Underground in Poo-ris

*Warning, the following blog contains toilet humour*

Ahh, Paris, the City of Light, the city of L'amour, home to The Eiffel Tower, The Louvre, Notre Dame and The Champs Elysees. Home to artists, writers and philosopher throughout the centuries, inspiration for the lovers, the dreamers and me.

But there is another side to Paris, a dark side, a seamy side, a side that can chill you to your bones or make you wish you had a gas mask. This side of Paris is not visible to the casual observer but is hidden away, deep in the bowels of the earth, where only those who are strong of spirit, not to mention strong of stomach, dare to tread. On my recent trip to Paris, with Jai Faim and her parents, I decided that I am such a person so I decided to step off, or rather under, the beaten track and experience life below Paris.

My first tour took me to a doorway on a street in the 4th Arrondisement, south of the river. It would've appeared like any other door except for the line of morbid tourists with nothing better to do on a Saturday than go into the depths of the earth and look at ceturies old bones. I had expected lank haired goths in black T-shirts and eye make up but was instead confronted with well dressed tourists and the occasional local. It takes all types I suppose.

The Catacombs in Paris were formed when the powers that be in the 18th century decided that dead people were taking up entirely too much room in the cemetaries around the city. In their wisdom they decided to dig up millions of these unfortunate souls from thier less than eternal rest and store them in a disused quarry, far beneath the streets of Paris. Some years later, a whole different set of powers that be decided that these remains were not doing anyone any good just sitting under the earth, so they decided to charge people to go down into the dim quiet depths and look at the piles of bones which had been neatly, and in cases artistically, arranged.

Being a good tourist, I positioned myself at the end of the queue and we all shuffled forward silently like mourners at a funeral before paying and heading down a spiral staircase which led us below the street, below the sewers and even below the subway system. From there it was a walk through a low ceilinged tunnel where I found myself alone in the quiet and the gloom. If it wasn't for the fact that I knew there were pushy Germans in front of me and loud Americans behind, I could've thought I was the only one down there. Not a comforting thought.

Eventually I came to a doorway that bore the sign; 'Warning, you are now entering the empire of the dead,' or words to that effect. I suppose this sign was originally intended to deter people, now it just makes for a nice photo opportunity. I took a deep breath and passed through the doorway where I encountered the piles of literally millions of bones, piled chest high and ten feet deep back to the wall in tunnels that stretch for 1.7 kilometres. I don't need to tell you that that's a lot of bones, even though I just did. It would be a veritable dream come true for the Diggingest Dog.










I walked around, taking in the bones of nameless millions of Parisians, including, it's believed, Marie Antoinette. It's kind of fitting that she's possibly stacked down here with the riff-raff, to be gawked at by anyone with a few Euro to spare. I thought maybe we could do something similar in Melbourne, only with all celebrities. There could be a whole section devoted to reality TV contestants, Slim Dusty could be propped up at a bar with no beer in his hand and there could be a special shrine for Eddie McGuire. 'Here lies Ed, boned at last.'
It's just an idea.

One thing I didn't expect was to be asked to open my bag when I climbed back up a different spiral staircase. I undid by bag and pulled out my camera, jacket, map and assorted paraphernalia and he appeared satisfied.
'Do people really steal the bones?' I asked as I stuffed my junk back in.
'Oh yeah,' he said. The two skulls on the table behind him seemed to be testament to this, and I realised the necessity for the security guard I saw sitting on a chair in the darkness below. Actually I didn't see him, I heard him. He was snoring loud enough to wake the dead.

The following day I headed out to Montmarte with Jai Faim and her parents for a morning of reliving scenes from Amelie. Unfortunately the rain started and we ended spending most of the time sheltered in The Sacre Couer, where people thought that traipsing through a service taking photographs was a perfectly reasonable thing to do. I had thought that the rain would spoil my planned tour for the afternoon but when I arrived at les Tour de egouts, I discovered that it was still a goer. So down I went again, this time into the Paris sewer systems. That's right, from the interred to the turd, from the deceased to the defecated, from the passed on to the passed through, it was time to find out whether a Frenchman's shit really does stink.

The short answer is yes. Actually that's the only answer. Of course there is waste water and rain water and all sorts of other things down there as well, so it's not overwhelming, but there's a definite miasma of nose hair curling wrongness. Still, it's bearable.

The Tour de Egouts is basically an underground museum for people who have too much time on their hands, are interested in the workings of a large sewer system or who are hiding from the law. All sorts of displays are set up showing the development of the city and the sewer system, from a stinky town where people had to watch their step to avoid the waste that had been thrown in the streets to a thriving metropolis where people have to pay to see waste. I was treated to information on how the sewers were built, how they are maintained and how they inspired sections of Victor Hugo's Les Miserables. By far the most horribly fascinating part of the tour however is the large canal full of flowing brown water down the centre of the exhibits.











This ain't Willy Wonka's magic river of chocolate!

It's hard not to peer into this free flowing filth and I found myself wondering if anyone on the tour has ever elbowed their friend in the ribs, pointed and said: 'Hey look, I think that one's mine. I know because I had corn last night.' Probably not. I am pretty sure I saw a whole strawberry float past though and had to wonder where that came from.

Like any other museum of note, this one of course had a gift shop where you could buy a toy stuffed rat. I can imagine the lucky kid who gets this present as a souvenir.
'Here honey, I bought you a rat from the Paris sewer.'
'Gee thanks, but I would have rather had some Chanel no 5.' Actually you have to be careful about that too. Being in the sewers gives a whole new meaning to Eau de Toilette.

If you take in the time spent on the subways, the majority of my weekend in Paris was spent below the ground, looking at bones, human waste and advertising that is abundant on trains and in the stations, and let me tell you there is only so much advertising one man can take. With all this in mind, I've decided to end this blog on a more innocent and sweet note, so here's a picture of a puppy in a Christmas hat.







Later.
J

Pod gave Rock and Roll to ya'

God bless the ipod, that blessed device of musical joy, that infernal machine of social separation and time wasting.

I admit I'm one of the podded masses, the white corded and plugged drones that now crowd our city streets, trains, planes and automobiles. Mr Sony gave us the Walkman, then reaped the rewards. Mr Apple gave us the ipod and has changed our culture.

When I bought my ipod I decided on 30 gig, in case I wanted to load it with more songs than I've ever had in my life then lie down somewhere for a week and listen to the whole thing, beginning to end. (Don't think the day isn't coming when there's some kind of competition, record attempt, reality show or website where people are challenged to do just that. It's coming, I can feel it.)

Of course having that much space means that when I go into a library and look at the CD's that I can now borrow and burn, I think, 'Hmm, famous movie themes played by a brass band from a British Coal Mining town? I'll have that.' (Sadly, that's not a joke.) Then when I get home I decide that I might as well put all the songs on, not just Superman and Star Wars and Indiana Jones. You never know when you may need the theme song from Ryan's Daughter.

This is why I love the shuffle feature, I just press that magic button and let the pod's digital fingers dig into into the depths of the lucky dip barrel and pull out an old favourite or something that I may never even have heard before, some bonus song from an obscure disc I downloaded "just in case", or some filler track from a band I do like that I'd never given the time to before. Sometimes shuffle will deposit a song on your doorstep that is truly a gem and soon makes it to your high rotation. Others are stinky dog droppings of cliches and bad guitar riffs that have you fumbling in your pocket for the skip button. This can lead to odd looks from passers by. Unfortunately, saying, "it's OK I'm just having a quick shuffle" does not solve this problem.
Of course sometimes I think my ipod is tuning to my needs, recently, after skipping a bunch of songs before letting a Bob Marley track play all the way through, the pod dredged up another Bob Marley song for the very next track. There are also plenty of songs out of the almost 4000 I have available that have never been played at all. What gives? Turns out I'm not the only one to wonder about this either, check out this article from American Newsweek.

I'm not going to mention some of the artists that have made their way onto my pod, only to have their work consistently skipped whenever it shuffles to the top of the pile. This is because some of you will deride me for having these artists there in the first place (which I probably deserve) and others of you probably love these artists. (OK, one of them is Robbie Williams, "Let me entertain you?" I wish you bloody would.)



One band I don't have on my ipod, and have been wondering about of late, is Aussie band Big Pig. If you haven't heard of them I'm not surprised, they broke up in 1990 I think, but their biggest album "Bonk" rocks it and any band that has a) Mostly Drums, b) Members that wear long aprons like slaughterhouse workers:







and c) had a song featured at the start of Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure (check the song out here) gets big ups from me. If anyone has a copy of that album, let me know. I think my ipod needs a few more songs.
That's it for now. I'm off to Paris this weekend (as you do) to buy some blue and white stripey shirts and beret's and eat some baguettes and escargot (mmm, slimy).
Until next time, keep podding along.
Au Revoir.
J

Running, jumping, making us laugh

Remember when you were a little kid and your Mum would say; 'Go outside and play, stop moping around the house.' So out you would go and you would run around the neighbourhood with some mates pretending to be secret agents, or jump off the garage to see if you could fly. It was all fun and games until you went home, tired, bloody and dirty and complained that you had to eat your vegies.

While most of us grow up and move on, it seems that some people don't. These people simply start doing parkour. Doing what? You ask. Parkour, I say. And stop interrupting.

Parkour, as described on Wikipedia is: to move from point A to point B as efficiently and quickly as possible, using principally the abilities of the human body. It is meant to help one overcome obstacles, which can be anything in the surrounding environment — from branches and rocks to rails and concrete walls — so parkour can be practiced in both rural and urban areas. Male parkour practitioners are recognized as traceurs and female as traceuses. What this means is that a group of people who couldn't afford skateboards or BMX's were feeling left out so they developed a new sport.

So now you know. Of course it's possible that you've seen Parkour, after all it's "the freshest thing crackin". The new Bond movie featured a Parkour chase between Bond and a random baddie through, over and across various 'obstacles'. TV show Top Gear featured a race between the sensible one, driving a sensible car through London traffic, against a couple of 'young blokes in silly trousers.' Parkour won that one. Even Madonna, who is apparently at the cutting edge of what's hot, despite being a fifty year old woman in a leotard, featured Parkour in a recent filmclip. There's also a cheesy movie which features a chase between David Belle, the so called inventor of Parkour and a group of other guys who are equally adept at leaping across buildings.

By the way, here's a movie cliche for you. Pay attention when you go to see a new movie that has the latest, most popular, most difficult craze, whether it's a martial art, Parkour, Skydiving or snowboarding down a mountain firing an Uzi. You will notice that the Big Boss will have a gang of henchman who are almost as good, but not quite as good as, the main character. This will give the main character a chance to show off his skills dispatching underlings in a fancy display. Of course there will always be one angry looking guy who stands over the right shoulder of the Big Boss and glares psychotically as the hero makes wise cracks. Hands up if you're ever surprised that the final showdown is between the hero and this psycho who is just as good as the hero but with the added benefit of steroids/no conscience/big muscles/bad breath. These things are no match of course for the hero's belief in what he's doing is right due to the fact he is fighting for a deceased loved one/a crippled yet plucky youngster/the fact that he has the law/God/America on his side. Here's a tip to wanna be Big Bosses. Send in the psycho guy first, if he can't beat the hero, then just bloody well give up.

But I digress...

Yes, Parkour, that's what I was yapping about. I did have a point to make. I say that David Belle is the so called inventor of Parkour, but he coined the term in 1998. It's my contention that there was another young man responsible for this phenomenon, and who was doing it, in a movie, many years ago. For the sake of my friend Mike, I'm going to reveal this person in a picture.

'No, don't get up.'

Yes that's right, Ferris Bueller, seen here doing Parkour over a couple of sunbaking ladies, he's also seen in the movie going through a house, over a fence, and through some hedges. All of which is done with style and humour and not a single henchman around. That, my friends, is where Parkour comes from.

Of course Parkour practioners, or traceurs, probably won't like this but to them I say this.

Your mother's a traceur.

See Ya,

Jeff.

PS: Rooney eats it.

More stuff about stuff you said.

More comments here and keep 'em coming. This one is from M, who said:

Oh and by the way, I think that the Tag 'Miss K' already has a home with a certain friend of mine from South Yarra. Hey is that plagiarism?!.

Mostly Unscripted says:

Plagiarism!? Woe is me to have such a thing besmirch my good name, which until now had been relatively smirch free. At first however I was blase, 'Isn't the secret to creativity knowing how to hide your sources after all?' I thought to myself. When I realised that Albert Einstein originally said this I was plunged deeper into despair. So deep that the only reply I could think of was: 'Aw shut up n' that.' Of course someone will probably write and tell me that this was originally said by Samuel Coleridge, or maybe Samuel L Jackson.
Anyway, the upshot is I had to rethink the whole Miss K thing, which seemed like a simple yet effective nom de plume at the time. Did I put hours of thought into it? No. Did I stupidly mention this fact to Miss K upon reading M's comments? Yes. Does this mean I now have to give Miss K a new, more original, more well thought out moniker? Also yes.
So after racking my brains for what seems like hours and hours, and I'm sure must have been, I've reached a consensus of one (this ain't no cheerocracy). From here on out, Miss K shall simply be known as: J'ai Faim. Hopefully this is a workable solution for all parties. If not then...shut up n' that.

What else is going on? Yesterday I saw a man washing his car with a hose. In light of what's happening in Australia in terms of water, this seemed shocking. It was almost as though he was rubbing my face in it. 'Look how much lovely water I can spray on my Volvo,' he was saying. Probably. 'After this I'm going to hose down my concrete and have a thirty five minute shower.' The arrogance of some people, or at least the arrogance that I ascribe to them in my head.
Apart from wasting water, Belgians are eating ice cream by the waffle-cone load. They eat it all year round, but as soon as the sun comes out there are queues out the door of every ice cream shop. Literally. Health experts are always pushing the benefits of a Japanese style approach to eating, what about the Belgian diet? Ice cream, waffles, chocolate, beer, and the number one favourite, chips (frites to be exact). 'Why they must all weigh 400 pounds,' I hear you exclaiming in my head (get out of there). No, they're mostly slim and trim and healthy looking. Maybe it's all the bike (fiets) riding they do. Frites and fiets, it's all about balance.

Anyway, enough of my rambling. I'm off for a chocolate and ice cream covered waffle.

Later n' that.

Jeff