I’ve got AIDS, in Haiku

Is there a good way to deliver bad news? When Sun Microsystems boss left this week, he informed the public via Twitter. In Haiku.

Some might say it was poetic – if only for the reason it respected the 5-7-5 syllabic form of the Japanese tradition.

So can Haiku soften the blow when informing close ones of ill tidings?

Itching in the groin
The doctor said “It’s the Clap.”
We’ve shared more than love.

The last time I delivered news about an STD, I did so via Facebook: “Arbourman is making STD phone calls.”

I didn’t get any “like this” comments, but that’s not to say it wasn’t an effective method; albeit with 600+ friends, the message wasn’t as targeted as it could–or should–have been.

Two girlfriends have told me while out to dinner. As a result I have fond memories of the steak at Le Remercier in Paris 6th; the meal-time conversation, not so much.

The mentor

Trent was a gay, white, Ugandan diplomat who’d had sex with a king of Tonga. He was my first mentor, and we’d met thanks to Michael Jackson.

It was the end of 2003 and I was moving out of a decrepit student house in South Yarra. I was taking my humble belongings to my car. Among the more valuable of these was a large mounted-board posted of Michael Jackson.

“I’ve got a better one than that,” said a gruff voice from the terrace of an adjacent house that I’d never noticed.

In my poster, MJ was wearing a red striped top, was nominally black, already had no nose, but didn’t yet have any molestation accusations. Ergo, my neighbour’s claim was hard to believe.
“Prove it,” I said.

He invited me over, ducked inside and returned with a framed newspaper headline: “Prince Harry Pot-Head”. I didn’t think that this was better than Michael Jackson, but I approved of his spirit of competition. It was somewhat inspiring that he could be 45 and still decorating his home with the same sort of student rubbish.

A mentor is not necessarily a friend, though can be one. In a mentor I look for someone who can inspire, but also give the frank advice when it counts and amuse.

Trent had been a radio journalist, a career I was aspiring to, and shared his tales from work. One time, his station was changing management. The journalist team had to reapply for their jobs. A co-worker tipped him off that the new manager, who had both a speed boat and a ponytail, actually planned to sack their team and install a new one.

Trent felt compelled to sit through the interview all the same, donning his best suit for the occasion. At the end of the 45-minute meeting, he stood up and thanked them all for their time. He walked out of the room, head up high.

Knowing that the application was a foregone conclusion, he’d taped a message to the back of his suit jacket for his interviewers to read as he departed: It said: “Go Shove your Job and Fuck Off.”

I went to Borneo in 2005 to freelance some radio stories. Checking my email on arrival, I discovered that Trent had written an email to a German radio station, purporting to be me with a story to pitch. The woman responded positively.  That was fine, but it now seemed I needed to write a story about the suppression of ethnic minorities in the lead-up to national elections. I’d only been planning to write about Orang Utans.

“Besides the point,” said Trent. “You tell her you’re researching the election violence story, but in the meantime, ‘would you be interested in a story about the mating habits of Orang Utans?’!”

In the end I did a story about a small village that had installed a hydro generator, which it used to power a karaoke machine.

Trent was there with some helpful criticism: “What the fuck was that story about? Who is going to give two shits about that?”

He died suddenly at the start of 2006; bashed on his doorstep he suffered a fatal aneurism the next night. It sent me into a minor tailspin: I was heading to Uganda and had been counting on his help setting up stories. I also needed a new mentor.

In Paris, 4 years later, I am not doing radio journalism, but am writing a book. I met Keith at a book signing in December. He is an elderly Canadian journalist; a straight-talker, admittedly arrogant, and extremely accomplished.

“We should talk. Come around to my house,” he invited me.

On Saturday I took him up on the offer. I opened his door, and his cat ran out. He chased it up the stairwell.

I sat down on his couch. “Everyone comes to Paris and says they are going to write a book,” he said. “I believe things when I see them.”

I asked him about writer’s block. He suggested some books to read, saying: “garbage in, garbage out: your writing quality depends on the quality of your reading. Read anything, as long as it is well-written.”

I decided not to tell him the address of my blog.

After less than an hour, he stood up. “Well, I hope I’ve been useful. I need to write now.” Our rendez-vous was over. Keith had been gruff, frank and inspiring. I didn’t ask whether he’d had sex with any kings of small pacific nations, but that can wait till next time.

Flying home to Australia

If you ever want to make 24 hours on an aeroplane worse than it has to be, try flying Cathay Pacific.

Boarding in Paris, the captain turned on the P.A.

“I’m your pilot, Ted Bore.”

His name said it all: it was going to be a fun flight. The hilarity was due to start immediately. “Cabin crew please be seated while we prepare for landing. I mean take-off.”  I don’t think he was joking.

I turned to the inflight entertainment for relief. Transformers II. The one redeeming thing about this film is that it looks good on the big screen. Unfortunately, big screen implies something larger than a pencil case. I turned it off after 10 minutes, after which the quality of the flight experience markedly improved.

It was time to get some sleep. Cathay Pacific has now gotten so stingy that you even need to request eye-masks for long-haul flights. I asked; the attendant didn’t oblige.

I thought of other options. In The Silence of the Lambs, Hannibal the Cannibal escapes from the asylum by cutting the face off someone and wearing it as a mask. I looked at my neighbour. I looked at my meal tray. With the plastic airplane cutlery, the Hannibal face-mask option didn’t seem plausible. I could, however, fix a serviette to my face using two soft butter patties as an adhesive.

Instead of sleeping, I decided to read. The reading lights were all broken. So I decided to write. I am in the process of transcribing 4000 SMS for a personal project. I took out my phone and continued to write. About half an hour alter, the attendant asked me if I had my phone on “Plane mode”.  Whoops! Mobiles emit a radio signal that can hinder airplane navigation, or some such. I changed the settings; the plane sharply veered left.

But it could have been worse. I could have been flying with Garuda. With them, it once took me four days and seven stop-overs to get from Europe to Australia (the standard is about 22 hours, with one stopover in Asia). I got so drunk that I only barely remember the final stopover, in Adelaide – but then again, I’ve spent three days in Adelaide in sobriety and still have only the faintest recollection of that too.

Dog poo in Paris. A love story.

Rozzi at work had suffered a particularly embarassing incident for a Frenchman during the weekend. He stood square in some dog poo.

Stepping in dog poo can of course happen to anyone in any country. It’s just that – and this is what makes Rozzi’s case rather French – you don’t usually expect to step into it when walking into your building elevator. In fact, my brother’s ex-girlfriend, a reliable source of information on all things French, said that Parisians have inbuilt poo sensors in the toes of their shoes that enable them to subconsciously avoid any potential turds (Rozzi was probably just wearing slippers).

Paris was once as famous for its dog poo as for any aging monument, but, this has since changed since the passing of a law in 2002 to fine owners who did not pick up after their dogs.

Before this, the Town Hall relied on a fleet of ‘Moto-crotte’ scooters – “motor-turds” – that drove around the city like giant vacuum cleaners dusting under the bed for soft-rocks.

Even if these zippy machines only removed 20% of the then estimated 15 tonnes of poo, I guess their use for keeping order at public demonstrations (presumably, like any vacuum cleaner, their suction could be put in reverse) kept them in favour long after their expense could continue to be justified.

Since the Town Hall changed tack, it is common to see friendly reminder signs around the many small parks and gardens, saying “Je l’aime, je remasse” – I love him, I pick up after him. After my first relationship here failed she explained that the sign was talking only to dog owners.

To give you an idea of what dog pooh in Paris used to be like, just go to any French city not called Paris. In Montpellier, for example, it’s hard to imagine that some footpaths do NOT consist entirely of small intricate dog poos held together with old chewing gum.

Montpellier has a large population of homeless people, many of whom keep dogs, be it for company, protection or sympathy. Perhaps they also keep dogs for entertainment. My friend’s favourite dog poo story took place in Montpellier in 2008.

As is the norm in France, particularly the south, chairs and tables on cafe terraces are arranged side by side (not facing each other), so that customers can watch the world go by over coffee without being distracted by looking directly at a friend’s head. This one occasion, a dog had just left an enormous turd outside a coffee on Montpellier’s famed ‘Comedie’ plaza.

In the distance, coffee-drinkers turned to see approaching one of the city’s many young bogans/chavs/white trash/beaufs (insert your national term here), swaggering with all the style afforded to someone dressed in pristine white parachute pants and a fluoro pink t-shirt.

You can probably tell what happens next, so just imagine. it. in. slow. motion. The foot goes down. He starts to slide. He slips…maybe 20 cms…loses balance completely, and ends up lying on the ground, in front of a coffee house of voyeurs. Then beats a hasty exit.

Long story short, in Paris, people have started to pick up their dog poo.

But the story doesn’t end there, because you can’t just do something in Paris, without adding a little French touch.

In August, I saw an aged woman unfold a yellow paper napkin on the footpath for her tiny dog to poo on. She then folded it by its four corners and daintily disposed of it.

Last week, on my street, I saw a man using a serviette to wipe his dog’s bottom! I didn’t get a close look, but it probably wasn’t with that cheap recycled paper either.

The moral is, if your dog needs to go, pick up the poo with a bag, a serviette or a newspaper – because only tourists collect dog turds with their shoes.

A gypsy stole my homework

It’s not often you can legitimately use the excuse that “a gypsy stole my homework” in a professional environment.

But tomorrow, when I have to give a presentation about Facebook to the office, it’s the excuse I’m going to try. If I hadn’t spent four hours at the police station this afternoon, I might have something to show tomorrow. Alas.

The events rolled out as thus.

I work in an open plan office at the end of a courtyard. I had just come back from lunch break, and was checking Facebook/working, which, owing to my new role as community manager, is one and the same thing.

My friend Kara and Ali are selling calendars of photos they’ve taken because they need some special equipment for their kid Sebastian that they can’t get in Egypt. Great idea, I thought, and bought one.

I had just processed the order, when i became aware of something, someone, on my right shoulder. I turned to see a young boy begging me for money. He had some rubbish sign made of paper that he was thrusting in my face.

WHAT THE FICK.

I knew that I hadn’t magically been teleported to a Paris metro station – there was no-one playing the accordion. Rather, quite haphazardly, two gypsies had “wandered” into the office and started doing the rounds.

We hustled them out, and only too late I realised he’d taken my phone, off my desk. Apparently it was the oldest trick in the book. The kid uses the paper to distract you, all the while using it to block your view from the things he is taking. If only I spent more time reading old books, and not poorly written signs made by gypsies.

I therefore spent the afternoon at the police station filing a stolen property report.

The problem with 24-hour police stations, is that they are open for 24-hours. There is technically no time limit on the amount of time you can wait to get served. This afternoon I had time to resew three buttons onto my jacket, and engage in a conversation with someone who’s just come back from Barcelona. (Have you ever enjoyed hearing about someone’s trip to Barcelona? I still haven’t.)

Finally the policeman ushered me in. I recounted the details, the first hurdle I hit was ‘Gypsies’. Was it ok to say this word, or would I cause great offence?

I remember back at Victoria Police that descriptions were sanitised from 14 categories into three distinct ones; Asian, Caucasian, Aboriginal, as well as ‘other’ – which was the catch-all description. I’m not sure how ‘other’ was ever used; you can hardly imagine the senior-conny putting out a search request for “another 40 year old man wearing jeans and a baseball cap”.

Nevertheless, the policeman happily noted “Gypsy” as the offender’s race, and we continued.

“Any specific features?”

“The young one had big eyes,” I said, stretching my eyelids up with my fingers to resemble big eyes.

The policeman looked quizzical.

I didn’t know the French for ‘bulbous’, but I did know the French for ‘lemur’. “He had ‘lemurien’ eyes,” I told the policeman.

“Lemur eyes? I like that description. I’m going to leave that in the report,” he said.

He showed me a brief photobook of known young offenders, but none looked like the boy that had stolen my phone.

If you are in the neighbourhood of the 10th, or elsewhere in Paris, be wary of any gypsy-looking lemurs:

Have you heard the Gossip? Guitars, drums and super-sized sweaty underpants in gay Paris

Crowds are for losers

If you ever lose your friends in a concert crowd, you have three options:

1. If your friends are abnormally short: look for any large circles among a crowd. You might not be able to see them just yet, but your friends are either that circle – or its a comatose guy lying in some vomit and frothy slightly while waiting for the medics.

2. If your friends are tall: look any gaps in the crowd. Tall guys hunt in packs, and no-one likes getting stuck behind them at concerts.

3. Are you friends of medium height and build? Head to the bar, and hope they’ve done the same.

The Gossip was doing a set at the Bataclan and we had tickets. I got bailed up by an earplug vendor at the entrance and got left behind by the others.

“I know your face,” he said.

He looked entirely unfamiliar.

“Have you been travelling anywhere recently?”

This sounded like he was desperately fishing for ideas. I reeled off an unlikely – but true – list of recent journeys. “St Petersburg, Italy, Montpellier, Sweden,” adding “Beirut“ for good measure.

“Tahiti?” he countered.

Tahiti? Did I look like Paul Gauguin?

“I know! I worked with you over summer.”

This was pretty extraordinary. Given that I only work with 40 or so people, I probably should have recognised him. At least I can rest assured that if I ever quite the logical progression to take is a gig selling ear plugs on commission at concerts.

But I wasn’t here to listen to stories from his summer, I was here for the music.

Noel Fielding’s bastard child (or maybe he has one??)

By this time the first act was well and truly in the midst of their set. The singer looked like the love-child of Freddie Mercury and Noel Fielding – who in turn looks less like a guy I used to live with in Sweden.

Their ‘act’ consisted of the ’singer’, who paced backwards and forwards getting as much mileage out of his funny looking hat as possible, the guitarist, wearing a tie-dye shirt he’d likley borrowed from MGMT, and the drummer, who relatively happy to hide behind a huge cap. Yet still most of the music seemed to be generated by someone off stage. But no matter.

Their music was similar to the popular scaled-back electro pop of the moment – think La Roux.

“Who was the support act?” I asked some guy during interval.

“I don’t know. They are selling t-shirts, you could check the name there.”

He gestured to a guy standing on the first level.

“So you’re telling me their name is ‘Meltin Pot 06 Hurricane Piranha’?”

“I don’t think you saw the right t-shirt.”

But there was no mistaking The Gossip when they took to the stage. The drummer, bassist and guitarist first. It started with a persistent, dull thud. It was like in Jurassic Park when the T-Rex is approaching and causing the water in the cup to ripple.

She’s approaching!

“The singer’s approaching,” said Marie. The singer of The Gossip, Beth Ditto, is as famous for being obese as she is for being homosexual and for her powerful voice.

She didn’t arrive with the rest of the band, but when she did there was no mistaking her. Short, enormous, a shock of red hair, a black fascinator and a large sheet-like t-shirt. And when she started to move – for The Gossip music very much makes you want to move – she was an unstoppable force.

In fact, given the energy with which she moved, she must work really hard to keep her figure. The crowd too, moved. A lot.

Three songs in and it was hot. The air was hot. Turn the down lights off, the drummer gestured. Beth Ditto had a different solution. She pulled out an enormous pair of white underpants from somewhere and wiped the sweat off.

Another song in and she was still too hot. So she whipped off her t-shirt. She now stood before us, for all to judge, wearing a underpants and a singlet. There’s something eternally attractive about someone entirely comfortable in her own skin.

Mid way through the next song, she was marching up and down the length of the stage, body drenched in sweat, spraying lyrics over the first row, with the self-assured swagger of a school kid at the public swimming pool whose about to bomb the swim-school.

Same show, different gig

She paused during the next song to check the welfare of a girl in the front row – “Ca va down there? – and then gathered an ample armful of water bottles of the stage which she handed to the audience; a geste that sealed the audience’s adoration.

Even more unbecoming of a rock star, for the final encore, she climbed down of the stage and plowed through the crowd, on a musical tour of the Bataclan mosh, all the while belting “Standing in the way of control”.

In control? The crowd wasn’t – happy to be lost at once in the music.

Oh, and as for the support act, the mystery was solved on the way out. “Ssion.”

Concerts part II: Massive Attack @ Paris Zenith, 11 November 2009

A good live music concert experience is a trinity of 3 elements: sound quality, stagecraft, and not standing behind awkwardly tall people.

When Massive Attack played the Zenith in Paris last night, they pulled ticked all 3 boxes on my scorecard (even if some people behind me could only tick off 2).

Earplugs. I forgot earplugs. Ever since working in that shitty Australian bar down south, my ears ring and sometimes it feels like I am wearing a sock on one ear.

Kandy, our friend who had calmed down a lot since getting stoned two minutes ago, had found a tissue and stuffed it into her ears.

“Can I have some of that tissue,” I asked.

“What?”

“The tissue. Can I have some tissue?”

“Je ne comprends pas.”

Well of course you bloody well don’t – you have tissue in your ear and you can’t hear me properly.

During summer, I met a guy who had done an MBA and had hit on an idea he was not at all passionate about, but that he believed was going to make him rich. It was to sell deee-luxe earplugs at clubs and concerts, for $25 a pop no less, and they were going to come in a neat little box.

Good luck to him, but tissues, which come wrapped in plastic in denominations of 25, and cost about 50 cents, work just fine, with the added bonus you can discard them at leisure.

Listening to a live gigs with ear plugs is not necessarily a worse experience, but it is certainly different, and, for electronic music, often even better. The treble sounds are muted and you become much more aware of the bass. This can be good, since I find shrieking sounds unpleasant to listen to.

I snatched the tissue from Kandy’s fingers.

The genre-defying experience

Massive Attack like to say they are a genre defying group that cannot be classified. Everyone else said: “yeah, woteva, we’re going to dub your genre as Trip-Hop, regardless of how many groups are doing it.”

I say that it’s electronic, which was potentially going to pose a problem for the show…After all, when was the last time you say a decent electronic live act, not playing at a club?

The thing is that watching two skinny guys twiddling knobs isn’t necessarily that special. Hell, even the homeless man outside Monoprix was doing it last night, and that was just a one-man show.

Case in point, Justice playing the Zenith at Montpellier, 2007. Two guys, a crowded basketball stadium, and not a lot else happening. It was like watching mixed netball at high school.

Massive Attack, however, normally just two guys with a lot of friends, had no less than six on stage at any time, the number of musicians required to not just replicate their sound, but write it large for the live show.

They did a good job of it, event if, due to the tissues, the sock and the alcohol, or a combination, the notes lacked distinction. What they didn’t lack was force – each beat pulsed through like a heartbeat.

Lights go on

The lighting was effective. The showpiece was a large backboard of small leds (presumably), that flashed as bars of light, transformed into giant television screens, or screamed headlines and power words.

In fact, it was too effective. Not content making powerful music, the group had combined every song with a, not necessarily related, political message.

Hence for their opening number, the backboard started listing the price of the cost of living compared to wages, moving from the mundane to the increasingly extravagant.

Biscuits: 4 pounds

Annual wage for Ethiopian healthcare worker: 2,500 pounds*

Private jet hire in the Gulf: 375,000,000**

Getting fondled by uncle while sleeping off a Christmas food coma: Priceless!!!

In a different song, the screen displayed words such as “RAPE”, “BEATINGS”, “GREED”, “BLACK”. I think it was called “Happy Song,” or perhaps, “MIKE TYSON“.

In fact, it was tiring to look at. Tiring to either read the text or listen to the music. As a male, I cannot be expected to do both, I am told.

However, by the time, one hour later, the group performed a song that was accompanied by text representing the departure lounge of an airport, I was starting to understand the connection – I felt like I was at the business end of a long-haul flight; the moment when you’ve already watched 5 films in miniature including Transformers. Twice.

I see dead people

What was the rest of the audience doing throughout? I turned 180 degrees, and saw dead people. “I can really feel a connection with you tonight,” the singer told the audience. Was this psychic John Edward’s latest reincarnation, as an electronica musician?

How disheartening for the group, to be putting so much energy into a performance with only minimal reaction from the audience.

It was surely even less reassuring that when they finally did get an enormous repsonse, with foot stamping and all, it was for walking off stage after playing their last song.

I fished the tissue from my ear for the encore. Even if the group hadn’t played to deafening approval, they had a least been met with muted satisfaction.

* (i’m making up these figures, so don’t quote me – but those biscuits sound expensive, don’t they!)

** (I’m not sure of the currency or where the decimal point was supposed to go, but it looked long)

Live music in Paris? It’s out of order

It’s been 6 years since Melbourne band Jet sprung to international fame (and were given a lot of iPods) with “Roll over DJ”, a song heralding the death of DJs and the return to favour of live music.

Well I know that you think you’re the star
A pill poppin’ jukebox is all that you are
So tell me it ain’t that way
What’s you’re name?

Funnily enough, Jet was also the last live band I saw play in Melbourne, in 2006. And they were rubbish – full of rock star swagger and adolescent theatrics.

Last Wednesday I went to a concert at the Olympia, one of France’s most celebrated live music venues. I love live music because it’s best (only) way to see which bands were created in a studio, and which ones were created on the stage. A concert always makes you like a band more or like them less.

We were there for a 4 band concert, but primarily to see the Wave Machines, who had one hit over summer. I emphasise one, because this was clear from their live show – for the number, the docile crowd removed their hands from pockets and some even swayed, a little. Still, they are a young band and the popularity of the radio hit means they should not be prematurely written off.

Speaking off getting prematurely written off, that’s what I was interested in. I missed the second band because I was at the bar. Violens was their name, they come from New York, and yes, they’re on MySpace.

The third act was when things got interesting. It was fronted by a well-aged man – he was 10 years younger than my dad – but the ensemble was tight and they were supported by simple and effective lighting. They had a visible cohesion.

“This is Chrystal,” he announced, before launching into a song that was a hit in Australia about 8 years ago. WTF? I know this song. Who are these guys?

Then he introduced the next one as “a song we wrote with the Chemical Brothers.” The song was “Out of Control.” The audience wasn’t however, and stood passively by, hands back in pockets. If they swayed, it’s only because they too had been at the bar for the second band.

By the time the group played a song that I recognised from the Trainspotting album, I was completely confused as to who I was watching. A well-rehearsed cover band? Their name, Bad Lieutenant, I’d never heard of.

The fourth band, headlining, was Bat for Lashes. They had great stagecraft, and a great sound quality. But you know what? The music made me want to slit my wrist.

I went home early to check the identity of the mystery band. It was New Order, pioneers of rave music,  as seen in 24-hour Party People.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Samson and Delilah in Paris: I haven’t seen indigenous hit like this since Once Were Warriors…

Coming soon...

Samson and Delilah will open here this month.

Maragaret and David said it was a hit (5 stars).

Cannes Film Festival said it was a hit (First Film prize).

Even Andrew Bolt, whose opinion is generally regarded as worth less than blog it’s printed on, mumbled that it was a hit – if for different reasons that every other member of the Austalian public.

Last week I attended an advance screening. After watching it, I can agree: it’s certainly a hit – in fact, I haven’t seen indigenous people getting hit like this since Once Were Warriors, 15 years ago (incidentally, my Swedish friend thought that film was called “The Ultimate Warrior”, and once described it to me as “you know, that New Zealand action film”).

In Samson and Delilah, the lead characters are hit by sticks and stone, fists and by fury. He hits his brother in the head with firewood, then he hits the road.

She gets hit by a car, and he doesn’t see it because he’s getting a hit from petrol.

But in showing this, director Warwick Thornton also hits a chord…

The French perception of Australian Aborigines essentially extends to them as great painters of dots, and, follozing Baz Luhrmann’s film ‘Australia’, as  romanticized shamen (due to poor attendance in France, this latter perception hasn’t gained currency in the wider community).

Speaking at the screening last week, director Warwick Thornton discussed what he hoped viewers would take from the film, particularly in regards to its portrayal of the pervasive violence, negligence and harshness of life in Aboriginal communities – based and inspired by his own experience.

“I made this film for my own community. I’m the first Aboriginal to speak out about this,” he told the enthralled audience, peppering his speech with plenty of understated humour that didn’t quite cross the language divide.

“ This film has given viewers an insight not possible in 10 years of reporting on the 5 o’clock news. It’s amazing that we’re here in France talking about this. The message I want to give you is that maybe in Paris you’ll see people like Samson and Delilah and you’ll reach out to them.”

Thornton went on to say that he considers film to be a form of “cultural maintenance”.

“In 50 years, when we look back at the films of today, what are we going to see?”

He answered his own question. “Transformers.”

To be fair, that film was a hit too.

*I sat next to a cool Italian woman who runs a cinema blog – and if you speak Italian, tell me what she says about it.

 

Paste-ups or post-its: stick it to the man

Does the fact you do not have express permission to post your thoughts on a public wall make the act any less expressive?

In Paris, whether Graffiti is art or vandalism is no longer a debate. The question now is it how to make it profitable. At least, when the Cartier Centre and Petit Palais dedicate large, well publicised shows to the art form, that’s the message that the world’s art capital is sending.

Old masters of Graffiti come to Paris to retire. SEEN, who was bombing NY subway cars in the 70s, and has one of the world’s best known tags, now lives here, enjoying the relative anonymity. I met him at a show he was part of at the Gallery Lamoure last month. With his wavy silver mop, he looks like an older version of Xavier Bardem in last year’s Woody Allen – except he’s covered in evil tattoos, including skeleton fingers and a dotted ‘cut here’ line around his neck.

SEEN was an early influence on the Australian artist Reko Rennie, who returned home to Melbourne last week after a three month art residency in the Marais.

Art is about expressing an idea. For Reko, his work could be seen as a modern take on the Aboriginal identity, a reinterpretation of the art painted on Australian rocks 40,000 years ago. Aboriginal art is well known in and rather popular in France, but is limited to the classic dot paintings.

Reko’s trademark is stencils of Australian flora and fauna. On his last night in Paris, I joined Reko as he put up some pieces in the marais area. Reko specialises in paste-ups, which are pre-made stencils sprayed onto poster paper, which he then adheres to public walls using wallpaper paste. The advantage for graffiti artists is that the penalties are less severe than for straight up paint on wall.

Thus, in the space of 20 minutes, I watched him paste up a giant 3-metre echidna, and a booming 2-metre pink kangaroo. One week later they are still there, and passers-by give them equally looks of ambivalence, bewilderment, and appreciation.

Earlier in the week, he painted a blue-breasted wren on the wall at the famous Belleville Zoo graffiti area. He had found a clear space, and painted it on a catching green and pink wavy background, the overall work measuring about 3×3 metres.

One man's wall art is another man's blank canvas there for the taking.

I went to find it four days later, but found only that someone else had painted their own design over it – some sort of alien creature. I’m sure it bore special significance to the artist.

In any case, there’s a lot to be said for the instant gratification of expressing your thoughts on paper, then sticking it, up large, in a public space for all to see. This morning when I became infuriated at my local bank, I knew there was only one recourse.

I had tried to withdraw money at the branch, only to find it was “closed unexpectedly.” Infuriated -and broke- I knew what to do. I stormed over to the newsagent across the road, and together we drafted a note.

Thank's for the advance warning. You're completely unorganised, as per usual.

Reko’s modern take attracted interest from some gallery figures, and he will return here in March 2010 for an ‘official’ show. Meanwhile, you can check out the alien artist at the Belleville Zoo graffiti zone in Paris – but be quick!