Paris has always been one of the centers of European fashion. So I pay close attention to what Parisians are wearing in the streets, and to the clothes in small hand-made boutiques. I don't bother with the department stores. They'll never be ahead of the game.
That's why this shop window near my apartment in Paris has always intrigued me. If this is a harbinger of the bleeding edge in fashion, these guys are the only ones doing it...so to speak.
I walk by this shop all the time. The first few times, I thought I had caught them in the middle of the window-dressing process. Well, now that I've wandered by a few times, I realize that they change the mannequins often, but they never quite get around to finishing the job.
I think it's genius. I mean, it's much easier for me to know whether a pair of jeans or a top will suit me, when I see it almost on (or almost off, depending on your frame of mind). I can imagine how suave I will look when I find myself in tricky little everyday scenarios at the office, or the grocery store, or a shop window. Like just arriving to work, only to realize I forgot to put on a blouse, or a wig, for that matter. Or maybe I'm just minding my own business, and all of a sudden I look down and there's this bald guy looking up at me, asking me how to get to the Eiffel Tower. I have no idea what that poor soul behind me went through to lose his whole upper torso, but I'm....Ohhhhhh...that's the little bald guy's better half. Got it.
The pants down around the ankles used to be a favorite of mine. Until a proctologist told me to drop my pants, shuffle over to the examination table, climb up on a platform in front of the table, and bend over. He sort of took all the magic and romance out of it. I haven't been the same since.
But don't let me rain on your parade if walking or standing around with your pants wadded around your ankles is your thing. Especially since "they're doing it in Paris."
Now...the wearing of a Daniel Boone hat is something I never would have thought of on my own. It tends to distract from the fact that your zipper is down (oh please click, please), and all that cold winter wind is blasting through. This is something that I could recommend to several men I know.
And finally, wearing a Mickey Mouse Blouse while in the supplication position is très outré, n'est-ce pas? Too bad the ol' Mickster mannequin lost its head. Otherwise, ol' Danielle Boonette would have a nice shiny place to rest her beer.
And now, in the wee hours of the morning, as the rain falls on the empty streets of Paris, or Anycity Anycountry, the mannequins are stirring...
UPDATE: This video was produced by Junna. You can see the rest of Junna's videos at his/her (?) YouTube site.
Our neighborhood is close to the Pigalle district of Paris, part of the famous Moulin Rouge. It's a wonderfully colorful area that defiantly skims the base of the hill at Montmartre, where the dire and sinister church of Sacré-Coeurlooks down upon it. Or perhaps she looks the other way.
The church hasn't much of a choice. Sex was there before she was built, and will be there long after she's gone.
Across the main Boulevard Rochechouart, lies another seething and festering haunt frequented by my errant boyfriend and many of our visitors: musical equipment world. Guitars, drums, amps, and other sexual tools.
I accompanied some friends of ours, salivating over their first harmonica purchase. They had hopes of someday bending notes with aplomb. As they oooh'd and ahhh'd at things that have no meaning to me, I stumbled upon these lovely ladies. They adorned some glass entry doors to...I don't know where.
The art is not much to speak of, but the feeling is there. Definitely.
I thought it might be time to post another Paris sidewalk stencil, so I surfed through my photos and found one that intrigued me. Then I began my usual research to solve the mystery behind the image. Text on the image says, "Where is Guy-Andre Kieffer?"
What I discovered wasn't all Easter baskets and soft, crushable pastel colored peeps. It was more like chocolate bunnies, with the ears bitten off.
I had no idea that the Ivory Coast was one of the world's largest producers of cocoa (43% of the world's cocoa is exported from here, 1.4 million tons). But there have been some troubling times, and a French-Canadian reporter named Guy-Andre Kieffer was kidnapped and is presumed dead, because he investigated and reported on corruption in the Ivory Coast cocoa industry, and unfortunately implicated the country's president.
"Cocoa is a dark, confused world. You don't know where the money goes. And into it came Guy-André, obsessed about telling the truth."
A recent (August 23, 2007) France 3 television exclusive (YouTube, in French) interviews a witness who claims that Guy-Andre was held for two days in the basement of Ivory Coast's President Gbagbo, and then he was executed.
The best article, with the most up-to-date facts, comes from the US Embassy in Abidjan, via this post on allAfrica.com.
The world's cocoa is grown within ten degrees north and south of the equator -- in some of the poorest countries in the world and child slaves often work in the fields. Ninety per cent of the world's cocoa production is grown on farms five hectares or less -- allowing much of this slavery to go unnoticed. In Cote d'Ivoire, it's believed that up to 15-thousand child slaves work on the country's 600-thousand cocoa farms.
The United States is the top cocoa importer. Corruption? Murder? Child Slavery? I doubt I will be consuming chocolate any time in the foreseeable future.
I've been honored by an invitation to join the Bonez Crew and write some little ditties for your pleasure and illumination. The problem is, I may not be able to adhere to the little part. Ditties I can do. Little ones, je n'sais pas.
Currently I find myself in Paris, with my boyfriend and a female communist operative named Mao. We are staying in a 4th-floor apartment somewhere between the sex shops and peep shows of Pigalle and the Moulin Rouge, the tourist mecca of Montmartre, the church at Sacré-Coeur and the Little Africa of Château Rouge. The church was built as a symbol of the defeat of the Anarchist revolutionary Comunards. I haven't told Chairwoman Mao about this. She would hiss and spit and no one would win.
Our building is unstable, as is our life, and is sinking slowly down the hill, moving away from the Church (a process I also started at age 12) and bringing us to an inevitable collision with a huge bank building. I hope, in a Jungian sort of way, that this is symbolic. Not the downhill slide, but the falling-into-a-bank bit. Meanwhile, my ability to climb or slide from one room to the other is directly related to how much cheap French wine or pastis I have consumed. At regular intervals, we must push the bed back up the hill as it interferes with our frequent trips to the toilet.
I love this neighborhood. It's rich and vibrant and full of color. Statuesque as well as broad-beamed Senegalese women traverse the streets, wearing the most amazing outfits: long skirts that flare out at the bottom and bell-sleeved tops with a matching high-rise chignon. Their babies are tied to their backs with another long piece of contrasting fabric. All is fashioned from the Tissues Africains that I had never seen before I came here. There are no ready-made outfits to be found, but plenty of Tissues stores with their windows and walls stacked floor to ceiling with fabric. Nearby, there are couturiers who will sew for you. Tiny little holes in the wall with one sewing machine and fabric detritus all over the floor. I want one of those outfits. Badly. But I am too afraid of looking like these white girls.
On a Saturday or Sunday afternoon, we walk over to the outdoor market full of fruits, vegetables, fish and Halal meats. It smells like blood and melons (with a little urine on the side). The crowds are thick and noisy, with illegal hawkers of sunglasses, handbags, and belts with temporary cardboard-box shops on the sidewalks, ready to swoop everything up and disappear at a moment's notice. There are African restaurants with strolling musicians in long robes playing the Kora. After shopping we sit outside at Bar L'Omadis (translation of the painting on the outside wall: Live together with our differences) and drink the local rocket fuel and aphrodisiac cocktail called Rhum Gingembre - Caribbean rum and fresh ginger juice, with a wedge of lime. We usually end up at our favorite Algerian place for couscous and chicken tajine with lemon and green olives.
My boyfriend is an encyclopedia of music, and so we've found the underground music scene here, from local sensation and hot-chick rocker Mademoiselle K (website, MySpace) to the humorous banter and contemporary French chansons of Sepia, the jazz piano of Philippe Baden Powell, son of famous Brazilian guitarist Baden Powell, and the hidden bar L'Attirail, a college hangout with live music every night - Berber, Manouche Gypsy and traditional French music - with students and musicians all crammed into a tiny, smoky corner.
So, along with a few links to take you on a little ride with me in Paris, I leave you a video of the gazelle-like Mademoiselle K as she sings my favorite song: Ça Me Vexe, which can be loosely translated as, That Pisses Me Off, a feeling she and I often share.
For those of you who’ve been searching for the answer, look no further. This is Alice, a successful international telephone and internet provider from Telecom Italia. It’s already active in Italy, Germany, and France with more than a million customers and is now being launched in Holland by BBned . Alice is all about being consumer friendly without small print and no long term contracts. I can see a successful future for them in the Netherlands, not because of their competitive pricing, but because of the model (Vanessa Hessler) they use for their campaign. She makes grown men drool.
Scientists Are Testing a Way to Exterminate Mosquitoes for Good (via Popular Mechanics)
