Zoë Stagg

Keane got Timmy T.’d. Or Christopher Cross-ed, if you’d rather. It’s a weird Buggles tune of musical lookism. In the music industry, it’s all fun and chords until you have to make a video. Keane is the singer, and he’s in the video — sort of. Let’s say you get clearer shots of the Video Girl’s Chucks, than you do the actual artist.

I probably would never have seen the video if it weren’t for Italian MTV — they still do the “M” part here. And the only thing in this video that stands out, other than the Drew Barrymore in Mad Love plot, are the great lengths they go to hide the singer.

Judging from the concert-style sequences, they shot the band performing the whole song. But every time the camera gets near Keane’s face, it’s a quick pan, or a head turn, or cloaked in shadows.

Why? Why is this all shot like he’s in the Witness Protection Program? Is it because his jawline isn’t square enough? Or are his cheeks are too full and his face to soft to belong to a “rock star?”

I wonder if he was sad when they showed him the finished video — especially since the “plot” carried by the actors isn’t all that compelling. I wonder if it was the same feeling Carnie Wilson had when they stuck her in a blazer and full-length skirt on the BEACH.

Or the same way Ann Wilson felt about how they “marketed” her image.

When Heart created a comeback in the mid-1980s, Ann had gained significant weight. Fearing it would compromise the band’s image, record company executives and band members began pressuring her to lose weight. In music videos, camera angles and clothes were often used to minimize her weight, and more focus was put on her sister Nancy.

How do we enjoy music, anyway? Last I heard, it was just that — your ears. But consider this: in 1980 Christopher Cross was the first solo artist to sweep all four general field Grammy Awards. In 1981, MTV launched. Not necessarily causation, but they correlate enough to get each others’ mail.

And it all sounds pretty weird to me.

All four years of high school, two years of college, and my only viewing of the movie Back to the Future in it, and my French didn’t tumble as fluently all weekend as it did at the airport coming home.

My suitcase was securitized, thanks to a 1.5 litre bottle of Perrier I had put inside because I like to make my life challenging, and all of a sudden I had paragraphs. “I forgot, I’m so sorry, that’s the only liquid I promise.”

I speak the French of apologies.

I remember my last trip, finding the Tower, buying tulips for 45 francs, going inside the Notre Dame — but I missed a lot. I know a whole song about the Champs-Élysées, but I’d never walked down it until last weekend. 

The song is fairly accurate. Especially the parts that go, “hmm, hmm, de hm-huh uh, LE CHAMPS ELYSEES.”

I only ended up with one souvenir.

A footie-sleeper onesie deal with tiny baby birds on it. It’s a cute story someday I suppose. “Yes, you’ve been to Paris sort of, and you used to fit into this Petit Bateau jammie romper from the fancy street.”

We both shopped. But Ryan shopped for crepes.

I did not climb nearly as many stairs in 1995, either. To the second level of the Tower, and up to the Sacre Coeur from the 18th arrondissement.

And not doing Paris by tour bus, you get to see all the neighborhoods. We had breakfast one morning in the 7th, and I managed to order off guard and sans menu. Apologies and bread, covered.

There’s a deliberateness, an intentionality, and an appreciation for presentation that makes everything seem special.

Flowers for sale, arranged as if the sidewalk were the finest parlor.

And fruit displayed like a still life in the Louvre.

That is Paris to me. Making the every day, an event.

(And yes, he ate them. When in Rome that isn’t Rome. He had to listen to my retelling of the escargot scene from Pretty Woman though.)

The very best thing about visiting a city, is window watching. Sure, you can people watch — wonder about the old man walking home with his baguette and his chien, or the woman on the Metro about your age with her conservative hosiery and list of tasks from work, and muse what their lives might be like-

But windows let you muse what your life would be like. A window, especially if you can’t see inside, could belong to anyone. It could belong to you.

What would your life be like if you lived on that fourth floor above a bustling Sunday market, or behind that window box around the corner from the Eiffel Tower, or beyond one of those identical squares in a grid of homes the train rushes by, again, and again.

It’s not about the real estate, the apartment is just a canvas. It’s about the possibility.

It’s about who you would be if that window was yours.

You want to talk about “wrong way?” Wrong way is me trying to Zumba this morning. Sometimes you just can’t face another mile, on wheel or foot, and you think, “Hey, I wonder if there’s a fun class today?”

I thought it was just Jazzercise — I can grapevine.

Apparently it’s Latin-infused. I am not.

You know who can Zumba better than I can? Edward Clark, the 96-year-old oldest member of the Wrexham Zumba class in Wales. (Pics through the link.)

“I remember the Charleston. Before that, there was the Cakewalk,” decades later he’s still dancing and he says Zumba gives him “fantastic pleasure.” Edward, is fantastic.

I don’t think he would dance with me. I can almost pull off hip hop. I cannot salsa. I don’t have the Shakira-hips-don’t-lie rhythm, anywhere. I salsa like it’s an Irish jig.

The good news is, my day’s requirement of awkward movement is all taken care of.

“You’re going to have to tell people,” said the Bro.

“I really don’t see why it’s necessary.”

“Because when it shows up, where are people going to think it came from?”

“I was considering, ‘We got a foreign exchange student.’ Seems like a solid explanation.”

The hesitation? Expecting in the world of the internet is gross. Undignified. Photos of peed-on sticks, microwave sonar (SCIENCE) scans of peoples’ insides, incessant [s]mugshot profile photos of the “bump” progression. Be excited. But using that excitement as a nine-month ploy for attention and validation of your supreme specialness? You peed on that. And took a picture of it. And posted it on the forevernet. Examine your choices.

This doesn’t even mention elaborate stake-out videos of “telling the dad” or tasteless bakery-goods filled photoshoot “announcements.” No cinnamon buns were harmed in the writing of this, though I am currently making banana bread. Unrelated, photoshoot not required.

So can you even tell people without any of those dramatics? I bet you can. Here goes:

This is merely saying someday, when this kid we’re having learns math (on a very advanced timeline, ahead of his grade level,) we expect this fun conversation: “Wait. When is your anniversary? And WHEN is my birthday?” And that around Thanksgiving*, a very tiny “foreign exchange student” is coming to live with us.

*The onesie graphic is missing several dozen exclamation points.

*Two air signs and fire sign? This is gonna be good.