Last tuesday I was lucky enough to get to hang out with my awesome buddy Caroline, her friend Julie, and some rakish bartender dudes (who also somehow knew about some diner-meets-french-bistro thing (!) that has steak dinners with au gratin potatoes (or fries, naturally) served with a background of Phill Collins easy-listening at 3-4am.)
Awesome.
Jen, one of my favorite indianans came along, and we just had a time of it.
The evening started off with a lively concert by what seemed to be a rather skilled, but not too skilled college orchestra. They played some violin pieces for some virtuoso dude, and I was like, um I know a virtuoso, too, though I think we are in a fight. (Are we, J?) Anyway, I was adequately impressed, politely even. They played "an american in paris" by the one and only tin pan alley gangsta George Gershwin- and you just gotta love you some American in Paris.
My buddy Zak decided that they played it in a way that emphasized that Americans are vulgar and only want a hamburger in Paris, and though I agree somewhat on his musical commentary, I disagree that the lovely French musicians were striking a low blow to our giant American egos throught he medium of mid-century orchestral music. Also, the jazzy countermelodies that -- one would speculate -- emphasize the burger-lust are really Gershwin's thing, I bet the orchestra just played'em loud b/c they are Awesome, capital A. They are. They are also very Aerican (re: jazz) and that makes them very special, and something we can all share. And share we did! Oh I love the bluesy part, its just life-giving. I loved it! Live music.
Oh! That reminds me that I simply must tell you about my night o' jazz and laughter with the ever-awesome Caldero family. Wow, it was awesome. I would like to teach the world to sing, and it'd be ok even if the harmony wasn't perfect. Snaps to Anges' daugher Solene for being an awesome 12 year old Saggitarian (December 15th homegirl, to be exact!). I am bringing you Emilie, and we shall sing Grease!
Was I digressing just then? Anyway, mid-chilling at Caro's favorite english pub, we were (un)lucky enough to encounter cocky british 18-year-old "i hate american mannerisms" boy, who for the sake of brevity I shall now refer to as "Baby Spice." Seriously, kid? Mannerisms? Am I back at Penn where people mock me just b/c of where I'm from? Is that where we are again? Clearly it is.
Take me back to the show me state where everyone's from everywhere and at least the semi-illuminati I hang around are willing to sit back and soak up your mannerisms before they decide they hate you and your kind. Luckily (?) I've been par for this predjudicial course before (before France, even) -- labeled as God knows what (actually He does know) and well, though the power of my individuality couldn't withstand say, a presidential election, I was able to shrug of Baby Spice's gutless jabs with out giving a much of a damn. I rolled my eyes just to rub my hateful american mannerisms in his face.
This a kid whose grandfather may have found beside mine in World War frickin' TWO. And he hates me for my mannerisms?
Sometimes I wonder if people are actually for real.
Anyway, he got crazy yelled at by Caro's legit friend from chzechoslovakia or however you spell it, or divide it up into a bunch of "little republics of..." -- Martin the dissenting but convivial eastern european expat basically told Baby Spice to chill. Needless to say, it was frustrating (a girl doesn't like being hated...at least not before I tell you that I thought Napoleon Dynamite was LAME and that Dave Matthews just doesn't move me), but I'm brave enough to be a french fry - take that as you may.
Why always with the "why does everyone hate me, I'm just a nice Missouri girl?" drama? It must be very tiring, being a hater. Anyway, Miss Emilie is coming to town TONIGHT for a weekend of french beer pong, potatoes au gratin, maybe some absurdist french existentialist theatre (how many -isms can YOU fit into YOUR play?), and some superbowl, and probably a baguette here or there. Its exciting!
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