Fireworks Bastille Day, and this went on for an hr. This was the opening number.

Gonzo Critique of Bourgeois Conceptualizations of Universality: Meditations From the Sunday Before Bastille Day

Here, it is not possible to forget that subjectivity and knowledge are situated in, are produced by, time and location. The point has been made by every social theorist from Hegel to Marx to Althusser to Derrida to Donna Haraway. It is not new. But here, finally, I feel the texture of it. The effect is dizzying. I think it is the reason that the country is so different from the city. In the country, one can easily forget time, place, location, being lost in a slow lull bounded by seasons, stars, trees. Indeed, that is part of the appeal of rural life. Forgetting.
I’m in café in Place Maubert, once the site of some of the worst rioting during the events of May ’68. I sit here, an American wearing a tank top made in Thailand that I bought at a horse show in Ohio that reads “Rock and Roll Cowgirl.” Here, its meaning changes. It seems aggressively American, western; or ironic and a la mode. Depending. I am reading a book in English about “l’affair du foulard,” the controversies surrounding prohibitions against Muslim girls wearing the veil in French public schools, and the ways in which it problematizes the idea of “universal man.” In the background I hear a marching band practicing for Bastille Day, the celebration of the French revolution; universality and all the rest. The band incongruously follows Abba’s “Don’t Go Wasting Your Emotions” with a stirring rendition of “Les Marseillaise.” From inside the café behind me comes Michael Jackson’s “Billy Jean.” The French, along with everyone else, are playing MJ’s music obsessively in the wake of his death. My Midwestern students, both Catholic and non, have gone back to Notre Dame again today to go to a full mass, drawn, I suppose, to the drama of the great cathedral. Me, I have eaten a lunch of Greek food from a shop down the corner whose owners came here during the military coup in the 60’s. I will walk back to the apartment I am subletting from an Italian architect who is now in Madrid then on to Dubai and who, apparently, has a taste for the music of Jacques Brel, and more than a passing interest in the sinking of the Titanic. I plan to call back to the U.S. to talk to some close friends in at least 3 states. One is about to leave to bring her children to a summer camp in Holland. Tomorrow, I want to go to see some restored versions of films from the French New Wave – films I first saw in New York City, decades ago, in the Village, where so many cafes, bars and newspapers bear the names of places from the Latin Quarter where I now sit, in Paris.
And each line of each sentence I have written has more stories attached, stories I could tell if I had time and if I were not violating the privacy of others. We are produced by and implicated in the interplay of the stories that all converge in each single moment, saturated with times, places and interpretive gazes. I am part of a vast flow of economies of capital and economies of meaning.
That last is too Deleuzian for my tastes, but there you are.
And, by the way, I am having a nice day. It is raining.

Fashion, Frenchness and Louis

I once heard a witty woman at a conference say that it is the fate of feminist theorists always to arrive wearing the wrong clothes. Yes; too hip, not hip enough, either looking unprofessional or looking too buttoned up. And so I will blame my sartorial dilemma of the past week on this more general problem. Alas, during this first week, I have been walking around Paris feeling woefully under-dressed and hot. I hasten to add that I do not mean I feel “hot” in a good way. (My students, however, have let their chic flags fly, and are all looking beautiful in their hats, scarves and colorful summer dresses). Clearly, I have to shop, and soon.

It is a cliché to talk about the French and their famous style, but this does not make it any more irksome when trying to put your finger on exactly what it is that makes them so intensely recognizable as French, and what makes style itself so unmistakable. Of course, in cultural studies, we think about this a lot. There is something in they way the clothes drape the body, the way the men hold a cigarette cupped in their hand, the suits worn casually and unwrinkled in 90 degree weather, leather shoes worn on bear feet that somehow seem not to blister…even a dog nonchalantly drifting about outside its friends sitting at a café, perfectly behaved with no leash, as if a prop. How do they do it?

I recently saw a diminutive, middle-aged French woman buying jeans. I thought she looked fantastic trying on jeans just off the rack. But, with a disturbed look on her face, she studied herself in the mirror critically, and ordered the proprietor to pin the jeans for her just so, nip here, tuck there. This is something few Americans would do, even if The Gap did alterations. The transformation was astonishing; precisely the right length, the waist done just so, the legs of the jeans fitted close to her body in one moment, slightly looser elsewhere. Aha. The French de-naturalized and the social construction of Frenchness begins to be revealed! Moral: Don’t buy off the rack. If bought off the rack, tailor. Surely there is more. I’ll report back.

Tomorrow I teach Rousseau’s famous tract on the education of the good citizen, The Emile. Of the importance of travel for an educated citizenry, he writes:

There is a great difference between traveling to see the
country and traveling to see the people. The first object
is always that of the curious, while the other is only inci­
dental for them. It ought to be the very opposite for one
who wishes to philosophize. The child observes things,
and waits until he can observe men. The man ought to
begin by observing his fellows, and then he can observe
things, if he has the time.

And so, following Rousseau’s advice (selectively; those who have read Emile and what he says about women will know why I say this), I continue to observe the French in rapt fascination. Rousseau viewed women’s taste for fashion as one example of something that, he thought, made it impossible for her to be a citizen in the same way that a man could be.
Of his model for the perfect girl, Sophie, Rousseau says:

Observe a little girl spending her time with her doll,
constantly changing its attire, dressing and undressing it
hundreds of times, continually seeking for new combi­
nations of ornaments, well or badly selected, no matter
which j the fingers lack deftness, the taste has not been
formed, but the disposition is already seen. In this end­
less occupation the time goes on without notice; the
hours pass but she takes no note of them; she even for­
gets to eat, and has a greater hunger for dress than for
food.

Well, yes. I did have a Barbie, and that does sound uncomfortably familiar. But in observing and participating in fashion, one can also philosophize! Take that, Rousseau (and merci M. Roland Barthes). Et la!

Of course my students and I are not just observing people. Indeed, we are also seeing the “things” Rousseau disparaged in this city that Hemmingway called “the moveable feast.” The beauty of it, the sheer scope of the history takes your breath away. Truly. Tonight we go to mass at Notre Dame. I hear its bells from my apartment. I use its spires as directional markers, as they loom within view from almost everywhere in the city. I ponder the juxtaposition of that enormous Roman Catholic Church, sitting literally at the center of France (“point zero,” the place from where all distance is measured in France), visually mocking a country whose identity is so deeply secular that it cannot tolerate the presence of veiled Islamic girls in its schools. And again, I can’t help but think of Lacan, and how this church may be the phallic marker against which all things French get meaning. I will think about this more.

Quick postscript because it’s funny:
Several of my students agreed to meet in CDG airport when their flights arrived in Paris. Probably not realizing the size of the airport, they neglected to get flight information, arrival times for one another, or to set a place to meet. They wandered around the airport for hours aimlessly looking for one another, until one of them spied an O.U. shirt in the crowd, and because of the magic that sometimes attaches itself to us at key moments in life, they were united.

And Sir Mix alot provides caption for the photo on my blog about counterfeiting, showing the Louis hat:


Sir Mix-A-Lot - Swap Meet Louie lyrics

"Hey, homeys!"
"Who me?"
"Yeah, that's right. You the fly hustler."
"Ya'll still sellin' that fake Louie, huh?"
"Hey! Don't be turnin' the highside up in here. You don't even got the
dope..."
"Oh, baby, I don't need the highside, just give me some khaki's and I'm
straight."
"Tryin' dis me, ole raggy rooty-poot runned up gangsta? Who you think you are?
M.C. Hammer? You can't 'ford this Louis Vuitton!"
"What you mean I can't afford it. Why would I wanna afford some old fake
Louie, baby
if that's real Louie, I'm Tom Cruise."
"Excuse me, I'd like to buy some."
"You don't know jack about this Louie. Take your sorry self over booth
number 2 for
the crack pipe."
"Yeah, awreit. I got your crack pipe right here baby."

*RAP*

Wooah, Louis Vuitton never made a sweatsuit
But you're swearin' up and down, that you got the Louie boots
So you roll to the swap meet, girlfriend buttless
Rip phantom top on your seven six Cutlass
In the shop Louis Vee is what you seek
Black Knight Cortez slippin' on your feet
You're saggin', droop like a bawla
Your girl starts walkin' towards the counter, so you call her
Oooh, this is on. Why don't you get this for me?
Everytime you hit the swap meet, it's gimme, gimme, gimme.
A little old lady in the back starts to creep, she's deep
Through cazelley's she peeks
Her name is Mary Pong and she's got it going on
Swap meet weed, with the swap meet thongs
Leather miniskirt with the oriental draw
Little Mary Pong is RAW
She says "I wanna make your girlfriend look good"
Start buying all your Louie in the hood
And your sprung, on the two for one
Fake Louie at the swap meet, son
Now you know brown Louie is played
But you're drunk and you just got paid
So you bought the gear, little Mary says "See ya"
Little did you know it was "Made in Korea?"

Swap Meet Louie, Swap Meet Louie
That's right, tell em homeys
Swap Meet Louie, Swap Meet Louie
Right here baby
Swap Meet Louie, Swap Meet Louie
What you need?
Swap Meet Louie, Swap Meet Louie
You don't know jack about this Louie

Victim number two, a rich young couple from Bellvue
Welcome to the swap meet, another dumb couple 'bout to get beat
Out came little Mary Pong, she had the big Louie Vee gear on
The couple got sprung and the wife want some
Louie Vee hat with the diamonds
Shes thinkin' she got that deal, 2 for 1 is a steal
The hat mighta had a L V on the back
But at the swap meet that ain't jack
But she bought it, cost about three hun
Mary Pong said you're the one
But when the girls Louie got wet she started complainin'
Baby girls Louie started fadin'
Now she's tryin' to take it back
But the swap meet don't play that
Cause when a customer tries to intimidate
Mary Pong pulls a .38
She ain't about to get bum rushed
She's strapped an' she's ready to bust
But at the swap meet you don't pay tax
They're movin' out fake Louie by the batch

Swap Meet Louie, clockin' lotsa dolla's
Swap Meet Louie, we all got gold
Swap Meet Louie, black silk jackets
Swap Meet Louie, rich flaunt clout
Swap Meet Louie, Swap Meet Louie
Swap Meet Louie, Swap Meet Louie

Me an' Attitude Adjuster stepped smooth at a swap meet
Buyin' much gear for the feet
When we spot Mary Pong with a blank face
Sellin' bootleg Mixalot tapes
The brother bought the tape and kept steppin'
Mary Pong starts lookin' for a weapon
I got a plan 'n' I'm about to use it
What's up with the bootleg music?
Mary Pong is about to get jacked
She had a stack of big bootleg racks
Me and Attitude creeped like snakes
Grabbed the tapes and the Louie and break
The whole swap meet went crazy
I'm sockin' more fools than Patrick Swayze
Toss a mess of fake Louie in the trunk
Hit the gas and the tach just sunk
Like that, I'm outta there
Swift brothers like to roll in pairs
So we jet, to the boulevard fast
Slingin' swap meet Louie for cash

Swap Meet Louie, Swap Meet Louie
That's right, tell em homeys
Swap Meet Louie, Swap Meet Louie
Right here baby
Swap Meet Louie, Swap Meet Louie
What you need?
Swap Meet Louie, Swap Meet Louie
You don't know jack about this Louie

Globalism

I have begun the first leg of my trip to Paris, and write now from the airport in Columbus. Thanks and deep love to all the friends and family who have called or hung out with me in the days before this trip to wish me bon voyage. You rock.
I am going to fly to Toronto where I have an 8 hr layover. Initially, I had booked a flight that left at 1:30 from OH, but the airline cancelled it. They have put me instead on this morning flight, which leaves me with the ridiculous lag time in Toronto. It’s going to be a long, close to 20 hrs of travel time (or something).
Which brings me to one of the themes of this post: global capitalism is really only global for capitalists. Cases in point. The airlines can make virtually any changes they want, but individuals cannot. Ok, that’s not really about globalism. I’m just warming up by venting about the one-sided nature of the notion of “contract.” To resume my actual topic: I tried for several solid days to get Euros in Athens, OH. My credit union doesn’t handle foreign currency. Even Chase bank said they had to order them, and it could take several days to get them. Same with AAA. Even getting a bank draft in Euros meant I had to have an acct. at Chase with a minimum balance of $500. I also tried to go through my broker at Merrill Lynch (now owned by Bank of America). Still not luck. Had to go back to plain old traveler’s checks, issued in dollars with a plan of cashing them in Paris to pay Euros to several individuals who need to be paid virtually as soon as I land. In future, wire transfer or paypal (both of which charge extra fees) are the ways to go, and I’ll just have to pay the fees.
Second case is that I tried to make a small change in my return flight on Air Canada. I had booked through Orbitz. When I clicked “change this ticket,” Orbitz said that, in fact, I had to make the change at airport in Columbus with the airline. But once in Columbus, it turned out that there really is not Air Canada here. It is run by United. But United will not do ticketing for Air Canada. I have to wait until I get to Toronto. We’ll see.
Seriously. How is this possible? Banking and air travel are global, but not to benefit individuals, only to benefit the businesses. I know, duh. But it is still striking when you experience it in these kinds of specific ways. Even my guy at Merrill Lynch was taken aback that they could not get me foreign currency.
A final note about globalism. The guy who drove the shuttle from the hotel to the airport was Algerian. When he found out I was going to Paris, he immediately started speaking French to me, and telling me about the French occupation of Algeria. He told me a remarkable amount in French and in English on the 10-minute ride. And an American engineer also on the bus started chiming in about the Persian Empire. I’m not sure what the connection was there. I think he was just free-associating about Islamic societies or something. But it was one of life’s synergies to be driven to the airport on my trip to Paris by an Algerian, when part of what I will be teaching about is French colonialism, European modernity and its relation to Islam and North Africa.
Ps, I wish animals could speak so I could call home and say hello to my dog, horse and cats. Luckily, Parisians bring their dogs everywhere. Not that any of them will substitute for my Moxie!