HYMNE

J’suis un poète les autres sont cramés
Moi j’ai la prose qui tue
Ils maintiennent l’Afrique affamée
Pour qu’elle se prostitue.

Y a eu un dîner français mercredi alors, hop, post en Français, et post sur la France.

J’ai fini Nana les mecs, donc j’entame Pot-Bouille, le suivant. Pot-Bouille c’est l’histoire d’un immeuble, dans Paris, sous le Second Empire. Le pot-bouille, c’est la popote, la tambouille quoi ; c’est pas attrayant des masses. C’est comme quand tu fais un compliment à un pote pour son dernier petit film (ses photos, sa soirée, sa marque de vêtements, ses vêtements, ou des trucs moins frais comme son exposé, le dîner chiant chez lui hier) et qu’une fois qu’il s’est barré tu lui chies un peu dessus. Tout ça en plein de fois, tout le temps, dans un immeuble, en 400 pages.

Foucauld m’a passé un morceau d’une tape de Time bomb, et c’est toujours aussi bon de découvrir de nouvelles paroles de Booba ; en attendant le prochain album qui je l’espère mettra à mal mes protège-tibias et mon gilet pare-balles. C’était cool y a quelques jours ça m’a rappelé la France, quand on faisait des concours informels de rimes le soir devant la pyramide du Louvres (« patate dans l’zen si tu l’ouvres ») et aux soirées Respect. Blind test rap français dans un article sur BeHype, de Jusque ici tout va bien à Je rappe mieux que toi en passant par Face à la police. Bon j’ai mis des paroles de Futur du rap de Ste Strausz mais j’ai peur d’avoir fait un flop, un peu comme son album quoi.

Un truc que j’avais pas mais pas du tout anticipé, c’est que les BD me manquent. Je sais pas je ressens le besoin d’en mettre dans ma bibli ici à Roskilde. Je me souviens quand à la fin de l’école primaire j’allais à la bibliothèque municipale de Marly-le-Roi (« Banlieue ouest profonde ») lire et emprunter des BD de Thorgal, c’était fou. En bref, Thorgal me manque quoi. Faudra que je retourne dans cette libraire française où le mec au-delà des Poches, vend aussi des BD. Dernier truc insolite, les jeux vidéo me manquent. J’ai jamais été calé des masses à ça, j’avais juste les CD rom pour mon pc quoi. Moto Racer, Tomb raider, tain on jouait pas mal aux jeux vidéo quand on était au collège et qu’on était touts fiers de notre dernière paire de Ellesse vert foncé. En fait quand tu pars pour longtemps à l’étranger c’est un peu comme quand tu vas mourir, tu vois toute ta vie défiler devant toi. Sauf qu’au lieu de mourir, tu vis l’une des meilleures années de ta vie.

Dernier truc français, Hefner Jr vient mixer au Dunkel à Copenhague samedi.

Foucauld : http://www.myspace.com/foucauld
Hefner Jr : http://www.myspace.com/hefnerjr

DÎNER FRANCAIS @KORALLEN

Les composants :

- Salade

- Vinaigrette

- Pommes de terre

- Lardons

- Emmental

- Oignons

- Béchamelle

- Chou fleur

- Crêpes

- Nutella

- Glace au nougat

NEVERLAND

I don’t exactly know what I was expecting in Denmark. Maybe fjords, like in the commercial for the Danone yoghourts, or like in the first book of philosophy we all read in high school Le Monde de Sophie. Fjords and, bikes. But nothing related to any kind of substance. There must be a French substance, I don’t get it because I don’t have this outside look I have with Denmark. I walked a bit in Copenhagen, in Roskilde. In a farm at Trekroner, I met a Danish man, Jorg(s)en, 84 years old. Did you see Toy Story II? Just remember the old guy who repairs Woody and you’ll have a clear representation of who Jorg(s)en looked like. He listed me the countries he had seen during his life. I won’t do it, but, Europe, Northern Africa, Greenland etc. And everywhere I see those red brick buildings, with windows lightened by aged light, or even candles (in my imagination), all this when the night comes etc. And everything is windy, everything is rainy. Everything looks old, ancient. It’s like I’m in a Harry Potter film. You see no skyscraper in Harry Potter, whereas it’s the 21^st century. And the wizards write with feathers, not pens. We had a coffee on Frederikberggade, and I saw a boy, with big glasses, wearing a dusty brown jacket, alone, reading an old book, and drinking his hot coffee. This is the Denmark I discover and I want to know more about. I’m in a country of libraries full of dusty books, works, and books of magic.
Everything is calm; I understand why Denmark is supposed to be one the happiest countries in the world. When you walk by the fjord (I was expecting cliffs and I saw plains of grass) you understand, you feel it. It’s difficult to be angry at anything (except when you didn’t find a job whereas you’ve spent your four weeks in the country looking for one…). And I checked it with my girlfriend when we saw one of these famous Copenhagen young people demonstrations. Just teenagers wearing black sweaters, screaming “Fuck the police !”. Some burnt two or three cars at night and maybe one store has been destroyed, but don’t worry everybody was in bed before midnight with a maternal kiss on each cheek. Denmark seems to be perfect. Maybe the world should be Denmark. But maybe there’s something wrong when everything is too perfect.

One of my friends suggested me to add “gangsta” in the subtitle of this blog. I did it. Writing about happiness around the fjord won’t help me legitimating the presence of this term, but maybe this will:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R8N9gTekfsQ

TRANSHUMANCE @VEGA

Tonight, we’re going to Vega. I had asked to a Danish girl what were the good clubs in Copenhagen. Vega was one of them, according to her. I buy some beers at (one of) the 7-eleven of Roskilde. 65dkk for six beers. I still cannot believe it. I buy 12 beers, Marie will take three. We lock our bike to the station. I don’t pay for the train, I begin my first beer. Could have been unusual to drink in the train, but not. We arrive at Korallen. People still are having dinner. During the party, many people arrive, which is for me a reason to be satisfied. I don’t know why. Maybe I’ll feel less lonely or something. We talk about Facebook. The name of the site is written with chalk on the wall not painted yet, surrounded by photographs of former exchange students. I drink my second, then my third beer. Some Spanish and Italian guys are drinking cheap vodka with the local Canada Dry. I get one glass for me.

It’s late, we are going to miss the train. We hurry a bit, each one brings his personal alcohol with him. It’s September, but it’s cold outside. I don’t want to think about the winter which is coming. We make a lot of noise, we take the train. We make more noise. Some people take photographs. The Danes on their seat are not disturbed, not afraid, but something between the two. Copenhagen. I hadn’t been here since my girlfriend is gone. Thirteen days, too long. We go on the right, which is the wrong way. Then we go back, on the left. Ten minutes of walk to the club. We speak in European languages, we sing, some guys go to pee behind unlucky cars. We finish or throw away our drinks, come into the club. I meet some French guys. Don’t remember how. I get a vodka tonic, I don’t remember how. We just, visit. There are several dance floors. It’s hot in here. I mean, in just a few minutes, we all are sweating. We all dance. I need to pee. I look for the restrooms. I meet a French guy. We talk a bit; he’s in Copenhagen for holidays. Two Danish girls come to us:

“Hey guys! We heard you talking; you’re not Danish are you?”

“Yes, actually we’re French”

“Don’t you want to go outside with us?”

The other French guy agrees. I show the girls I’m not seduced by this idea.

“Ow… Come on, my friend here thinks you’re very sweet”

“Hmm… Ok, I just go to the restrooms before.”

“Yes! We wait for you!”

I escape to the toilets. A few minutes later I walk quite fast to avoid the two Danish girls. They see me. Friendly and comprehensive look from the French guy. Yes, done. I join my friends. Then, just, dancing, intriguing Danish people because of our language, dancing on sofas, screaming, falling on the floor… Going back much too late for me to Roskilde. Buying sandwiches at (one of) the 7-eleven because I’m soooo hungree, reading a mail from my girlfriend, smiling, answering something as short as sincere because I’m still drunk, and sleeping, deeply. Tomorrow, which means in 14 hours, there’s a Costumes party.

SUNSET IN JAIL