Monday, November 28, 2011

The Poetry Reading

"...Who brings a date to a poetry reading? What was I thinking? Especially a date that one’s only just started dating, but that one day, down the road, in the future, over the course of time, perhaps maybe might express that they — the date — are, in fact, willing and ready and ever-so-anxiously desirous of making one immortal, in the manner of Zeus? (Or at least willing to pony up for flowers?) (Or maybe just the moon?) Who, willingly, casually, coolly, off-the-cuff-ly, puts that kind of potential moon-y opportunity in jeopardy?"

Friday, November 18, 2011

Bonjour, tristesse

"...En gros, on the whole, for the most part, à la base, Au revoir/Good Bye is your basic Broads In Burqas/Chicks In Chadori/Vamps In Veils/Dames In Doilies kinda deal: A human rights lawyer (it’s a girl) gets booted out of the bar. Her husband – a journalist – is in hiding. She desires to ditch her doilies and duds and get the hell out of Dodge. There’s some other stuff, too – like this semi-ritualistic feeding of a turtle which I surmise was supposed to be semi-symbolic, but the symbolism was semi-lost on moi. (Except the part where the turtle gets away, but that wasn’t even semi-subtle.) Oh yeah, and she’s pregnant. (The ex-lawyer, not the turtle.) (Don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl.) (Can’t remember if there is an ultrasound scene, but I think she’s too early on.) (Come to think of it, couldn’t tell if the turtle was a boy or a girl.) And that’s pretty much that.

And it’s soooo not funny..."

Where's Momo?

"...They have not found him in a boat,
They have not found him with a goat,
They have not found him in a house,
They have not found him with a mouse,
Muammar is neither Here nor There,
Muammar isn’t Anywhere.
That Momo – he’s such a rogue,
They should really check the September issue of Vogue..."

My Pants Out of France

"Question: Can they put you away for treason if you’re not that hot and horny for your home country? Is not being hot and horny for your home country considered a crime? Even if your home country is Canada? (Especially if you’re home country is Canada?) I have nothing against Canada, really, but – sorry – it is Canada. As in, it’s not one of those sexy countries that come from some sexy somewhere else. As in – sorry – Canada is not that sexy. (And get your minds out of the gutter about all the kinky shit you can do with maple syrup.) I blame Celine Dion. (Ha! That line about kinky maple syrup and then the one right after about Celine Dion? Was totally trying to gross you out!)..."

The Most Beautiful Waiter in the World

"...Paris, you had to acknowledge, was crawling with gorgeous men, and let’s face it, despite all of the blah-blah-blah about culture and language and cuisine and gastronomy and…it was the cute, artsy boys with brooding eyes and messy hair and three-quarter-length coats and fabulous cheekbones that many a girl arrived for. But these, these cheekbones! These particular ones! They were works of art. Chefs-d’oeuvre. It was as if they had been sculpted by one of the masters. One of the better masters. They should, she declared, be on display somewhere, a place where millions of women could come and queue up and buy tickets to see and marvel at the fact that, yes, there really was a set of living, breathing cheekbones as magnificent as these, as his. He should be in a museum or something. Yes, that was it. A museum. The Louvre. That’s where he should be, she decided. The Louvre. I’m writing a letter to the curator..."

Smells Like Sarko's Spirit

"...The last elections? In 2007? When Sarko was promising to clear out punk-ass punk asses from the punk-ass suburban banlieue ? How he bellowed – in front of the French cameras, in front of the French election voters – how he bellowed that he’d do it with a fire hose? In front of the voters and punk asses and the cameras and the hoses? Or the time he told an enemy – it was another ‘Dominique,’ only this time it was former Prime Minister de Villepin – how he told him he’d hang him from a butcher’s hook before all was said and done? (It was during the whole Clearstream thing, which was so boring I won’t bother you with the details, but let’s just say that the other ‘Dominique’ got the short end of the stick…or hook…)..."

Being Bacri

"...Jean-Pierre Bacri is always being Jean-Pierre Bacri even when he’s not being Jean-Pierre Bacri. You know how Jack Nicholson is always being Jack Nicholson even when he’s not? As in when he’s Jack Nicholson playing a ‘role?’ Kind of like that. Only with Jean-Pierre Bacri, it kind of isn’t like that at all. Because Jean-Pierre Bacri has what we call la classe..."

2012: A French Odyssey

"...The elections are coming! The elections are coming! They’re everywhere! They’re everywhere! They’re everywhere, all over, partout . . . At least they’re everywhere en France. Or, at least, they will be: Cue the theme for 2001: A Space Odyssey but pretend it’s 2012 and you’ll maybe kind of catch my drift. (Yeah, I know: Your American elections are in 2012, too, but can’t you just let someone else grab the spotlight for once?)..."

Noir (c'est film) noir

"...O.K. … O.K. … Here goes: Four guys walk into a French country house – a judge, a TV exec, a pilot and a chef. Their goal? To commit suicide. Their modus operandi? Eating themselves to death. So it’s a good thing that there’s a chef – much classier than death by McDonald’s. (Or Death by Quick, the French equivalent.) (Which, by the way, was just found responsible for the hamburger-related death of a customer.) (‘Quick’ and painless? I can’t say.) (And besides, don’t be so rude!);;;"

I Was A Parisian Booth Bunny

"...He wasn’t my first cowboy, you know. (S’il vous plaît – credit? Please?) But it was my first Parisian trade show. My first Parisian trade show as a booth bunny. A few years back – it was Le salon de la lingerie. So Cowboy Thong was actually appropriately (un)dressed. He was…ahem…a male model. He was hocking gitch for Ginch Gonch. He’d strut and stride and swagger by my stand, every hour, on the hour, because, well…that was his job. (My job was to hock stuff, too, but I won’t tell you what because the designer was kind of a rotten evil bitch. Like: She wouldn’t let me – moi ! – be a model.) (Although she did give me a free pair of culottes.) But you could say that when it came to the booth bunny business, Cowboy Thong inspired me, motivated me, drove me on…roped me in. À propos of my whole Cowboy Thong Experience, I’ve kept my cute, fuzzy tail in the booth bunny business ever since. (Although in reality my tail isn’t really fuzzy.)..."

France's New Lovey-Dovey Dictatorship

"...I know what you’re thinking: Dictators are soooo last year. Dictatorially, I disagree. I believe it’s not so much the stylishness of the job, but the stylishness of the dictator..."