Branly and Weather

The weather can always be relied upon as a topic of conversation. Especially for a Rochesterian; complaining about the harshness of winter is one way to stave it off. The weather seems so omnipresent that it would fade into a turgid topic, like discussing one’s own breathing. Yet it often has an infinitude of variation that makes it a worthwhile topic of conversation.

I know this because I just spent about fifteen minutes complaining about Rochester’s weather in French. My French has never seemed so vivid to me as when I spoke about that Rochester weather, or the unexpected coldness of San Francisco in summer. God, that sounds like a stupid thing to say—shouldn’t the most vivid subject be something of life or death?—but I’ve felt connected to the vicissitudes of the weather ever since they meant either a day home from school or a trudge through the snow.

The stakes are smaller in Paris. It has been gray the past few days, with that metallic cold permeating the air. But sometimes the brilliant sun redeems everything, and its presence conquers the cold. It’s no day off, but it’s a small pleasure.

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I went to the Musée Branly with a French student today. I’d never heard of the Musée Branly before this visit to Paris, because it’s really new—from 2006. Jacques Chirac was a critical proponent of the project, a museum built to showcase France’s collections of indigenous art from Asia, Africa and the Americas.

The first sight of the museum was the wall carpeted by a garden. It wasn’t just ivy, the traditional creeping plant, but also moss and other plants. I’m not sure how they got most of the plants to defy gravity, but they did, and it looks great. The rest of the museum, from the Quai Branly on the Seine, appears to be encased in a bubble—a glass wall surrounds it. Inside, there is a garden, more in the Japanese style than anything else. Like all good parks, calm instantly banished the constant keen of the city.

The museum itself is relentlessly modern. Rust red cubes protrude from the rusted metallic building, shaped vaguely like one of those Imperial Destroyers in Star Wars. The interior’s design is consistent with the exterior; it does not revert to classicism. You walk up a white curling ramp to get to the museum proper. The ramp itself, actually, is a piece of art: movies and brain teasers in French are projected onto the space. Never have I seen so many people walk while staring simultaneously.

The exhibits itself are arranged cleverly, a bit too much self-satisfyingly so. The collection is arranged as a loop, and you can begin at any section via another system of ramps, these ones in earth brown, with the top being pock-marked in a way that suggests pueblo architecture.

Perhaps due to its modernism and relative young age, there was a scarcity of tourists. I heard English being spoken loudly once in my hour-and-a-half long visit, and that must be some sort of personal record. Nor is it simply a personal museum. It’s a Parisian record. The exhibits recognized it. The English signs weren’t very big or carefully translated. Nor were the security guards particularly harried or dictatorial. It was as purely Parisian a place as I’ve seen.

It’s impossible to find a place free of tourists in Paris proper, because the city relies so much on the tourist industry. While I want to avoid the obvious tourist traps, I honestly do not care overmuch about finding a ‘pure’ Parisian experience because the influence of tourism permeates and mixes everywhere.

Back to the museum. The art itself was fairly nice, and there was an exhibit upstairs called “The Aristocrat and His Cannibals.” Basically, it was about this one aristocrat during the height of the Age of Imperialism, and the way he exaggerated his voyages to make it seem as if the South Pacific housed another set of hungry cannibals in every island.

I guess I could insert a speech about how limited information inevitably creates cultural ignorance, but I won’t. Instead I’ll simply note that one of the archetypes of human existence is the exotic monster. The exotic monster is a beast that is human enough to scare, far enough to comfort, but close enough to be plausible. The South Pacific cannibal served the role that the Infidel Turk played in the Crusader days. And Al Qaeda would’ve played that role if they hadn’t acquired planes. Nowadays the drug dealer and his gang is probably the closest cultural equivalent to the exotic monster, although they are probably a little too close for comfort. But, as Tom Friedman says, the World is Flat. (If I ever favorably cite Tom Friedman in matters metaphorical or political again, please feel obligated to disable Microsoft Word and recommend an alternate hobby.)

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I’m excited about the upcoming basketball season, so these rambling discursions are a quick break from Paris:

Predicted Standings, Eastern Conference:
1. Bulls
2. Pistons
3. Celtics
4. Magic
5. Cavs (with third-best record in Eastern conference)
6. Raptors
7. Bobcats
8. Wizards

Predicted Standings, Western Conference
1. Rockets
2. Suns
3. Spurs
4. Nuggets
5. Mavs (with fourth-best record in Western conference)
6. Jazz
7. Hornets
8. Warriors

ECF: Bulls over Pistons
WCF: Spurs over Mavs
Finals: Spurs over Bulls (unless Kobe is traded to Bulls for a fair price, which appears increasingly likely. Actually it’s useless making predictions before we know where Kobe’s going)

MVP: LeBron James
Rookie of the Year: Uh, Kevin Durant. Duh.
Most Improved Player: Not even worth predicting—it’ll be someone random.
Sixth Man of the Year: Manu Ginobili, like it should’ve been last year


Most Overrated Team: Celtics. There’s been a ton of hype around this team. Obviously they’re a story—Jesus, the Truth and the Big Ticket? But, uh, there’s no point guard on this team. Nor is there a bench. Also, Ray Allen didn’t play defense before this offseason’s double ankle surgery, and he’s going to do so now? And everyone seems to have forgotten that Doc Rivers runs this team, a man who cannot, famously decide on a rotation or draw up a defense against a high pick and roll. Meanwhile, both the Pistons and Bulls upgraded their benches, meaning that Doc will be slaughtered on the benches, and utilize the high pick-and-roll extensively. Doesn’t anyone remember that Doc’s the coach who blew the 2-0 lead in a five game series against the Pistons? Anyone? Anyway, this team will secure the division title because the Atlantic’s such a sorry division, but it’ll get bounced in the second round by the Pistons, and you’ll see an uncomfortable amount of Rip Hamilton gloating after running Ray Allen ragged through screens.

Explanations behind conference standings:

Eastern: What no one seems to realize is that the Bulls had the best point differential of any team in the East last year. Point differential is, of course, the best predictor of future results. So the Bulls should have been in the mid-50s as a win total last year. Furthermore, you take out stiff bodies PJ Brown, Malik Allen and corpulent Mike Sweetney, and give their minutes to Tyrus Thomas, Joakim Noah and Joe Smith, and that’s a huge improvement right there, even if the replacement platoon is merely average. Add in the Man from Wow Luol Deng’s impending breakout, and you have a formula for massive regular season success. That is without Kobe Bryant who I suspect will end up with the Bulls at a reasonable price. However, if they do not trade for Kobe, then they will probably lose to the Pistons—my pick is what’s known as a ‘homer’ pick—as Ben Gordon is too small to matchup with the Pistons’ big backcourt, and Thabo Sefolosha still a bit too raw to be trusted with critical playoff minutes.
No Nets because they overachieved last year with Vince Carter in a contract year; his performance will wane. Jason Kidd’s due to start acting his age any year now.

No Heat because everyone aside from Wade, Shaq, Davis and Mourning sucks. The first two will miss a ton of time and be rusty otherwise. Also Shaq’s value is really deceptive—he might get you a ton of points, but his rebounding and defense leave much to be desired, and he’s worth at least five fastbreak points for the other team a game. Wade’s injured and missed the preseason, so he’ll probably be rusty. Mourning is good in spurts but is old. Davis is fairly good but probably skipped kindergarten—he never shares.

Bobcats are, in my opinion, underrated.

Wizards are overrated but do have the highly entertaining Agent Zero.

Western Conference:

Rockets will enjoy health and watch Yao (improved, too: 28 ppg) and T-Mac destroy the league in the regular season. Luis Scola will be good. Point guard will be slightly above average. What’s most important to realize is not that the Rockets will be that good, but that the Spurs, Suns and Mavs won’t be as good in the regular season. The Spurs because they always ease up on the regular season, the Suns will rest their players (Nash and Grant Hill especially) because they’ll win the Pacific and lock themselves into a top-3 seed regardless, the Mavs because they overachieved in the regular season last year anyway. Unfortunately for all things good in the NBA (i.e. besides their own team, all NBA fans want the Suns to win), this state of affairs will lead to the Rock-Paper-Scissors setting up incorrectly: the Suns are Scissors, the Mavs Paper and the Spurs Rock. The winner is determined by how the draw sets up. Honestly, the top five of the West makes me uncomfortable to predict, as I bet we’ll see a lot of gaming amongst the elite (Spurs, Suns, Mavs, and Rockets on their heels) to set up the draw favorably.

I like Nuggets more than most people do; they played quite well when both Carmelo and AI were in the lineup together. No one seems to realize that their record was somewhat deflated by no AI early, no Carmelo in the middle and a limited amount of time to adjust to one another. This will work better year two.

Jazz are slightly overrated this year.

I think people are underestimating LeBron this year; his FT% was awful last year, an aberration. Supposedly he’s been working on his shooting this summer—he certainly shot quite well in the Tournament of the Americas (although this was against the JV, so take with grain of salt). Combine that with natural growth and 30/7/7 with good percentages doesn’t sound farfetched. Those are MVP numbers, no question about it, although Tim Duncan’s still the better player.

The MIP will go to someone we can’t predict at the beginning of the season; that’s practically the definition of the award.

Manu should have won the award last year, and the Spurs always suppress the Big Three’s minutes played in the regular season, which means Manu will play off the bench.

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Although the phrase pop psychology exists in France, the concept does not seem to have as much hold on the French psyche as it does in America. In America, people refer to themselves as “depressed” in the nonclinical sense all the time; similarly, one can refer to another as “schizophrenic” as having multiple personalities. Apparently saying either in France is like actually saying one has said mental malady, which is understandably bad.

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So I was waiting for the train at St. Michel-Notre Dame. To my left, my group of worst dressed: a dude in chaps and a slicked-up Mohawk, with some others with suspected applications of gel. The dude dressed in chaps was taking the time to show his dance moves, which spasmodically shifted between his renditions of the Rooster (I think this is the name; it’s the one where you grab your ankle and thrust your knee towards your face, which is jackhammering downwards in a pecking motion. It’s one of my favorite joke dances, along with the following dance…), the Worm (the breakdance move where you lie on the ground and convulse upwards like an electrocuted worm), and other odd whipping motions of arms and legs that your correspondent is hard pressed to describe, let alone put a name to.

At any rate, into this scene strode a man clutching a woman. He grabbed a kiss from her. I almost thought they were pretending to be Romeo and Juliet. The man was balding. The woman was middle-aged. “Quickly” he muttered, and kissed her again. Then they went to the end of the quai, where they stood placidly. Me and the breakdancing group were quite perplexed; we shared a shrug: they did realize that the next train wasn’t coming for eight minutes, right? And what the heck does a middle-aged couple need to go around acting like they were twelve? The question remaining unanswered, I went back to my book and they went back to their convulsions.

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There has been an unfortunate infestation of accordion players with background music on the Metro recently. To top it off, they don’t even have the grace to play La Vie en Rose. Not playing La Vie en Rose when you’re an accordion player in Paris is like not playing “Take Me Out to The Ballpark” when you’re a street performer at a ballgame; it’s an obvious choice because only ogres dislike either. I hate the accordion aside from renditions of La Vie en Rose, and I especially hate players who use background music. So hopefully this plague will cease.