namas pamos: vai vai vai

Felix introduced me to Namas Pamos some ten years ago by putting a weirdly shaped, painted thick paper art cover on my desk and saying whatever was the equivalent of that's the shiznat back in the days. Fascinated by the music, language, and philosophy of a band that needed to invent a country in order to belong (the album is the country is Lipomgalie), I spent many a novel-writing Sunday energized and amused by their tracks. The other day, something Ben played in the office brought all that flavor back to me, and I headed to YouTube in no time. Sure enough, Namas Pamos were there, so here goes notable and representative Vai Vai Vai, from above mentioned album. I last fished it out of my CD black hole a couple of years ago when we had the misfortune to invite two extremely boring people for dinner and watch them overstay their welcome... until 3 am! On a week day! Nothing (but rudeness) works as good as a strong taste of quirky music to get loitering guests off one's sofa. If you doubt that, go ahead and try it on co-workers, commuters, flatmates and neighbors that have tried your patience lately.

one family for street photography

My mother calls this generations. Taken by my father, it features my cousin, his partner, his son and my mother in the colorful streets of Sighisoara, a rather famous Romanian city I've yet to see.



My sister captured this somewhere in London. I know the city wears this face at times, but it's so unfortunately rare that, next to a smile, I immediately thought damn, wish I was there.



And here's a little something from my first camera phone years back, when the largess photoblog was on. I'd do well to channel that mojo again, so cheers to my family for reminding me.

deep in the morning

There was a faint autumn fragrance on the terrace this morning. By the time I grabbed my coffee and a cigarette it fleeted. My first thought had been that it smelled like Bucharest in September, but then, sniffing the air with a puzzlement that I still think of summer dresses and a longing for dead leaves in the continental sun, I knew the truth was different. We can't miss places, though we think we do. We only miss ourselves in those places, what we made of them, what we chose to store in a tiny drawer of sparsely documented happiness and elevated subjectivity. And that's why recreated circumstances, however perfect, can only bring back a fleeting feeling of deja vu. Because we moved on.



My cousin brought these roses from Lewisham Market when she joined us for lunch yesterday. She knew they were real roses because they looked and smelled like her grandmother's garden back in Bucharest. My cousin hadn't started school before her family moved to Budapest. But no one could take that garden away from her, squirreled in a tiny magic drawer. On a different note, it's rather strange to have two members of my family in London.

test your sunday happinness levels with this easy multiple choice

1. Have as many as 5 strangers pass through your flat.
2. Have your camera vanish while 5 strangers pass through your flat.
3. Learn that bedroom windows will be patched, but not lounge windows.
4. Hear that a cracked glass stove top might be just fine by deploying duct tape.
5. Hear the tragic crash of the tiny chest of drawers that contains all your jewelry.
6. See the only pair of (previously unused) badminton rackets fall apart in less than five minutes.
7. Discover that not even the cleaner got rid of the mold in the powder drawer of your washing machine.
8. See the toilet nearly overflow again two weeks after being 'fixed' and sorting it yourself, right after cleaning up mold.
9. Certify by means of three pairs of eyes and shrieks of disbelief that, indeed, you share the flat with a strolling mouse again.
10. All of the above.

Next time you can't explain my ray of sunshine je ne sais quoi, or the fairly high density of posts about flowers, foods, and finds... it's time you take the test once more.

something old, and something new

I've seen this music video last weekend (or was it two weekends ago? weeks blend a bit too much of late) and cannot stop thinking about its balls and simplicity ever since. It may be old news to many, but I'm just happy to have seen it at all and keen that it travels the internets some more.

not aiming for the queen's english, but wtf?

Of late, I've been welcomed on a daily basis with the jovial: You alright? In more than one place. Awesome, no? I'm finally assimilated! For fuck's sake, would it be so hard to say: And how have you been, darling? Would it be that much to ask that we speak some sort of London English, rather than lazy irreverent yocal? Myself, I persevere in being glorious and all manner of posh, decisive things. Who's right to be alright? People who've been through something tough, are recovering, and actively choose to see the bright side. Who's wrong to be alright? People with a healthy mind in a healthy body. You know who you are, so get this: I can gloss over your bad English, but spare me the bad karma of being alright as sole ambition. And while at it, ditto for the not bad lot!

freudian slips or irrrational lisps

This morning: I'll have a smoke and a cigarette.

Last night: I'd like a pack of Smoking Kills.

we're all going crazy buck jumping and having fun

Taking it easy for once. Pottering about the house, about to cook some tastiness, and listening to Lillian Boutte in advance of making it to the first 606 Club free jazz Sunday in Regent's Park this year, should the weather allow. The plan is somewhat grander, as it includes a spot of foraging, a picnic, and a peddle boat, but it's a dark, windy day, so who knows what tomorrow holds in store.

Meanwhile, a new lot of neighbors are moving into the nearby geranium building of Mediterranean railings. They go by the names Richard this and Honey that, from what I can hear, and seem to have hoarded an impressive number of boxes, like someone else we know. They're young, unlike the majority of the residents there, and are just making the acquaitance of Nick from 24, and Deborah—or is it Honey that goes by the name Deborah? The first lot that moved in after us was an equally young couple, and busied themselves yesterday with painting the railings, so right now it feels like proper company, people with a mind to maintain and enjoy things.

Sure, it's easy to say that before we step on each other's toes due to our parties clashing or our kids getting into a fight, so I'm hereby reminding myself not to get too excited. After all, the only neighbors that somewhat got us interested while in the previous flat, have forever stayed nicknamed Sandra and David. They only lived across the street, but none of us ever made a step further than smiling and (very very rarely) waving, and that only after they got the gardening bug.

Back to Lillian, though, before I lose that train of thought entirely. Her MySpace page heralds: Known as The Musical Ambassador of New Orleans, for the past 30 years Lillian has been capturing the hearts and ears of listeners from the
Mississppi Delta to Bondi Beach performing her special brand of R&B, Jazz, and Gospel and hosting singing workshops for adults and kids of all ages. She can be seen in Stevenson Pallifi's award winning documentary "Piano Players rarely play together" featuring Professor Longhair, Toots Washington and her friend and mentor Allen Toussaint. She can also be seen in her cameo appearance in Allen Parker's film "Angel Heart" and is featured on the soundtrack with the Blues great Brownie McGee.

Now, of course, the first musician to be known as a music ambassador for New Orleans (and jazz in general, around the world even) is none other than Louis Armstrong, who was so fond of the cajun and creole cuisine that he signed his letters red beans and ricely yours—thanks, Wikipedia! Funny that, on the very morning when I wake up to reading that Louis and wife had an awesome kitchen, on which you can virtually drool here.

It's no surprise that jazz and food have been going hand in hand in New Orleans, pretty much the only place I've always wanted to visit (if not live in, rather) beyond New York, in The States. Some of that longing finds an answer in Treme, the HBO show off The Wire's David Simon. Speaking of which, heard of Kermit Ruffins? He plays himself in the first season, and the first time he appears he's making a baaaaaad barbecue at his place as Antoine pops in and dares asking for an advance on that night's gig so that he could pay the cab.

So, while on this, here's a tad of Kermit Ruffins, too, another likely ambassador, and excerpts from the introduction to an interview taken by Rock Off at the start of this month: ​Many people say that going to New Orleans feels like being in another time. In fact, the city's current slogan for its tourism TV spots [...] is "you're different here." Listening to Kermit Ruffins [...] has that effect too. Besides a voice that is the spitting image of Crescent City icon Louis Armstrong, the jazz served up by the lifelong New Orleans resident and his Barbecue Swingers is as Louisiana as dirty rice. He's not a bad chef, either, owning his own bar, Sidney's Saloon, in the Treme, where he can often be found behind a ten-foot "baaaaaad barbecue grill."

And since today feels very blessed and I've learned a lot that I enjoy sharing, what do you say about Treme's theme song, Down in the Treme? It is performed by jazz vocalist John Butte, Lillian's very brother! And as of today it has replaced my morning alarm song of the past two years, the theme song of The Sopranos, Alabama 3's Woke Up This Morning. I think I've just registered a welcome change of mood, as I'm moving from got yourself a gun to buck jumping and having fun.

All MySpace embeds courtesy of the marvelous Myspace Band Player Generator, as before.

just like that

He sets on to read, but really does just share the pillow with his shiny iPad. Once I'm done with my iPod readings, I gently wake him up, so that we can get devices out of the bed, turn lights off, and spoon into oblivion or somesuch. Except gentlest gesture never quite does it, and hardly an evening goes by without a peak into his early dreams. When I don't report them, it's only because I'm beyond the point of forming detailed memories myself. He never fails. Only I do, repeatedly.

Chris: What about the whistle?
Me: What about?
Chris: Did it blow?
Me: Yes.

Smart cookie, am I? Then why the hell did I not answer 'no' and get more of it?