. Can’t wait for summer. –Me too. –How’s work? –Good. You? –Still looking for a new job… –Cool. I have to go. Nice talking to you. –Yeah, bye. –Bye.
Small talk.
What exactly pushes us to be eternally dull, boring and dangerously persistent? You meet friends of friends, hoping for nothing but a nice conversation. It happens you’re happy; it doesn’t you get over it. So why do we keep re-enacting those uncomfortable simulacra of interest? What good does it do to engage a conversation that is indubitably heading towards a dead end?
Like anyone, I grew up meeting my neighbors and their families knowing these bribes of conversations would never digress into a late night at Jenny’s Coffee Shop. But those are people I did not choose, just like my own family -you love them unconditionally (as I do) or you spend your life figuring how to. So outside of the immediate surrounding, why do we authorize ourselves to deliver automated speeches?
I am tired of pretending, wasting my time on shallow acquaintances, tired of expecting a punch line for a joke that doesn’t exist. Live and let die. Time to move on, eradicate the plethora of individuals who are welcoming hosts only if you promise not to stay. Exit overrated ones that label you “clinging type” when you show interest, and that call you back once they understand the inferior being that you are was not mesmerized by their outstanding wits.
Random people vanish with the last call of the bar. Let those empty shells vanish with them.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Gradually Reduced Eskimo
Leaning against the 10th Edition of the GRE book, I am resolving the last equation of the day: if x= 0, √x= 0. When you're lame, you're lame, and that's easy math right there.
Today, my friends, I took my first GRE class and learned... how to make a division! Yeah, and let me tell you this was a painful experience. If I hadn't already had a brake down this afternoon because the Austrian Consultate left its doors shut despite my insistent knocking, paper invitation for tonight's cocktail in hand (the paper read: Sturdel party. I had brand new dentures on, ready to mingle with the 70 something years old nobility's finest veterans) I would have cried a river of embarrassment.
I can recognize Ghanaian Ashanti stools, Nias Lwölö Guardian Figures, Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattvas from the Northern Qi era, or a fake Monet (by lifting the frame,) but I can't freaking divide. To that, add (not divide) the fact that I am slightly dyslexic (left/right, north/south, "b" and "p", are all the same to me.) Imagine my tutor's -and my- amazement when I struggled in the BASIC REVIEW section of the book. p.4, that is, right after the credits. Why is the remainder of a division put over the divisor? If it represents the left over, how come it comes first when you look at the whole thing? That might be a detail to you, but we, Ze French, learned it differently. The right way I believe, and I already sucked at it back then.
Why am I even taking the test, you might ask? Because I am applying to Grad school. Again. 1.5 Masters, 2 Art History theses, and I am going for another diploma (although here, in the US.) I want to feel the warm atmosphere of school again, discern the soft scratch of blue, green, purple and yellow fountain pens as they engrave on expensive paper that the "before the after-war" was a productive artistic era (did he mean "during the war" ??)
I want to rediscover the smell of rancid cold tobacco outside of the amphitheater as I leave the sweaty classroom to breathe some fresh air. I want to be transported to the Middle Ages Royal Courts again, cradled by the soft voice of a"Gothic art" tenured reciting the "Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry" in Latin, to the beat of a badly tuned mandolin. (Education is free in France and the academic selection is made by endlessly failing the students until they forfeit. So try to spot the depressed 5th year freshman playing mandolin in a room of 500+, under the glow of slides showing antique ruins long turned into Disneyworld's attractions.)
And above all, I miss cheating on my neighbor’s mid-term paper, herself looking at an outdated and therefore erroneous book barely hidden on her lap. I want to feel my heart jump again, as the examiner unseals the final exam's question taken randomly over 4000 years of art History, (the one that will determinate if you are worthy of finally becoming a Sophomore) :"Define Opus Caementicium", "-you have 4 hours."
Yes, I miss all of that. So, what am I doing instead of practicing the GRE? Another blog entry. I guess I could also just watch re-runs of "Saved by the Bell" and call it a career.
Today, my friends, I took my first GRE class and learned... how to make a division! Yeah, and let me tell you this was a painful experience. If I hadn't already had a brake down this afternoon because the Austrian Consultate left its doors shut despite my insistent knocking, paper invitation for tonight's cocktail in hand (the paper read: Sturdel party. I had brand new dentures on, ready to mingle with the 70 something years old nobility's finest veterans) I would have cried a river of embarrassment.
I can recognize Ghanaian Ashanti stools, Nias Lwölö Guardian Figures, Avalokiteshvara Bodhisattvas from the Northern Qi era, or a fake Monet (by lifting the frame,) but I can't freaking divide. To that, add (not divide) the fact that I am slightly dyslexic (left/right, north/south, "b" and "p", are all the same to me.) Imagine my tutor's -and my- amazement when I struggled in the BASIC REVIEW section of the book. p.4, that is, right after the credits. Why is the remainder of a division put over the divisor? If it represents the left over, how come it comes first when you look at the whole thing? That might be a detail to you, but we, Ze French, learned it differently. The right way I believe, and I already sucked at it back then.
Why am I even taking the test, you might ask? Because I am applying to Grad school. Again. 1.5 Masters, 2 Art History theses, and I am going for another diploma (although here, in the US.) I want to feel the warm atmosphere of school again, discern the soft scratch of blue, green, purple and yellow fountain pens as they engrave on expensive paper that the "before the after-war" was a productive artistic era (did he mean "during the war" ??)
I want to rediscover the smell of rancid cold tobacco outside of the amphitheater as I leave the sweaty classroom to breathe some fresh air. I want to be transported to the Middle Ages Royal Courts again, cradled by the soft voice of a"Gothic art" tenured reciting the "Très Riches Heures du Duc de Berry" in Latin, to the beat of a badly tuned mandolin. (Education is free in France and the academic selection is made by endlessly failing the students until they forfeit. So try to spot the depressed 5th year freshman playing mandolin in a room of 500+, under the glow of slides showing antique ruins long turned into Disneyworld's attractions.)
And above all, I miss cheating on my neighbor’s mid-term paper, herself looking at an outdated and therefore erroneous book barely hidden on her lap. I want to feel my heart jump again, as the examiner unseals the final exam's question taken randomly over 4000 years of art History, (the one that will determinate if you are worthy of finally becoming a Sophomore) :"Define Opus Caementicium", "-you have 4 hours."
Yes, I miss all of that. So, what am I doing instead of practicing the GRE? Another blog entry. I guess I could also just watch re-runs of "Saved by the Bell" and call it a career.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Groundhog Day
Cynical is en vogue, my dear, and depression is in the air. Not in me, but my air is definitely polluted by depressed, depressing and aspartame sweetened people. How can I get away from this?
a/ Leave the job (but “love to hate themselves” people are everywhere; it’s not worth loosing the potential of the actual job. Plus, I feel I reached the highest level my current skills can get me.)
b/ Go to school. Apply now for next year x 2 ½ years enrolled x $80,000 x rent x food x reimburse school = raw pasta sans sauce nor personal life until I’m 42. Then menopause, then die. But die smarter than at 27.
c/ Move to a country where none of this matters. Eat grilled fish, mangos, guavas, freshly baked bread. Stare at colorful displays of strangely shaped veggies, wave at old man sipping on an exotic fruit blend under the neon like sun. Check out Whole Foods Market purchases through cashier n°21 and go back to work.
d/ Start a blog. Write a public diary no one will ever read (don’t we all only want to access what has been locked?) Close laptop. Start over as often as necessary.
a/ Leave the job (but “love to hate themselves” people are everywhere; it’s not worth loosing the potential of the actual job. Plus, I feel I reached the highest level my current skills can get me.)
b/ Go to school. Apply now for next year x 2 ½ years enrolled x $80,000 x rent x food x reimburse school = raw pasta sans sauce nor personal life until I’m 42. Then menopause, then die. But die smarter than at 27.
c/ Move to a country where none of this matters. Eat grilled fish, mangos, guavas, freshly baked bread. Stare at colorful displays of strangely shaped veggies, wave at old man sipping on an exotic fruit blend under the neon like sun. Check out Whole Foods Market purchases through cashier n°21 and go back to work.
d/ Start a blog. Write a public diary no one will ever read (don’t we all only want to access what has been locked?) Close laptop. Start over as often as necessary.
One Way Ticket
So here I am sitting down with my insomnia. 2..30 am, watching Shannon Doherty ditching love partners on behalf of mall-singers groupies who thought they could conveniently humiliate their ex AND record application materials for the next "F*** me I'm single" MTV reality show . (Yes, since I have been on the same job for over 3 month, I though I would splurge on long term commitments such as cable TV.) What happened to the quarterly "I'm getting kicked out of the country" emails some of you asked? (sorry for the ones who didn't, maybe I secretly hate you and left you on the list for that exact reason) Well, I've had the same visa since last November. 10 month of administrative stability -a record that outlasted by far any relationship I've had since I moved to this city. Truth is, the level of distress hasn't changed much. TV is as dumb as ever and my attention span has shortened to the point where I cannot read the foreword of a book without hoping the commercial break will be on soon so I can see what's in the fridge.
On a positive note, the roommate who used to parade in sports bra-sponge shorts every time she would sense male pheromones in the hallway (sales rep, boyfriend –mine-, pizzaiolo, kids trick or treating et alii) finally left, leaving me to a sweeter misery and an empty apartment. I know there's something else in life than Work Permits and relationships, but I can't seem to care about fashion that much, so I'm sorry for always going back to the same topics. So, although the "Post Coitum, animal Triste" has been widely covered by Sarah-Jessica Parker as Carrie Bradshaw and by Brigitte Rouan in her "disappointingly mediocre" 1997 feature film (says the Imdb review), claiming the talent of none I will simply ask this: what the hell is wrong with this city??
I am fascinated by how such an impersonal etiquette of love ever became the standard in this town breathing off of diversity. The Sex and the City years might be over for Carrie and friends, total strangers still come up to me in the most random places to complain about their sex life. A 50 something Lebanese male in Whole Foods last week, the 35 year old daughter of the couple who is subletting my friend's apartment this week, my boss, the Air France pilot on our way to Germany 10 days ago –that's another story all together-; even the late night cab driver: "too many girls, you know; too many girls and not enough guys. No good for people. I see bad things and I am ashamed for their families. They ask boys' name in cab, but they already all over them. Disgusting."
If I got it right, you meet Mr. STD –well yeah, you can't just multiply one type of fun- on a clear drunken night. You guys talk, dance, and let's say he's even funny. You see each other often, sometimes for a diner or a movie before going back to his place for the night... Life is good, and Mr. Considerate even offers more and more often to skip the diner-movie-talk-laugh part to directly go back to his place. In a word, you feel connected. One day, after many moving shared memories and half rent checks, he ceremoniously goes down on a knee, tears in his eyes, and pops the question: "my darling, would you like to be exclusive?"
As I sit in my first owned couch watching mind-numbing programs on my new TV and typing this stupid email on a PC I stole at work, I cannot help but wonder: now that I can finally stay, it is time to leave?
On a positive note, the roommate who used to parade in sports bra-sponge shorts every time she would sense male pheromones in the hallway (sales rep, boyfriend –mine-, pizzaiolo, kids trick or treating et alii) finally left, leaving me to a sweeter misery and an empty apartment. I know there's something else in life than Work Permits and relationships, but I can't seem to care about fashion that much, so I'm sorry for always going back to the same topics. So, although the "Post Coitum, animal Triste" has been widely covered by Sarah-Jessica Parker as Carrie Bradshaw and by Brigitte Rouan in her "disappointingly mediocre" 1997 feature film (says the Imdb review), claiming the talent of none I will simply ask this: what the hell is wrong with this city??
I am fascinated by how such an impersonal etiquette of love ever became the standard in this town breathing off of diversity. The Sex and the City years might be over for Carrie and friends, total strangers still come up to me in the most random places to complain about their sex life. A 50 something Lebanese male in Whole Foods last week, the 35 year old daughter of the couple who is subletting my friend's apartment this week, my boss, the Air France pilot on our way to Germany 10 days ago –that's another story all together-; even the late night cab driver: "too many girls, you know; too many girls and not enough guys. No good for people. I see bad things and I am ashamed for their families. They ask boys' name in cab, but they already all over them. Disgusting."
If I got it right, you meet Mr. STD –well yeah, you can't just multiply one type of fun- on a clear drunken night. You guys talk, dance, and let's say he's even funny. You see each other often, sometimes for a diner or a movie before going back to his place for the night... Life is good, and Mr. Considerate even offers more and more often to skip the diner-movie-talk-laugh part to directly go back to his place. In a word, you feel connected. One day, after many moving shared memories and half rent checks, he ceremoniously goes down on a knee, tears in his eyes, and pops the question: "my darling, would you like to be exclusive?"
As I sit in my first owned couch watching mind-numbing programs on my new TV and typing this stupid email on a PC I stole at work, I cannot help but wonder: now that I can finally stay, it is time to leave?
Sunday, February 19, 2006
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
VH1 vs. H1B, Part deux –last episode (?)
October 2005: Sum up of the last episode:
August 17th, 2005
12 month work Visa: expired
Status of new 3-year work Visa (H1B) filled in April: unknown
Days remaining in the country: 60
60 days with no legal existence. An administrative overdue, a wandering soul. 60 days as non-being with a freshly signed lease lying on the shinny hardwood floor of a yet to be furnished apartment. What's an overdue to do? Unable to leave, forbidden to work, I opted for a two-month spree to get to know the city, get a job or get an eligible man (and not necessarily in that order, mind you.)
My nonexistent self and I, freed from the burden of having to behave like a responsible citizen, wandered from hip Manhattan to hipper Brooklyn, entering homes, dive bars and bling bling clubs unnoticed (only in this city you bump into George Clooney during a slumber party.) In the course of the summer alone, I participated in a bi-monthly reenactment of what December 31st at the Baron de Mord-moi-l'noeud must have looked like, back in the joyous days when France had Kings and people like me where fed to the pyre. The elaborate gibberish warning on the invitation "no sneakers, no jeans," once deciphered, read " in your face my Armani suit, I'm a banker." For study purposes only, I religiously attended the conveniently baptized "French Tuesdays" events, sipping special priced champagne in my yard-sale beat-up Gucci boots. Café St Bart's, Tavern on the Green, Battery Park Gardens, Boulevard… Alcohol probably helping, my fervent attendance paid off and I soon made new friends. Eager to find out more about them and especially in order to have something to do the rest of the week, I began to follow my ersatz of French community in its after-life –ie beyond Tuesdays.
It turned out that, like the succession of circles you get when you throw a stone in the water, everyone belonged to another "community." Wednesdays became Eastern Europe day. Every other Thursdays I partied with "Made in Italy," an itinerant group of Italian expat' getting seasick in the meatpacking district to the beat of electro-garage. The other "every-other Thursdays" was dedicated to a French version of "girls night out:" only women and free hard liquor cocktails allowed from 8-10 pm. Desperate guys come in at 10pm, confident that 80% of the work had already been done by Mr. Zubrowka. Friday was always filled with some type of "yes. I'm on Vero's list" event in a club or another, that a somewhat expired Press Pass always interestingly managed to back up. Then came Saturdays, with the orthodox Jews gathering in Central Park after Shabbat in hope to meet someone mom would finally approve of –if you're reading this and are interested in joining this group, avoid showing up in shorts and talking on your cell phone. I tried. On Sundays, I met with "Judios Latinos" the Latin Jews also meeting in Central Park, who discussed things I didn't get, and then translated them in several Spanish dialects. One Monday, in an everlasting quest to test my determination to remain in the country, I started to follow people outside of the relative safety net provided by organized social events.
- 22 year old chick clubbing in Chelsea in a tiny-mini skirt –belt?- and confiding everyone she is an industrial spy, check.
- 12 people naked at 2 am in a pool discussing the danger of golf cart driving in Putnam valley, check. (thanks for bringing back the bathing suit Anna…)
- Coke-heads sniffing their checking account using $50 bills in their Über West village penthouse, check.
- Pot heads sniffing beer on the roof of their rent-free squat in Brooklyn, check.
- Quebecois chum fluent in Breton (Brittany's ancestral language,) check.
- Quebecois chum fluent in Breton that blows up an air mattress with a Ziploc bag and a car ventilation but then doesn't want to sleep on it because of spiders, check.
- Plastic pearl necklaces and canoe day in an empty NJ summer camp on September 11, check.
- Karaoke night hosted by a 40 something transvestite in the middle of the projects in Brooklyn, check.
- Young cutie slightly hammered randomly throwing himself at me (who would have thought?) check.
- Handsome man totally sober and throwing himself at me… well, got to remember to check that one.
- Actually had to go to the E.R while E.R was on, stayed 4 hours, swallowed 2 pounds of pink pills, came back sicker than coming in, check.
Today, October 15, 2005, exhausted, dazed and yes, confused, NYC's tasting has come to an end: my H1B case has been approved!
What does that mean? It means than I am officially reborn. I can now theoretically come and go freely for the next 3 years. It also means, now that I no longer work for the company the visa was granted for, that I have 30 days left to find a job, transfer the papers, or get my dirty immigrant ass out of the country.
30 days? …Any one knows of a Hindu or a New Guinea group that meets on Mondays?
Sunday, April 17, 2005
VH1 vs. H1B part 1
April, 2005, VH1 vs. H1B
August 17th, 2005.
The date I will officially expire. Like a bowl of mayo left all afternoon on the picnic table, or that bag of party favors from the Oyster festival 03’ your forgot to throw out. On August 17th, I will go from working human being to illegal human waste.
But as for any disease there is a cure, a Botox to repel this express aging. In this case it is called “Sponsorship.” All I have to do is explain my boss that during my 2 ½ month of attendance at the gallery, I have shown exceedingly valuable assets that are worth signing me for the next three years, paying for the $6000 H1B Visa fee, hire a lawyer and go through 7 month of pain-in-the-ass paperwork. The numerus clausus application process starts next Tuesday, first come first served basis.
Now, is it really worth it? Why do I keep fighting to stay in the US like a clinging stalker following the object of her deranged affection? I once saw a “problem solver” notebook: it had 2 columns to help sort out the pro and the cons, and a total line to count the points (I guess this is where spending my lunch breaks at the American Folk Art Museum store on 66th street comes in handy.)
Bullet proof: H1B I’m in, VH1 I’m out.
VH1 > H1B
1. VH1 / MTV
> The Sundance Channel / IFC
2. Ubiquitous non-stop commercials.
> SUV’s are cool and big and useful when shopping in Manhattan. So says my credit card company.
3. Outrageous rent prices.
> Just pay for the doorless room.
4. Food-free food, Fat-full snacks.
> Asian Cuban vegan fusion restaurants with all you can eat meat deserts.
5. Old Navy considered by most as a potential “formal” wardrobe.
> Indiscernible body underneath clothing. Allow to keep the peanut butter cups coming.
6. 6 month of freezing winter.
> Keep those stupid flies frozen and out of the house.
7. Inefficient public transportations.
>Inefficient public transportations opened after midnight.
8. George Bush.
>Away from Jacques Chirac.
9. Working with lunatics.
>Lunatics okay to work with me.
10. Surrounded by indecisive overanxious talented artists.
> Surrounded by indecisive overanxious talented artists.
11. In love with New York.
I guess I’ll talk to my boss next Tuesday. Wish me luck. (or a safe trip.)
August 17th, 2005.
The date I will officially expire. Like a bowl of mayo left all afternoon on the picnic table, or that bag of party favors from the Oyster festival 03’ your forgot to throw out. On August 17th, I will go from working human being to illegal human waste.
But as for any disease there is a cure, a Botox to repel this express aging. In this case it is called “Sponsorship.” All I have to do is explain my boss that during my 2 ½ month of attendance at the gallery, I have shown exceedingly valuable assets that are worth signing me for the next three years, paying for the $6000 H1B Visa fee, hire a lawyer and go through 7 month of pain-in-the-ass paperwork. The numerus clausus application process starts next Tuesday, first come first served basis.
Now, is it really worth it? Why do I keep fighting to stay in the US like a clinging stalker following the object of her deranged affection? I once saw a “problem solver” notebook: it had 2 columns to help sort out the pro and the cons, and a total line to count the points (I guess this is where spending my lunch breaks at the American Folk Art Museum store on 66th street comes in handy.)
Bullet proof: H1B I’m in, VH1 I’m out.
VH1 > H1B
1. VH1 / MTV
> The Sundance Channel / IFC
2. Ubiquitous non-stop commercials.
> SUV’s are cool and big and useful when shopping in Manhattan. So says my credit card company.
3. Outrageous rent prices.
> Just pay for the doorless room.
4. Food-free food, Fat-full snacks.
> Asian Cuban vegan fusion restaurants with all you can eat meat deserts.
5. Old Navy considered by most as a potential “formal” wardrobe.
> Indiscernible body underneath clothing. Allow to keep the peanut butter cups coming.
6. 6 month of freezing winter.
> Keep those stupid flies frozen and out of the house.
7. Inefficient public transportations.
>Inefficient public transportations opened after midnight.
8. George Bush.
>Away from Jacques Chirac.
9. Working with lunatics.
>Lunatics okay to work with me.
10. Surrounded by indecisive overanxious talented artists.
> Surrounded by indecisive overanxious talented artists.
11. In love with New York.
I guess I’ll talk to my boss next Tuesday. Wish me luck. (or a safe trip.)
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
Speedy Valentine
February 14th 2005
While a lucky bunch received flowers and chocolate today, the rest of us is still wondering what could have possibly gone wrong. At what point in our life, serving the "yes, I do think that not remembering my name is a sign that I should not go home with you tonight, especially since we met an hour ago" ended up being a terrible lack of spontaneity?
I here understand my mistake and admit defeat: yes, I too will embrace the speed-dating life. But a question remains... How can one says it all in less than 5 min? Well my friends, I looked around and finally saw the light: getting a date in New York is like getting a job. So from now on I decided I would distribute a "Love resume" and pray for a call back.
So, on what's left of this joyous Valentine's Day I am calling the unlucky bunch to join me with their resume, and well, pass mine around while you're at it...
MAïA M.
Somewhere in Brooklyn, NY. USA
GOAL: Do better next time.
EDUCATION
Grammar school Sainte Cécile D’avès, Gaillac, (village) Southern France. 1983-1984
-Crush on Alexandre, aka “golden locks.” 20 years later, he turned into the nicest albino pot head.
-Crush on Sébastien, kid who lives on the other side of the hill. (Still lives there, with the pot head)
Grammar school Eugénie de Guérin, Gaillac, (village) Southern France. 1984-1985
-(Catholic convent/ school.) People ask if I speak ‘Jewish;’ no love interest in my school.
-Crush on David, who lives on the same hill as Sébastien; his brother actually.
-Crush on ALL the Japanese cartoons male characters. (Astro Boy is still hot.)
Grammar School Calvignac, Toulouse, Southern France. 1985-1989
-Crush on Cédric, a pretty normal kid for once Unfortunately, Cédric’s in love with my best friend.
Junior High Michelet, Southern Toulouse, France. 1989-1991
-First puppy love that appears to be shared. Plan on waiting the following year to ask him out.
Junior High Beaumarchais, Paris, France. 1991-1993
-Move to Paris, city of all crimes. No love interest, just a strong desire to stay alive.
High School Edgar Quinet, Paris, France. 1993-1994
-The concept of love is somehow disturbed by a) the fact that most guys there can’t sing the “alphabetsong” properly, b) the proximity of prostitutes/ sex shops in the neighborhood.
-First kiss with a boy from “Molière High School.” Moments later, love at first sight with hisclassmate.
High School Molière, Paris, France. 1994-1996
-“Saved by the Bell” meets The Discovery Channel: Romanian refugee, depressed singer, videogamechampion wannabee, Japanese cartoon voice over…
-Cédric, from Bréval (Parisian suburban village.)After break up, Cédric joins the army.
-Barnabus, karate champion, from Bréval.
[Score: Big Jim: 1, Barnabus: 0.]
Knowledge acquired: there are 38.851 other villages in France.
-Sébastien (the name got popular in the 1970’s.) Village 9 miles from Bréval.
-Ezekiel. Knowledge acquired: a man, in the Biblical sense.
Additional knowledge acquired: next time, stick to reading the book.
-Platonic relationship with Alexis. Kundera is in the air –and so is Alexis’ girlfriend.
La Sorbonne Paris IV, Paris, France. 1996-2004
-David, from Bréval. First long -love?- story (4 years.)
Knowledge acquired: French villages are all the same anyway.
Vassar College, Poughkeepsie, NY. USA. 2001-2002 (Teaching Assistantship)
-Erik, a drama student. After the 3rd wedding proposal, consider getting engaged the following year.
Smithsonian American Art, Washington DC. 2002-2003
-First time living with a boyfriend. First nervous breakdown. Also first time asking a boyfriend tobuy his own make up – Exit the drama queen.
-Summer in Europe: hook up with my pre-K crush Sébastien.
City University of New York (CUNY), The Graduate Center, New York, NY. 2003-2004
-Jean-Paul Sartre meets Candace Bushnell: British broker, Hindu engineer, gay guy, politician.
-Pierce, a friend.
-Brendan, his friend.
-Xander, Brendan’s roommate.
Knowledge acquired: check date’s background connections FIRST.
Sorbonne doctoral student on the run, hiding in NYC. 2004
-Ragnagna, 33 years old. Loves Iron Maiden underwear, French puddles, and himself. Hates planning, soft-boiled eggs and anyone who’s not him –especially me, I think.
-Today: Seeking a more selective taste in men.
PROFESSIONAL EXPERIENCE
Fortunately none.
SKILLS
Languages: Fluent: French, English. Proficient Spanish. Basic Rumanian and Hindi
Other:Valid US Work Permit.
NOTE. To emphasize the progression in my social life and of my mental health, this resume asbeen edited chronologically. No causality should be established between my dates, or lack of, andthe constant school change.
Tuesday, December 21, 2004
Thief on the Run legalized (Part 2)
FOX NEWS presents
a 20th CENTURY FOX production:
Breaking News. Morning Edition.
Psycho with hatchet still on the run…………........p.3
War on Terror: Rats doomed to eat us all………...p.4
Chocolate mousse recipe for Christmas……….....p.5
Let it Snow (Weather forecast)…………….……p.6-10
Thief on the Run legalized (Part 2)……………....p.11
Classified………………………………………..........p.12
- Jobs
- Green Card seekers
- K Food coupons
P.11 Thief on the Run legalized (Part 2)
On Tuesday afternoon, December 14th 2004, Foreign Citizen Maïa Morgensztern left her rent-free apartment and headed towards the Manhattan bound “Q” Train. After a long and strenuous hour spent in the office of the Director of an upscale art organization, Ms Morgenstein was finally granted one of her deepest wish: the right to steal an American citizen’s job. Ms Morgensnitz will legally start her art related career in the Land of the Free at the beginning of January. Questions remain as to whether her future superior, himself a citizen of some Foreign Country, was aware of the Laws and Regulations of the recently approved “Patriot Act” (ie “Thou shalt not Kill […] Thou shalt not hire a Foreign Citizen without my permission.”)
At press time, the exact nature of her position was not known. Rumors have circulated that she will become the “Assistant Director” at Pace Primitive.
“- I am delighted to join Pace Primitive as the Assistant Director.” She said. “It will be a wonderful opportunity for me to work while finally being paid for it. […] I would like to thank God, the President, and my Mother. My long term goal is to bring World Peace to the country.”
Ms. Morge is under investigation by the Foreign Country Secret Services for the theft of a public stapler and failure to complete the mandatory doctoral dissertation she promised her school when she left for New York in 2003. Unfortunately, Foreign Country representatives holding the warrant have not yet been allowed to cross customs at the airport (they refuse to submit to the bag search, claiming that Napoleon never had to go through such a hassle when he first visited the country. ndlr)
Whether or not the art gallery made the right decision in hiring Maia Morgnesbaum will have to be further researched in the near future.
Merry Christmas to you all.
-Reporter Carter, for FOX NEWS.
Tuesday, June 08, 2004
Thief on the Run legalized; breaches in the American judiciary system
I know, I know, another mass email. And it’s not even to give any vital information, offer something free or give you the pleasure of announcing an anticipated departure. But hey, it could be worse, like a forward of a 10 year old girl who has cancer and will die if you do not send the message to 134 friends by tomorrow and clap 3 times in your hands while chanting your bank account number. No. This email is a statement, the public acknowledgment of my “let’s invade the country” plan.
As many of you might know, I originally came to America to hide from my school. Probably due to a fatal error in their data processing system, I managed to finish my Master's and get into the Ph.D program –rerouting meriting student number 1912034 towards a life of whisky swallowing behind the stacks of her new job at the “history of combs and toothbrushes” museum in Reykjavik. The first draft of my “Art theft” proposal indubitably helped shed light on the terrible mistake. My criminal record also indicated that I stole the list of the admitted candidates embossed with the “Sorbonne” seal, and my name on it. I argued it was just to prove my family they hadn’t fed me all those years in vain -I might still end up poor but I would be an EDUCATED poor. It didn't matter. Stealing the list was considered a national offense, especially since the fund allocated to the French Educational system did not allow the use of scrap paper to print out a second copy.
Since my escape, I have discovered scenic landscapes and its fauna in Poughkeepsie, survived a stunning recreation of “Apocalypse Now” in Washington DC and even landed with a family as nuts as mine in Park Slope, Brooklyn. Now, time for another change has arrived. I will, in the end, fill up the poll of enemies trying to legally steal your well deserved jobs. And by that, I don’t mean that I finally found a decent boyfriend or even an old man ready to marry me so I can get a Green Card. I’m only fighting for ATTAINABLE goals, after all. The news is the INS just sent me my very first “Work Permit” this morning!!! Valid a year to work in the Arts , starting August. And they want me SO much that it seems I am not allowed to re-enter the US if I ever go home during these 12 month. If that’s not love, what is. Veni, Vidi, Vinci
Maïa
PS: I'll probably be going out to celebrate this week end. Feel free to join! -although I'll understand if you'd rather be mourning.
PPS: if you send this email – or rather, my resume- to at least 5 influent people in the Art world to get me a job, your life will shine all through this week. Between 5 and 10 people, you will get a huge surprise on the 17th, and to 10 or more people, your deepest wish will be granted – unless it has something to do with me leaving the country and forgetting your email address. THIS IS REAL. I’ve tried it. Really.
As many of you might know, I originally came to America to hide from my school. Probably due to a fatal error in their data processing system, I managed to finish my Master's and get into the Ph.D program –rerouting meriting student number 1912034 towards a life of whisky swallowing behind the stacks of her new job at the “history of combs and toothbrushes” museum in Reykjavik. The first draft of my “Art theft” proposal indubitably helped shed light on the terrible mistake. My criminal record also indicated that I stole the list of the admitted candidates embossed with the “Sorbonne” seal, and my name on it. I argued it was just to prove my family they hadn’t fed me all those years in vain -I might still end up poor but I would be an EDUCATED poor. It didn't matter. Stealing the list was considered a national offense, especially since the fund allocated to the French Educational system did not allow the use of scrap paper to print out a second copy.
Since my escape, I have discovered scenic landscapes and its fauna in Poughkeepsie, survived a stunning recreation of “Apocalypse Now” in Washington DC and even landed with a family as nuts as mine in Park Slope, Brooklyn. Now, time for another change has arrived. I will, in the end, fill up the poll of enemies trying to legally steal your well deserved jobs. And by that, I don’t mean that I finally found a decent boyfriend or even an old man ready to marry me so I can get a Green Card. I’m only fighting for ATTAINABLE goals, after all. The news is the INS just sent me my very first “Work Permit” this morning!!! Valid a year to work in the Arts , starting August. And they want me SO much that it seems I am not allowed to re-enter the US if I ever go home during these 12 month. If that’s not love, what is. Veni, Vidi, Vinci
Maïa
PS: I'll probably be going out to celebrate this week end. Feel free to join! -although I'll understand if you'd rather be mourning.
PPS: if you send this email – or rather, my resume- to at least 5 influent people in the Art world to get me a job, your life will shine all through this week. Between 5 and 10 people, you will get a huge surprise on the 17th, and to 10 or more people, your deepest wish will be granted – unless it has something to do with me leaving the country and forgetting your email address. THIS IS REAL. I’ve tried it. Really.
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