dimanche, septembre 24, 2006

Slothy Goodness

If friday and saturday were particularly slothful, sunday was the summit. I did absolutely nothing constructive, not even laundry. It was pretty fucking awesome.

On the other hand, I have developed this strange rash on my forearms (only my forearms?) which I've found a bit puzzling. I've tried to blame it on several things (cheap bedlinens, crappy laundry detergent, etc), but nothing quite explains why I only have it on my forearms. Either way, it's only mildly annoying, so I'm going to give it a few days and see if it goes away. I'm wondering if it's the "new city" rash. I've noticed this always happens to me (and several other people I know) when they move to a completely new city. It's like your body is trying to deal with the unique cocktail of pollution that is your new home. Delicious!

samedi, septembre 23, 2006

(Non-Tourist) Paris by Night

Ah. Today was a true day of sloth. So much so, that I have very little to show for it, except for some pictures I took from my window (also, I made some headway on my Merleau-Ponty book, Causeries). I spent the morning sleeping in (I didn't get home last night till 3-ish) and then a fair bit of the day doing some retro-blogging; that is, cleaning up the formatting and spelling on a few posts and catching up on days missed. Afterwards, I wandered around my neighborhood to buy a few things (I had simultaneously run out of shaving cream, butter, deodorant, and lettuce). I also picked up a jug of orange juice, because I'm convinced that I'm giving myself scurvy. In N. America, I never had to think about maintaining my Vitamin C levels, because I was constantly adding lemon juice or lime juice to many of my recipes (let's hear it for latino cuisine). But the French diet—particularly the Northern/Norman French diet—is rather short on the citrus. Add to that the fact that I spent two weeks eating pasta and rice before I managed to buy fresh veggies, and you can see why I was checking my gums for bleeding. Anyway, I now have enough O/J to keep me un-scurvied.

As if the weather was an accomplice to my sloth, it began raining in the evening, eventually becoming a downpour. Since I didn't have an umbrella with me, this was yet another excuse to stay in and be lazy. Considering that I've had rather active Saturdays for the past three weeks, I didn't feel too bad about it. There was also an evening mixer going on in the cafeteria area of the residences, but at some point the party was changed from "drinks provided" to "BYOB," which also provided a convenient excuse to stay in my jammies. So, the final result is a fair bit of blogging and this lovely set of photos. This is Paris by night, but not the lovely, romantic, diffuse-glow Paris of the Louvre or the Latin Quarter. This is Porte des Lilas, the New Jersey of Paris. My building sits nearly on top of the boulevard péripherique (the highway/ring-road for Paris) and the city's strict laws about building height are slackened or entirely disregarded in this neighborhood. As night fell, this was also a good opportunity to test out my camera settings again.

Here's a shot of the skyline as the sun was setting:

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Taken with 1/15s shutter, 1600 ISO, no flash

And here's several test shots of the Boulevard Péripherique, as it approaches from the north:

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This one is nice and blurry. Taken with 2s shutter, ISO 80, no flash.
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This is too dark, but very precise. 1/30 shutter, ISO 1600, w/ flash.
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A bit blurry, but much brighter. 1/10 shutter, ISO 1600, no flash

I also took a few pics of the actual Porte des Lilas roundabout. I'm not sure what triggers it, but every once in a while, the traffic at this intersection seizes like an epileptic kid at a Grateful Dead revival (how's that for imagery?). The result is a cacaphony of horns and insults for at least an hour.

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Pretty bright exposure, but a bit of blur. 1/10s shutter, ISO 1600, no flash
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Sharp, but underexposed. 1/8 shutter, ISO 400, w/ flash
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The flash was bouncing off the rain, but the glow is nice. 1/30 shutter, ISO 1600, w/ flash

vendredi, septembre 22, 2006

Shop-Talk over Champagne

The first thing I did this morning was relish the experience of sleeping in. In the past two weeks, I had been forced to come in to work on a Friday to cover for lost time or to take care of something pressing. This Friday, I had made sure there was nothing that couldn't wait till Monday. It was delicious. Of course, that didn't stop a certain someone at the Centre from calling me at home to ask me some IT support questions, but that was a merely a few minutes of distraction from otherwise blissful sloth.

For breakfast, I had a Petit Suisse which I'm pretty sure is what God would eat for breakfast. It's the French equivalent to German Quark; it's extremely fresh cow's milk cheese that hasn't been yet been salted. It's somewhere between very fresh and soft cream cheese and rather solid yogurt. Since it's neither salty nor sweet, you can top it with sugar, jams, fresh fruit, or you can mix it with savory things to make sauces and spreads (e.g. lox or roasted onions). It's especially popular as a breakfast for little kids, because it's a rather concentrated wallop of milk solids and milkfat, but made delicious with the addition of sugar or jams. Of course, I couldn't help but smear my petit suisse with Bonne Maman strawberry jam.

Eventually, I did have to get dressed and leave my apartment. I had planned on making this chicken in mushroom-cream sauce that I'm particularly fond of, but I still needed a few ingredients. Besides, I needed a baguette. Rather than go to my usual boulangerie, I tried another one a bit further down the street. I felt like I should really shop around before I commit to a boulangerie. It's an important relationship, after all.

In the end, the baguette I got from the "other" boulangerie was wonderfully soft and fresh inside and had a very light crust that didn't scrape the roof of my mouth like many baguettes do. But a few hours later, the baguette was already hardening to a rock-like consistency. Today's lesson: don't buy a baguette from that place down the street unless you're going to eat it immediately.

Dinner was great. I prepared two chicken thighs in a creamy sauce made from browned onions, pan-seared oyster mushrooms, a fair bit of garlic, and crème fraîche. The secret ingrediet is the crème fraîche, which is somehow a bit different from the kind of stuff you find in N. America; crème fraîche is exactly what is sounds like: milk cream that has been coagulated with milk bacteria to the consistency of a Greek yogurt. It's like sour cream that isn't sour. However, crème fraîche has a couple of important advantages over sour cream: it can be made into whipped cream and it doesn't curdle when boiled. Thus, you can make delicious cream sauces where the cream forms part of the cooking base, rather than folding in the cream at the end of the process.

I didn't have the presence of mind to photograph the process of making this cream chicken, and I think I messed up a couple of steps, so I'm going to try it again in a week and photo-blog it. But, for the record, it was delicious! I at the chicken things and put the cream sauce over a bed of rotini, which filled me nearly to exploding in a way that I haven't felt in weeks, which was a bit of a problem because...

...I was supposed to go out tonight. You see, I had this friend of a friend of a friend (who by now is simply "a friend") who is Parisian and still has a sister living in Paris. I had contacted her sister shortly after getting here, but she was busy and I was busy, so we didn't get around to seeing each other until tonight. The plan was for drinks somewhere downtown, and I got a text message around 8pm saying "Let's meet on Place des Vosges around 10h30." So, I finished my dinner and then spent about 1.5 hours trying to somehow will my body to digest my dinner faster, so I wouldn't explode at the first sip of liquid.

What I didn't realize until I got there was that B. (for the sake of confidentiality, I'm referring to her by an initial that may or may not correspond to a part of her name) had also brought along her friends, which made for lively evening of conversation. At first there were 4 of us, but in a moment 3 more people showed up and yet another a few moments after that. We ordered a bottle of champagne (32€) for the table, and worked our way through 3 bottles by the end of the evening.

I sat beside a young woman, J., who struck up the now-familiar line of questioning about what I was up to in France. Rather than being tired of this, I really enjoy having this conversation over and over since my arrival, because it allows me to verbally work out my project afresh and also forces me to find the right words for it in French. I've discovered that the best way to sum up my project in French terms is to say that I'm working on an anthropological project on electronic music and its cultures. Once I had told her as much, I. was full of helpful suggestions. I should definitely check out the gay clubs, she said. Unlike the N. America, where the dedicated techno and house scenes have moved out of predominantly gay locales in the last decade or so, French (and, from what I gather, European) "electro" finds its leading edge as much in gay clubs as straight ones. She was a bit puzzled at why I had chosen Paris as a fieldwork site over Berlin or London or Ibiza, so I explained that a lot of it had to do with what resources were available (i.e., my job at the Centre) and what language skills I had. Also, there's a certain advantage to working at a site that isn't necesarily the world-capital of a particular musical genre. There's still a lot of "field" left to "work" in Paris, and my hope is that the electro scenes are a bit more intimately connected here.

J. also had an interesting observation to make about electronic music in Paris. More so than in N. America, electronic dance music genres form a part of the mainstream as well as the underground (with scare quotes around both terms). So, you can go to minimal techno / microhouse events like that ones I've been to the past two saturdays, and then hear some of the same stuff while shopping at Zara or H&M. In a sense, EDM (electronic dance music) is more a part of general, everyday life here, while there are still spaces and events that inscribe communities of connoisseurs and devotees.

I also learned a great new word from J.: "bobo." Similar to "bogo" in the states, "bobo" is a short form for "bourgeois bohème." That is, a class of moneyed bourgeoisie that prefer a veneer of dissipation. She was quick to maintain that bobo neighborhoods were still glamorous, just a bit décalé (lit. "shifted forward or backward, staggered"; here, more like "urban decay" or "run-down").

Among the people at the table there were 4 American students, all of them involved in different programs at the Université de Paris. Two of them were Northwestern students on study-abroad programs, so what do you think happened when Northwestern students and a U of C student get together? Shop talk. Heidegger. Adorno. Authenticity. Oh my! Despite the nerdiness of the moment that was very Chicago, I got some good pointers on Heidegger, so it was well worth the geek-out.

With a not insignificant amount of Champagne in me, I wandered off with B. and her friends as we made our separate ways home. A few of us went to Bastille to pick up the night buses (it was around 2am), but I quickly realized that my bus line ran through République, so I hoofed it about 1km north and finally caught my bus home.

jeudi, septembre 21, 2006

Dinner with Renovations


My own Private Space Invader

Cute, eh? It's actually just my phone in extreme closeup, but I quite like it. It has a certain spaceship look to it.

So I spent the morning/lunch running from room to room in the residences, testing signal levels. The building that I'm in is normally for individual students, but since U of C has taken over two floors (and a bit) and internet connectivity is normally available in all of the residence halls at U of C, the Centre tries to provide WiFi coverage here as well. The problem is, the walls here seem to be made with lead sheathed with asbestos, because we have two DSL modems in two rooms connected to two of the most powerful wirelees routers on the market, and we still get barely more than two rooms' coverage in any direction. The result is that a lot of the students sit in the hallways to use the internet. This would be annoying but OK, were it not for the fact that a lot of their language instruction homework is available on the web and, of course, most of the students do their homework late at night. The security guards, on the other hand, don't want anybody loitering in the halls after 11pm, so there has been some tension. Now, the expected reaction at the point would be to shrug your shoulders, say "Ah, France!" and do your homework at the Centre or during pre-11pm hours—or download your homework files ahead of time and save them to your hard disk. But these students paid $15,000+ per quarter to be here, and that buys a fair bit of entitlement. So I've been trying to blunt the testy emails of some students while trying also to convince the Centre that spending money on a difficult-to-broadcast WiFi network is a worthwhile expenditure. Thankfully, the staff have been open to the idea and not too put off by the students' complaints. The result, either way, was that I spent a few hours running from room to room of U of C's block of rooms, checking levels with my laptop's wireless card.

The rest of the day was spent trying to get Apple's Boot Camp and Windows XP installed onto a student's intel-Mac. The program works well, and I'm thrilled with the results, but the setup process still takes ages, mostly thanks to the Windows setup program.

Nonetheless, I had dinner to look forward to. One of my Parisian friends had invited me to dinner with another friend at her place, so I headed out after work to the Marché des Enfants Rouges in the Marais district to pick up a few nice things. I got some pleurotes (oyster-ish mushrooms) for a creamy chicken dish I plan to make tomorrow, some very nice red Bartlett pears and a 1/2-round of camembert aged with calvados (apple) liquor. After dropping off some stuff at home and relaxing for an hour or two, I headed out to my friends place.

She had made a delicious salad with baby spinach, avocadoes, tomatoes, chicken, and pecans. I would've liked to add red onions and lemon juice, but that's the latino in me speaking. She also made a delicious savory tart/quiche made with mostly zucchini and eggs and TONS of cheese. As you might imagine, there is no way that could ever disappoint me. The wine was great, too. We had a Côtes de Blaye wine (I don't remember the precise vintner), which was quite oaky but at the same time not too pungent; after a few minutes out of the bottle, it was very smooth.

As dinner wound down, we got to talking about last week's Techno Parade. I brought up my impressions of masculinity and male sexuality at the parade, and that got us onto a broader topic of masculinity and sexuality in France. What was really interesting was how the responses and theories I got from these two Frenchwomen formed a sort of a cluster of ideas that often conflicted with each other. One of them suggested that current fashion has placed a greater emphasis on feminized or androgenous males, so the sometimes feminized appearance of men in France was merely a side-effect of fashion. A bit later, they both noted that a lot of men they knew (including a boyfriend of one) were heterosexual but could also be described as fin ("fine", "delicate") in contrast (but perhaps not opposition) to "macho." At the same time, one of them had a story about a gay male friend who was reproached by his boyfriend and his friends for acting to "hétéro," while another noted that there's a whole system of gay male desire that rejects folles (lit. "crazy women", fig. "queens, fems"), while seeking out macho or straight-appearing guys. Throughout all of this, it was clear that they thought that straight men in France felt uneasy or confused by the fluidity developing between straight and gay realms of masculinity and the diffusion of non-straight, non-masculine ways of being into some sort of public masculine sphere (or masculine public sphere...I'm still thinking this through).

After dinner, we walked from my friend's apartment to her newly bought apartment (what we would call a condo in N. America, I think) in an old building about 10 minutes' walk away. The building was part of a Haussmann-style apartment block (see: pretty much any street in downtown Paris), which seemed well-kept. Her actual apartment, however, was still in the early stages of renovations. She had already gutted the place very thoroughly, and it looked like a bit of a disaster area. Nonetheless, she had lots of plans for the place and it was exciting to think about what the place might become. I was impressed with how much hassle one has to go through to renovate in an old building. How do you fix a leak if there are no blueprints left of the original plumbing? You bust the wall and find out. The place will be great when it's ready, but at that moment, at 12:30 at night, it looked like a scene from a horror movie. Oy, homeownership!

mercredi, septembre 20, 2006

Fog over Paris (with Lentils)

I should admit that the scene in this picture didn't last more than an hour Wednesday morning; but if you look at a picture from the same vantage point two weeks ago, you'll see that the fog was pretty dense.

I got in late to work because I was supposed to have a late-afternoon meeting that would have been outside my regular work hours. So I roll in around noon with a sandwich under my arm, and everybody's out to lunch. So I head down to the break room and have a leisurely lunch with a few of my co-workers, and then slowly make my way through a day of dépannage. I eventually make it home in the late afternoon/early evening. After my grocery shopping trip on monday, I was suddenly well-prepared to make some awesome lentils, so I spent a large part of the evening making lentils and blogging saturday's affair (it took a while to blog, you know). Here's my recipe for Amazing Spicy Lentils À La Somewhat Peruvian:

Ingredients:

  • Love
  • Lentils (about 1 1/2 cups)
  • 1 medium Onion, sliced thin
  • A generous handful of Lardons
  • 3-5 cloves of Garlic, crushed or chopped
  • 1 hot thai hot pepper, sliced
  • Cumin (at least 1 tbsp.)
  • 1 tbsp of ajì mirasol or rocoto
  • Salt & Pepper to taste

Preparation

  1. Soak lentils in water for a couple of hours, then drain and leave to one side. This isn't compeltely necessary, but it cuts down on cooking time later.
  2. In a saucepan or pot, add Lardons on high heat and allow them to render fat.
  3. Once there's a bit of fat coating the bottom of the pan, add onions. Stir and allow to cook, until onions begin to burn a bit. Deglaze if necessary.
  4. Add Garlic and Hot Pepper and reduce heat. Add cumin and fry until Garlic has mellowed.
  5. Add lentils and enough olive oil to coat lentils lightly. Stir mixture together.
  6. Add ajì mirasol or rocoto and enough water to cover lentils about 1". Bring to boil.
  7. Reduce heat and simmer, stirring occasionally
  8. When lentils are completely cooked and water has almost completely evaporated (i.e. sticking to the bottom of the pot), stir in a dab of butter and remove from heat.
  9. If you're Indian or you like dal makhani, add more butter.

mardi, septembre 19, 2006

Of Sex and Spatulas

I bet that got your attention.

So, I had totally forgotten to mention that yesterday I had my first experience with la drague in Paris. The verb draguer means "to dredge" or "to trawl," but it also has a broad slang meaning, that sits somewhere between "cruising," "hook up," "hit on," "come on," "flirting," and "sleaze." Within a queer context, la drague refers to the quiet, public and often anonymous sexual practices of gay (mostly) men within city spaces. On the one hand, it can refer to exchanging smoldering glances in the métro or flirting with a shop attendant, on the other hand it can refer to anonymous sex practices in public parks or sex clubs. What I like about this whole thing is that the reference can span such a wide range.

Anyway, my experience was rather on the tame end of this spectrum. I was sitting on the subway on the way to work, and a guy sat across from me and made a point of staring at me for a significant amount of time, and then looking away, and then looking back...etc. To better appreciate the gravity of this behaviour, I should point out to my N. American audience (which I all of you, I guess) that eye contact means something different here. In N. America, eye contact can communicate a sense of honesty, self-confidence and transparency. Here, eye contact means sexual interest first and foremost. On the upside, this means that you can make your interest known to a person merely by locking eyes with them. On the downside, this means that a curious glance or accidental eye contact may give the impression of erotic consent where there was none. So, for example, if a guy is looking at you, and you notice, and you look back at him to figure out what his damage might be, you may be giving him the impression that you want to get in his pants; then you spend the next few minutes having to rebuff his advances with increasing emphasis. Thankfully, the guy on the métro in this case was rather cute, so I looked back. It was a public place, and it was rush hour, so there wasn't much we could do but exchange glances—but all of this in the context of the everyday anonymity of Paris life was pretty potent stuff.

As luck would have it, he was getting off (ha!) at my stop, so we struck up conversation. I had to get to work, he had to get to work, so we exchanged phone numbers and agreed to get a drink sometime soon. How about that for the efficacy of the male gaze! Laura Mulvey, eat your heart out.

And now, on to the spatulas. Oh wait, you thought that the sex and the spatulas were connected? Oh, I'm sorry. You pervert.

So, I decided that I really needed a decent silicone spatula, since all I've been working with at home has been a wooden spoon. Wooden spoons are great for many things, but it's a bit of a pain in the butt when you're trying to make a smooth sauce or something like that. So I headed over to BHV after work, and discovered that silicone spatulas are expensive in this neck of the woods. A single-piece silicone spatula (that is, with no seams between the handle and the spatula) ran me 10€. That's $12USD or $15CDN. Of course, "surprisingly expensive" is something of a leitmotif for this entire trip to Paris, so this didn't come as such a shock. On the other hand, the cheap plastic utensil jar that I got for all of my kitchen utensils was 14€!! WTF?

With that, I headed home and made myself another salad with leftovers from last night, plus some lightly pickled onion slices and chopped hot peppers. Delish! All vinaigrettes taste better with french mustard, I might add.

lundi, septembre 18, 2006

Invader, the Space Invader

Well, I was going to post about Invader today, so let me get the "what I did today" stuff out of the way first:

I slept in (I didn't need to be in until noon anyway), and then made my way to the Centre. There was a fair bit of petit dépannage (little repairs) so I spent a fair bit of my day taking care of that. And then a fair bit more chatting with a few people back in Chicago (thank you, iChat). Sometime soon, I also have to invest in Skype. Anyway, I got a recommendation from DJ for a decent shopping mall that wasn't in the middle of nowhere and creepy (see last week), so I hoofed it over to Place d'Italie for a bit of groceries and such. I hit up Darty, hoping to find a true US-Europe electrical converter. You see, I brought my clippers with me with the idea that I would cut my own hair (as I did in Chicago), and save myself a fair bit of money. But, of course, I forgot to buy a transformer in Chicago, where it would've been 1/2 the price, I'm sure. As it turns out, what I picked up at Darty was an adapter, but not an actual 110-220v transformer. It was too cheap to be true. After a bit of research on their site, it looks like I'll eventually have to give in and buy a 35€ transformer to make the clipper magic happen.

As for groceries, I went to the Champion that was in the building, only to discover that it was in the middle of renovations. It was still open, and I could still buy most of the stuff I needed, but the place was a mess, a maze, and a jungle of lineups. On the upside, though, I bought the fixings for a nice salad, which is promptly made and ate as soon as I got home. Mmmm. Fresh veggies.

So, after my revelation about the disconnect / guerrilla advertising between the cute space invader mosaics I've seen on the streets of Paris and the t-shirts I saw at the Parade, I did a bit more research on the person(s) behind the tile mosaics. At first, I only had this site to work from, which merely listed the cities that had been "invaded" and sold cute little maps of the invasion. I eventually tried the root domain of the URL and got this adorable flash animation and interactive site/store. It's a "A REALITY GAME BY > INVADER" ! Love it. Take a good moment to check out all of the links on this page, as there's a lot of info to be gleaned from it (and lots of pictures!).

This eventually led to a semi-official site for the Paris invasion, which includes images of most if not all of the Paris invaders, with addresses, sortable by arrondissement. A bit more googling led me to the web page for an art exhibit of Invader's work in L.A. at Sixspace, called Rubikubism. Apparently, he's been doing a bunch of installations using worked-out rubik's cubes, such as this:Pretty hot, no? It seems like he's also making mosaics with rubik's cubes now, as well:

But that's not all! There's also a great photostream/pool on flickr that includes pictures of Space Invaders all over the world. And, finally, a (silent) video from Invader's site that shows him on French TV, doing a very quick deployment of a small tiled invader right on the set. Oh, and here's a link to a "DIY tiled game character" post on Instructables, which is this amazing online DIY community; the guy pretty much reverse-engineers the Invader's process and then lays it out for you. Neat!

dimanche, septembre 17, 2006

Sunday, Sunday

OK, you want to know what I did Sunday? Look at the posts for Saturday. There. I slept in later than I care to admit, spent many hours blogging up the previous day, then made some quickie pasta and went back to bed. At some point, I'm pretty sure I took a shower.

Nonetheless, I might as well link to something interesting, so here's a little video clip from Saturday's Techno Parade that I had forgotten to mention in my blog posts. Just as we were approaching Châtelet, the lead float began playing this track, which—I'm guessing—is entitled "Shame On You, Mr. Bush." There's an long a cappella rant that substitutes as the track's breakdown, but what I recorded here was a few seconds of the main hook, which is just someone yelling the track's title over a house-y beat.

NOTE: You may need to click on this, then hit your spacebar to play it.

samedi, septembre 16, 2006

Techno Parade (Part 1) : The Parade

ALL TECHNO-PARADE POSTS ARE DONE!.

Woo! So, Saturday was a very busy day for me, research/party-wise, so I'm breaking this up into 3 blog entries. This first one is about the Techno Parade itself (more on this in a bit), the second is on all the Space Invaders sightings at the parade (yes, it merits a separate post), and the last is on the Katapult Records afterparty that I went to. As a bit of narrative foreshadowing, this Saturday also resulted in me buying my baguettes at 6:30am on the way home!

So, I had almost forgotten that Paris hosts its own version of the Love Parade, called the Techno Parade (see also brief Wikipedia article in French). The parade is timed for mid-september, in the aftermath of la rentrée. La rentrée ("the return") is what happens after les vacances, when all of Paris (and France) take the entire month of August (and sometimes July) to travel somewhere warm and get distressingly dark tans (I wonder what the skin cancer rates are in this country). Mind you, when I say "all of Paris," I should more properly add "that can afford to travel;" although there are certainly less expensive vacation options available as well, many families can't afford the trip and stay in Paris. It was for this reason, in fact, that Paris started the Paris-Plage project a few years ago. During les vacances, the city turns large blocks of the Seine into a sort of beach, using tonnes of sand and other beach-like things.

One of the results of this mass vacation season is a sort of Americans-in-Cancún effect that lasts 4 weeks. In many of the favorite destinations for French vacationers, you have a huge influx of young people, determined to party and equipped with money that they've saved all year for this purpose. So, the Techno Parade serves two functions for two different groups: 1) it provides a nostalgic last-hurrah to the preceding month of partying for those still lingering in the afterglow of les vacances; and 2) it gives those who could not afford to travel a limited and temporary form of access to what les vacances might be like. In another, overlapping sense, the Techno Parade also offers to both groups a scene for aspiration through leisure, where they can attempt to conjure up and sustain an optimal experience on a massified scale that may not have been forthcoming during vacation. What I find most interesting about this whole endeavor is how the event brings together a nostalgic mix of remembering and forgetting, with a future-oriented aspiration for the ideal "good times."

Very little of this side of the Techno Parade, I should add, appears in the semi-official descriptions of the parade by the founding organization, Technopol (see link above). For their purposes, the Techno Parade was founded as a political intervention that put pressure on the state to reduce their antagonism of raves/clubs/soirées on the one hand, and also made an argument for the cultural importance of electronic dance music to a sometimes wary general public.

Alright, that's enough essay-writing for the moment. Let's return to the narrative! (with pics, of course!)

So, I had nearly forgotten about this event, were it not for one of the folks working at the front desk of my building, who had reminded me friday afternoon. I promptly cancelled all plans for Saturday and put new batteries in my camera. The parade was supposed to begin with a roundup of the floats at Bastille at noon, then take off from there at one o'clock on the parade route, with the lead floats beginning to arrive back at Bastille around 6pm. I left my place a bit later than I had wanted, leaving around 11:45am. Thankfully, the floats were late, as was evident by the fact that I saw a few of the floats drive by Porte des Lilas (my area), music blaring, still 30-45 minutes away from Bastille.

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Floats on their way to Bastille

When I got to the place de la Bastille it was almost 12:30 and there were no floats to be seen, although the crowds were already gathering. This is a shot of the crowds in front of the Bastille opera house, although this is nowhere near as packed as it was an hour later.

click to enlarge click to enlarge Early crowds in front of the Opéra Bastille

I took a moment to grab a coffee at the café on the north end of the place, and then wandered around a bit through the crowds. After a little while, I was able to read from the crowd where they expected the floats to appear, so I found a good spot on top of a concrete bench from which to take some shots of the arriving floats. By the time the first floats appeared in the distance and sounded their horns, the sidewalks were densely packed and spilling onto the street.

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The first floats arriving

Many people climbed up on the Bastille monument for a better view. This became really packed towards the end of the event.

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A better view from Bastille

When the floats finally started pulling into Bastille and taking their places, people began cheering, and demanding "du son!" ("sound!"), because none of the floats had started their music. In fact, most if not all of the floats were still being hurriedly finished by workers as they pulled into the square.

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The parade was led by men on stilts. Why? I don't know. click to enlarge
The lead float, dedicated to an anti-famine charity drive click to enlarge
One of the psy-trance floats (I don't remember which) click to enlarge
Belgium reprazent! click to enlarge
The MH Diffusion / Orphée float click to enlarge
The Katapult float—but what's with all that wood?... click to enlarge
...aaah. I get it. click to enlarge
The Francofffonies float, dedicated to music from francophone countries (does Canada count?) click to enlarge
Some detail from the Francofffonies float. Notice anything? That's right: Chicago's Marina Towers! click to enlarge
The Néonumeric/Flyman/Sabotage Crew float click to enlarge
It's a banana. Why? I don't know. click to enlarge
The NRJ float

I took that last photo mostly for the guy wearing the "NO F#CKING DRESS CODE" t-shirt. A lot has been and will be written on how dress codes have been used at clubs/parties to enforce segregation along more objectionable lines (e.g., class, race, sexuality). The topic is a bit too big to discuss in this already-sprawling post, and I want a few more weeks in Paris before I hold forth on that topic. But, nonetheless, I liked the shirt.

So, after a while, one of the larger floats finally decided to respond to the crowd's demand for sound. The crowd went nuts. One by one, other floats started up their systems and began blasting their music—some more powerfully than others. A DJ on one of the floats with the largest speaker-stack took advantage of the downtime before the actual parade to rev up the crowd. He used many of the standard DJ tricks for getting a crowd moving (e.g., dropping the bass and bringing it back suddenly, backspinning into a new track, cutting to silence before strong downbeats, etc), but in a very compressed manner. Most of these skills would be employed every 10 minutes in a DJ set at most—often far less in certain genres—but this DJ was dropping them twice a minute at least. He made particularly heavy use of a sampled solo trumpet fanfare in a flamenco style (referencing Ibiza, perhaps?), which he would use by cutting the current track to silence about 4 beats before a major downbeat, filling in with the trumpet sample, and then cutting back to the current track with heavier bass. Here's a picture of the crowd reaction:

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Crowd reaction

These sorts of performative tactics became important once the parade got underway. As each float began to move out onto the parade route, about 20-30m of space was left between each float for a crowd to gather and follow. So the parade itself became a scene for the display of affinities and preferences, as various floats playing different genres of EDM (electronic dance music) and/or displaying different visual aesthetics sought to develop a large and enthusiastic following (in the most literal sense). As the parade progressed along rue Rivoli, I walked the length of the parade itself a few times to get a feel for the kinds of music being played, the kinds of décor applied to the floats, and of course who was gathering where. Then, I picked a couple of floats whose music I liked and spent a more extended amount of time following them to see how changeable the crowds around the floats were.

In general, I found the crowds to be rather volatile but not completely fickle. For example, I was behind the Katapult float for a long while, and I could divide those people following the float into three groups: 1) those who apparently knew people on the float; 2) those who were fans of Katapult or particularly fond of what they had heard so far; and 3) those who arrived and left rather casually, although still with enthusiasm (strangely enough for Paris, there was very little ennui). As soon as the music cut out (for example, to switch to another DJ) or the DJ lingered too long on a low-intensity track, group #3 would bolt for another float. If things didn't pick up within a couple of minutes, group #2 would start to dissolve. The result was that the Katapult float (like the others) went through cycles of high and low crowds, with sudden shifts in numbers as group #3 would gather or disperse. Although it might be tempting to argue for the importance of the "true" fans that stuck it out during the low phases and dismiss the larger and more capricious groups, I think these fast-moving masses were very important to the feel of the scene behind each float. The sudden arrival of a mass of young, variously intoxicated and very enthuasiastic people created an affective crucible: things got sweaty, raucous, loud, densely packed, rough, sexual, intimate, almost destructive, and very intense. And, judging by the reactions of those both on the float and behind it, all of this was optimal experience.


Crowd following the lead float

I also spent some time behind the Coontak et les pervenches de plaisir float. It was a much smaller float—in fact, just a flatbed truck with a few speakers, a DJ and two hot girls in pink, but they were playing a steady stream of very well selected classic house (this year's Techno Parade theme was a celebration of 20 years of house). Also, one of the DJs spinning on the truck had this amazing tattoo; what was obviously once a strawberry birthmark was re-worked into a black and red butterfly pattern (see below). Apparently, Coontak is a clothing company, and I'm guessing that their name is an imaginative respelling of contacte. However, the design of their logo (which you can see on their website) separates "coon" from "tak" visually, which made for an odd scene as I followed a black truck with black speakers blaring "soulful" (read: black) house draped with banners that, from a distance, read "Coon." Hmm. Also, if you check out their website, stick around for about 60 seconds for the background music to turn pornographic. Also, note their pervenches de plaisir photo gallery. Apparently, pervenche means both periwinkle and meter-maid—you know, parking enforcement in the days when women police officers weren't trusted to do anything dangerous. So, the pervenches de plaisir are these sexy girls, handing out fake parking tickets and wearing stylized (American) police hats, hot pink boob tops, and super-short hot pants.

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Nice tattoo!

Certainly, part of the spectacle of the Techno Parade was the occupation of general public space for the fashioning of a specific or inflected public space. This movement created some interesting and at times amusing tensions and releases—especially among those who were not entirely willing parties to this inf(l)ection of general space. Most commonly, this ranged from mild bemusement to mild exasperation from some. Some of the locals seemed curious—although they stayed in their apartments:

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[insert affect here]-ed onlookers

Some onlookers joined in on impulse, like one of the women in my building, who was out shopping at BHV with her friends, then followed the noise outside, and spent the next few hours following the parade. This inflection of public space, however, happened with the approval of the city's authorities, so the event was to be contained within sanctioned boundaries. Unsurprisingly, then, there were numerous violations:

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There's no way this is legal click to enlarge
Everything about this was a common sight.

I want to spend a moment with this last photo, since, as the caption says, everything about it was a common sight. Although you can't quite make it out from the photo, these 4 guys were on top of a bus shelter, which is a fragile-looking but obviously sturdy structure of metal and plexiglas. Everywhere along the parade route, you saw people (mostly guys) climbing things to get a better view of the parade and to the parade. In one case, there were so many bodies on the roof of a bus shelter, that the roof bent rhytmically under their collective movement and caused the sign designating the bus stop to fall to the street. Without comment, someone on the ground picked it up, put it under his arm, and continued walking.

My double-formulation "a view of/to the parade" in the previous paragraph points to a very salient (to my eyes) aspect of the day's events. Throughout the parade, and on a mass scale, the male body was much more of a spectacle than I am used to seeing in North American mass events (with the exception of gay pride parades, which is not completely unrelated). I saw at least as much bared male flesh as I did female, and the males were certainly more assertively demanding recognition and attention to their bodies. Also, those bodies often showed a great deal of care and maintenance: trim physiqes, dark tans, shaved or waxed chests, lots of hair product, fitted jeans or low-slung jeans to show off the ass, etc. Hot pink was very popular among the guys; a common look for many men that day was a darkly tanned (shaved) torso, set off against hot pink boxer briefs and then very low slung jeans. Most interestingly (at least for me) was how much same-sex play took place between men during the parade. Again, far more than women, I saw men holding hands with their girlfriends while stealing kisses from their buddies, young shirtless guys grinding on each other, grabbing/slapping each other's asses, then flirting with a girl that caught their eye. On the other hand, I have no memory of women doing the same thing, even though it's a common sight for me at big clubs/events in North America. Admittedly, a lot of this was "just" play, but it bordered between ironic play and earnest play in a manner that has made the Girls Gone Wild video industry zillions of dollars. I could chalk up one or two incidents to exstasy use, but as a broad practice there seems to be something to be said about the sexualization of masculinity here. It certainly isn't how we make masculinity in N. America.

All of this creates an interesting counterpoint with the other salient aspect of male bodies at the parade: sexual interest/pursuit/agression towards females. As it is, continental Europe in general seems to permit and expect a more "forward" male suitor; however, the combination of laissez-faire, carnivalesque and intoxication at this event elicited a much wider range of courtship practices. I frequently saw guys trying to get the attention of girls on floats and begging them to come down and dance with them; another common tactic was to touch a girl on the shoulder (or, if you're disinhibited, somewhere more private) as you pass her and if she doesn't glare at you in disdain, you go back and talk her up. If a girl demeured or said "non," some more persistent men would grab her hand or forearm and plead with her to stay, although their grip always seemed loose enough for the girl to extricate herself without a much effort; it's the thought that counts, so to speak. Some boys would take advantage of the crush of people behind the floats to grind on girls. I never saw anyone come to physical harm over it, but the body practices were invasive and agressive at times, and often had little respect for the word "no." And I use the term "girls" here repeatedly because age had a great deal to do with this, as well. I saw no 30-something women being aggressively pursued; on the other hand, these young girls were not defeneless, either. They obviously had a fair bit of experience in handling the more polite quotidian advances, so most of them used the same rituals of disengagement, refusal and frank dismissal—only more emphatically and with greater effort. More than once, I noticed that their boyfriends would let them fend for themselves, holding their hands but remaining uninvolved, until some boundary was crossed. All of this made me realize how lucky-unlucky I am to be exempt from that combination of female and pretty that elicits these encounters here. On the one hand, I'm obviously lucky to be spared the frequent pestering and sometimes frightening agression. On the other hand, I'm unlucky in the sense that, quite frankly, guys are less likely to talk to me. All of the contacts I've made so far have been female or introduced through females. There's an entire erotic economy behind making contacts in the field (although often sublimated through channels of prestiege, coolness, wealth, escape), and I have little to offer potential male contacts in that respect.

Epilogue: Following

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The clean-up crew following the followers

Looking back on my notes of this event, the word "following" appears rather frequently. Indeed, leading and following were important aspects of the the Techno Parade, although I feel that the word underdescribes the phenomenon. In a way, it seems like much of this event has to do with guided flows. That is, rather than following a singular path like a train car on rails, the crowd seemed to move like water: tumbling forward within channels of barriers, sometimes spilling over, and only predictable at a very general level. The Techno Parade, then, provides a spatial and temporal frame—better yet, a channel—within which participants can plot and/or discover their own paths through leisure and recreation. Mind you, I don't want to entirely dismiss the controlling and normalizing aspect of the parade's organization and execution; for all the paths available to choose, most still moved forward, staying behind or beside floats, obeying the direction of security staff, and avoiding anything more dangerous than mischeif. [For more pictures of the event and previous years', check out Planet-Tekno.]

Techno Parade (Part 2) : Space Invaders & Guerrilla Advertising

After seeing those little space invader mosaics everywhere around Paris, I was really delighted to see these t-shirts all over the parade:

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On their backs, most of the t-shirts had some combination of the phrases "We Are Back", "Space Invaders" and "Joachim Garraud." Thinking I had discovered the identity of the artist behind the little space invader mosaics all over town, one of the first things I did when I got home from the parade was look this guy up. What I found, instead, was a homepage for a DJ and producer who had produced a track for the 2005 Techno Parade called "Space Invaders are Back." At this point, I was a bit confused and a bit suspicious. Why was there no mention of the mosaic art installations in many international metropolitan cities? It would seem a bit excessive to have mounted a 6-year guerilla mosaic campaign around the world to support a track that would appear in the fall of 2005.

Eventually, I found the "offical" website of the artist Invader, who is not the same person as Garraud (more on Invader on Monday). It seems as if this is actually a case of guerrilla advertising. I'm taking this term from its usage to describe ads during the 2004 Olympics and World Cup, when companies would air ads that imply their sponsorship of the games, even though they hadn't given a penny. In a somewhat different manner, Garraud seems to have taken taken advantage of a broad street-art campaign and turned it into a massive ad campaign for himself by implying a continuity between Invader's work and his own. What would Invader say? On the one hand, Invader works by invading and appropriating space that was not his, so there are some similarities; on the other hand, Invader's work appears to be his own, while Garraud seems to be taking advantage of ambiguity to suggest that Invader's work belongs somehow to his. Fascinating stuff.