winter                                                                   summer                   fall...

The indolence of adolescence has given way to the fast track of nearing adulthood and the child that I am is refusing to adapt, thank god.

Gearing up for the fast track includes throwing away books like Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH with the 70ies cover, giving away CDs to people you know will never listen to your first influences in jrock and running into people in the street to whom you throw a kitsch "Adieu." instead of a kitsch "Let's do lunch sometime." 

It also means saying goodbye to my apartment, no mean feat. It means having to tell bee-yotches that you're gonna miss their asses. It even means not having sex for several months. Mostly, it means that last polaroid up there. Being tiny, alone, and looking freaked out.

This embodies the Fête de la Musique for Barracuda and Yours Truly.

This, however, does not.

Heavily influenced by other substances, people and hearsay.

The sober part of our romantic escapade to London. Polaroids don't like smoke, so the predominant drunken part is simply a vivid, somewhat thrillingly painful memory.

There were other people. They were just..not in the frame. Elsa, love, I want your city for Xmas.

Other memorable moments:

The New Cassettes concert in a bubble and Nick in the grass.

Getting acquainted with about 5 pints of Carling, London summer humidity and 6 hours of travelling while watching the Depeche Mode lineup.

After finding an unworn pair of the first tennis shoes ever created (1961) and other vintage gems, stumbling upon a Long Blondes showcase in some basement in Camden. 

Sitting at one end of London Bridge from 5 to 6 PM, to watch the evening rush home of the City's worker drones and decision makers - that's 2 549 suits and mallets.

Bricolage's concert at Trash and Alan McGee's nights of robotic dancing and mental escape.

The Notting Hill Art Club's lavish washroom attendant as dances and blows kisses.

Being the three-man show of the Piccadilly line. Piss and chocolate in King's Cross.

Russel Square's wholesome salad bar and its amazing falafel, while watching a fire rage in a top storey flat.

24 bloody hours in bloody Stanstead Airport with 10 pounds to our name (i.e. beer or food?)

Random art galleries, tiny retro shops, musty shows and some interesting concerts.

I got back to Grenoble, watched the game, did fuck all a bar, waited to decide what to do for an hour, rotted in the park, spent way too much money to dance for two hours, walked home and didn't know whether to laugh or cry.