I've Fallen in Love With a Woman

"...This was la Belle Époque. Well, not the real Belle Époque (it being the 1950s and all), but back when francs were such soft currency they smelled strongly of fromage, back when the euro didn’t even exist, let alone teeter on the cheese-plate of extinction, like Camembert left outside on a summer luncheon table. Back when American trust-fund babies and G.I. Bill babies and American students and American scholars and American beatniks and their even more horrifying British counterparts tore up the Left Bank (where all the wrong ones, or their ungodly grandchildren, still have their pied à terres) playing make-believe bohemians like the privileged brats that they were. And life was fabulous. Formidable. Fromage-y. Truly, really, la Vie en Rose, la Belle Époque, the Banquet Years. This was Elaine Dundy’s world, she was a part of all this, tearing up far more than her share. Makes me kinda jealous as hell. Et vous ?

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?"

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..."