Dispatch No. 26

Parisian thievery + the echoes of music

Nov 15, 2024

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Non-Sequiturs

In The Zone - I know, I know — it’s been a while since the last story. Trust me, I feel ashamed every time I sit down to draft a new Dispatch. But here’s the deal: something BIG is coming. All caps, bold type, maybe even a few ñ’s for style. It’s the biggest piece I’ve ever published on Substack—so big it deserves its own holiday. And no, not a gimmicky one like National Pancake Day or Toyotathon. This time, I’m not alone. Others are joining me, and together, we’re stepping into a whole new realm. Get ready to have your socks blown clean off. Don’t worry, we’ll leave your toes intact. Maybe.
Shouting into the abyss - Just a few things I’ve texted lately:
1. “Tell me you’re in a cult without telling me you’re in a cult”
2. “Gotta love The Onion”
3. “You’d think the birthplace of George Lucas would be different, right?”
4. “It’s safe to kick the dead now.”
5. “I remember the screenwriter of Idiocracy saying he didn’t know he was writing a documentary”
Echoed Imprints - In Dispatch No. 25 I mentioned olfactory memories. I also have a keen memory of the sounds that hold meaning—though maybe I can’t always explain why. Like the first time I heard Another One Bites The Dust. It was played on a 45 in the carport of a house around the corner, the bass line reverberating off the concrete and how Freddy Mercury’s voice was like a slap in the face, calling your attention—like, now! Or riding shotgun on a steamy stretch near Taylor, Texas, greenery flying by, book in hand, and Danger Zone at full volume. Or, how Tycho’s Awake makes me remember waiting for the Bay Bridge drag race to begin, morning commuters slamming down on the gas pedal as the traffic control light turned green. But maybe the deepest groove in the record of my life was sitting on the floor watching Star Wars for the millionth time. Excitedly another kid tells me, “that’s a French horn!” as the beginning of The Throne Room music played. And, as the music builds, I can hear Chewbacca call out to everyone in the room as they all turn. In fact, last February I got to see John Williams conduct in San Francisco. Truly, it took everything I had not to give a Wookiee shout when that part of the piece was played.
Ceramology - A crockpot is really just an electric blanket for food.
Voleur - In another life, I co-hosted what you might now call a podcast. Except back then, in the early days of iPods, “podcast” wasn’t really a thing. Let’s call it an online radio show about all things Apple, called Your Mac Life. Every year, we’d head to Paris to cover the big trade show. The host, Shawn King—a loud, goofy Canadian—and I would spend half the day working, then dive into the city: drinking, eating amazing food and, at some point, posting our latest interviews.
Over time, we became regulars at a little brasserie called Le Ferryville. The owners treated us like family. Year after year, they welcomed us with hugs, cheek kisses, and a table waiting. Photos of us even hung behind the bar. “Beloved” might not be too strong a word.
One year, Shawn did something that floored me. He swiped a demitasse cup, saucer, and spoon, all branded with the Le Ferryville logo. “I just gotta have this at home,” he said with a shrug. “My coffee will taste so much better.”
I told him to give it back. These people were family—they fed us, laughed with us, introduced us to locals. Stealing from them felt wrong. He shrugged again, but I said nothing.
The following year, we returned, greeted as warmly as ever. On our last night, I decided to ask for a set of the dish ware as a souvenir—properly this time, Euros in hand. In my best broken French, I nervously made the request holding up my used cup. Shawn immediately chimed in, perking up to say he’d like to buy a set too.
The proprietor’s wife glared at me, at Shawn, then stormed off without a word. Confused, I thought maybe my French had failed me, like that time I’d asked for directions to “Rue blah-blah-blah” only to be told, in French, “I don’t understand your English.”
But no. A few minutes later, she returned with two sets of cups and saucers, still warm from the dishwasher. She was gifting them to us. We were like family, after all.
And then it hit me. Last year. Shawn’s shrug as he slipped the set into his bag. This was probably our last trip to Paris, so I decided to say something. With righteous indignation I searched for the words, and pointed to Shawn, then to the gleaming cups, “He stole his last year,” I said, “and he shouldn’t get another set.”
She narrowed her eyes, looking at me, the tattletale, and then at Shawn with his sheepish grin. From behind the counter she pulled a second set and handed them to me, patting me on the head, and said, “Maintenant tu es le même.” Indeed, Madame.