SOS

2006-01-01T17:47:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I like to do a little update as a reward for those faithful -- or bored -- enough to give the old Gazette a hit. I'm writing from Hastings, my dad's office, in a state of high excitement. A lot of water has gone under the bridge since I last wrote. When I signed off, it was with the vague intention, as you know, of attending the publishing course in New York and then pursuing some desultory course of action until I got my act together. All I can say is...well!

First, the course: it consists of about a hundred students from all over the country + 2 Canadians and an Australian. I and maybe three other girls (the ratio's 80/20 and let's just say the odds are good for straight men) live off-campus; the rest are in a dorm. The program starts with three weeks on books and ends with three on magazines. We have lectures thrice daily from various luminaries in the publishing world, hobnob with them at sherry hours and receive lots of free books -- it's all excellent fun.

The book portion of things ends with "the book workshop," in which ten groups of ten are formed into pretend "presses" and are given a week to put together a Fall list of six titles. I was editor in the "Independent press," Boldface Books. The way it works is, you come up with lots of book ideas, and then various industry pros approve them or not. You contact possible authors for the hypothetical projects, obtain their real-life consent and get an estimate. Then we put together tip-sheets, covers, P&L sheets etc. etc. I am not ashamed to reveal that my press's final list was described as the best our evaluators had ever seen -- even though it meant a week of sleepless nights and the hatred of all our peers. (Incidentally, we were the only group with no infighting -- a boring but eminently satosfactory state of affairs. We even had a congratulatory dinner at the Saigon Grill Thursday night. I had the appetizer sampler.)

Here's where it gets exciting -- for me, anyway. I had a book idea that garnered a lot of attention, for a Professor-and-the-Madman-style literary treasure hunt and a famous English eccentric and bibliophile (you'll recall I was reading A Book of English Eccentrics last year?) We titled it In Sir Thomas's Library and our designer did a wonderful cover. I spent hours on the descriptive copy.

One of the finales of the project was a book auction with the real-life head buyer for Barnes and Noble, who loved the idea and bought out our entire print run (you'd have to have been immersed in the publoshing world for three weeks to find this exciting, I realize.) Afterwards, the publisher of a VERY respectable imprint approached me and asked, would I like to write this book?

Upon hearing this, the program head, eager to keep me in publishing, called me with a very good offer for a high-up job in a great house.
"Just do me a favor and interview," she said. "I've told them you're the one to hire."

The upshot is, I have interviews for both -- job and book -- tomorrow afternoon. The job means security and benefits in a lovely, congenial, literary world of long standing. The book means tons of research and a move to England. Either way, someone's feeling will be hurt and I'm frightfully nervous. By tomoroow evening, my future will be set.

I bought some interview gear today. A gray pencil skirt, black v-neck top and light pink d'orsay pumps.With these I'll sport my rose suede purse, coral earrings and my new, uber-cool feathered hairdo.

I've been so sick with nerves an indecision these last few days that I found it necessary to sit around doing nothing -- in lieu, mind you, of Rock and Rollerskate at Office OPs in East Williamsburg! This involves roller-skating around new bands, who play in a cage, with a lot of hipsters. Excellent fun. Said one friend when I described it to her, "How much do I love this city?" My sentiments exactly.

Following my group's dinner Thursday, I decided to go be by myself. I took the 1 downtown to Christopher street with the intention of getting a cupcake at the Magnolia Bakery, but on the spur of the moment, I went to a fortune-teller. Here is what she saw:

-Long life.
-Three kids, maybe twins.
-An illness in the family, hospital, no death.

Love:
-A man in my life who cares for me, but making career a priority. Ready for committment in one year's time.
-Another man in love with me from afar (Unlikely -Ed.)

Career:
-A foreign move with good results.
-Recognition and fame.

I think there was something in there about yoga, too, but I can't remember fo r sure.

Anyway, in the evening's spirit of spontanaiety, I got a banana pudding instead of a cupcake. I was deep in thought, let me tell you! The hipsters at the Magnolia -- there are always about ten standing around doing nothing, or maybe idly frosting something while all the Mexicans labor away at the actual baking -- were jerks, per usual, and were listening to Donovan.

I've been eating hamburgers like a mad thing. THis weekend alone, I ate at Prime Burger, Burger Heaven and Sassy's Sliders. They all score high -- the latter in particular for its movie-eating-ability. This week I think I'm due for a Corner Bistro bacon-cheeseburger. Maybe following interviews. Also may see Love Story at Bryant Park and go to Tiki Monday at the Shrunken Head, or else Punk-Metal Karaoke at Arlene Grocery...how much do I love this city?

2004-07-19T14:31:00.000-07:00

So- I took the book job. Both interviews went well -- I love interviewing, anyway -- and I was offered the publishing job, but after talking with the publisher at some length, in Boerum Hill, I couldn't say no. Less security, sure -- but I think I'd regret it if I said no. I liked the publishing job, too -- the boss was nice and the atmosphere was collegial and serene. Then too, there's a little something to be said for security and health insurance. Here's what's to be said about them at my age: not worth giving up your dreams. One could certainly argue that my dreams have never really included writing a lengthy non-fiction research book, but I like to think they've acquired some flexibility in their old age.

I'm in Dutch at the course for turning that job down, though. Oh well, c'est la vie. My book has caused a minor sensation in the course and I must say it'll be nice to be back in Old Limey. I have leads on several excellent people there (to say nothing of Guyon) with whom to break bread. Thinking: a three-four month stint in London, subletting. Then I'll spring for a Brooklyn studio and live the bachelorette life for a year or so.

Re: my high school reunion -- an unqualified triumph! I wore: my hankerchief hem teal jersey skirt, strappy sandals, a black tank and no glasses. Remarks were made re: beauty. By "unqualified triumph" I mean a bit of a bore, I suppose, but there are certainly worse things.

Gosh, what a little braggart. I'll stubble it.

This past weekend, I saw Taylor Meade at the Bowery Poetry Club. The event consisted of approximately me, Taylor Meade and three other people. The Warhol Cohort and NYC institution sat on a stage and regaled us for 45 minutes with bitter screeds, pornographic poetry and occasional emissions from an ancient radio.

Following this, I hightailed it to Veselka, the venerable 24-hr Ukrainian on 2nd Avenue, where I met my friend Mary and her boyfriend for a Peirogi dinner. THen and only then did I proceed to Bayard Street in Chinatown for a night of superlative karaoke with about fifteen friends. I opened with "Georgy Girl" and ended with a bravura "I Want You to Want Me" -- think wild dancing, head-banging, air guitar -- the works. Everyone was great -- there wasn't a shrinking violet in the bunch. Highlights included "Billie Jean," "Living on a Prayer" and provocative dancing with a Chinese guy who worked there -- not by me. The magic was there -- karaoke will never again be as much fun. The place? Tillie's -- a Chinese-owned wood-paneled dive with a great list and red horsehoe banquettes.

Saturday involved a visit to Coney Island and the indie rock Siren Fest with about five chums. Kids in the course are fantastic -- really game.

Now we're on the "magazine workshop" part of things. I'm editor in chief for the shelter mag, Nook, and so far, so good. Hours are rather more reasonable than those of the book version. I have every hope of getting out of Dodge pre-midnight. But then, hope does spring eternal you-know-where.

2004-06-08T04:32:00.000-07:00

Chums-

So, at the exorbitant cost of $150, my publishing packet was dispatched and received. It came as an unwelcome shock. Seems that by 6/14 I have to have submitted five assignments -- a manuscript review; an assignment on book promotion (book included); some kind of tricked-out resume; a "sales" assigment that involves visiting ten different bookstores and an idea for a book and its promotion -- except each of these has five explanatory pages. It did seem to me that this was a lot to do in a week already chock ablock with packing and traveling on cheap airlines (I'm assuming the non-expats have had it a good week longer) esp. considering the fact that there's another five due the following Monday, on magazines.

I panicked briefly, then thought, well, SOS, you're always jawing on about what an accomplished hack you are -- get to! So I did. It was the work of a moment to read the manuscript (only 300 pp, double-spaced) and jot off a negative review (hackneyed message, unconvincing dialogue, confusing genre-mixing, insufficient character development). It pained me to reject that much typed matter, but knowing it's probably already been accepted or rejected made me feel less guilty. I did a draft of the resume accpording to their criteria (a crap job -- this kind of thing -- the precision of fonts and spacing -- is my weak point. Precision, generally, you could say.) I started the second book, The Love Wife so as to have it despatched by flight time and be unencumbered to read trash. And then I produced a brilliant proposal for an original nonfiction title: The Crackpot Manifesto: An Eccentric's Guide to Life. As this was a well-developed idea, I was able to outline my notions pretty thoroughly: the chapter ideas, the historical snippets about oddballs through the ages, venues for citing eccentrics, eccentric types...) The rub is that now I'm supposed to propose a writer for it. The best writer would be, evidement, me, but Guyon said that would be a bad move so I'm going to find some pop-culture prof on the internet and stick his name on. That's what they want -- someone unaffiliated.

My magazine idea is for a children's cooking rag. Bad on advertising, I've been told, but still a nifty concept, I think. The best part is that the prof grading that assignment is CHRISTOPHER KIMBALL! Christopher Kimball! Only the editor of Cook's Illustrated -- only the head of Boston Common Press -- only the author of The Dessert Bible!!!!!

The truth is that I'm going to be way outclassed, precision and detail-wise, by a lot of those types who always did the most elaborate science projects. There's a lot of scope for that sort of thing, and I'm absolute rubbish at it, being naturally slapdash. However, I have confidence in my ideas, and couldn't really care less about lying about liking Pinter or anything, and so all will be well. Anyway, I'll probably just knock off eventually and write the Crackpot Manifesto. This will all be tremendous fun.

Zounds, do I hate hot weather! I always forget how much. I always look slightly more like a wilted lettuce leaf than anyone else on the planet, too -- red-faced, frizzy-haired, miserable. There must be some cooling mechanism I can employ. I've heard about cooling moisturizers and stuff. Sounds rubbish, but possibly worth looking into.

I'm taking an afternoon off for souvenir purposes. Tomorrow, after all, is my last full day. The Cathedral gave me a lovely copy of the Junior Guild Cookbook and a video tape about the place -- "narrated by Miss Olivia de Havilland!" I can't wait to watch it.

Gotta scoot -- writing on v expemsive borrowed time!

2004-06-01T03:29:00.000-07:00

By Popular Demand, an update.

So: while Guyon's old friend Jamie was visiting with us, he, my brother Charlie and I got locked out of the apartment one day. Jamie promptly took it into his head to scale the walls and push through the skylight onto the roof, from which point he could climb through an open window into the apartment. He did this in impressively short order, although with, perhaps, more expenditure of effort than might have been occasioned ny a visit to the gardienne for the spare key.

The next day, our neighbor knocked on our door for the first time and asked, had I seen those marks all over the walls and ceiling? No, I said, panicked. Well, she said, I was young, and a renter, so I probably wasn't as attentive to these things. She had spent a long time cleaning off the marks and was concerned a burglar was prowling. She would speak to the gardienne about it.

Well, I thought, at least the evidence has been expunged. I recounted the tale to the boys. Guyon, jokingly, scrawled a little "x" over our door with his key as he walked out of the apartment.

The next day, our neighbor reappeared, saying had I seen this "x?" That it was clearly a sign that our apartment had been cased by burglars, and that she's called the police, and was having all the building's codes changed. Also, would I go to the police station and file a report in person, as she had to work?

Well, this morning, I did, and was laughed out of the station by a bunch of flics. The whole thing is ridiculous and very uncomfortable. But plus ca change...

The Plan
Mark your calendars: June 23rd I get dressed up and slap someone, once, across the face in the East Village. This is an act of revenge five years in the making and one that will very likely result in my looking ridiculous and possibly being called up on charges of aggravated assault. Don't think I particularly relish the prospect, either -- but it must be done. It's a Sicilian thing. That's all I can tell you.

So many secrets! But they aren't mine to tell...

New Faces
Met a couple of femmes who are launching a salon in NYC next year. I'm in. I think the idea is that we all speak French and recreate Parisian ambiance. I don't think we're expected to be wits or anything. Once I was in a salon, briefly, that fell very flat. I had been invited as an eminent wit, but found the other wits to be a bunch of role-playing gamers. Trust this'll be a step up.

2004-05-26T02:43:00.000-07:00

No, actually it's finished now. Thanks for reading.

2004-05-25T00:58:00.001-07:00

Yes, yes -- I'll write until June 10th. This has been an aberration, and an unworthy one. I'll try to log a few hours later today after my family leaves. We have houseguests as well, so v difficult. But I do think I owe you an account of yesterday's Shakespeare and Company reading, no? Here's a teaser: it was ghastly.

Oh, the exercise regimen has kind of gone by the boards (surprise, surprise) althought I'll try to leap back on the horse starting today.

Okay. Enough.

2004-05-25T00:58:00.000-07:00

2004-05-21T03:45:00.000-07:00

I think this weblog has about run its course, don't you? It can't go on indefinitely and I think my departure date in June would be a logical endpoint. One can't deny that there's something of vanity publishing about the whole thing, anyway -- if one wants to write, better to do it and not mess around with this sort of nonsense, right? It's useful for me to organize my thoughts and keep my hand in, and it's nice to have a journal of my time here. I like keeping grandparents etc. in the loop, too, but otherwise there's no reason to keep up, as I've always kept a nearly-identical private journal anyway. Maybe if I embark on another adventure, it'll be one thing...but I don't see any in the near future.

That's what I think, anyway.

2004-05-19T09:31:00.000-07:00

Hank Aaron Stein, ? - 2004
Our dear family dog died yesterday evening from a stroke. My mother came home from work to find him in a coma and held him until he passed away; we don't think he suffered. I'm terribly sorry my dad wasn't around to say goodbye as well, as they had a very special relationship. Anyone who met Hank knows that he was sweet-natured and loyal and brought our family a lot of joy. He wasn't young when we adopted him nine years ago, but I like to think he lived a full, happy life with us and died knowing he was loved. My mom buried him in the back yard (Guyon says not deep enough.)

2004-05-18T00:56:00.000-07:00

Strange Fitness Craze
I've embarked on one. For the past week (and until June 10, not a day more)I have been exercising fanatically. It is exceedingly tiresome for all concerned, personally humiliating and extremely unpleasant to boot. But, c'est la vie! I'm incapable of doing anything by half-measures.

Yesterday I did a ridiculous yoga/t'ai chi class at an exceedingly crummy French health club. I deemed it a total waste of time. The French people weren't terribly convincing at it; seemed very self-conscious at kept sneaking looks at themselves in the mirror while they were supposed to be meditating. One middle-aged woman, attired for her workout in skintight grafitti-print jeans and a large gold belt, fell asleep and started snoring loudly. Normally i don't like to bother with an exercise class unless I feel I'm really getting my money's worth in unplesantness, but I was a bit worried about being able to follow a faster class and intimidated in general by the setup, so this seemed a good introduction. Also made a friend: an Australian girl who rcecomended I try the kickboxing class held this evening, as the American instructor doesn't know any French.

Since I deemed the relaxing class a waste of time (although doctors are always telling me such things'll do wonders for my migraines)I repaired that evening to the American Church for an aerobics class that was as unpleasant as even I could wish for. Beyond the class itself , which was very rigorous-- taught jointly this time by a very abrasive French queen who came in shouting, revoltingly, that he had "merde" all over his arm for some reason -- was the added humiliation, because the weather was good, of having to do the class outside, to the derision of various French bystanders. Indeed, several groups of teenagers found the spectacle so hilarious that they stayed the entire hour to watch, calling friends on their cellphones and falling to the ground, helpless with laughter, at our antics. Since the primary offenders were themselves rather overweight, smoking and eating a large pizza apiece, I didn't mind so much. But the whole things was not to my taste, if you get my drift.

I wasn't going to mention this whole exercise craze on the blog, it's so humiliating. But then I thought: honesty is the essence of all good things. Also, anyone who reads this regularly has likely already deduced that yours truly is manifestly a first-class donkey. I think I'll need to cut back in any case; this morning I did a "legs" class at the health club and after last night it was just too much; I practically collapsed on the walk home. I will take it easy until the kickboxing class tonight. Only until June 10.

David has returned to the city of lights for a brief and very welcome visit before starting his internship at a Jewish policy think tank in London; apparently the higher-ups there are extremely impressed by him. He was very kind about the exercising. He and Guyon have been playing Championship Manager (to the unenlightened -- mind-boggling to me -- a sort of fantasy soccer computer game) nonstop since he arrived. Well, Guyon was playing it nonstop before he arrived, too, but now each of them has a team going. This game, which has been cited in more than one English divorce case, is, to put it mildly, very absorbing for the initiated. They briefly debated bringing the laptop to the Highlander in order to continue their playing uninterrupted, but ultimately deemed this too lame to be borne.

Les souris
THe mice have multiplied -- there are two now, never a good thing in animalia. At night they elap around and squeak and are generally creepy. Guyon is on the warpath and has requested my father bring several glue traps from the states. Briefly, we plugged their hole with cotton soaked in a noxious substance. Then we saw that this had caused one of the mice to throw up and I felt so sick and ashamed about it I immediately took the cotton out and have decided not to be party to any more cruelty. Indeed, now that I know how a glue trap works, I'm not going to stande for any. I have devised a humane trap -- a shoebox with holes poked in it and a piece of Laughing Cow inside -- that I am assured will be wholly ineffective. I don't care. I think it will work; it just depends on someone being around to snap the box shut and carry it to some patch of nature where the mice can be deposited. I am so ashamed about that cotton.

Have you ever looked at halfjew.com? It is very odd. Especially the rage it provokes. What do you make of it? I have a few theories, but I won't bore you today. Charlie and Papa arrive any minute and I have to go.

2004-05-15T14:33:00.000-07:00

I am in a state approapching euphoria these days. I think I have never been happier. This is, of course, in part because I know the halcyon days are fast drawing to a close. But there are worse things than being forced to appreciate, no?

Yesterday evening Guyon and I drove the scooter up to Montmartre. It was beautiful and exciting. There was an immense American school group there, singing "Twist and Shout" over and over again.

Then this morning I did an exercise class at the American Church. It was fun, actually: much dancing and leaping to the Can-can theme and strange opera medleys (as well as what Brian and I recognize as "Stranger in Paradise," whatever it might be to the larger world.) I enjoy anything involving leaping. Guyon picked me up afterwards with a picnic lunch and we rode out to the Bois de Bologne; the weather was lovely. Then tonight we had dinner in Montparnasse and a drink afterwards in Le Select, one of the old literary cafés there (to the extent any of them still is.)

What fun! What bliss! When I think of all the friends and dear ones waiting to visit us and the fun in store, my heart is full to bursting. It might seem as though this was a bit of a lost year for me, but I would not trade it for anything. I've figured out so much of what I want out of life, and what I don't. I'm glad for this course to begin, even if it isn't what I want, ultimately. It will be good for me, and a mental exercise, and at worst may provide a creative stimulus. If I should have to do something I don't enjoy for a while, surely I can still find wonderful characters, fantastic situations and even good friends in it.

The coming year will bring so many changes (not the least of them living in a different country from my boyfriend after five years) but I feel equipped, now, to deal with them -- such a difference from a year ago! Someone said to me recently that New York's the only place she could go from here with equanimity, and there's certainly something to be said for that. As Sam put it, when you're in New York, you feel as though everyone has schemes and plans, whole secret lives one doesn't know about. I hope, by this time next year, I'll be able to lay claim to that myself.

Not to get too confessional on you. Good night.

2004-05-14T01:34:00.000-07:00

I am twitchy from lack of sleep. Last night conceived of a horrible fear that my usual sleeping position -- curled up on side -- would lead to varicose veins, something of which I have a dread fear. (I dislike acknowledging the existence of veins.) You see, a friend recently told me that crossing of the legs is a prime culprit -- need you ask, I now cross ankles exclusively -- and it ocurred to me that the pressure exerted on my knees in sleep might have the same dread effect. As a result attempted many unnatural contortions and could not sleep anymore from panic. Instead, got up at five and had a run (good for veins, was my thinking). Most unpleasant, that. I am on record in my belief that the world is divided, evenly or otherwise, into runners and non-runners (although a non-runner can run -- witness this am's vein-aiding activity -- provided she hates it, is vocal about this, and is never in the remotest danger of getting into "the zone.") It's a question of temperament, of genetic makeup. I don't think I could ever be good friends with a true runner. But they are certainly admirable -- probably superior.

Wednesday
Wednesday evening Guyon and I took the Vespa to a coucous restaurant called Chez Omar. (Re: the Vespa. My mother is unenthusiastic. I told her I didn't fear death. What about maiming? she said. Said a lot of poeple lose legs, esp. Heather Mills McCartney. I said that was okay too. She said, well then, all right, as long as we promise to drive very slowly. I said I couldn't in good conscience make that promise.) We split a Royale, which comes with vegetables, lamb brochette, merguez sausage, beef and a lamb shank. The waiter assured me that single persons can indeed finish an order, although it was generous for two. Then, since we were in the neighbourhood and wanted to show off the scooter, we went over to Jenny and Sam's and persuaded them to come out for a drink with us rather than stay in and watch some documentary.

We went to this café in the Marais that has games and which was witness to Guyon's staggering French Trivial Pursuits loss at the hands of me and David, and, in turn, our equally spectacular loss at French Pictionary, at which Guyon and David's girlfriend had an almost preternatural rapport. Long story short: I had a demi citron (beer with lemon sirop in) and Sam and I beat them soundly at French Trivial Pursuits. Guyon, you see, is adamant that couples be split up for games. At your peril, mon ami. At your peril.

Cathedral
Florette has been hospitalized for dehydration and malnutririon follwing her eviction from the Cathedral. I'm heading over to the hospital in Neuilly today.

Eleanor stayed long into my shift, primarily to commiserate with one of the secretaries about her divorce. Eleanor, however, wanted to talk about her divorce, twenty years ago -- didn't let the poor thing get a word in edgewise -- and I must say, it is a pretty spectacular story. I won't capitalize on other peoples' unhappiness (she said smugly) by relating the particulars -- let's just say that "it was the seventh mistress that was the straw that broke the camel's back!"

Then an English minister in a seersucker jacket showed up to banter with Eleanor. Said he:
%Why can't you kiss an Englishman?"
Anwswer: The stiff upper lip and upturned chin get in the way.

Eleanor countered with:
Why can't you play chess with an Episcopalian?
Answer: They get their bishops and queens mixed up.

Then a brief discussion of gay marriage ensued ("the dear homosexuals" again), followed by a round critique of the garden guild. "When I ran it," declared Eleanor, "we had proper perennials! None of these wishy-washy pansies!"

Here is a notice Eleanor posted, a good example of the expansive sort of communication with which she peppers the walls of the office:
"Wednesday 12 May
Attention all volunteers:
An Eastern European woman -- 30's-40's; short, dark, curly hair; medium build; average height; sometimes wears a hooded jacket. Appears frequently stating that she is going to AA. Shye then proceeds to wander irrationally everywhere, sit on the stairs, talk loudly to herself and create a general disturbance. Gatecrashed the St. Anne's Guild lunch today and had to be forcibly ejected whilst protesting violently. Uses AA as an excuse to gain entry; is not a member at all."

Then,
"Thursday 13 May
The above-mentioned woman returned today demanding AA entrance. Refused to obey the instructions of the sexton forbidding her entrance. Created a loud disturbance in the church entrance and finally was informed that the police would be called. We eventually managed to propel her to entrance steps and closed the main gates. She left after a time -- protesting wildly. This woman is distinctly deranged. Alas! In the event of her return, call police at once."

I was terrified she's come back while I was on duty ( as I had no intention of calling the police or anything similar), but in fact my only visitor of note was a friend of mine, painter and yoga teacher Louise. Guyon picked me up on the scooter and I watched I Confess in a Hitchcock series at Action Christine. I think the very least one can do in Paris is watch all the minor Hitchcocks. Montgomery Clift made a decidedly unbelievable priest.

You've noticed I can link; I will go back and add in all relevant links in the coming days.

2004-05-12T06:39:00.000-07:00

As you see, I can now link successfully!

2004-05-12T05:35:00.000-07:00

Speaking of book recs, I was just on the Shakespeare and Co. website having a look at their book recommendations -- well, not really, considering one of the lists is straitly titled, "The Bare Necessities." With a jaundiced eye, actually pretty sensible. But then, I love authoritative lists of this kind, even if I take no notice of them. Just knowing that someone out there has the gall to dictate like that is deeply reassuring; indicates there'll always be a few people ready to leap into the street and direct traffic, howevery ineptly, during an NYC blackout. I don't think I could ever proceed without an apologetic, "Things I Like" or a wishy-washy "A Few Suggestions..."

I must confess, I thought The Motorcycle Diaries would make a showing. I read it last year in the stacks at the Regenstein Library, you know, and now feel myself eminently qualified to watch the career-making performance of Gael Garcia Bernal. Or is it the Almodovar film that's supposed to be career-making? Or is he just an "IT" boy as a result of the confluence? I don't remember. "La Mauvaise Education" opens here today (I don't know the English title) but it's liable to be such a mob scene that anyone as impervious to Almodovar's charms as am I has no business braving it for a few days yet. And Almodovar fans, like Tom Waits fans, are not to be trifled with. Although the percentages of passion and posturing differ greatly from man to man, there's an essential rabidness that precludes criticism. And, as stated, I don't enjoy criticizing things people love anyway.

A Consummation Devoutly to be Wished...
It's so close to my departure date that I actually refrained, yesterday, from leafing through a Vanity Fair at W.H. Smith because I realized that I needed to conserve it for my Paris-Reykjavik-New York flight on 10 June. I also flew into a strange panic at the thought fo not being able to buy Vice magazine and sprinted to four bookstores in very different neighborhoods in a vain search. In fairness, I was also running a number of errands and starting my souvenir-shopping. With the latter end in mind, I visited a number of shops successfully and even dropped into Colette.

Colette, for those not in the know, is the original concept store (although some people feel it's showing its seven-year-old age.) It's got a very sparse selection of home design stuff, CD's, movies, toiletries, fashion etc. -- all very minimalist. There's cheap stuff as well, though, and the DVD selection is very good, after its fashion: all the Andy Warhol films (if one wanted such a thing for a home library), Jean Cocteau, silents, and then some random selections which are meant, I suppose, to be rendered cool by their inclusion, but aren't, really, if one is American and doesn't find Americana kitsch. BUT...they are ordering in Vice within the next month, so, as we know, this side of angels.

2004-05-12T05:05:00.000-07:00

A Recipe
I've mentioned before this excellent Kadjemoula (North African Lamb and Beef Stew), from James Beard via Amanda Hesser, several times. It's very easy, can be made ahead and is absolutely delicious. The only fiddly thing is trimming the lamb. Even if you are skeptical, I urge you to try it once.

2 pounds lamb shoulder, cut into 1 1/2-inch cubes
2 pounds beef chuck, cut into 1 1/2-inch cubes
1/2 cup flour, more if needed
2 tablespoons butter
2 tablespoons olive oil, more if needed
1 teaspoon sea salt
1/4 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon ground ginger
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
2 medium onions, sliced
4 carrots, peeled, quartered and sliced (or just sliced)
2 medium turnips, peeled and diced
3 cloves garlic, chopped
2/3 cup dried apricots
2/3 cup prunes
3 to 4 cups beef broth

1. Trim all the fat from the lamb and beef cubes. Put the flour in a plastic bag and add the meat one handful at a time. Shake the bag to thinly coat the meat, then shake the pieces as you life them from the bag. Heat the butter and oil in a braising pan over medium high heat. Add the meat cubes, a few at a time, and brown them quickly on all sides. Remove them as they cook to a plate.

2. Put all the browned meat back in the pan and sprinkle it with the salt, cinnamon, ginger and pepper. Add the onions, carrots, turnips, garlic, apricots and prunes. Pour in enough broth to barely cover the meat and bring to a boil. Lower the heat so the bubbles are sparse and languid; cover and simmer gently for two hours, or until tender. The vegetables and fruits should have blended into a thin and flavorful sauce (NOTE: I cook it down more than this and mash the fruits up a bit with a wooden spoon.) Remove the stew to a hot platter and serve with couscous, rice pilaf or whatever. Serves 6.

This makes a lot but is better the next day, so don't fadge yourselves.

As many of you know, I have in the past been ambivalent about Amanda Hesser's writing (I am very passionate about food writing, possibly because I am apolitical)but I must say that her latest book, Cooking for Mr. Latte, is one fantastic bunch of recipes. Every single one I've tried is a keeper. I used to think about going into food writing myself, before I decided it's a dead genre with no avenues left unexplored, and which has descended into cutesiness in any case. But it's still the best reading around. Here are a few cookbooks I reccomend for reading:

Home Cooking, Laurie Colwin
How to Eat, Nigella Lawson
Forgotten Dishes, Marion Cunningham
Appetite, Nigel Slater
And that's to say nothing of the first and last word in the genre, A Thousand Ways to Please a Husband!

2004-05-11T03:55:00.000-07:00

Written from the back of a blue Vespa
Not really. I haven't been on a Vespa since last night, but we have rented one, and let me tell you: this is the way to see Paris! We took it for an inaugural spin over the Seine and down the right bank. Like Iggy Pop, I'm a passenger (and I ride and I ride), and as such have all the childish recklessness of the non-driver. I was all for stunts like riding side-saddle and no-hands (which all the Parisiennes do, by the way), but was forestalled. It's the most fun imaginable; the second I can, I'm going to buy my own, in New York. Wanted to carry the helmet into stores etc., but Guyon made me put it in its bin.

Yesterday evening went to another reading at Shakespeare and Co. There were a collective of chaumeurs playing guitar outside and the kids were more insolent than ever, if that's possible -- greeting us with mocking bows etc. Then an old man appeared with a big piece of cheese, so they lost interest, temporarily, in being insoelnt and proprietary. In fact, I love it -- what terrific fun! And I can quite understand posturing and being young and reveling in bohemia (one of its last bastions, after all.) I do adore young people.

The reading consisted of an English poet who read about Afghanistan, and then about an avante-garde Russian filmmaker. He was followed by a young woman who read an interminable and beautifully-written piece about a robot, interrupted every few minutes by the elderly master of ceremonies, asking hopefully if she was tired.
"John's fucking the whole thing up!" hissed an English guy to me, furiously.
We were all about to leave when a Frenchman stood up and announced very forcefully that he wished to read from Baudelaire. Which he did.
"This guy always reads from Baudelaire!" said the same English guy. "What a narcissist!"

I have to say, I don't know if I can keep going there, there are so many creepy guys looking to pick up young girls. Granted, that's understood when you go, and many of the habituees of the shop(earnest Amazing girls with a weakness for dubious writers)are doubtless pretty open to that sort of thing. But it's dashed unpleasant even so. Some of it I brought on myself. Noticing that the French guy next to me was holding a hardcover edition of Saul Bellow's Herzog, I produced my own copy of Herzog from my bag and gave him a thumbs-up. Bad move. The moment the reading had ended he became decidedly insinuating, trying to imply that fate had been at work.
"Are you visiting here?" he asked.
"Are you a poet?" said the English guy.
"No!" I cried joyfully, and sprinted downstairs and to the waiting Vespa to be spirited away, Cinderella-fashion, for a ride by the Eiffel Tower.

I've never liked the city more than from the back of our rented scooter. Oh, how can I bear to leave! There are so many things I will miss: eating alone, puppet shows, revival houses, public affection. Maybe that last sounds odd, but I do love how open people are here about it; it's not greeted with any of the censoriousness or prurient interest one finds in the States, and which I've never understood anyway. Even though I'm not personally demonstrative, I've always enjoyed seeing people in love on the street, even when I was very young. When they're splendidly attractive it's romantic and when they aren't, it's heartwarming. But then, I am a romantic, and am generally in love myself.

I am here at the Access Academy on business: to find a picture of Gore Vidal upon which to model my next puppet. I'd like to have the whole comapny done by the time I leave.

Frivolity
I bought a new perfume for my birthday, from the very Parisian Frederic Malle boutique. One tests the different scents in little chambers, so the smells don't mix. They only have a very few to choose from, anyway. I bought one called "En Passant," which is very "green," as they say in the trade, with notes of white lilac. If you meet me in the coming months, you'll doubtless get a whiff.

Methinks I'll go back to Shakespeare and Co. today and read in the library for a few hours. I notice they have several books I've been wanting to get my hands on: an Ethel Mannin novel and Daphne du Maurier's biog of her father, Gerald.

2004-05-10T05:57:00.000-07:00

Ha! Ha! I just bought the last copy of Orange Juice's Ostrich Churchyard on amazon.co.uk and I feel no compunction whatsoever! (By the way, those are two separate, triumphant "ha"s, not barks of laughter.) I am very excited about this purchase. Await a full report.

Blogspot has been reformatted. It's very snappy and very intimidating, and seesm to leave no excuse, really, for not having many links etc. I, however, have not been reformatted in the least. So, you see, we have our original problem. Last night, I asked Guyon when we were going to get around to seeing the rest of Lars Van Trier's canon.
"Never?" he asked. "How's never for you?"
"Can't," I said. "That's when I'm successfully programming a computer."
As you can see, we are a couple of regular Oscar Wildes here on rue Dauphine.

Charlie
My brother Charlie phoned this morning (the middle of the night in Massachusetts; this is when he generally calls.) He told me he had two goals for the summer.
1. Learning to whittle
2. Learning to cook really well.
Although I was particularly enthusiastic about the first, I said I could help him with the second. I suggested a cooking class, so that he can be one of those know-at-alls prosing on about knife skills; he said he'd rather I made him a little cookbook of some family recipes. I'm on it. He also said that, in the grand tradition of carts before horses, he plans to throw any number of elaborate dinner parties this summer. Will suggest several menus in the cookbook. Which will, incidentally, have some kind of neat oilcloth cover.

Mail
Yesterday, in a Mothers' Day call home, Guyon said to him mother that, now that the party had passed, my birthday was officially iver. Well, it wasn't! For today, in the mail, arrived both a charming card in the mail from Ciara, and my parents' birthday package!
"From Ciara (and Greg, of course)" ended Ciara's card.
"From Mama (and Papa, of course)" ended my mother's card. It's the truth.

The package contained:
1 pink top, being worn by yours truly as she writes.
The Magic Flute, a terrific Deutsche Grammophon edition, much, much nicer than I'd have gotten myself. I blasted it all morning. Hoped the opera-blasting neighbor heard and approved, and noted what a good recording it was. Am envisioning a sort of battle of the bands between our blasted Magic Flutes.
A Moleskine sketchbook -- you know, "the legendary notebook of Van Gogh and Matisse, Hemingway and Chatwin" -- with a charcoal pencil. This is because I have been doing a lot of drawing this year. I have always coveted one of these notebooks, but didn't feel I could effray the expense and the borderline lameness of its purchase. So, a heart's desire fulfilled!

The Party Cont'd...
SO, me hearties, where were we? I believe I had just tied a pink scarf jauntily around my throat! We headed off to dinner at Chartier, which is vast, ancient, bustling and sepia-tinted. There is something of being in an old movie about it. The prices are rock-bottom, the waiters surly and the food only half-bad. I had tomato salad and steak tartare (only because they were out of what I wanted. Frankly I'm getting tired of it)and most of the party had steak of some description -- always safe there. I was seated between a fashion photographer with an interest in woodworking and his girlfriend, an activist, who was forced to eat cold spaghetti with grated emmenthal out of a sort of baby dish. We had a good discussion of post-modernism and whether our parents' generation has commandeered the idea of youth. Yes, I brought it up. You know this has been on my mind lately. I was very flushed and earnest.
Guyon was seated next to an Austrian girl. He seemed to eb under the impression she was German and quickly brought WWII into things.
"I'm not German; I'm Austrian." she finally said.
"Even worse." he replied. She seemed offended which, as he noted to me later, only served to prove his point.
We discussed the short story another friend was writing and I agreed to look at it, although in fact I'm awful at that kind of thing, having nothing much to say. I can tell if something's bad, I guess, but so can anyone, and that's not exactly what anyone wants to hear. But I'm a terrible critic. Looking forward to reading it, even so.

The party was very jolly. In addition to my sweets, my cohostess, a loevly person, had made apple tart and several chocolate cakes. Also punch. I talked with one girl whose brother, a punk cellist, had married at twenty, and a guy who was planning on starting a concept magazine. My contribution, the dean's son, showed up with a bunch of young guys all of whom seemed to be from D.C. Guyon talked with them a long time, breaking away every so often to play semi-ironic selections from our hostess's high school CD collection, and then do impromptu dance performances that electrified the company. Guyon is a very fine dancer, you know.

I talked for about an hour, sitting in a doorway, with a tall, emaciated Canadian guy with a Norman Bates-like manner. Also fancied himself as a writer so we had a good talk about books (I remember with a blush dismissing something as "essentially juvenalia", which at the time I knew was ridiculous in substance and form.) Here are two things he said:
"I like your shoes. I like these lower kitten heels; I'm tired of high spikes."
and
"What a well-equipped kitchen! Don't you miss things like zesters?"
(I do. Although Guyon, on being told, demanded to know what was wrong with a grater?)
So, you can imagine my surprise when a bubbly Quebecqoise walked in on the arm of a middle-aged Frenchman and my new friend leaned over to whisper,
"That's my ex-girlfriend."
The ex-girlfriend reappeared a moment later and was asked, in essence, what was up with the really old guy?
"A Beamer, a Mercedes, a Porsche." she said, crassly. "Yeah."
She seemed a very odd match indeed for the androgynous hipster, but the heart knows what the heart knows, I suspect.

Everyone was intrigued by the middle-aged man, Jean-Andre, who stayed until four a.m. and smoked a joint with a group of Americans. Seemed wholly at ease, even through a heated argument between Guyon and Sam about whether passion still exists in indie rock; another argument, culminating in a bet, about who sang a Soul Asylum song; an argument about soccer; and an argument about the inaccuracy of Parisian geography in The Da Vinci Code, and whether the book ended with the word "apple." This last almost turned into a bet, but didn't.

We left about six a.m. with a girl named Rebecca who's spending next year bumming around Asia. Oddly, responded to my critique of Coffee and Cigarettes, which she'd liked (so I went v easy, not enjoying ruining peoples' pleasure in things)with a very heartfelt, "Good for you!"

Slept late.
Think I'll invite that Canadian guy to dinner. Really liked him a lot.

Question
I'm thinking of piercing my ears. What do you think? Remember, please, that one of them is malformed.

2004-05-09T09:23:00.000-07:00

I just wanted to say a quick few words about how much I love the food writers Jane and Michael Stern. It seems to me they've grasped that the essence of good writing, and good living, is unpatronizing kindness. A lot of people have jumped on the quaint-regional-food bandwagon since they invented their sort of writing in the seventies. But all the imitators treat these places like curiosities, and are condescending...when you read the Sterns' writing, you know they talk to everyone they meet like real people, and make friends along the way, and don't have contempt for people who are unsophisticated, even as they write with such humor. Consider the Roy Rogers and Dale Evans biography they co-wrote; a lot of writers would have found the subjects corny, or been put off by their earnest religiosity. But Jane and Michael treated them with respect and admiration -- as they should, considering the subjects' great generosity --and wrote a great book into the bargain.

I was forcibly reminded of all this as I was reading, today, a capsule review of a Louisiana soul food shack they visit -- Gloria's, I think -- in the recent reviews section of Roadfood.com. Anyway, I just think they're the best. Their formula is simple -- kindness and respect -- but I've never seen it equalled. Most writers don't even try.

Another food writer with a good, hearty attitude is John Thorne at outlawcook.com.

2004-05-09T08:49:00.000-07:00

Guess what I am reading? The Go-Between. I've been meaning to read it for a long time, and picked up a used copy at Shakespeare and Co., my literary sponsor, last week. It's unattractive, and has a picture of Julie Christie on the cover. There is a really lovely-looking reissue out, in fact, but I'm not yet at the time of life to consider aesthetics above cost...I think it would be a good thing if I read a book a day for a week or so, just to keep the gray matter in good trim. No tomes, obviously, but a good chunk of the tbr pile.

Friday
Friday evening, we went to see a friend's dance performance in Creteil. We ran into a French-Candian friend there who is very fed up with France and shipping back to law school within a few days. The dancer was, in fact, not happy with the performance, but I didn't see anything amiss and enjoyed it. I like seeing friends perform. That said, I've decided it's be pretty ghastly torture to make everyone come to my reading. I though about the absolute worst such situation I've experienced, and decided it was watching a friend act poorly in a horrible play. How much worse, then, to have to sit through a friend's inept reading of her own bad work! And in such a tiny little room, too! I think perhaps will only invite Guyon, who doesn't pull punches.

Scooter
We're renting a Vespa tomorrow. We'll ride it home from the Shakespeare and Co. reading.

The Party
So, yesterday was the joint birthday party. The handle-less oven behaved itself and I turned out some creditable lemon squares (with a novel streusel topping that I that might help hide flaws) and mocha brownies, both recipes from Epicurious. I like Epicurious; I think the reviews are really helpful and pretty reliable, and the byplay between the different posters can be riveting. If this sort of thing interests you, I do urge you to check out the epic battle of wills following the mix-based recipe for Chocolate-Raspberry Birthday Cake! I must confess that I have been known, in the past, to amuse myself by reviewing recipes I have not made and suggesting modifications. In good faith, I assure you: I suggested, for instance, that a recipe for pineapple upside-down cake add a little rum, as Cook's Illustrated suggests, and that a banana cake add a garnish of toasted pecans. Incidentally, someone took the latter suggestion, to good effect. I also comment on things I have tried, of course...

Anyway, armed with these and some inexpensive champagne, we embarked on the evening. I didn't wear the new dress -- it was cold out -- and instead sported a black pencil skirt, low heels, a black tee shirt and a pick scarf (left by Eloise) at the neck.

I'll tell you teh rest later. I want to see a movie now. I assure you, though, there's a lot to tell!

Two things:
1. Happy Mothers' Day!
2. My old email has expired. My new one (besides the secret one, I mean) is sadiestein@yahoo.com.

2004-05-07T05:51:00.000-07:00

So: the joint birthday party takes place tomorrow night. I'm supposed to bring two desserts and the stuff for kir royales. Although I volunteered for both duties, (and, indeed, they're very evenly divided) I find myself resentful of the cost of champagne (Guyon says there's no point if I just get swill. Can I get one bottle of bubbly for primary revelers and fob the rest off with cheap kirs?) and unable to bake due to literal oven meltdown.

THe oven had been acting peculiar, it's true, for some time now -- spitting and sizzling and behaving erratically. Yesterday, however, things came to a head. The oven apparently objected to preparing meatloaf and baked potatoes: the temperature began swinging wildly, the timer bore no relation to reality and, in short order, the handle melted off. Several other meltable things in the vicinity did just that, too, and I burned myself badly trying to unplug the thing.

So, in short, it might be problematic. Also, still don't know what I will make. I guess some kind of brownie -- maybe espresso-flavored or something -- and maybe a lemon square? Oh, I don't know. I'm having a hard time getting behind the whole enterprise, not least because I have no one to invite. To hedge my bets, I asked Angela from the Cathedral (the young one); the dean's son who goes to Chicago, and some random English girl who posted a classified at the Cathedral once and gave me her card. Also a few elderly grad students whom Guyon picked up. Of course, our assembled crowd and quite a few I don't know will fill things out, but I feel bound to produce a few new faces, just for appearances' sake.

The Mouse
The mouse, Curtis, has been out in full force lately. Guyon is going absolutely wild. Although Curtis is inoffensive enough -- seems to just use out pad as a thoroughfare -- he is brazen. Last night he sauntered across the room in full view and ensconced himself behind a bureau. Guyon went into action, blocking one exit with a batterie of lit candles and the other with a baited mousetrap. Completely ineffective, as is Guyon's practice of stalking around in boots holding an iron -- his usual approach. I, for one, am all for live and let live, but feel this might be a weakness in me rather than a strength...
Petition
I have sent a petition to the Columbia program requesting that I not have to live in dorms, which would, in my considered opoinion, be the absolute living end. I wrote very knowledgably of subway routes and bus schedules, so with any luck they'll find me competent enough to let off on my own and I can escape the mystiqe-destroying pitfalls of community living...

2004-05-05T06:29:00.000-07:00

I'm a little bit peevish.

Eloise left this morning after a terrific and very exciting visit. The apartment is very dirty, but the imminent arrival of the next guest will whip us into shape.

Monday was a day of many, many wonders. Eloise and I went to the Turkish baths at the Mosque de Paris -- highly reccomended, although not reccomended is wearing great quantities of mascara into the steam room. Advice I could have used. That evening, I bought one boudin blanc and one boudin noir from each of the two award-winning charcuteries on our street and, in combination with garlic mashed potatoes, apple sauce and spinach, we did a taste test. It was determined that the place by the toystore where, oddly, that cute hipster works, had better boudin noir, and the place by the river had superior blancs. In fact, we all found the blancs a bit of a bore after the pigs'-blood headiness of the blacks. We've already determined to reprise the meal for all the rest of our houseguests, since as a rule we don't board people who object to eating pig blood in quantity.

Then we went to a reading at Shakespeare and Co. Full as usual of assorted idealistic hangers-on and jetsam intent on evoking lost-generation bohemia. The reading took place on the second floor in the library. The library, of course, is by invitation only, as a regular thing. (I've been invited. Guyon hasn't. But then, the proprietor is known to rather prefer young girls.) There are always five or so kids living upstairs for the tariff of reading a book a day and some of them were there, reading and being insolent. The reading was absolutely fantastic. The headliner was an ancient San Franciscan poet who'd been a crony of Richard Brautigan's etc. and had just been evicted from his studio on vague grounds of establishment suppression of art. Many of the poems dealt with fascism, the Bush family etc. He described acid orgies over which he'd presided as "shamen" in a Native American costume, then launched into a poem beginning, "Playing with the tabs of our minds..." Needless to say, the reception was rapturous.
"Are you leaving America because of the prevalent fascism?" asked one intense young man.
"I'm leaving because people don't fight the fascism," he replied. And started sobbing. It was very uncomfortable. And I thought to myself, suddenly, however absurd this old man might be, there's something very precious about being able to cry that way, at his age, from pure, vague idealism. And it seemed to me sad that at our age, when we are all meant to be awash in that sort of purity, we are instead so very full of post-modernism and disillusionment that we can't. And then I started thinking very abstract thoughts about our parents' generation having commandeered youth. Altogether I felt very tenderly towards that old poet for the next few minutes, until he started crying again five minutes later while remembering some long-ago acid trip.

The whole proceeding was run by an old English man. While the old poet sifted through his papers to find apparently unrelated photographs and sheets full of typeface, an actress read German translations of Whitman poems. After the poet (who read for about two hours) some English guy read several original prose pieces about "his" Paris, rather overlarded with homur and metaphor, but good-natured for all that, even though all his writing seemed to focus on picking up young girls. It was certainly an indulgent crowd -- rapt throughout -- the whole thing was very touching and highly entertaining. Albeit ridiculous.

Anyway, I'm scheduled to do a reading there myself in the next few weeks. Must write something first.

Tuesday was my birthday, and what a lovely day it was! Eloise bought breakfast treats and Guyon brought me the most beautiful bouquet of sweet peas. Jointly they presented me with a hugely extravagent milk assortment from La Maison du Chocolat, and Guyon gave me a bracelet I'd been eyeing for months in the window of a shop in the Seventh. It's the nicest piece of jewelry I own -- a sort of charm bracelet, but rather more elegant than that implies. Delicate and charming and a bit of a conversation piece. I don't normally wear any jewelry at all, but this is destined to become my trademark.

In the evening we went to dinner at au Pied de Cochon and to cocktails at the Ritz's Hemingway Bar. This required dressing up, of course; Eloise wore my pink suit, Guyon his navy and I my black silk party frock. (The one complimented by three French fashion students -- a queen and two scrawny Parisian beauties -- who proclaimed it "tres Jackie O." What better commendation could a girl ask for?) We had champagne, oysters and steak tartare for dinner. The Hemingway Bar was fun, too -- we got to talking with a couple of Texans putting on the dog for their tenth anniversary -- and we finished the evening up at La Palette, our local cafe. What a fete!

Tomorrow I hope to discover more details of the Florette affair, as well as her address.

It was one of those days where I received emails from lots of half-forgotten people, out of the blue. One old admirer, and then a friend of the admirer's whom I've never met, asking me for advice about Chicago. Also a Spanish friend from a long-ago summer program. Extremely gratifying, that.

2004-05-01T10:40:00.000-07:00

Can't write more than a bit now as the IT pass has run out and these precious and few are the result of mucho scrounging...also, v busy hostessing as you must have surmised. We are having a lovely time with Eloise. As it's May 1 things are very festive here in Europe (int'l labor day, you know. Everyone here wears lily of the valley. We have a posy in the studio and there's a pin on my jacket, too.)

I'll stick to the essentials and detail all my adventures later.

The Big News
Florette slapped a small child from the Montessori school last Wednesday and was forcibly ejected by the police; as a result she's been banned from the Cathedral.

This is, obviously, horribly troubling on many counts. I can't get a really good idea of what happened from anyone as they're all bent on vilifying her and don't make allowances for her confusion etc. Obviously this behavior can't be tolerated (nor can some of her other antics; she's apparently been generally very abusive, especially to the choirists), but I don't like the Cathedral washing its hands of her like this. As prophesied, I think I'd better hie over to the 18th and give her a little company.
Quickly...
Back to frivolity: the birthday party is planned. It's to be a dessert party of small things, and we're going to serve punch and kir royales, to be really festive. I'm going to provide two desserts that can be cut up bite-sized, but I haven't yet decided what...

On Tuesday, which is my real birthday, Eloise and I might go to a hammam. I don't want a rub-down or anything, but I'm sure the steam does a body good and the place is apparently very lovely, tranquil and cheap. We may eat out that night, too...I could murder a steak tartare, and I don't see why a 23-year old dilettante shouldn't do exactly that.

This morning E and I went to the marché aux puces. V expensive and/or crummy. I had to be restrained from buying:
Item: A porcelain doll's bust, early 20th C, with fur hair and an American army uniform. Rank: Captain. It's hard to describe, really...perhaps a paperweight, definitely an objet d'art.

Bought:
Four Bic lighters with Nat Geopgraphic-style People of the World on them.

Saw: The Sultan's Treasure at the Luxembourg Puppet Theatre.

Tonight: Torch and the Flame, 1943.

Out of time.

2004-04-28T03:51:00.000-07:00

I'm debating starting another blog -- one rather less personal and more full of tips about books, and odd music, and motels, and recipes, and links. I annexed the site name "the particular" some months ago just to be on the safe side, and it might be a wise idea...

On the other hand, we are entering a period of furious hosting activity. As you know, Eloise arrives in a few short hours (as a result I must needs keep this brief; I want to get some flowers and a nice cake of guest soap before she arrives), and then shortly after she leaves, Guyon's oldest friend Jamie, for two weeks, and then Greg and Ciara (!) and of course those people who want to bring all those strangers and sleep on the floor -- but I don't know if that'll happen. And that, mind you, is to say nothing of my father, Papa, and my brother, Charlie, coming for a week in mid-May! So the timing might not be propitious for a new enterprise.

Last Night's Dinner
As stated, last night G and I dined with three friends in the Marais, in the very apartment where the joint birthday party is to be held (not the one with Eleanor.) They played a good bit of Elvis Costello and prepared a fine meal of tomato and mozzarella salad and roast pork with a gorgonzola cheese sauce. (I suggested they might as well throw in a little shellfish just to make sure it was traife enough.) I had made a cake for dessert, which was very good. I was looking for a sort of plain uniced chocolate cake recipe on Epicurious and liked the looks of one called, with varying degrees of awfulness, both "Mud Cake" and "The World's Easiest Chocolate Cake." It got a four fork review and lots of raves, so I tried it. It didn't seem all that much of a breeze to me, including as it did a good bit of sifting and some pan-buttering pyrotechnics, but all the same not brain surgery and a good result. I only have very French-style baking pans so I baked it in a sort of glass casserole and was pleased at how French it looked. But then when I got there, someone said,
"Is that a huge moelleux?" (That kind with the molten center), which in fact it did resemble in that pan, and everyone was disappointed when I had to say no. What's more, Guyon had eaten a good-sized hole in the cake, which he suggested I fill with a large scoop of ice cream. I said it was a poor idea.

Towards the end of the meal, artfully, Guyon asked if the assembled company would be up for a road trip to Grenoble. Everyone was game and, with the exception of yours truly, able to drive a stick shift.

"Excellent," said Guyon briskly. "We can spend one full day at La Grande Chartreuse (the first Carthusian monastery), and the second day we can hike up the mountain and view the grounds from another angle. There are several texts there I'm interested in seeing."

Everyone looked dismayed, but clearly felt unable to back out. Guyon launched into a spirited discussion of the treats in store -- I believe Bernard of Clairvaux was mentioned.

We also finalized the plans for the party -- or at any rate, made a date for Thursday to finalize the plans. It was decided that the dinner portion would take place, somewhat crummily, at Chartier. Leading me to wonder if we shouldn't go to Entrecote tonight to avoid overkill...
I know just what I'm going to give my co-hostess as a gift:a little
box made of a polished chestnut with a hinged top, and some marrons glaces from a very old confectioner in the neighborhood.

"Voila la question," I said gravely at one point. "When we see each other Stateside, are we still going to give les bises, and look affected?"

The answer was a resounding yes. The general sentiment was that it would function as a sort of Masonic handshake -- a sign that These Youngsters Have Lived in Paris!

2004-04-27T03:27:00.000-07:00

I think I forgot to mention yesterday that there is a second party in the works: a joint birthday party for me and Eleanor! It is also my goodbye party, and is being given by one of the other church volunteers, one Susan. It won't be a big party (I think it'll be a luncheon) but should be nice, somewhere between my 23rd and her 81st. People are really very kind, aren't they?

Re: my birthday, since I had been very vocal about wanting a lot of candy as a gift, Guyon said he was going to go to that artisanal shop near Blanche (you remember: I got his Valentine gift there) and get me an assortment of the best in the land. I said this was too expensive and in any case, not what I had meant. What I had in mind was an absolutely immense box -- such as showgirls get from admirers in old movies, I mean -- really vulgar and sort of awful. And in any case I was only joking. Kind of. One must admit that there is a certain appeal to an enormous box of chocolate. I have been analyzing it and I really do think that, in addition to the obvious gluttonous pleasure of the thing, there's the fun of being able to share. A group of friends and an immense box of chocolate is a very lovely combination. Very nearly perfect, in fact. And more share-able than anything I can think of.

I have always found the selfishness of birthday parties a little bit embarrassing, and even more so when someone else is hosting it for you. I love planning parties for other people, but I hate making people show up at a place purely for the dubious pleasure of seeing me, and worst of all is having to open presents! Which is why, I think, sharing chocolate is so nice. Last year I made my own cake, and that was all right, too, because we all ate it together and I didn't have the guilt of knowing someone else had slaved or spent money over it, and what's more I got to try a very elaborate recipe for an apricot bavarian cream, from Mastering the Art of French Cooking. I'm glad these parties will be joint, at least.

Eloise is on the Move
She arrives here tomorrow afternoon. We have planned dinner at Chartier, as it's cheap, Parisian, atmospheric and festive. Thursday, of course, she'll meet Eleanor and Florette. And then we have all sorts of outings and day trips planned. Eloise is an ideal guest in my book for the following reasons:

She's low-maintenance. Self-sufficient (you can leave her on her own with no worries) and doesn't cart around all kinds of hair dryers.

Is not a cheapskate (she'll splurge for a good meal and cabfare) but also appreciates small local places, doing nothing and hanging around in cafes with books.

She enjoys high and low culture, oddity and the honor of being allowed to meet Eleanor and Florette.

Most important, especially in France, she eats anything and everything. And knows how to cook.

I'm sure there's more, but these are just a few reasons why we are anticipating her visit woth great excitement.

I'm sorry this isn't such a great post, but I'm preoccupied with practicalities like cleaning and making a dessert to bring to some friends' house for dinner. Also, I'm feeling very happy which isn't in itself very interesting...

2004-04-26T02:44:00.000-07:00

I've found a place I'd like to work. It's called Persephone Publishing and "publishes forgotten fiction and non-fiction by unjustly neglected authors." It published, in fact, Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day as well as, the back cover tells me, Good Things in England (1932), by Florence White, and Few Eggs and No Oranges: the Diaries of Vere Hodgson, 1940-45. It's based on Lamb's Conduit Street and is, in short, the place in all the world where I would most like to work. I have determined that, once I've gone through the ordeal of this course, I shall write a letter detailing my qualifications and expressing my passionate interest in the enterprise. I already have a lot of plans for them, especially for a line of audio books. Perhaps you are aware that making homeade audio books of worthy texts like A Thousand Ways to Please a Husband is a pet hobby of mine? Unfortunately the absurdity of my own speaking voice has always posed a problem in this regard, but if one had the means to hire lovely, melodious timbres for the purpose....well, just imagine it! Anyway, I think I'll write to them/

Re: the course, you'll be pleased to know that, with Guyon's considerable help, I "crafted" a rather snappy little bio. I can't claim to have worked on a mennonite farm or whatever it is that other girl did, but I do in fact have a certain degree of expertise with antique linens. At one point I was in despair; Guyon came home from the Highlander to find me lying on the couch in the dark with a camisole over my eyes and a bag of prunes hanging limply from my hand, a leaden, 250-word biography on the computer screen. He set to and pared it down and snapped it up very ably. Once I'd recovered my wits and managed to refine it a tick, we were really cooking with gas. I struggled particularly with the first line, the spectres of those infernal examples ("Helen grew up speaking Kentish on a dairy farm"; "Nancy is never content with stasis" etc.) taunting me. Guyon, brilliantly, solved the problem with the simple-but-elegant, "A native New Yorker, Sadie..." The rest, as they say, is history of the most electrifying kind.

The Mini Break
So, we went south for the weekend. A certain fashion photographer had spoken to us highly of Montpellier, which for some reason we took as sufficient reccomendation. We quickly saw that it could not be borne for the whole three days and set about renting a dainty Renault Clio for a spot of Provencal motoring, keeping Montpellier as a home base. The hotel, very cheap, was like most very cheap hostels, but had some old fashioned elements -- those huge, shuttered windows, steam radiators, molded ceilings -- that made it sort of appealing. I often wish these places had kept things shabby and old-fashioned rather than modernizing in such a crummy way. (I also wish the desk clerk hadn't been blasting Rage Against the Machine all the time, but that's another matter.) This hints at bed bugs, I know, but having just been inflamed by an electrifying account of bohemian travel, I can't bring myself to care...there's certainly no glamor to contemporary hostel travel!

It was terrific to be in the country, and seemed almost unbelievably exciting to see flamingos and wild poppies, landscapes rendered pastel as far as the eye could see by lavendar fields, wild ponies...we drove (well, Guyon did) up into the mountains and saw countless medieval villages perched atop cliffs, and gorgeous green gorges accessed by terrifying mountain roads. Stopped into Arles and Avignon, ate morue and lots of vegetables, and ice cream flavored with lavendar and lemon verbena, and pastis and local wines. Friday we visited a Cistercian monastery surrounded by fields of herbs. Then, Saturday, we packed bread and cheese and hard salami and fruit and climbed up a sheer cliff face to a little cave with a tremedous view of the landscape.

Unfortunately the radio was very poor, so when we were in Avignon I bought a copy of Sonic Youth's Sister, which as you know I'd been coveting anyway. So then we listened to that endlessly, which took care of much of the pain, at least, of breaking in a new album, and made this one very much the soundtrack of our little vacation.

Tofu
Gosh! If you can believe it, I am contemplating going to Chinatown to find a piece of firm tofu for our dinner! It seems to me a very good idea, and it's high time I learned to prepare tofu anyhow. Guyon won't be thrilled about it, but I think perhaps he will thank me in the end, and in fact he's a very good eater. I'm the one who may balk. In fact, I have. It's fish and lentil salad after all!

Incidentally, Guyon is planning a wonderful new walk in England for September. David might go for part of it and also our English friend John. I do think these walks are a very good thing: good for the soul, better for the waistline, as my old employer Maria used to say! (Not to suggest that any of these young sprigs needs work in that regard...)

2004-04-21T10:33:00.000-07:00

Last Night
So: last night, in the midst of revising one of my brother's papers, got a call from friend Sam who said he and a bunch of other people were at a bar right across the street so we had to go, too. As we all know, I resent any demands made on my time, but it really was too close to home to contemplate refusing, so off we went. There were a bunch of people there and a spirited discussion of films began, culminating, inevitably, in an argument about Bowling for Columbine, which is what always happens.
"Well, I feel on the defensive as the only gun owner here," protested Guyon at one point. But then about three other guys turned out to have guns, too, including, oddly, this French guy called Pierre. So then they all just discussed guns.

I hobnobbed with the girls. One of them -- the one I cheered up last Wednesday by expounding on postmodernism, in fact -- had fainted and smashed her head open a few nights before, so we discussed this. I brought up the subject of tarring and feathering and attempted to start a serious discussion on its origins. One girl suggested that perhaps teh changing of color -- from black to white -- had some racial significance.
"But that's probably really stupid," she said.
"Many a doctoral thesis has been written on less," I said in an ambiguous fashion.

Then Sam's girlfriend Jenny and I talked about our planned birthday party. She turns 24, you see, the day before I turn 23. The proposed scheme is to have a festive dinner somewhere decent and jolly (invitation only, needless to say) and then repair to her house for a party-party. I am to go to her house and get an idea of the space before we start planning seriously. Have resolved not to be bossy;also to wear the new dress and perhaps buy myself an orchid corsage. The party is set for May 8th. Await reports.

The Ordeal
I am required, horror of horrors, to submit a head shot and a 100-word bio to the publishing course for a look book. I had hoped I could get away with something terse and uncommunicative but it was not to be; says the brochure, "this is one of the most important pieces of writing you will craft this summer. Student biographies are circulated to guest speakers and to prospective employers. Your biograhical paragraph must be an articulate, direct and winning statement."

Here is an example:

"Judy grew up speaking Frisian on her immigrant parents' Oregon dairy. She majored in Spanish and English at a University. While there, she worked at a used bookstore, edited the literary magazine, published her thesis on Faulkner, and graduated Phi Beta Kappa. Her Spanish was perfected during a semester spent in Seville. In Kawagoe, she taught English and learned Japanese. She then worked at Western Mennonite School, where she tutored international students in English. Currently Judy is recording an oral history of her parents' childhood in occupied Holland. She hopes to combine her love of reading books with her knowledge of selling books in a career in publishing."

Reader, you can imagine my feelings, I think. Quite frankly, I'd rather die die die than submit to this form of torture. The notes instruct us, among other things, to "indicate the candidate's interest in publishing," "provide an opener for conversation in an interview," "contain at least one memorable detail to distinguish you from others,", not be "cute, overly clever, gimmicky or annoying", "not offer adjectives in praise of self," and "convey modesty yet confidence and competence." And, oh yeah -- no "Publishing is an exciting, fast-paced business which matches John's love of life in the fast lane." Check that, at least.

Here's what I've "crafted": "For the past year Sadie has worked as an unpaid desk clerk at the American Cathedral."

It can stand improvement, I know (I'm sure my dad's tearing his hair), but at least combines the virtues of, I flatter myself, modesty, confidence and competence.

The photograph was not the ordeal it might have been; I was careful to put on some makeup this morning and wear a flattering collar and the resulting photo booth shot is, I fancy, rather pleasingly winsome. As we all know from Terms of Endearment, "gorgeous isn't everything" (directed at the really ugly little girl whose beauty everyone's always talking about), so I'll have to shape up at the fairly good rate of MPH.

Eloise

Eloise is on the move, Azlan-style. Or almost, anyway. She writes:

Oh dear, the date of my departure is fast approaching, and I haven't really made
any of the necessary preparations; I had meant to take out some French refresher
tapes from the library or something like that, as I've forgotten the little I
once knew, and what's worse, now instinctively roll my r's due to the pernicious
influence of Arabic, but at this rate looks like I will be stuck thumbing
through "Arsene Lupin: Gentleman-Cambrioleur" a book I found at a thrift store
concerned with the doings of a dashing burglar. I think it was designed to
interest boys in learning French, and seems to have once been the property of
one "Winkie".

Weekend
We are going to the south of France for the weekend, starting tomorrow, so don't hold your breath, blog-wise. Guyon has made like D.H; Lawrence and arranged everything, so I can't provide an itinerary nor would I wish to...suffice it to say that there'll be a lot of reading done and with any chance a pain bagnat or deux, too...

Ciao!

2004-04-20T02:40:00.000-07:00

I'm very excited as a much-anticipated new (to me; actually written in 1938) read has arrived in the mail: Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day. Hopes are high; stay posted for their probable deflation. After all, treasures like that Joe Carstairs book don't come along every day.

The Schemes
I have two projects in mind for when I get home. The first is the painting of a mural on the fake-wood panelling of my brother's bedroom (pending his consent.) I want to do a Horatio Alger motif, although it's open to discussion. Second, I want to explore the mechanics of tarring and feathering in a big way. I'm thinking a tennis ball will do as a guinea pig -- nothing animate, you understand -- or maybe a pine cone or a stick. I don't know just how to go about getting the tar, but I can get a bag of multicolored feathers from a craft shop. Await reports.

Big Disappointment
The other day Guyon and I bought a can of spaghetti. I had pretty high hopes for it, and we thought that if it proved as a delicious as the picture promised, we would try some of the other canned meals in the line: boeuf bourguignon; rabbit; lamb and white beans; cassoulet. Each can costs about eighty cents American, so it seemed to me we were embarking on a voyage of unprecedentedly frugal living, as well as gustatory delight.

You see, ever since Marie Callendar's pulled their delicious spaghetti and meat sauce TV dinner, Guyon and I, bereft, have been trying to find approximations. The can looked promising.

Unfortunately it was the worst thing I've ever tasted. It'd be hard to describe what made it so horrible, and as I didn't take a second bite and spit out the first, I'm afraid its exact analysis will have to be left to another palate. It was somehow both acrid and sour; impossibly sweet and unbearably salty; there were definitely elements of pure beef fat, but somehow diluted yet heightened and overlaid with liquid smoke. In short, inedible. I know you will share my keen disappointment in this, and will be equally eager to hear about the results of the can of French corned beef hash I bought this morning.

Beaver
"There were beards at Garsington, beards in Letchworth Garden City, beards in Fitzroy Tavern, such an outbreak indeed that the sport of beard-spotting became a popular craze. It was called "Beaver" and it went on for years. Two people walking down the street competed to collect points. The first to spot a beard cried "Beaver!" and scored, but but you got extra points for white ones, and there were bonuses for rare and unusual varieties of beard such as forked ones or very long ones. But the objects of this ridicule banded together and formed the Secret Society of Beavers, who solemnly swore never to appear barefaced and to wreak vengeance upon anyone who mocked beards. Their heroes were George V and George Bernard Shaw."

I like games like this. My brother Charlie and I play a game which gives us a lot of pleasure. It is called The Ordering Game and arose chiefly from the irritation of eating out with my parents. I hate hate hate inefficient ordering. It makes me squirm to be at a table with a friend who only picks up the menu when the waiter arrives, or changes his mind midstream, or asks about a hundred questions or generally wastes a waiter's time. I make it a point to have my order decided, two or three backups in place and any special requests pre-worded in my head before the server approaches. Maybe part of it comes from having waited tables, but in fact I think it predates that. My parents are particularly egregious in this regard. My mother will mutter and chuckle and banter and change her order three times in as many minutes; my father will have twenty irritating demands that he calls after the waiter as he leaves -- dry toast, tomato on the side, half a cup of coffee.

Charlie and I began playing the game on breakfast dates with the folks, and indeed, the Ordering Game is best suited to breakfast given the number of variables involved in the simplest order. The object is to order succinctly and clearly with every part of your order accounted for.
For instance:
"Two poached eggs on buttered rye toast, please, home fries, bacon, orange juice and a hot chocolate with whipped cream."

Sounds simple, but oh, the pitfalls! Forgetting that juice is included in the menu (and that there's a choice of grapefruit or orange); forgetting to specify the kind of toast (a common beginner's error), or stating explicitly that you want whipped cream! Even if you don't want bacon or sausage it is wise to say so, explicitly. You see, points are deducted for every clarification the waiter or waitress has to ask for. By the same token, points are given for the complexity of the order: customized omelets (I always ask for American cheese in my Western, for instance) or special requests, if delivered fluently and clearly, can only help. Charlie, being a finicky eater, has been known to request absurdities like cooked sliced tomatoes on the side of his grilled cheese. Ordering side orders instead of full to save money can also be problematic.

At first we liked to play it with people who didn't know they were being graded. But we soon realzed that it's much better if everyone's in on it and the tension's running high come ordering-time. Further, one cannot laugh and smirk, lest the server think you are making fun of him -- this is important. If you have a partially deaf waitress, or someone who's easily confused, well, that's just the luck of thedraw. Doing it in a foreign language is especially challenging.

Please Follow Up...
David found this in the NPR archives and if you haven't heard it, please please do check it out. You won't be sorry.

http://www.yiddishradioproject.org/exhibits/packer/

The first link on the left, entitled "NPR DOCUMENTARY" is a good
introduction.

You're looking for Victor Packer.

2004-04-19T02:27:00.000-07:00

Note: space bar not working, so have patience. The access academy is under renovation; very limited selection of computers.

"You look like an artist!" a middle-aged woman said to me, baldly, on the street today. I acknowledged the justice of the claim (I look particularly disheveled and have a silk scarf on my head as I write), and assumed a vaguely sullen expression which I hoped would enhancethe impression.
"Yes," I shrugged.
"And you're American," she said, "Let me guess: you're painting here in a garret!"
"Well, I'm not confining myself to one medium," I said. "I'm working on the idea of sound and motion expressed through Eastern philosophy," (a claim I actually heard the other day from an artist/ yoga instructor acquaintance.)
She looked properly impressed.
"Keep up the good work," she said in a conspiratorial fashion, and wandered away.

The Constant Nymph
So, guess what? I was reading Among the Bohemians, and what should I run across but a long discourse on that quintessentially bohemian novel, Margaret Kennedy's The Constant Nymph! And what book should I have just picked up at a junk shop, and placed at the very top of my TBR pile, but that very title! Not even knowing, mind you, that it contained a thinly-disguised portrait of the artistAugustus John!

I should explain here that, once every year or so, when I have no very pressing demands on my time, I will select an old paperback at random and then proceed to track down and read every title that's listed on its backleaf, that the puiblisher was promoting at a given time. It's usually a mix of known titles and real flash-in-the-pans, and as such finding the titles can be a challenge. But I always end up reading something strange or worthwhile or good. I'd already determined to do this with the Tauchnitz Edition, May 1930 titles listed on the back of The Constant Nymph. These include some things I've read (Lolly Willowes by Sylvia Townsend Warner; Portrait of the Artist; Farewell to Arms), some things I've heard of (The Man Within, some Liam O'Flaherty) and,predominantly, tricky finds like Murder at the Nook, Tarka the Otter and Hunky. I'm excited about it.

The Vigil
Guyon didn't feel well this weekend, and was so uncomfortable Saturday night that I had to sing for him. Started predictably enough with the Pastels and then ran through the gay '90s, 20's, 30's, 40's, 50's and a good bit of the Guns and Roses canon. He fell asleep during a rather poorly-considered rendition of "Welcome to the Jungle." At one point wanted to sing himself. I forstalled this, as Guyon has a tendency to want to sing 69 Love Songs, unabridged, and can generally only be dissuaded by requests from Camelot, which he does very nicely.

The Things They Bought
Guyon bought the Godfather trilogy the other day. We watched it, ate spaghetti and meatballs.

At Virgin, he also bought some Ramones albums. I have a long list of CDs I want to buy (Teenage Fanclub, Elvis in Memphis and a certain Sonic Youth album head the list), but I'm not in a position to right now, so that record shopping is very hard, very hard indeed. I'd also like a good recording of The Magic Flute, and think I'll ask for one for my birthday. You wonder waht else I would like? Well, I'll tell you. A good chef's knife, not too expensive. Several specific career romances, most particularly The Girl on the Bookmobile. A charm bracelet I have seen here in Paris. Some candy. As you can see, my wants are few and simple. Please don't think I'm hinting, either, as chances are I will save up for and buy most of these items for myself anyway, and gifts make me a little cross anyway.

Oh, a head's up: I'm starting a fashion in dowdy moccasins for summer 2004, so stock up! I reccomend Minnetonka traditionals,with the particularly dowdy deck sole. My pair will be red.

I expressed last night my intention of forming a circle of fascinating old people in New York next year and associating with them, exclusively. This went over like the proverbial lead balloon so I can see my activities will have to be clandestine.

2004-04-15T02:29:00.000-07:00

So: due to aggressive campaign of preemptive telephoning, discovered that I got into that publishing program. I think you know, and I know, that there's only onw question that needs asking (okay, besides whether I'm going to give up the idea of writing and pursue a career that doesn't interest me, I mean): what to wear on the first day of classes. I have my best men working on it. I'll keep you posted. Also, I'm going to need some kind of summer bookbag/ totebag; a wrinkle that'll really put the gray matter on its mettle.

All this means I'll probably be home in time for the fifth year hs reunion, a harder problem entirely. Since my best men are otherwise engaged, I'll have to tackle this one on my own, and have accordingly started a pro and con list, that most scientific of determinations.

Went out yesterday with a chum who was feeling blue. I was just the ticket: fed her a little home-brew in the form of a few of my pet theories re: the post-modern condition and generational sacrifice (as well as a few passionately-expressed opinions on cookbooks and Jim Jarmusch.) It distracted her, at any rate. I ended up cross with myself, though, because I'd decided not to eat sweets or rubbish for two weeks (with the reunion in mind, you know) and then ate part of her cake PLUS a few French fries with my steak tartare PLUS a little chocolate egg and three jelly beans when my Easter basket arrived in the mail.

Nothing more tiresome than some sort of diet journal, but I write about food so much it seems in keeping. Sorry so Runyon-esque today. Must be the goat yogurt I ate for p.d.

2004-04-13T02:01:00.000-07:00

I'm very on edge today and tomorrow, so I'm thinking of having a run in the Luxembourg Gardens. Bourgeois, sure -- but coffee and cigarettes don't get the job done, sometimes. This run will necessitate the purchase of some running shoes, so I'm going to head to Go Sports shortly and see what I can find. I'd much leifer buy some cool non-functional trainers (i.e. Le Coq Sportif or similar), but that's not what we're put on Earth for, is it?

Re: Sports, went to see Guyon and David's football team, The Highlander, play at Chateau de Vincennes yesterday. The team, being affiliated with the eponymous Scottish pub, is largely anglophone (lots of talk of "fookin lassies" etc.); they were playing a team called the Latinos composed jointly of a Spanish bar and a Mexican restaurant. The game was fun (Highlander won, 2-1) and the weather was lovely. Not least, I finally got to clap eyes on one Pierre, a guy from the team from Guyon and David dislike enough that for some reason they downloaded his picture from the internet. (Well, actually, I understand that perfectly.) They've always said that "if I meet him I'll understand," so I was understandably eager to. I found him a bit of a letdown. "Manifestly a first-class donkey" as one of Thomas Mann's translators would have it, but perfectly harmless, where I was hoping for real villainy.

Sunday night did the Pub Quiz at the Highlander. Tied for third, to everyone's chagrin.

I'm reading a good book called Among The Bohemians: Experiments in Living 1900-1939. Reccomended.

There's some discussion of going to the Shins show in a couple of days, but I din't know, I don't know...I'm too nervous to think about frippery like that.

2004-04-11T07:49:00.000-07:00

And Another Thing
First of all, saw that Jim Jarmusch film Coffee and Cigarettes and it sucks. I meant to tell you that earlier. Theatre was full, though, so I got to lounge in the aisles, which I always enjoy. Don't get me wrong: I'd see it, if I were you; you're merely forbidden to like it very much.

Also: while I was at the Cathedral Fri the secretary, Jeanette, came up to me and started talking about how incompetent this new American priest, Father Gerard, is.
"The questions he asks!" she expostulated. "He's a fool! An idiot! He doesn't speak a word of French, and at his age, this is not so easy! He must be sixty if he's a day. I told him," she continued, "that you can act as his assistant. Since you know French, I mean. You can help him with whatever he needs -- which is everything. I doubt he'll pay you," she added blithely.

I tried to tactfully express disapprobation of the scheme.
"I won't be here very long," I said.
"Oh, that's all right," she replied. "You can do it for as long as you are. He'll call you." She walked away.

Fantastic. I'm not saying I won't do it -- I will, of course -- but I do call that a bit thick.

30 Million d'Amis Redux
So, a French friend told us last night that 30 Milliion d'Amis is really a stupid name, as there as more like 90 million d'Amis en France. I said that "Quatre-vingt dix million d'amis" didn't have the same ring to it.

"But think of the number of animals," he said. "Cats, birds, turtles, rabbits, mice..."
"And dogs!" cried Guyon. "...dogs, for God's sake!"

2004-04-11T07:13:00.000-07:00

Joyeuses Paques, my dears.

G and I had some French adults over to dinner last night. I made the moroccan lamb and beef stew with dried fruit in it, over couscous. Also, vanilla ice cream w/ homemade butterscotch sauce and praline pieces. I don't cotton much to vanilla ice cream, but it was fair.

The stew, although a success, brought back uncomfortable memories of the last time I cooked it. We had five or so friends over, including one guy who, like Guyon, is a Medievalist studying monasticism, and who, like Guyon, is going to Oxford next year. To make matters worse, he looks a lot like Guyon, a fact the latter refuses to acknowledge. Guyon despises him. To such an extent that he finds it nearly impossible to be civil to him, not least because this other guy, Jim, is often involved in frat-boyish antics like destroying property and putting his hands through windows in drunken rages. He's also, like, thirty-two. Anyway, he was over (I think someone else invited him) and Guyon was in a
rge about it, and it was all very awkward. At one point I put on The Queen is Dead and Jim started singing along very soulfully. Guyon, who despises the Smiths anyway, watched him in sour silence for a few moments, then leapt from his chair and abruptly switched off the stereo.
"Quite enough of that, I think," he said briskly.
A very unpleasant evening.

But last night was pleasant. Also watched Scarface, as to my mind, twenty million rappers can't be wrong. They aren't. G and I stayed up very late deciding whether or not to go to Scotland this year and the likelihood, in such an event, of running into Stephen Pastel in Glasgow. Also, preceisely where to stalk him. Then
we debated which of us would approach him, what we would say and who would pose for a picture with him. This took several hours.

Easter
Went to church at the Cathedral. I wore my pink, Jackie O.-style suit. Guyon wore some kind of suit, too, and a blue tie. Rather irreverant sermon involving off-color jokes and a story about a retarded boy. I teared up (of course) , but Guyon just muttered,
"I find these stories very tiresome. Extremely tiresome. I hate Americans."

Later he was overheard to say, mysteriously,
"I'll tell you: I'm the only one who knows how to conduct himself on the Holy Days."

As usual, he pronounced the service "half-assed" and expressed hope that they'd adhere to a higher standard at chapel services next year. I said I was sure he and Jim would enjoy it.

I sought out Florette, and regretted it.
"Happy Easter, Madame," I said pleasantly.
"Mais, non," she said sourly. "It's not. That man said he'd call me a taxi and then I saw him talking and drinking. Go see to it!"

I did -- who could resist such a charming plea? -- and then took my leave of her. Upon leaving the church, G and I promptly spied a girl from University of Chicago -- that one Juliana, with the wildly curly blonde hair, who went to Miss Porter's and was his Bio lab partner Sophomore year and in my "Gender and Sexuality in the Middle Ages" class and my "Renaissance Art of the Book" seminar -- marching down Georges V in a houndstooth coat. She didn't recognize us, though, and so nothing came of it.

Gala spaghetti dinner in the offing for this evening. Many luminaries attending; not least David.

2004-04-11T07:12:00.000-07:00

Sadie,
This comes from a reading I had for my sports journalism class, 'Canoeing to
Long Lake: How two young girls spend a vacation in Old York State', by Edith J.
Tuttle, 1926.

>From one sister to the other, upon catching a fish:
"Well done old kid! This sure is the life, and we'll have bass and bacon for
breakfast! Gee! I guess we're some fishermen!"

-Charlie

p.s. I think you should start listening to more Talking Heads. I may send you
some.

2004-04-09T01:50:00.000-07:00

First of all
First of all, I'm a little preoccupied, waiting for the results of my grandpa's bypass surgery.

The Cathedral
Things at the Catherdal yesterday were, as Guyon characterizes it, "explosive."
When I arrived, Eleanor was there with a couple who turned out to be emeritus profs from the University of Chicago, which was, in fact, not explosive at all, but they did give me their contact info. and I may dine with them when I make it down Chicago-way this summer.
"What's a girl with a name like yours doing working in a church?" asked the fellow, whose name, incidentally, was Wulfgang Epstein.
"Oh, I like to play the field," I said flippantly. Honestly, I'm getting a little too fresh for my own good.

Then things got explosive. The secretary, the canon, the dean and this young pastortal assistant I don't much care for came charging out.
"Call a taxi! Call a taxi!" they said. "Florette is out of control!"
I demanded an explanation.
"She's getting violent and wild," said the secretary.
"She's hitting people with her cane and insulting everyone who cames by," said the dean.
"I told her if she starts this again, we're calling the police," said the canon.
"Oh, I called them already," said the secretary.

"Maybe if we talk to her..." I started.
"I don't want anything to do with her," muttered the pastoral assistant bitchily.

Summarily, Florette was brought out to await the taxi. She was shaking with rage and mortification.

"They attacked me! They all came out and attacked me!" she kept saying over and over. "The dean was there! The dean! And that secretary: she spanked herself at me! Spanked herself!"

"She spanked herself?" I asked carefully. I'd heard just the opposite.

"Yes! And then they called the police...because they wanted them!"
"Wanted what?" I asked.
"My things, of course! My sweets!"

I pacified her as best I could, distracted her with a Coke, and helped ehr to her cab with utmost solicitude. She was weeping and clinging to my hand as I put her into the taxi, and bade me promise to talk to her in church on Sunday.

I asked the secretary if she didn't think a little kindness and respect would do the trick. I said she had never insulted or assaulted me; and wasn't calling the police rather excessive?

"She's mad," said Jeanette definitely. "She's very very ill; there's no dealing with her. I think we're going to start barring her from the building."

My heart sank rather selfishly, as I knew that this would mean I'd feel compelled to visit her at home -- not a pleasant prospect. On the other hand, if she's insulting people seeking treatment at AA meetings; or the little children from the Montessori school, I suppose that is problematic. I plan to speak to the dean about it today, as he's very kind and his son goes to the U of C. (A bit of a PK, apparently. I'm having a drink with him next week so I'll let you know then.

Yesterday also saw the language exchange, which is one of my favorite groupings. David and I, as stated previously, attended one such meeting and were the youngest by a good forty years, as well as being at the mercy of that absurd anti-semite in the ascot. It's a very odd crowd, for the most part very jolly. My favorite is a little elderly lady called Françoise, who is always charmingly turned out and looks like a little doll.
"You know," she said to me yesterday," that gentleman (she indicated the Romanian gentleman with the peculiar eyebrows and the trilby hat) and I were just saying how much nicer it is to have a charming young girl like you here than that awful fat woman." I didn't know whether to thank her or defend Eleanor. I could well believe that, since I don't bark at people and demand their papers, I might be considered an improvement.
"Thank you," I said. "She really isn't so bad, though...her bark is worse than her bite."
"She is like a fat bear," said the lady vehemently, and made a growling, bear-like sound.

Well, as we all know, French people care a good deal about weight. Eleanor would be the first to tell you, though, that she is not naturally overweight. A few years ago a schizophrenic punched her in the face and the emergency cortisone shot she received caused her to blow up "like a balloon." Then, as she was on the mend, Givenchy's car hit her. Givenchy leapt out, very apologetic, and offered her a silk scarf in recompense. But in short, she hasn't really gotten back on her feet.

Speaking of weight, when I was babysitting the other night I copied down a healthy-eating plan the family had up on the refrigerator, clipped from a magazine. It seemed to me eminently sensible, including as it did small luxuries like butter on toast and cheese after meals. There was also advice for slimming children. "How can you expect a child used to twelve bonbons a night to suddenly switch to none?" the article demanded. "That would be like expecting you to go without wine at dinnertime!"

I certainly hope they're not trying to slim the little boys, who are very slender already. A friend who also babysits a French family says the mother is obsessed with the little girl's weight and makes her go to gym classes constantly, although she's not plump at all.

After the ordeal of getting the boys into bed, I spent a pleasant evening reading cookbooks (I copied down some very attractive recipes, for a boudin noir "tarte tatin" and eggs baked in brioche cups, among others. Doing metric-to-Imperial conversion is one of my preferred pasttimes). I also skimmed through a fashion periocial brimful of euphoria about the fifties revival. I am of two minds about this. Of course I like having pretty things in the shops, but I also feel, perversely, that it's stepping on Eloise's toes, and to a lesser degree, my own.

Eloise, oldest and goldest of friends, had single-handedly maintained standards of elegance and grooming for the past five years or so. Suits, scarves, gloves -- she did it all, and was famous for it. Now that every jill on the street is making like Jackie O, it seems to diminish the integrity of Eloise's accomplishment. As for me, while I'm pretty shlumpy 8/10ths, I think you know, and I know, that I can put on the Ritz like nobody's business come benefit-time. What's more, I always had every intention of going straight Best of Everything as soon as I made the leap to career girl. What's the point now?

Speaking of Eloise, she's going to be here for my birthday. Great things are planned. A New York chum called Ike has been planning a visit, too, although I'm harboring grave doubts, as Guyon hates him sight unseen and always refers to him scathingly as "that bisexual drug-dealer" -- two things one can't, in all fairness, hold against any hipster. Ike is an odd combination of extreme dissipation and most un-hipsterish enthusiasm. I am very fond of him, but anticipate unpleasantness of a Guyonish variety.

Just heard from another friend who blithely reported she was bringing three others I don't know and could she stay on our floor. I want to say no, but that's unsporting; the challenge, again, will be talking Guyon around to it.
"Who knew, when I was a boy," he said recently, "that my being a jerk would turn out to be so hip?"

It's true; the primary advantage to hanging out with hipsters is the fact that one can say anything -- anything absurd, I mean -- and it's treated with respect.

"There's a lot to be said for sliding doors, and their derivatives. Especially their derivatives." I said thoughtfully the other day. My companion nodded seriously.
"You can really do anything with that," she said.
"Or nothing." I said. We subsided into silence.

2004-04-07T04:36:00.000-07:00

The Cathedral

The Cathedral was lousy. I got there and Eleanor was sitting in the office with some crony in a sweatsuit.

"There!" cried Eleanor when I walked in. "Doesn't she have lovely hair? Didn't I tell you? What they call 'coarse' hair (mine is very fine, you know), but such a lot of it! Rather like yours, just as I told you!"

Her friend looked unimpressed.

"It's a little like mine," she said, "but of course mine has a more golden color. And I don't have a permanent, Eleanor."

"I don't have a perm!" I expostulated. This was going too far. 'Coarse' is one thing (although in fact my hair has a perfectly normal, silky texture), but permed! I've suffered through too many years of curly hair to permit that sort of slander. Less from someone sporting what resembled a pile of bleached straw adorned with three butterfly clips and a denim scrunchie. Uncharitable, but there you have it.

"Oh, yes, you do have beautiful hair," Eleanor gushed to her friend, ignoring my objection.

"I have no complaints," said the other complacently, stroking the pile of straw. Then they left.

This being Holy Week, the joint was jumping. I was busy the whole time (one hour was devoted to dealing with a very aggressive Italian man intent on bothering me; I have his card) and hardly got any work done, although I managed a quite creditable limerick about four-thirty.

Re: Easter
I have been preparing the Easter baskets. In Paris, this could be potentially rewarding, but I must confess that Guyon is a singularly uninspiring muse, as he's indifferent to sweets. Paris is full of wonderful chocolateries, both artisanal and chic, and I've seen every imaginable creature rendered in chocolate, in my wanderings. Since I shan't have a basket this year, I bought myself a chocolate squirrel, to be presented on Easter Sunday. One window portrayed both a chocolate lobster and clam; would that I had a Kosher friend here!

The best basket I ever prepared, of course, was in Prague. Well, I presented it to Guyon in Vienna, but it owed its glory to the small willow switch I bought in the Czech Republic. In Bohemia, you must understand, it's the custom to whip women soundly on Easter Sunday with a woven willow switch, to ensure beauty and fertility. This practice has become rather controversial, due to the shocking domestic violence statistics in that country and the lax laws pertaining thereto. The switches range in size from about six inches to four feet. I purchased a junior model and slipped it into the basket. I fear it wasn't very durable, and unraveled after only a few flicks. But I think I'm guaranteed at least one baby, and perhaps many years of 'coarse', not-golden hair, as a result of my beating.

The Vespa
Guyon and I have been flirting aggressively with the notion of getting a Vespa for the past few months, and now that the weather's Spring-ing, the need is becoming very acute. The plan was to buy one new and then sell it off in a few months at very little loss. I was sort of sceptical of the plan (not least because it was suggested by Max Green, who pursued an identical course while living in Paris), as it seemed to me to presuppose no damaging accidents -- only a slim possibility, from what I've seen. We visited a few Vespas and, while the matter is still under discussion, think we might instead rent one. I also think, as I like riding them so much, that I'm going to get one in New York as soon as I can. Very dashing. Pity about the helmets, though.

Speed-Check
So, I just heard on Radio 4 about this "scheme" in England in which various control freak members of the public are given speed radars and monitor and report speeding infractions in their own neighborhoods. Unsurprisingly, it's been a wild success; the volunteers are extremely zealous and largely elderly.

I'm babysitting the boys tonight rather than this afternoon.
Movie
We saw this movie "Immortel" because a French colleague of G's reccomended it. It's based on a popular bande dessinée, which, for those of you who don't know, are a Big Deal in France. I can't tell whether SciFi is bad or not, so I'm always unwilling to pass judgment. I suspect this was terrible, though. Guyon confirmed this, and also pronounced it derivative. I'll have to take his word on that; I haven't seen many movies involving the future, and eugenics and aliens and ancient Egyptian gods. But I don't care for Science Fiction. Neither does David.

Vegetables
I've been trying to ply Guyon with lots of vegetables lately. It's rather a pain as I only have two burners and so something's always cold by the time we eat. Last night we had (in addition to pork tenderloin, I mean) mashed turnips, braised red cabbage, roasted onions and fresh spinach. The turnips were tepid.

The night before that we has devilled eggs, asparagus and sliced tomatoes.

Tonight (since I'm sitting) we're having ginger chicken, rice and snowpeas (okay, so much for the vegetable thing.)

Thursday, we're having fish, stuffed zucchini and baked tomatoes.

Friday's up in the air, but it's between stuffed peppers and those Moroccan-style spicy meatballs in tomato sauce, over couscous.

I try to plan all the week's meals out in advance, but I am not rigid; the egg dinner arose from a visit to the organic market. I also made a good batch of cauliflower soup for my own lunches, and then Friday I'll make hot crossed buns. How fascinating. How wonderful and how bizarre!

2004-04-05T04:09:00.000-07:00

I only have time for a flying leap, as I'm due at the Cathedral in an hour. Eleanor called me yesterday and implied that her presence was absolutely indispensible to greeting the queen of England, and I was absolutely her only hope. I was ticked off, as they say, since I, myself, had been planning to hie to the Arch de Triomphe to see the queen. Not to mention the fact that this means I'll be doing three afternoons this week in the Cathedral guichet, and it's a very nigglingly busy time. As it is I'm bringing a full "The Strand: Eight Miles of Books" tote bag full of projects and work both legitimate and otherwise with me.

I did lots of the sort of errands this morning that give one a false sense of efficient accomplishment: I mailed birthday cards and packages, brought clothes to the dry cleaners and boots to the cobbler's, and did all the week's shopping. As well as a few other things that'd been hanging over me, like hand-washing of delicates and defrosting the freezer. Bien jouée, non? Si. Bien jouée.

Re: 30 Million d'Amis...
One of our personal thirty million friends, the mouse, Curtis, made his presence very much known last night. He seemed to be munching a path between our flat and our neighbor's, through the ceiling, and rendered sleep an impossibility. As a result, I didn't go to the nine a.m. showing of Beauty and the Beast I'd been anticipating, but that's all right. We're thinking of asking our neighbor if she'd care to go two's on an exterminator. Well, Guyon's thinking of it; I don't see that the mouse is any special problem. The neighbor's rather an unknown quantity. Seems to be in her mid-thirties, blasts opera 24/7 (not Wagner, though, so sometimes I blast him to even the score), and has a boyfriend who's been described as "old."

The Dress
I'm not normally very engaged by irresponsible-clotheshorse-spends-too-much stories, but as I'm a proponent of self-flagellation, I think I'd better lay bare the facts, tedious or no. Over the weekend I bought a dress. I'm not a bessy by any means (you are aware, I think, that I recently discarded all my clothes), but like anyone I'm prone to obsession. I made the acquaintance of this expensive frock two weeks ago, and it immediately took hold of my every waking thought. I visited it covertly, hoping it was less wonderful that I'd remembered, and always enraptured afresh. Finally, on Saturday, teh showdown came. I was in Samaritaine, innocently examining Easter hats, when I came across The Dress in a little boutique. "It will probably look ugly on," I thought fiercely. So I tried it on. And of course it looked better than any dress in the history of the world has ever looked. It transformed me, and it was clear that no other living woman could show it off to such advantage. I bought it. I kept the receipt, pretending I might return it. I'm still pretending that.

And do I regret it? No! That's the awful part. Every time I see it in the closet, I feel a surge of the most perfect joy a material possession can summon. I stroke it by the hour, rub it against my cheek, arrange the other clothes around it like serfs doing homage to a queen. Sometimes I put it on and dance around, or strike attitudes.

Make no mistake, it was my own money spent, and not really so very much in the grand scheme. And yet, and yet...!

I will tell you about it. It is pale moss green dotted swiss organza, with a full ballerina skirt and a simple boned bodice with thin straps. It has a very thin belt (removable). I would show it to you if it were within my power; it's almost worth enlisting a friend's camera.

Well, maybe I'll return it after all. And maybe I'll cut off my right arm while I'm at it. I'm right-handed, by the way...

2004-04-04T00:32:00.000-08:00

Preachy Bit About Leprosy

Please consider visiting the sites of the International Leprosy Foundation and the American Leprosy Foundation. You know I am inexpert at providing links, but it is easy to Google.

I Capture the Castle
Well, I saw it. And I must say, as adaptations go, it was very faithful. I experienced just those emotions I did when reading the book, which is to say, delight followed by dawning discomfort and, finally, distaste. So, highly accurate in that regard. Casting was perfect, and I found the guy from ET to be an excellent Simon. Dialogue at the end, notably poor; but it's not all that much better in writing. p.s. Mr. Collins played the vicar.

Re: movies, also saw Best Years of Our Lives last night w/ Guyon. Cried like a baby, as usual. G was very cruel; when he saw I was starting to tear up, he leaned over and whispered, "30 Million d'Amis," which he knew would set me off in earnest. 30 Million d'Amis is a magazine about animals, mostly pets. For some reason the mere mention of it is enough to twist my heart and bring tears to my eyes. Guyon exploits this shamelessly.

"Got home early so went out," he scrawled in a note to me the other day. "Will be back soon. G.
p.s. 30 Millions d'amis."

In an attempt to deal with this problem, I invested in a copy of the magazine yesterday. "Tels Chats! Tels Maitres!" read the cover. I bought it, opened it on the Pont Neuf and was in tears within moments. (Someone had written an elegy to her departed dog.) I've hidden it in the apartment; throwing it away is out of the question.

The odd bit is, I'm not that hog wild about animals. I like dogs, and I find cats bearable, but there it ends. I have every intention of saving various pets from shelters when I have the means and I'm sure we'll rub along juts fine (I'm going to call my dog Paxti after my favorite Star Academy contestant), but I'm not one of these girls who broke down during the cartoon version of Animal Farm in fourth grade. It's more like someone who's been hypnothized and has a trigger word, or something.

Speaking of animals, I forgot to tell you about an odd exchange I had with that four-year-old the bother day.

He was eating a biscuit.

"Is that good, that cake?" I asked him. "It looks good."
"Oui," he replied, stony-faced. "Je mange comme un petit cochon."

2004-04-02T00:27:00.000-08:00

The other night I saw Night of the Demon. I highly reccomend it; it is certainly a bit B, but, besides the demon himself, doesn't descend into camp. I love films about the occult, of course, especially when they are intelligently done and allude to the Bible etc. a good deal. It is also a little bit scary. Guyon saw it on my reccomendation and wasn't all that impressed, but I still think it's worth seeking out.

The Paris Film Festival is going on, so there's a lot of good things in the offing. This weekend I'm planning to see the Cocteau Belle et le Bete, as well as I Capture the Castle, which I've been chasing all over the world. I missed it in New York and California, so imagine my euphoria when I opened the Pariscope and saw that it was playing this Saturday! It will be seen with all due ceremony.

You know, I'm sure, the thrill of anticipation assocoated with the adaptation of a favorite work. It's not that ICTC is so good...it's just very odd and intense and strangely personal, and the fact that they'd think to adapt it is itself noteworthy. I have qualms. I was not impressed with Romola Garai's performance in Dirty Dancing: Havana Nights, and I can't imagine her as Cassandra Mortmain. I've also read that Elliott from ET isn't very good as Simon -- but that's all right as Simon's a drip in the book, too. Well, I'll report fully after I see it.

I mentioned to you, I think, that I got a haircut. Nothing to report there: I look just the same as usual. The same day, David fulfilled an ambition to have his hair cut by the Lubovitcher barber in his neighborhood, and after a three-hour wait emerged with what he describes as the worst haircut he's ever seen. (He actually looks fine, although one can't deny there's a bit of the pompadours about it. For a few minutes he talked gamely about plying Brylcreem and affecting a fifties coiffeur, before subsiding into despair and pulling on a Mets cap.)

I've started work on a new puppet: Truman Capote. Await reports; this one'll really put me on my mettle. After he's made, I'm anticipating impromptu performances of "Cherry Ripe," but this sort of thing's hard to predict with any degree of exactitude.

I made the worst dinner last night.

We're going to go to Chez Gandhi tonight, I think, despite the story that broke while we were in England about the dangers of the artificial "colourings" used in Indian cooking. "Dodgy Curries!" ran the headline.

2004-04-01T05:51:00.000-08:00

I want to get Gilles a Burl Ives record for his birthday. What do you think?

2004-03-31T11:29:00.000-08:00

On the Vagaries of French Karaoke
Monday night being Nick Goodbody's last in France, we all had a festive dinner at Chartier and then repaired to the Rive Droite karaoke bar in Les Halles, which is our usual karaoke haunt de choix.

The French approach to karaoke, you must understand, is to select an interminable, wordy French ballad and then sing it very earnestly. Even the queeniest gay man conforms to this pattern with no redeeming hint of fabulousness. The entire experience is self-serious and solipsistic, with no regard for audience pleasure. As usual, we were responsible for providing all the evening's entertainment, which we duly did, by breaking out a few standards: "Summer Nights" (SOS, Nick Goodbody); "Bohemian Rhapsody" (Guyon, David, NG and Sam -- hands down the evening's straightest performance, baffling to the French); and a bravura "Runaway" by Guyon. (Unfortunately, some of the latter's elaborate choreography was obscured by a gay couple who got onto the stage to give les bises to the owner. ) Re: this couple, it must be said that one half had one of the best voices any of us had ever heard, a clear counter-tenor that would have been the pride of the noblest castratus. We were pining for him to take on Prince or little Michael Jackson, but he wasted himself on Mariah Carey.

Guyon and I stayed up till four discussing what sqongs we'd do if, hypothetically, a karaoke machine had the entire Pastels canon on it.

The Scheme
I have been planning to shoplift a can of Mecca Cola. Mecca Cola is a soft drink designed to forward radical Islamic interests and aid in the coalition of a strong, angry Arab youth culture. Proceeds go to Palestine. Since, as the marketer puts it, every purchase is an act of protest, I'm sort of ambivaent about shelling out fr one. However, I'm dying to get my hands on a souvenir can before I leave France. Not like I'm some kind of experienced shoplifter, but surely if paying for it is an act of protest, so's five-fingering.

I approached David. He was initially amenable, then lamely suggested I just buy one instead, and then buy something from some pro-Israel store like Marks and Spencer. The bubble of enthusiasm has been officially ruptured; my brief flirtation with a life of crime is at an end.

Re:David
David tells me he was in a cab recently with a terrific driver, an Italian. Upon learning that D was headed back to England for his girlfriend's birthday, he asked conversationally if he favored slapping his girlfriend around during sex. Not as a usual thing, you understand, but when necessary.
"Within three minutes," David marvelled, "he'd told me about his wife and both his mistresses. I tried to steer the conversation round to football, but he just said, 'I like football. But I like sex more.' He was a good sixty years old, too; you'd think he'd have been rather more avuncular. Or maybe that's the Italian version."

Today
I saw the little boys today. Gilles is about to turn four and the family's going to Euro Disney to celebrate.

We played a very violent game today in which I was some kind of animal, maybe a tiger, and they shot me. Then I'd drag myself down the hall, moaning, and sometimes suddenly leap up or snarl at them. They loved it.

Went to the park. I befriended a little boy in a toggle coat, maybe four.
"There's trouble," he reported to me urgently. "That red-haird baby's got the frisbee and she's not letting go." The baby, whose name was Laetitia, also had chocolate all over her face.

Particularly Crummy TV
French Saturday night TV is generally a waste of time -- a slew of panel discussions and modernist plays -- but this week's was particularly atrocious (I'd bowed out early, grace a my cold, from a friend's band's gig.) The panel discussion consisted of a bunch of survivors of childhood sexual abuse; there was a modern English opera about a hijacking; and the arts chanel showed some kind of ancient, Whitman-esque poet in a straw hat, drawing circles on paper and saying, "Earth. Shadow. Earth. Shadow. Wind. Shadow. Wind. Shadow." for over two hours.

Got a haircut today.

2004-03-26T04:31:00.000-08:00

Excuse me; I'm running a temperature.

2004-03-26T04:06:00.000-08:00

I've lost my voice. Only in the most literal sense; a cold has lodged in my chest and left me with a throaty croak which I briefly fancied was sultry, until told otherwise in no uncertain terms. Florette has mandated a hot grog au rhum, so a grog au rhum it shall be.

Florette and I had good times yesterday. She showed me some fascinating photographs of herself as a young woman, which I think was sort of an honor. She looked a good bit like one of the younger Tripelettes de Belleville, just as today she looks like their older incarnation. Also saw her mother, who apparently used to do some light sewing for the Cathedral.

"Don't put up with anything from her!" Eleanor said again.
"She's never been anything but nice to me," I said coldly.
"Well, don't let her get away with anything!" said Eleanor. "She's off her rocker -- she'll beat you!"

I expressed some skepticism on this head and things were frosty between me and Eleanor for a while. Frankly, I'm getting fed up with her. She was so rude to a bunch of immigrants yesterday, demanding to see their papers, refusing to post annonces, that I nearly lodged a formal complaint. Instead I just indicated that they ought to come back after she'd left. In any event, I know there've been a boatload of complaints lodged already; they were considering firing her, but recognized that the shock would probably kill her. Maybe I will lodge a complaint, just about this papers nonsense.

The Dinner Controversy
The other night Guyon was out at the pub until all hours and returned, David in tow, at 4:30 am. He told me he'd met the daughter of one of his Chicago medieval history profs, and invited her for dinner.

"She's a vegetarian," he said. "She only eats fish and lamb."
"Excuse me?" I said. He repeated it.
"In that case," I said coldly, "we'll have veal. She'll eat veal or nothing at all."

This is my official stance. Perhaps it seems unreasonable to you. I don't care. If I waltzed up to someone and said I only ate crab and sweetbreads, I should hope they'd react with just as much outrage. In fact, I'd almost rather my own prejudices -- cilantro, chicken and cheese in combination -- not be humored. I think it's much better people suffer. Make me eat a chicken enchilada! Make me!

Well, maybe I'll chill, mellow or similar in the days to come. But it's never been known.

A Quote for You

"'About half an hour before the signal of departure from the hill," said old Mr. Parker, "the prince himself would make his appearance in the crowd -- I think I see him now, in a green jacket, a white hat and tight nankeen pantaloons, and shoes, distinguished by his high-bred manner and handsome person; he was generally accompanied by the late Duke of Bedford, Lord Jersey, Charles Wyndham, Shelley, Brummel, Mr. Day, Churchill, and oh, extraordinary anomaly, the little old Jew Travers, who, like the dwarf of old, followed in the train of royalty."'
(Courtesy of Daniel Herbert, aka David)

2004-03-25T03:24:00.000-08:00

Out: Hand stamps
Out: Female Singers
Out: Cotton Sweaters
Out: Cilantro
Out: Aztec-style chocolate
Out: Orson Welles
Out: Paul Auster
Out: Corsican food
Out: Having your companion give your movie ticket to the usher

Note: #2 is of course a constant, in all genres.

2004-03-24T06:26:00.000-08:00

The Internet Café

I am really getting fed up with the Access Academy. I just attempted to cast my vote for North Carolina as Best Barbecue State and I was stymied. Frankly, I'm getting a little bit fed up with roadfood.com, too. I'm not saying I don't still check it periodically, but the readers on the message board are so aggressively lame that I'm becoming unwilling to associate myself with them. They all post about a thousand times a day, and the nonsense they spout is absolutely unbelievable. The grammar is often poor, too, but that's to be expected given the informality of the medium.

(Note: on the back of a ladies' room door in an Oxford pub:
Graffiti #1: "I thought you Brits were too classy to write on bathroom doors like us Americans"
Graffiti #2: "Glad to see cross-cultural similarities; the difference is that we have some knowledge of grammar. Poorly constructed sentence, dear." Brr! Better Guyon than me...or, rather, better that he go than I!)

Another niggling irritation: why haven't they seen fit to include Red's Donuts on the website under "California?" It is in the print version, on SOS's reccomendation., incidentally!

Had a good sort of cake the other day; remind me to expound on its many virtues. Also bought a new kind of Muesli. It is called Kellogg's Country Store. "There's a touch of brown sugar about it," said Guyon.

Oh! The flat swap was, in fact, a success! Andrew and Bimi (as their monogrammed towels tell us) wish to swap again at a later date. Will wonders never cease?

2004-03-22T00:37:00.000-08:00

Saturday, you'll be pleased and relieved to know I got into the 1:30 viewing of the Cecil Beaton retrospective at the National Portrait Gallery.

The same day, Guyon and I rendez-vous'd with a few of our Paris expat amis, went to Gordon's Wine Bar and Belgo Centraal.
/
(Events are very dull, aren't they? I think I'll just leave them out altogether from now on.)

Sunday, however, went to the Chelsea Royal Pensioner's Hospital, which is probably my favorite place to be in the entire world. The Royal Hospital is a Christopher Wren-designed retirement home for old redcoats. Every Sunday morning a small battalion of them, in uniform, do a drill and inspection before a governor in a cockaded hat (some of the frailer ones stay seated) and then they all parade into the chapel, along with a white-capped sister and the aging wives of various dignitaries. Then there's a service, sans eucharist. The congregation is extremely elderly, largely hatted, generally splendid. All the men are gallant and courteous and everyone is thrilled to see a young face, so it's fun all-round. The minister, an army chaplain, is good too.

Yesterday being Mothering Sunday, all the ladies (me included) were presented with daffodil posies and the sermon dealt with motherly love. There was also a digression on the etymology and provenance of Simnel Cake, the traditional Mothering Sunday pastry crowned with seven marzipan balls, if memory serves.

I urge anyone passing through London to take the time to visit this lovely place, and, if there's time, watch the drill as well. Chapel is not mandatory. The best of all is if you know one of the Pensioners; then you can take a sherry in the officers' club, which I've never done, although it looks splendid. It's also just up the road from one of my other spots (well, not "my"), the Chelsea Physic Garden. This is only open on Sunday and Wednesday afternoon, is very lovely and private and has a delightful tea room as well full of elderly gentlewomen in garden clubs. It's a recipe for a very nice Sunday.

Then, Sunday evenings, you can take the Jack the Ripper Walking Tour with every other American in the city. We did this last night, and because I'd taken it once before while studying in London, I let my mind wander a bit. I was ruminating on Americans. Now, I don't consider myself to be anti-American in any wise. I pride myself on being fair-minded and intermittantly generous, at least. But there is something about being with a large, large group of fanny-packed, boisterous Americans that makes me feel exactly, exactly like a sullen teenager, desperately embarrassed by his parents and desperate to distance himself from them. It's just as irrational and, perhaps, just as elemental. Perhaps, in reinventing oneself expat, there is a seperate process of maturation and this is the adolescence of it, before becming truly comfortable with the new identity and attaining the maturity to accept one's family? Taking yourself out of your country after all, especially in these troubled times, is serious business. I tried to tell myself all this (and it took me the better part of two hours to come up with that labored adolescence metaphor), and to appreciate how jolly and friendly all the tourists were, and how easygoing, but I just found myself overmastered by a horrible, unworthy impulse to blow Gauloise smoke in their faces (and I don't smoke, mind you) or give them makeovers. I am glad to say I didn't give in to it, and by the end of the endless tour, was actually in love with the better part of the group, since I'd forced myself to go through it, one by one, and study everyone, and find something to like. Except one teenage girl, whom I just ended up despising. Talk about overthinking!

Today we go to Oxford. Strictly business, that, as Guyon needs to work out some administrative stuff with one of the colleges and take a look at the different ones to which he's applied. One imagines that the Brideshead Revisited theme will be playing, loudly, for the duration of our visit.

Mother of Pearl! The two guys return today and we'll have to face them. I very much fear the elusive mouse, Curtis, could have put in an appearance while they were in residence...

2004-03-22T00:32:00.000-08:00

Out: Paris In:London

Out: Wine In: Wine Gums

Out: Bad Exchange Rate In: Terrible Exchange Rate

Out: Good Food In: Inedible Food

2004-03-20T01:42:00.000-08:00

Worst suspicions confirmed re: reccomender Ramona. As the recs are due on Mon. and hers hadn't appeared, I sent off, a few days ago, a tactful enquiry. She replied this morning, saying that three (!) other people have written to report the same program with recs to other institutions, and she doesn't know what the problem is -- something to do with the "postage meter"? -- but she'll send it out again. I wrote back to the effect that it was imperative this resending be done immediately, and to please also send Columbia an email/ e-copy of the rec, so with any luck all will be well. It's rare that this level of incompetence is not generated by me. A pleasing novelty.

Guyon and I are in London. Due to the foreign nature of our flat-swap partner's name, and his peculiar requests for copies of our passports, Guyon had rather hoped he was an Al Qaeda operative. Any such hopes were quickly dashed upon arriving at his City flat. We were given an exhaustive tour of the tropical fish tank, the dazzling array of Molton Brown toiletries, the six remote controls and 8x6' DVD-viewing screen, as well as the state-of-the-art espresso-maker and touch-sensitive range.
"Al Qaeda operative, indeed," muttered Guyon. "Operation Petticoat, maybe."

The pristine magnificence of the apartment made me uncomfortably aware of the lack thereof he'd shortly be encountering at 16, rue Dauphine. Understand, please, that our studio is universally regarded as palatial and luxurious by our peer group, and we had grown rather sanguine. But as our host showed us the 200-count sheets, the voluminous DVD collection, all I could think of was the rusted hot-plate and rather miniscule bed stuck under the wooden beam. After his briefing, we gave him our own.

"Um, the clay dish on the counter can be used for an ashtray. If you want."
"The towel on the hook is clean. It just wasn't dry when we left."

The worst of it is that they get back a day before we leave -- not my doing, I assure you -- so we'll have the shame of facing them follwinf the iniquity of the swap.

They do have quite a range of toiletries, albeit not really calibrated for the feminine palate. Although there were about twenty different shower gels, they were all decidedly masculine in aroma. I was glad to see there was a gender-neutral moisturizer, which I used. All in all, rather less of a desecration for me to be amidst it all than Guyon, however. If they're hoping for similar metrosexual splendor in our medicine cabinet, they've got a shock coming; I don't think Old Spice deodorant will really make the cut. I was pleased, however, to think that we need not blush for the Kiehl's rose water shower gel Lit gave me as a gift, or for Guyon's towel, which is really very good quality.

Yesterday I had an awful headache, and although I'm not someone who enjoys rifling through peoples' medicine chests or private things, I did feel compelled to seek out painkillers. Being fluent in British, I knew I was looking for Boots paracetamol, but had to go through a good deal of Givenchy Homme anti-aging this-and-that before I discovered it. Felt guilty.

Like any DVD owner, they have a peculiar and unpredictable collection (the .lure of two-for-one deals and all that, one imagines) ranging from Iris to Scary Movie 2, with a liberal dose of romatic comedies in the mix. The huge screen is really brilliant; watched My Best Friend's Wedding last night.

All best,
Sadie

2004-03-18T02:46:00.001-08:00

Here it is

I tried.

2004-03-18T02:46:00.000-08:00

I tried.

2004-03-18T02:42:00.000-08:00

To blow my own horn:

I just found my graduation address online, after avoiding it for some months and, really: it's not bad at all! The other two are also better than I remember their being.

Several people have been kind enough to enquire about this, so:

http://www.uchicago.edu/docs/education/record/pdfs/38-1.pdf

is where they are. That's quite bad enough, on a par with posting one's sermons, so I shan't link it for you.
Well, maybe I'll try!

2004-03-18T02:12:00.000-08:00

I embarrassed myself a little yesterday. The building where the little boys live has a very triumphant sort of a door, and I was in very high fettle when I left last evening. I burst out of the door grandly, singing,
"Here he comes
Here he comes
Greatest toy you've ever seen
And his name is Mr. Machine!"
Which would have been all very well if there hadn't been about twenty builders having a cigarette in front of the door.

I had breakfast at Paul today. There was a man sitting next to me, who ordered the usual (eggs, tartine, hot chocolate and o.j.) and then, noticing I was reading (The Book of English Eccentrics), asked if it was "a novel of 19th century Paris." (In French.) I thought this was one of the odder questions I'd been asked this week, and rather enormously presumptuous.
"Why yes," I said, just to reward him. "It is."

Guyon, David and I celelbrated St Patrick's Day with some fish cakes (made by me according to the excellent recipe in Everyday Food, and available on the Martha Stewart Living website under "Everyday Food.") and a mediocre mojito at this café down the road where all teh waiters have to wear orange overalls and painters' caps. They are all very supercilious and model-like, in any event -- quite an accomplishment given that getup. I think it's an open question who has the worst uniform on the Rue de Buci: them, or the servers at äul, who have to wear sort of bakers' outfits all the time.

Seems to me I'll be able to find a decent Easter bonnet in London. Also a hot-cross bun, even if it is made the English way with a vile flour-paste cross instead of delicious icing! Incidentally, I'll be experimenting with hot-cross buns come Easter. I'll let you know how it goes and whether I am really iconoclastic and use stollen dough as a base! I'm back on food. Unfortunate that it should happen just as we're setting off for London.

The weather here is exquisite. It's been about sixty-five degrees for the past three days, and even though it can't last, it's lifting everyone's spirits. The boys and I spent all afternoon in the park yesterday. Gilbert and I played a good deal of football and Gilles collected stones and displayed them to some very forbearing old ladies. Then they got in with a group of other children who were instant friends and surrendered to that sort of euphoria borne of warm weather, and tons of kids, and the excitement of games that involve a lot of running around. Gilbert was very enthusiastic about trying out his English and kept saying "yes" at innappropriate times, but with a great deal of sly delight...

To the Cathedral!

2004-03-17T02:57:00.000-08:00

I've just spent a good morning washing windows and listening to Roxy Music! I'm trying to get everything in shape for the lodgers, who have proven themselves very fastidious and potentially problematic...

On Throwing Away All of My Clothes
I'm beginning to regret having thrown away all my clothes. Well, I didn't really throw them away; I gave them to some similarly-sized people. The idea was to winnow my wardrobe down, Parisienne-fashion, to a few well-made basics that would all coordinate. I had thought in this fashion to divest myself of the material and streamline my life. The trouble is, the few garments I have left don't all coordinate. Nor are they especially well-made. I just don't have enough clothes and have to do laundry constantly. Oh, and incidentally, I look bad.

DVDs
Because we have a DVD player here in Paris, I am only this year getting into the world of special features and behind-the-scenes hijinx. Was watching one such with David; the commentary was going on about some actor being a practical joker.
"Everyone's a practical joker, according to these things!" David protested. "I hate practical jokes! I'm never going on a film set!"

Correction
Guyon tells me that I reported his notebook scheme innaccurately: it's one notebook for notes on all books, required and otherwise. And a legal pad for noting books and articles he plans to read. Apologies.

This headings business is very dull.

2004-03-15T09:05:00.000-08:00

So, today I found myself, as one so often does, in front of the house of Nicholas Flamel, alchemist. And I thought, why can't they turn lead into gold? It seemed perfectly logical to me. But then, I often think it's a good thing the world's scientific progress wasn't up to me. I remember reading an account from the Crusades of a Frankish doctor who treated a woman's headache by splitting her skull open and rubbing her brain pan with salt. You see, there was a devil in her head who was in love with her.

I've diagnosed myself with two devils and a gnome orchestra. I am going to start treating my own headaches with powdered unicorn horn and several drams of mead, daily. Who needs Excedrin Migraine? I'll ply the new remedy as soon as I get home. Hacksaw and sel de mer at the ready, this being France.

I have a bit of a headache, exacerbated by excessive move-viewing. Yesterday through tomorrow, movie tickets are only three Euro fifty at every movie theatre in Paris. Accordingly, I went to a 9:40 showing of The Mother last night and have just come from a matinée of Frida at a nearby second-run.

The Mother, for those lucky enough to have been spared it, is an English film whose French release I'd been anticipating with inexplicable eagerness. It concerns an old woman who has an affair with a younger drug addict. She also has graphic sex with an old man. When The Mother whipped out a kitchen knife to stab herself in the stomach, several people left the theatre. More fool them, because they missed her daughter asking if she could punch The Mother in the face. Which she did.

One hilight was the presence of the actor who looked so creepy in both The Land Girls and Our Mutual Friend. He looked a good deal improved in modern dress, and bore a slight resemblance, I thought, to Guyon. In the time I've known Guyon, incidentally, he's been compared to Pippin in Lord of the Rings (by my mother, and very aggressively), Philip Seymour Hoffman, Donal Logue in The Tao of Steve, James Van der Beek, and Roger Moore.

As to Frida, I'd rank it above Pollock, but below Sylvia. It lost me about the point where she became Trotsky's mistress. (Incidentally, the younger man in The Mother was Ted Hughes.) Gratified, however, to learn she was a Half-Jew.

Das Schedule
So, Guyon came home very excited yesterday and outlined some of his plans for next year. He revealed that he intends to maintain the following:

1 notebook for class and lectures, in constant rotation
1 notebook for informal notes on non-required textts, also in constant rotation
1 notebook listing scholarly books and articles he plans to read.

He also told me about a kind of software which cross-references all your notes and sources and makes alphabetized bibliographies.
"So, if I want to know every book I've read that deals with, oh, I don't know, the Venerable Bede, I just type it in and I get every one, with the notes I've made!" he explained.

I said this was all very well but he'dforgotten the notebooks for Music he Plans to Buy and Possible Karaoke Songs. (Incidentally, I've been working up a terrific "I Will Follow Him.")

The Cathedral

Eleanor is on vacation in the country. "Bien!" cried Florette when I told her. "She belongs with the animals!"

The Mouse
The mouse has been sighted
again despite an exhaustive and thorough cleaning of the apartment. Guyon has baited the trap with a soupçon of dulce de leche. It's getting down to the wire, as the fastidious house-swappers arrive on Friday.

The Chosen
On Saturday, following a festive tea at Le Loir Dans La Théière, David suggested, as we were all in the Jewish Quarter, that we attend Shabbat services. I was amenable, and accordingly found myself the only woman in a kitchen/storeroom, observing an Orthodox service from behind a curtain. As everything was in Yiddish and Hebrew, I was rather out of my depth (despite the fact that I'd respectfully dawned my béret), and the book I had in my bag, Graham Greene's The Power and the Glory, hardly seemed appropriate. David managed to slip me a French Talmud after a few minutes, which kept me busy for a while. I'd always thought being behind a curtain would be sort of like a harem, where you could watch all the goings-on unobserved. In fact, I had very poor visibility and had rather a dull time of it.

It was much worse, though, when they bid me come out into the synogogue and sit by myself at a table across the room while all the men ate a Dairy dinner (I was still full from the cake I'd et earlier.) Uncomfortable as this was, however, it was better than David's position, facing a white-bearded rabbi. What's more, I found a book of Torah commentary with English translations and happened to open it to the point where they give injunctions against witches (you shall not suffer them to live, incidentally) and bestiality (an abomination.)

A Quote For You:

"Was he alone, do you know?"
"Oh, no. Jewish-looking people, Hope said they were. At least, the men were Jewish-looking..."
"Oh, yes. He knows a lot of Jews," said Florence at once. "Come out and sit in the garden. It's quite warm."
She felt she might conceal her unhappiness better in the garden. She had been so wretched lately that she could almost believe that anxiety and depression were stamped all over the walls of her charming house, like the damp coming through. This prying young woman would be sure to smell it out. They went into the garden and sat under the mulberry tree and she tried to re-establish the pose of the serenely confident wife.

2004-03-14T10:19:00.000-08:00

Well...let's just see what happens with the Spanish elections, okay?

2004-03-13T03:50:00.000-08:00

Please disregard what I said yesterday. I was mortified, spiritually, in the true sense of the word. I'll try to get back on track later today.

I've noticed, via a little non-scientific research, that mine is the crummiest-looking blog on the web. Perhaps I should look into improving matters, visually and otherwise. Do I want interaction? Pictures? Links? No, I don't think so. After all, Don't Sweat the Small Stuff (and it's all Small Stuff). Still, I'll think about it. There is a certain dummy dressed in turquoise jewelry whom I'd like to show you; and maybe that bum, if I can get a picture.

2004-03-12T05:51:00.001-08:00

I JUST LOST TWO HOURS' WRITING ON THIS AND WILL OFFICIALLY NEVER BE POSTING AGAIN

2004-03-12T05:51:00.000-08:00

2004-03-10T05:07:00.000-08:00

First of all, it's been suggested to me repeatedly that I ought to have some kind of demarcation between sections on the posts, as most "bloggers" do, to make things more legible. This sort of "organization" goes very much against the grain (I am a bohemian, remember), but I live to serve, so:

P.S.
I do have something to say about In America, as a matter of fact. How can they -- the filmmakers-- think it's acceptable to present us with a child rendition of "Desperado" just as if The Langley Elementary Project: Innocence and Despair hadn't released a child-sung cover of the same song, with very similar orchestration, within the past two years?! They must take us for fools. I'll tell you.

I'm about to go see the two little boys now.

2004-03-09T05:17:00.000-08:00

I'm not saying I want Blogspot to stick the Gazette up on its rubbishy old "Blogs of Note" list. After all, I actively discourage readership; most of my friends aren't aware of this site. However, when they start listing things like cameronlawrence and his endless meditations on the suicide of Elliott Smith, it's an embarrassment to all concerned. It's all very well if they're going to stick to the topical blogs, or those of people doing relief work, or drawing attention to medical complaints...this kind of self-indulgence (and I include the Gazette in this) should be kept strictly closeted.

I am wearing my velvet jacket today, even though it is not very warm. I was reading recently, in a very good book about bohemians whose title I don't remember, about the bohemian predilection for luxuriant, impractical fabrics like velvet and courduroy. Not that I consider courduroy a particular form of luxury, mind you, but then, I've never gone in for swimming with dolphins, either. The bohemians liked their "sensuality," of course.

Re:"sensuality," Milton, as we know, created the word "sensuous" in order to provide the English language with a synonym devoid of vulgar sexual connotation. Oh, Milton! as Keats would have it: Just a few days ago, in a purely narcissistic Google of my own first name, I ran across the site "sensuous sadie," which is devoted to S&M erotica. Not quite what the poor thing had in mind, I daresay.

Last night we had David to dinner. The Cobb salad was predictably uninspiring. I don't care; I'm through with food, I'll never cook again. Said 'adieu' to food, I'll never look (at a cookbook) again. David, who has a job working as a telemarketer calling dentists in New England and buying their gold fillings, was in great form. He outlined his theory of "Survival of the Fittest Ideology." Then discoursed brilliantly on Israel and its bad P.R.
"Really, they couldn't have a worse face than Sharon," he remarked. "They might as well have got Shylock!"

Guyon was in fine form himself, although depressed at the thought of missing a pivotal football match tonight.

"I have a playdate," he explained regretfully.
"With whom?" we asked.
"Oh, some medieval literature guy," he sighed. "I checked him out on the web, and he doesn't seem to be a very serious scholar."

I was in indifferent form. I did début a new short story, however, of which David did a fine dramatic reading.

I believe that yesterday I resolved to discuss the visit to the Piaf exhibit at the Hotel de Ville that we made with Guyon's mother over the weekend. The most amazing thing about it (wel, not really, but you know exactly what I mean) was how ancient and wizened she looked her entire life; she was perpetually fifty-seven, even when she was sixteen. They had one of her teeny little robes noires and a little dolly-sized pair of platform shoes, too. Thoroughly worthwhile.

Re: movie reviews, recently saw Big Fish and In America B.F., despite the reviews (and my opinion trumps reviews, anyway), was not half bad. I think there's plenty worth seeing in it, and, indeed, it's worth seeing for a few moments of first-class oddity. Now, Time Out would have it that the movie ducked racial issues and didn't include enough black people. I'm not one to argue with the sages at Time Out, but I for one found it unlikely that every doctor in rural, 1930's Alabama would have been black -- but what do I know?

As to In America, I don't feel like reviewing it. All I'll say is, I thought their apartment looked pretty fantastic, junkies aside.

It would make you weep to see my indifference to food. I just spooned up a little tomato sauce for lunch, and half a banana.

Gosh, it seems I have quite a readership now -- in the hundreds! Lord knows who or why, but as long as it's not people I know, I suppose it doesn't matter. For all intensive purposes, it's just me and one old lady, anyway. She lives in a hut perched atop chicken's legs.

2004-03-08T05:25:00.000-08:00

So: over the summer my brother, Charlie, said,

"If you could get rid of one entertainment celebrity, S.O.S. -- just make him disappear -- who would it be?"

"That's easy, Charlie," (I said.) "It would have to be Ryan Adams."

He seemed very troubled by this and said he didn't understand how anyone wouldn't take the chance to get rid of Jason Mraz, and I said it was hardly worth the trouble as I don't exactly prophesy a long career for him. But, then, it takes all kinds, as they say, to make a world.

I have to tell you that I've written an essay that can only be described in one word: kickass. (Excuse my language, please.) I've taken the controversial step of writing on the subject of A Thousand Ways to Please a Husband with Bettina's Best Recipes from 1918. I briefly considered posting a copy of the finished essay on this page,just because I've been jawing on about it so much, but my narcissism (to say nothing of my technical know-how) haven't really gotten to that point yet.

I'm afraid this'll be abbreviated as Mr. Nick Goodbody is going to be coming by the apartment any time now to pick up a parcel and I still have to do dinner shopping before I settle in for the wait. I seem to have cook's block: I have no inspiration and no interest in meal-planning or cooking anymore. Tonight, even though David is joining us, I'm just making a Cobb salad and some Toll-House cookies. Can you credit it? Did you ever hear the like?

Tomorrow I'm finally going to go to the Paris Film Center and maybe see Breathless as well as eat lunch at this rubbishy organic canteen in the area.

Please remind me to tell you about the Piaf show, two movies and our housecleaning.

2004-03-05T07:01:00.000-08:00

So, all my reccomendations have been sent off. All that remains is for me to write that essay and actually get the publishing program application into the mail.

Re: recs, you may recall that I agonized a good deal about whom to ask. Although my B.A. advisor, a moderately well-known author of the seventies, seemed an obvious choice, I was reluctant on grounds of general vagueness and incompetence -- hers, not mine, this time. In the end, though, I was thrown back, so to speak, upon her mercy. It seems my first choice, the rather strident gender politician who thought I was sexually repressed (I think), is already writing a rec for a friend of mine applying to the same program. I was furious to think that now my application might become public knowledge (I consider stealth my greatest strength on the battlefield), although gratified to be able to put a face to the competition.

So, I petitioned my advisor, whom I shall call Ramona. Worryingly, she did not respond to my various emails and messages (and I went so far as to write her through her personal web page, mind you) for over three weeks. When she did, my worst fears were confirmed.

"Dear Sophie, (she wrote)
"I'll be happy to reccomend you!"

Great.

When I sent her the course info, I took particular pains.

"From Sadie!" Read the subject.

"Hi, this is SADIE," I opened it, most uncharacteristically.
I threw in lots of stuff like, "Just indicate that it's in reference to my (SADIE's) application," and my name and number three times in the course of the email.

I had forgotten about her prediliction for calling me "Sophie," which, while not uncommon, could well prove disastrous in this instance.

A lot of things have changed since I've been out of France. The clementines have gotten coarse, woolly and tangerine-like. Also, the gallery or whatever it is that does installations next door to my building has erected a sort of rain forest scene. For the longest time the window was occupied by an easy chair and a vase of dead flowers.

The Cathedral was particularly excellent yesterday. Eleanor and I had a spirited discussion of gay marriage. She's anti-.
"Not to say they aren't the most charming people in the world," she amended hastily.
"I certainly don't care what the dear homosexuals do in their private life," she said. "Lord knows I wouldn't want them bothering about mine. If I had one."
A bit later she seemed to contradict this. "You needn't think," she said, apropos of very little, "that everyone's dead from the knees up after eighty-five! Why, I had an uncle who was like a boy of eighteen until the day he died at a hundred and four! Not that I was listening at the keyhole, you understand," she added hastily. "But there the babies were!"

Several people stopped by the guichet to warn me that Florette was in a particularly foul mood and was abusing everyone who came into her path. In fact, she was nice to me -- she seems to adore me and the Canon's husband -- although very sour and ungenerous about a Soprano who was rehearsing a musical program in the church.

Guyon was kind enough to bring me something to eat on his way home from work, and very sour and ungracious he was about it, too. Of course, God forbid anything get in the way of his new "schedule" of study and recitation. More on this later.

Incidentally, a pair of the dear homosexuals are going to be swapping flats with us in a few weeks. I feel a particular pressure to get our up to the mark and, of course, lay in a few impressive-looking vinegars and oils for the kitchen. They've already intimated that they expect clean towels. I may or may not accomodate them. We're going to be staying wherever it is they live in London -- seems a jolly good notion to me, especially as our apt's rented furnished anyway, and, so, wholly unsentimental.

We are meeting with young David after dinner. We're still deciding where, but the more I think on it the more I resolve I may push for Chez Prune, of which I'm very fond, although it's full of poseurs. Last time I was there I was plying the opera glasses in a big way, incidentally.

Oh, guess what? A couple of years ago I went as my dad's date to some conservative function and all these young conservatives were swarming around me like particularly nerdy bees to the only honeycomb in the vicinity, even though it isn't really all that great, if you take my meaning. And anyway, at least half the honeycomb's appeal is that her father is the conservative speaker fo the evening. One of them was very nice and dull and talked ad nauseam about fly fishing, but then there was this other who was particularly appalling and aggressive and required a lot of tact, and then the abandonment of all tact.

It was my ill-fortune to run into this same individual at the Bryant Park Free Movie showing of A Summer Place some months later. He got my number out of me by saying he needed to interview me for some story (although he gave his profession as "entrepreneur" and incidentally was old), and then proceeded to bother me a great deal that summer, necessitating the concoction of a particularly elaborate lie involving my living in a shack with no electricity or running water. I forget the exact context.

Anyhow, while I was home, I opened the New York Post and who should be one of the man-on-the-street critics on the Popcorn Panel review of The Passion of the Christ, but my erstwhile suitor!
"Allen Goldman, 31, Entrepreneur." It said. "Jewish. "

His review:

"Mel Gibson is trying desperately to blame the Jews. But the truth comes out: the Romans killed Jesus."

2004-03-04T09:51:00.000-08:00

Hi. As you can see, I've been on vacation (or "holiday" as Richard Curtis would doubtless write me saying it). This is due primarily to the fact that there was some computer problem at home -- doubtless easily remedied -- that would have necessitated my writing from the Hastings Library and really, lines must be drawn.

I am proud to inform you that as I write (from the internet café), I am sporting a pair of in tacta spectacles. They are (and I've taken them off to examine them) gently cat-eyed in shape, with a dainty metal frame and a little trifecta of rhinestones in each corner. Although a distinct departure from form, their reception, so far, has been enthusiastic. However, I was pressured into getting them with those dorky light-dark shifting lenses, and this is so humiliating that I've been avoiding wearing them outdoors.

Re: Lasic surgery, it seems my cornea is too emaciated to permit the sort of Lasic proced
ure I need. Instead I'd require a similar procedure that necessitates a week's blindness rather than a day's. I have no problem with this -- odds are, I won't be doing anything anyway -- but my parents are troubled by the idea, so await reports. It has been said that I am taking an incautious attitude towards the whole thing. It is true that I don't care about the possibility of blindness. "After all, what are the odds of getting blinded in both eyes?" I said to the surgeon.
"About one in 100, 000, she said.
"I like those odds," I told her.
But then, I probably would have been content to live the rest of my life with broken glasses, as you have seen. There is some element of conscientiousness lacking in my character, I think. I'd like to be able to see well, but I'm at least as interested in the actual laser surgery and attendant burning smell. My only concern is that I not have to go under -- of which I have an irrational fear -- and as long as you're only expected to take Valium (which I expect I can weasel out of -- I prefer to be fully alert), I say full steam ahead.

You can probably tell that I'm suffering from crippling fatigue -- and in any case, it'll take a little while to get into the full swing of the blog -- so I'm going to hold off on today's cathedral report until tomorrow when I can do it full justice.

In fact, the flight was not bad. I had two coach seats to myself, which is about twice as good as one, and my sleeping increased exponentially. There were several fashionistos on the plane, recognizable by their outlandish dress and glowing skin, to say nothing of refences to "collections" and the coincidence of the flight with Fashion Week. Re: fashion, by the by, a peep into Teen Vogue shows me that I seem to have inspired the Spring fashions.

Teen Vogue is really pretty vile. I applaud it.

I read in Teen Vogue about this new magazine for rich, precocious New York City private school students, by rich precocious, New York City private school students. Deals with, one imagines, SAT tutors and cocaine, in that order. A terrific idea, actually. Teen Vogue informs me that they're planning LA and somewhere-else spinoffs, but I can't imagine they'd be as good, since rich, precocious New York City private school kids -- be they hipster or socialite -- are really pretty iconic.

Re: this, Eloise had coffee with Max Green at Café Sabarsky last weekend. Max Green, who is taking dance lessons and has started smokingwith a cigarette holder, managed to burn her face rather severely while demonstrating a newly-acquired move.

I spent Oscar night with Max Green. Also ran into Max Green at Metropoplitan Opera with his grandparents. Await a full report.

Only in New York, kids. Only in New York.

2004-02-23T09:04:00.000-08:00

I ate at Cafe Sabarsky a couple of days ago while Lit was in town. Then last night I spoke to Max Green and he told me he had been at Cafe Sabarsky yesterday and wore his Tyrolean outfit. Later I spoke to Eloise.

"Max Green was at Cafe Sabarsky today," she said.
"I know." I said.
"In his Tyrolean outfit, no less," she said.

Lit and I had the strudel there, and I had a Wiener Melange. She had a tea. I'll tell you about a few of the meals we had during her stay, in fact:

Pastrami sandwich, Katz's Deli.

Cream Tea, Tea and Sympathy.

Assorted, City Bakery.

Fondue, soup, salad, chocolate mousse, La Bonne Soupe.

I'm going to go standing-room to Tosca tonight at the Met. Max Green and his mother will be there, too, in a box; I'll try to keep my distance. I'll be carrying opera glasses, but my own pair -- rather more ornate than the pair I've been using in Paris, and inlaid with mother-of-pearl. I haven't thought about what I'll wear otherwise -- I don't have a very extensive selection here. Not that it matters for standing- room.

Tomorrow, some of you may be relieved to know, I'm going to the eye doctor, where I may well essay contact lenses. Or else I may get another pair of those dark-frame hipster types I've been wearing for the past few years, which my mother finds so unflattering but which, I've been told, make me look very liberal. The truth is, I'll probably just get Lasic one of these days -- how bad can it be? I don't cotton to the notion of having my heart-rate monitored during the procedure, but otherwise I'm pretty sanguine about such things. I've been told you can smell the burning cornea during the surgery, which I can only hope is true.

2004-02-19T12:47:00.000-08:00

I just forgot my blog password -- curious only because it's my first name.

Guyon just wrote to say there's a mouse afoot at 16, rue Dauphine. Said he:

"He saw me and hightailed it out of there, and I followed on his heels, to the Highlander (Scottish pub where G is a regular.) There I got some rat poison which I scattered under the leather couch with some parmesian (sic) cheese sprinkled on top. Hopefully, he's gorging his heart out right now."

Speaking of Guyon, I got to thinking today that he looks tremendously like the doll, Dimples, whom my great-grandmother made, and who lives on my bed in NY. They have the same keen eyes and high forehead. Perhaps he would be less than pleased by the comparison for the reasons that
a) she is a girl, and
b) she is a rag doll.

Two nights ago, after a fine dinner of crab au gratin from Mary's Fish Camp (64 Charles Street at West 4th) and chocolate cupcake w/ blue frosting, Magnolia Bakery, I spent the evening with Max Green. It pains me to use a pseudonym when this famous young man is so very synonymous with his own four-syllable name that to deprive him of it seems like cutting off a limb. He is one of those who can only be referred to by both names, incidentally. His numerous adventures are so legend that I shall not repeat them here. Suffice it to say that we had some wine and watched Yes, Prime Minister. We also spoke French a good bit, which is rather what one does with Max Green. Max Green, who finds his job disspiriting, is very eager to resme the life of a ne'er do well in Paris. I told him I was looking for a job.
'One doesn't think of you working, somehow,' he said. I agree.

I'm giving all and sundry short shrift today for the very good reason that Lit arrives this evening from Chicago and I wish to go to some lengths to perfect her room. Perhaps now's the time to mention that for any number of not-very-good reasons I have to do this blog from the Hastings Public Library, so no improvement there. Incidentally, I can't send emails either for some reason, so Dan Lascar, if you're reading this (and I'm sorry, this is very vulgar), thanks for the email and I'll send back a proper reply real soon.

Okay, over and out, my variegated sweets.

2004-02-17T08:48:00.000-08:00

It's nice to be back in NY. The trip, though -- oh la la, quelle cauchemarre!

First of all, let me say re: Valentine's Day, that Guyon's dinner was a qualified triumph -- qualified only because I don't consider six hours of cursing and sulking to be a great prelude to a romantic meal. The food was very nice -- the creme anglaise in tacta, so to speak -- and our digestif at La Palette triumphantly crowned by personal recognition from the head waiter in the form of les bises and a firm handshake, respectively.

The next day, having dragged my immense valise down the five flights without any aid, I got a taxi and lit off for CDG. (I try to avoid the RER as much as possible these days.) My cab driver was Moroccan. We exchanged a few pleasantries about my stay, where I was from etc.
"You like it here?" he asked. "I hate it! It's an entire country of assholes."
He went on in this vein for the next forty Euros.
"This bunch of French assholes hate Americans," he continued. "Well, let me tell you -- at least Americans know how to make a movie! This merde that the French call movies: a kitchen and a living room and some asshole saying je t'aime to another asshole -- that's not a movie! Give me deserts and cars and guns!"
"What movies do you like?" I ventured.
"It doesn't matter as long as it's American," he said. 'They make a lot of movies with deserts and cars in them. Egyptian movies, too, are not bad."
He didn't mind English people.
"They're on to them," he said. "They know what these French assholes are up to and they don't trust them for a minute."

The security took ages at Charles de Gaulle. There seemed to be some kind of heightened alert because there were reams of security questions and lots of conflicting instructions about all passengers on American carriers going to some special gate -- which I ignored, with no ill-effects. By the time I'd passed through it all I had no time to buy reading material or a snack. Normally this would've been okay, as I travel well-prepared. But this time I'd been counting on airport time to stock up and one puny Vanity Fair was very much not what the doctor ordered.

Although I cut it so close I was still one of the first ones on the plane and we were about two hours starting. I was seated next to a young Indian woman about my own age with two kids. The little boy was maybe three with little glasses and fell asleep in my lap. My across-the-aisle neighbors were another story. They looked like a pair of grown-up nerds; you know the drill, the kind who look like they might be jetting off to e trekker's convention or similar. At first I thought the man might be mentally handicapped because of the way his wife spoke to him ("Honey, do you want to move so this nice lady (me) can get by?"), until i realized it was just what she was like. She tucked them both up in an electric blanket of some kind and produced some kind of self-heating hairbrush which made a really loud noise, with which she brushed his hair. Then she brought forth a wide array of snacks -- cut-up oranges and Teddy grahams, among others. They were a lot of trouble for the stewardess.

"A lukewarm tea, please, with a straw -- oh, no, I can't drink that -- just give me a Sprite -- not a 7-Up -- not too cold, with a cup and one piece of lemon.'
"would you like me to open it for you?" asked the attendant sarcastically (She was refreshingly fierce and bitter generally).
"No, thank you." he said. "I don't want you to handle it."

The food was really bad -- worse than it used to be, I think. The snack we got later --a piece of pizza, some grapes and a Walker Brother's shortbread cookie -- was a lot better than the actual lunch, in which everything was swathed in butter substitute. I must confess to having eaten the butter pat, plain, on Atkins-style principles of trying to fill up without having to eat the rest of the food.

Security was dreadful at JFK, too, and then for some reason they didn't put the luggage on the conveyor belt, but dumped it all on the floor...but that's all in the past now.

I shan't give you the full run-down on home, as that's for another installment.

My grandfather called last night and had the following to say:

1. That he hopes I'm not thinking of getting engaged as it's a waste of time and what's the difference between being engaged and not being engaged anyway? And if I do get engaged, her certainly hopes I won't wear a ring because diamonds are a bad investment these days and man-made diamonds are the way to go. Also, in the war a lot of guys he knew didn't wear their rings.

2. I'm not as young as I used to be and in any other era would have been an old maid. Also, if I want to have children I'd better get on it because women can't have children forever and I needn't think I can put it off indefinitely.

'Oh, I'm just giving you the needle,' he said when I expressed disapprobation.

2004-02-14T03:21:00.000-08:00

Happy Valentine's Day!

(I just checked my stock rating.)

There was a lot of drama last night. The pistachio crème anglaise curdled and Guyon became despondant and ordered me to throw it away so he wouldn't have to be reminded of his failure. It was actually all right, though; I essayed a technique I'd read about for salvaging Hollandaise sauce and this morning it seemed fine. And the chocolate marquise looks beautiful. He's out now shopping for the rest of the dinner, which involves many ingredients and an assortment of wines. We also had a Valentine's Day screening of Train Spotting last night -- and it was Valentine's day because he didn't finish the dessert until 2 am.

This morning we had a festive breakfast and I presented him with my card and a fine chocolate heart I bought at a really good artisanal chocolate shop in the 9th.
"How much are you looking to spend?" the proprietor asked me.
"Not too much," I said.
"Well, then , why have you come to the most expensive shop in Paris?" she demanded.

In the end I bought several things, so I spent a respectable amount. "Aha -- for the man in your life," she said when she saw the heart I was buying Guyon.

I'm picking up a few souvenirs for people now. I'm going to do my best to find some Molinard 24-hour cream, which is apparently very good (whatever that means) and still unavailable in the States. I've also picked up some little pots of a very liquid jam meant to be eaten with yogurt, some chocolate, and a certain kind of granola bar for my friend Lit (not her real name -- but I don't use anyone's name, save Guyon's), who, happily, will be visiting Gotham during my tenure.

I've mentioned before my reluctance to toss around the term "friend" because I don't like to give the impression I'm more sociable than I am. I'd say, at final count, I only have six good friends and perhaps ten others. I guess that's respectable enough, but when you consider that people like my brother are practically neck-deep in cameraderie, it seems fairly mean. I didn't count, by the way, people who might consider themselves my friends but whom, in fact, I don't care for. This would be unethical; it's not as if there are so many of these, anyhow...

I've been worrying my friend in England is all alone this Valentine's Day, writing sermons and pulling weeds in solitary splendor. Oh well; it's not that big a deal in Europe.

2004-02-13T12:27:00.000-08:00

I've escaped from the house. Guyon's shelling a bunch of pistachios and it's getting very unpleasant. Because of this, we've been prevented from having dinner and I'm going to try to find a cookie or something from Snack Time, which is this rather crummy 24-hour place near the apartment. Over and out.

2004-02-13T03:02:00.000-08:00

I'm in a terrific mood! This morning, Guyon received a piece of very looked-for news regarding graduate school admissions! I won't report too much,as this isn't my news, but suffice it to say that M. Knight is in a fair way to ending up in a certain country upon whose erstwhile empire the sun never set, and which starts with an "E" and ends with a "D." I am meeting him for a celebration (well, lunch in a café near his work) in just a moment.

Other good news: I received in the mail today a used copy of Living a Beautiful Life which I ordered from Amazon a few weeks ago. Lots of tips about nice rituals and putting lemons places and things like that that I like.

Today I was walking down the street and a very pleasant voice said, "Good morning, Mademoiselle. How are you?" and it was that bum I feud with, dressed in the new Spring colors! The whole world is unfurling its petals and looking towards the sun, so it would seem.

These are all nice Saint-Valentin presents. We are celebrating the day proper by having Guyon cook dinner, a novelty indeed. He is not one of these guys who can't cook at all, so no amusing hijinx will ensue. However, he's the sort of new cook who's really uptight about following directions and not improvising and, as he's selected an extremely elaborate menu, I'm going to make it my business to be ex casa (or similar) during the (lengthy) prep. As it is, I'm stuck with the job of finding "75 grammes raw, unsalted pistachios" for a pistachio crème anglaise he wants to make from some Taillevent recipe. This has proven an ordeal and I think I'll need to spend the afternoon going to a middle-eastern market...

Saw the new Altman film last night. In my own immortal words, "too much pirates." Or, in this case, dancing. By my calculations, one hits saturation at the dance in the swing...but you'll see what I mean.

2004-02-12T11:26:00.000-08:00

The horror! The horror!

I just flew in from the Cathedral and boy, are my arms tired...to say nothing of the rest of me.

You may notice that it's not my usual day for the Cathedral. Well, you wouldn't be wrong: I am now working Thursday afternoons. This leaves me out of the Mission Lunch (save those who sign up for it during my shift) but frees me up to work the real soup kitchen. Thursday sees Montessori, as usual, but free counseling instead of AA. This is pretty much a trade-off; like the AA members, the clinic patients are cagey and try to avoid admitting why they've come. I certainly don't care; in any case, I always knew that any English man was there for AA, even when they pretended to be picking kids up from the nursery school.

There's also a language exchange on Thursdays. David and I made the mistake of attending this once and it was appalling. As lone anglophones, we were pounced upon and forced to speak English for hours to various oddities, including one very supercilious anti-semite in a crested blazer.

My new shift follow on the heels of Eleanor's, so I was in for a good twenty minutes' busy work -- specifically, unstapling and rearranging the hundreds of petites annonces on the bulletin board. She also insisted that I "train" a young woman volunteer several years my senior who is living in Paris with her Croatian fiancé. I was quite annoyed at this turn of events, but accepted it with good grace. Situations like these used to wear on me as I felt compelled to behave normally, but lately...well, I find I care less and less what people think, and I've been behaving as oddly as I choose, which is generally very oddly. Frankly, I also dislike having my position as "youthful beauty" of the Cathedral volunteers menaced. And it doesn't take much menacing.

So it was all right, after all. She was pleasant enough, and I was most odd. We chatted about the various cathedral personalities and expat stuff. After a while she asked me hesitantly if I knew "that old woman...Florette" and when I said, yes, revealed that last week, Florette struck her with her cane. It seems Jessica (this Young Person) tried to assist F to her taxi and this so incensed that elderly personage that she dealt her a sharp blow. Even by Florette standards this seemed peculiar and I resolved to question her about the matter personally.

I had occasion to do so not long after. Luckily Jessica had left for the language exchange and Florette settled in for a comfy coze.

"I'm certainly glad it's you!" she said repeatedly (in French.) "That Eleanor is mean! She's mean! Oh, you wouldn't believe what happened last week! Well, I'll tell you." And she did.

It seems that last week a bag of Florette's containing 2 pain au chocolats, 2 pain aux raisins, and 2 apple chaussons, disappeared from the premises. She went wild (I'm told -- not by her) and, when people failed to find the bag, flew into a real rage. She contends that Eleanor was wholly unsympathetic and made light of the loss, and then insisted that "l'autre dame" help Florette to her taxi, against her will.

"Some people I like to have help me, but I didn't want her!" she told me. "You I like -- you may help me to the taxi -- but no one else!" She did not allude to the hitting.

She cleaved unto me in a big way today, repeating that I was the only one she likes and stroking my hand when I put her in the taxi. She also asked my first name. All very well, but from what I've heard tell, it could be me feeling her stick next week.

"She hates all French people," declared the secretary, Marie definitely.
"Really?" I said suspiciously, since Florette is herself French and despises to my certain knowledge anyone who isn't.
"Oh, yes. She won't answer when I tell her 'Good Morning' and today when I said it she turned her back on me and spanked herself."

Well! Well!

2004-02-11T02:11:00.001-08:00

So:

I just had occasion to check my other email address, which normally lies fallow, and what should I find?

Well, first I need to tell you that, to preserve some measure of anonymity, I have been visiting the website of certain people (with whom I have infatuation) under said alias. This email address, you see, does not contain any clue to my name. I posted some typically bizarre comments in various fora concerning the making of stock and soaking of offal -- even for me, these remarks were peculiar, and very forecfully worded -- and rather regretted it afterwards.

And then, lo and behold, the person himself writes me today asking me to be a regular contributor to a new food website he is starting! C'est pas mal, ça, non?

2004-02-11T02:11:00.000-08:00

So:

I just had occasion to check my other email address, which normally lies fallow, and what should I find?

Well, first I need to tell you that, to preserve some measure of anonymity, I have been visiting the website of certain people (about whom I've written before -- YOU know who I mean) under said alias. This email address, you see, does not contain any clue to my name -- "spinster2" . I posted some typically bizarre comments in various fora concerning the making of stock and soaking of offal -- even for me, these remarks were peculiar, and very forecfully worded -- and rather regretted it afterwards.

And then, lo and behold, THE PERSON himself writes me asking me to be a regular contributor to a new food website he is starting!

C'est pas mal, ça, non?

2004-02-11T01:49:00.000-08:00

I forgot to bring the Book of Beasts from which to quote the passage entitled "Man."

Here's some other things I'd rather die than do:

Be on Elimidate. Especially as one of the competitors, but also as "the girl."

Be stuck on a desert island with Gore Vidal.

Live on a kibbutz. Even for a day.

I'm sure there's other things, like being on teh Atkins Diet for the rest of my life, but these three loom the largest.

2004-02-10T05:47:00.000-08:00

It seems the monks serving us were Cistercians, so that's all right, then.

Last night I recreated for Guyon the meal I'd enjoyed at that tiny local auberge. The pappetone was easy enough -- I just made a sort of meatballish mixture with beef, pork, milk-soaked bread, egg and all sorts of herbs, and poached them in a tomato sauce. The risotto cakes were the big success, as I make risotto pretty regularly and now I'll know just how to go about using the leftovers. Yesterday I made a batch for the purpose, which is a little ludicrous, but in general all you do is form the cakes (I made them about the size of a deck of cards as the nutritionists always advise about lean proteins), dredge them in a little flour and fry in butter until crusty and brown on both sides. With this we had salad.

I wonder if you'll notice that, in all my crowing over my efficient packing, I didn't once mention my suitcase. Well, that's because I was forced to carry everything around in a University of Chicago tote bag. This was obviously humiliating on several levels, although as I was flying EasyJet the sting wasn't quite so sharp as it might have been. The girl sitting next to me was incredibly chic and French and I was pretty embarrassed to be carrying it, especially as I'd glimpsed her bag which seemed to be elegant and made of patent-leather. However, when we disembarked at Linate I saw that what my short-sighted eyes had mistaken for patent leather was in fact a garbage bag and I felt rather better about things.

In general my sight wasn't so much of a hurdle as I had feared. I wore one or the other of the lenses, monacle-fashion, when the need was acute, and otherwise made do with squinting. The only real drawback was the fact that I kept mistaking strangers for people I knew -- well, for this girl Sydney Schwarz with whom I went to college, and Ian Holm. I didn't speak to them; just peered closely and tacitly gave "Ian Holm" to know that the jig was up. Because he needn't think he can stride around Carthusian monasteries and maintain his anonymity.

I've been scurrying about getting my Valentine's Day packages prepared. Obviously it's a bit late in the day for that kind of thing, but with a little quick work the bulk of them will reach their destinations within the week. I've had a hard time finding the materials I need, although it's not difficult to find little pressed-paper images. The problem is, most of them are Easter-themed. I had thought of sending off some pre-fab cartes, but they're so utterly vile -- and not even in a particularly French way -- that I can't bring myself to do it.

Some of you may know that I'm heading home this Sunday for a two-week stint. Accordingly, I'm trying to get everything sewed up here and I've a good number of little presents to buy...there are too many people I've been neglecting at home. Nothing a little jam can't cure. Among others, I've been terribly keen lately to look up the woman who was my boss at the antique linens shop when I was eighteen.

That summer, of course, I was also working as a waitress at a health food restaurant. One of the other employees was a new-agey young woman called Anna who worked in theatre and massage as well as the hospitality industry and had an annoying habit, whenever anyone asked her where she'd gone to college, of saying, "Oh, a little school in Connecticut," instead of Yale.

She regarded me as something of a protègée.
"I have had experiences," she said to me impressively one day, "that the average human could not fathom. Some day, when you're ready, I'll tell you something about my life."

"All right, I'll tell you." she said a few minutes later. "When I was twenty I traveled around the country in a VW with a forty-three-year-old midget. We were lovers. I learned more about myself, my body and the universe than I did in four years of college."

2004-02-09T01:57:00.001-08:00

I recently asked a friend (okay, it was David) what he thought the most buffoonish of all nationalities was.
"Australians," he replied without hesitation.

I must say there is something very gratifying about people living up to stereotype, and the Italians are very conscientious about this. As you see, I am back and have returned to the tiresome business of being a ne'er-do-well. I'm not going to bore anyone with a travelogue; suffice it to say that I navigated, if not competently then ably, and that I fulfilled my objective. The objective being spending the weekend in Italy.

As indicated, there was much heckling and ogling, much bravura and a good dosage of passionate half-assedness. My hotel, it must be said, was among the most crap places in the western world -- although I was sharing a very unclean bathroom with the rest of my floor, the room was provided with its own toilet, right next to the bed, and it took a lot of energy to get a piece of furniture in front of it. Nothing I didn't expect.

I have to take a moment to discourse on the excellence and efficiency of my packing. There was a lot of weather variation, so this was a challenge. If I had the means, I would give you a digital layout of the various component parts and the dazzling array of ensuing outfits!

Item: 1 pair jeans
Item: 1 brown skirt, A-line, of church respectability and dress-up possibilities
Item: 1 v-neck navy pullover
Item: 1 sleeveless brown wool top/vest
Item: 1 yellow cowl-neck top w/ dress-up possibilities
Item: 2 white T-shirts, 1 silk-wool undershirt, long-sleeved
Item: 1 pair brown cowboy boots
Item: 1 pair brown T-strap heels
Item: 1 jean jacket
Item: 1 black coat, respectable
Underwear, socks, pajamas.
White beret, brown fake pashmina, rose lapel pin.

Day 1:
Flight: Jeans, yellow cowl-neck top, boots, coat, scarf, beret.
Milan: Skirt, T-shirt, vest, jean jacket, scarf, T-strap shoes. Undershirt and beret in purse in case of cold (used, later.)

Day 2: Jeans, T-shirt, vest, scarf, boots, coat.
Dinner: Skirt, yellow top, T-strap shoes. Black coat etc.

Day 3:(cold) undershirt, V-neck sweater, boots, black coat etc.
Dinner: Skirt, brown top, flower pin, T-strap shoes. Black coat etc.

Day 4: jeans, t-shirt, v-neck sweater, boots. Black coat etc.

The scarf was also worn without the coat, you see, in the manner of an accessory.

It would have been nicer if all these things had been of the first quality and condition -- the bulk, I fear, were pretty tatty -- but it was still a piece of prime planning on my part. You'll notice the preponderance of neutrals and clever use of accessories as well as the crafty double-life of the brown vest!

I did a good deal of sightseeing and walking in Milan and did my best to speak Italian -- not very convincing as I can't roll my R's (even if this is less of an issue in the north), and so couldn't even pronounce the elementary with authority. A bum in the park serenaded me with "O Sole Mio" which I thought was pretty good until he started singing "Ave Maria" to a passing donkey. My first evening I saw "The Last Supper" which, although woefully burdened with obvious context far outstripped the average masterpiece in beauty, energy and real emotion. This is, of course, partially due to the authentic placement which affects the whole viewing. Worth the (admittedly very cheap) price of the airfare, all by itself.

That night I ate at a tiny, very local place reccomended in my guidebook. This was very awkward as I was so much out of place and had to share a table with two guys who weren't any too keen on my company. One of them spoke a little English, so he was able to help me with the menu, and I must say -- it was the cheapest restaurant in the world; the whole meal was six euro! I had a fried risotto cake, a mixed green salad and a little meatballish papettone in tomato sauce. The wine, too, was simple and excellent. My neighbor at the tabel explained to me that the family had been in the wine game, hence the fine artisanal quality. He also told me to go to Lago Maggiore in the spring, rent a boat and see the gardens.
"I'm a gardener," he said, "and seeing that makes me feel what I do is worthwhile." or similar.

Before setting off for¨Pavia I had a good look at the shops, saw many pointy-toed shoes and variegated furs and beautiful girls, and had a good gelato -- I wanted to get a mix of hazelnut and "pera" but the fellow said to get chocolate and pear instead, so I did. The chocolate had hot pepper in it and was very spicy and strange -- quite in the new Aztec school of chocolate-eating.

In Pavia, where I spent the next two days in company, I visited among other things a Carthusian monastery. I was excited about this, as Guyon's area of study is of course the Carthusians. It seemed that they were exempted from their vow of silence in the cause of supporting the community and so one monk guided a tour of the grounds(very baroque) and several others assisted in the shop where they sold honey and other products they make. The guide was very vivacious -- really making the most of his talking time, I guess -- and walked with a pronounced limp. I worried that, like Saint Bernadette, he had a tumor "the size of a child's head" (as we know from the book version of Song of Bernadette) on his leg from bone cancer and wasn't getting proper care out of misplaced piety. In the shop I bought generously, but as careful not to make them speak more than necessary -- no great feat given my Italian. I bought two chocolate bars, a cake of beeswax soap, some quince-honey preserves and a book for Guyon. I felt pretty low about it all, especially having seen their cells and knowing that they were probably longing for silence and contemplation and were instead at the mercy of commerce. That very evening Guyon told me that he'd been thinking if doing a lay retreat at a Carthusian monastery not far from Paris, but was concerned about maintaining proper historical distance.

I'm going to have to end this installment out of sheer weariness. I do want to reccommend a couple of books first:

The Journals of Denton Welch
Dear James by Jon Hassler

I don't usually do that kind of thing for the simple reason that I don't see why anyone should care; but as neither of these might be at the forefront of your thinking, it seemed worth mentioning.

2004-02-09T01:57:00.000-08:00

2004-02-09T01:49:00.000-08:00

Food For Thought:

"Like many a seeming genius, (Branwell Bronte) found the test of performance impossible to face because nothing he could ever do could reach the expected standard. So long as he was not actually put to the proof he could, like a prodigious child, live brilliantly on promise. His creative urge could drive him in one direction after another, his undoubted talents could expand, and and his own hope and vanity, unchilled by outside criticism, could pursue a large untroubled dream of fame. Only when reality, the enemy, obtruded itself did the bubble collapse, and the wretched boy, terrified of failure to a degree unknown to those who have never been under a comparable pressure towards success, would desperately cast about for ways of escape. The means of escape were not many, but there were a few; among them were the illusions of drink and opium."

Note: quote from A Book of Beast's entry on "Man."

2004-02-04T01:23:00.000-08:00

And I'm off. I have my ticket, my hotel reservation and a guidebook. I leave tomorrow morning at 10:45 and will arrive at lunchtime. I'm preoccupied with transit in its many forms, but maybe it'll be okay and the Euro does tend to simplify matters. My job for today is to check the weather forecast and see what opera is playing in Milan. I don't know what the internet situation will be, so it's hard to make any guarantees. More later.

2004-02-02T04:41:00.000-08:00

There is a fellow who sells sandwiches at a stand near my house who is becoming very insolent and yesterday addressed me as "tu." I like the sandwiches, so something has to be done. I am going to enlist David to pretend to be my boyfriend and come to the stand with me; cannot enlist actual boyfriend as Guyon takes a dim view of elaborate and indirect schemes of this nature.

The Hypothetical Dossier
Speaking of boyfriends, I have lately been considering the matter of the hypothetical dossier of boyfriends I would like to have under my belt, had I other boyfriends under my belt.

A painter

A Jew

Someone very intense and possibly Scottish.

Although it's not really my style, I've been thinking of throwing in a musician for good measure -- you know, someone who happened to be in a minor band with a record deal, but had an alternate identity as well.

I'm not interested in having dated someone much older than I am, or a celebrity. If you are wondering why I have not included certain Englishmen with interests in mid-century poetry and the Church of England, it's because I would not so degrade him. Besides, he is the future, not the past.

Went to a party this weekend. I was in an unusually sour mood and electrified the assmbled company with various displays of sullenness and unpleasantness, such as walking away in the middle of conversations and yawning loudly. I also drank orange juice, as if I was on the wagon or something.

Guyon and I did discover a very good spot, though, a tea shop in the Marais called Le Loir dans la Théire. I was initially put off by the name and the fact that Time Out said "Alice in Wonderland would feel right at home in this spot" but in fact it wasn't precious at all. Rather bohemian, with good sweets and several old couples thrown in for good measure. I had a tarte tatin; Guyon, carrot cake. We also visited Musée de Carnavallet and replaced the mirror in our bathroom, which broke last week. This was an ordeal as it necessitated a visit to the basement of the BHV, the finding en français of magnetic medicine cabinet hinges, the giving en français of cutting and measuring instructions...it took well over two hours, all told.

Yesterday we had beautiful weather so I had a long walk in the Luxembourg Gardens and made a thorough study of the Hutton Report.

2004-01-31T03:07:00.000-08:00

This is not in my usual style. But love changes people. Here is the website of that guy I'm in love with:

Also check out his excellent work on the Stevie Smith page:

sprogress.com
steviesmith.org

2004-01-31T02:53:00.000-08:00

It seemed to me imperative that I communicate the information that I just had a late breakfast at Paul. Sometimes I feel rather shunted around there (even in France the single woman diner is rather non grata), but I do my best to project French sangfroid and, in any case, the breakfast menu is very reasonable.

The odd thing was that all the waitresses were very round today, as if they found every large woman in Paris and stuck them in this one building. I must say that, for all one hears about the difficulties of the round in the City of Lights (apparently French people don't know Paris is called this), these women seemed very much at home. They did seem to me to suggest an earlier time; hearty, bullying innkeeper's wives, that sort of thing. Maybe part of a revoltionary mob. I could just imagine one of them staring me down, arms akimbo, at an inn, demanding to know, pointedly, where my maid and luggage were and saying frostily that their caliber of establishment doesn't cater to "unaccompanied young persons." Shades of Devil's Cub.

My waitress subjected me to a little bit of that treatment today, for no good reason that I couold see. Throwing my knife down with a clatter, seeming to despise me etc.

I sat in smoking, comme habitude, as it's by far the^pleasanter of the two salles, with its chandeliers and carpeting. I ordered the Parisien, very reasonable at 3 Euro: a tartine with butter and jam, and a large café au lait. The young couple next to me (she was pregnant, he, good-looking) ordered the menu I'd always considered the purview of absolute pigs: tartine, coffee, and croissant. She was eating for two, of course, but in his case it seemed practically Rabelaisan. He also had a hot chocolate.

2004-01-30T08:19:00.000-08:00

I had a small misadventure this morning. I was resolved to get to the Cathedral bright and early, as I'd been late the past three weeks and hate making John the sexton pick up my slack -- even if the clock there is ten minutes fast. Accordingly, I was out the door by quarter of eight and within ten minutes ahd purchased my juice and croissant. I was so full of my own efficiency that I promptly leapt on the wrong train -- understandable as the RER is notoriously difficult (for me) to navigate. I was so buried in Les Lettres de Madame Sevigné that it took me several stops to realize my error. No matter, I thought as I hopped off at Bibliotheque François Mitterand. This is where my time cushion kicks in. I jumped onto another train that seemed to be pointed in the right direction -- remember, please, that I'm still legally blind -- and we were off!

My first hint of unease pricked when I noticed I was the only one in the carriage. It intensified when the lights went out, and when I found I couldn't move into the other cars, and when we had been moving for thirty minutes without having stopped. We also seemed to be in the country.

Finally, we stopped. We seemed to be in the middle of nowhere. I pressed the door's button to open it, and nothing happened. After a few minutes I managed to pry it open with my hands and jump the three feet to the ground. I was standing on a train track on a barren, snow-covered plain. There were a few abandoned factories in the distance. No one was in sight, although I could see another train on the next track.

I leapt a few third rails and tried the door of the other train, which opened obligingly. When I climbed in, however, I found that this, too, was abandoned. I ran from car to abandoned car until I reached the empty engineer's booth. Theoretically, I could have driven the train away, and I considered it -- maybe if I'd had my glasses. I could see this was going nowhere fast, so I went back outside.

There must be a station somewhere, I thought, so I started walking in the direction my train had been moving, following the track. I walked and walked. After about twenty minutes' walking I came across a small shed. I peered inside.

"Cold, isn't it?" said the old man inside.
"Yes," I said. "Where am I?"
"This is the shack," he said. "But the station is fifteen minutes' walk that way. You'll see a flight of stairs. Go up it."

I accepted this and moved on. Sure enough, after another long stretch of walking I saw the stairs -- one very tall metal flight with a spindly bridge atop. I ascended. A man in a wool cap was leaning against the bridge's flimsy guardrail.

"The train's down there," he said. I thanked him and climbed down a ladder to a concrete platform. I waited for fifteen minutes.
The man in the cap appeared.
"Where are you going?" he said.
"Paris."
"No, you're not." he said. "This is the train to Provence."
I thanked him, climbed up the ladder, traversed the bridge and climbed down another ladder. I was the only one on this platform, too.

Needless to say I was hours late to the Cathedral, and I couldn't explain why.

I went to the Musée de la Mode after work, as I knew it to be free. It was full of fashion student types -- emaciated Asian hipsters and a few svelte queens with extravagent hair. No wonder; it was some kind of vague installation involving hollograms, voices shouting,
"sexuality! consumerism! commodity!" etc.
and a large banquet table dressed with mutilated boots.

I had the impression it was dealing with ideas of body image and that old chestnut, viewer manipulation (who's laughting at whom? etc. etc.) and, being the jaded sophisticate that I am, managed to find it trite rather than absurd.

So then I went to the Musée Jacquemart-André, the home of a pair of haute bourgeoisie art collectors. Very good headset commentary, but a rather decadent display of objets, thought I. They seemed wholly indiscrimintate, frankly -- "eclecticism" only excuses so much, my good man.

I've been reading, mostly out of curiosity, this book Entre Nous A Woman's Guide to Finding Her Inner French Girl. Lots of purple-prose blazoning of gallic virtue, at my expense: discretion, self-containment/possession etc. I am, however, deeply antisocial, which, couched in terms of "selectivity," the author commends. Lots of rot about how aware of who she is the French woman is, how impervious to others' opinions -- lies, lies! The book is, however, riveting. There is, in fact, a booming industry of such books: an Amazon search revealed more than six "French women's secrets"-type things; an interesting counterpoint to the wave of anti-French books that come up in the same search, non? Is there no moderation? I think this bears comment, but won't get it because serious pundits are unaware of the first genre's existence.

Add Hiroshima Mon Amour to that list of things I don't like.

There's a proposed billiards expedition for this evening, but I'm on the fence. Like the French woman, I know who I am -- that is to say, not some salty-but-sexy guy's girl who shotguns beers and leaps around with a pool cue permanently attached to her paw. No, I'm not.

2004-01-28T09:41:00.000-08:00
I'm hungry as all git-out, but I'm going to write a bit if I die in the process. I just got back from an afternoon with the two little boys, very tiring. They engaged in a battle royale on the playground, over, initially, a small red car. Their combatants were a pair of boys roughly one and two, and so not terribly intimidating. Later, though, the babies were joined by a pair of twins, maybe four, dressed in matching striped scarves, hats, and black coats, and that's when things really heated up. Needless to say it ended in tears all around. I've agreed to start sitting some evenings with Gilbert and Gilles, and while I can always use the l'argent de poche, I have terrifying visions of trying to get the three-year-old into bed -- pajamas after bath is ordeal enough. He always runs around the house naked for at least ten minutes, dripping water everywhere, before his mother manages to tackle him and give him a smart slap, both things I'm unwilling to do. Outside my jurisdiction, anyway. Or is it? Maybe these French parents just expect you to hit the children -- order at all costs? I had this philosophical debate with another American babysitter not long ago. I maintained that if they wanted someone who'd hit the kids, the parents wouldn't have hired an American; they know what we are: soft. One thing's for sure, though; kids who are used to physical discipline can no longer be governed by less drastic means.

Guyon's out of town on a company retreat of some kind, about which he is justifiably sheepish. I'm excited to have the place all to myself for a while, and am going to take advantage of his absence by experimenting with Orange Julius. I've found several recipes on the internet, but most of them omit the raw egg, and I don't want any pussyfooting here, just the real deal. I have, in fact, purchased several free-range, organic eggs for the purpose, less out of concern for my health than the knowledge that regular chicks are fed on fish pellets -- not a good thing in an Orange Julius.

Here's just a few things I can't stand:
Incense
Hand stamps (I often forego comine/going/drinking rights to avoid them)
People lecturing me about how badly commercial chickens are treated.

I'll amplify this list as I think of things.

My grandpa phoned me at one a.m. his time this morning to ask me how Our Mutual Friend ends; he didn't want to bother with the end of the miniseries. It'd been a pretty long time since I saw the miniseries myself, though, so I was cautious about venturing my recollections. Needless to say, I hadn't read it.

He then gave me a hard time about living apart from Guyon next year, with many taunting references to "Turner's Law of Thermodynamics" (something about bodies wanting to be close to heat ; i.e. infidelity), which amuses him tremendously.

If this lacks sparkle, blame it in turn on lack of food and the grim prospect, post-O.J., of Hiroshima Mon Amour at nine ten.

2004-01-27T01:55:00.000-08:00
Heigh-ho. My internet pass has run its tether, hence yesterday's defection. Today I've scrounged up the change for a few minutes, but I'm afraid it won't be too satisfying. I'll try to arrange for a pass tonight.

Truth to tell, I was pretty busy yesterday, not merely with working, but with the preparations for a dinner party. I was planning on doing this whole fake "from Brancusi's studio" menu from an old Gourmet, but beyond being slightly ludicrous, this proved too expensive for any modest purse and so I contained myself to "Brancusi's" recipe for a white bean purée tipped into a garlic vinaigrette, and served with toasted slices of French bread. This was our starter course, and proved a colossal annoyance. Beyond the exhaustive soaking and cooking inherent to dried-bean preparation (not really so exhaustive) was the irritation of not having a mouli-légume. As a result, I had to force minute amounts through a tiny seive with the back of a wooden spoon for the better part of two hours.

I also made a roast chicken, green beans, mash and braised radishes. The cake I made for dessert was another hassle. First of all, it called for almond paste, which here only comes in Neapolitan-style tri-color blocks and streaked the batter with pink and green. Worse than this, I'd forgotten taht the recipe called for eight minutes' beating in a standing mixer -- this translated to a thousand strokes by hand and an unfortunate blister. But enough of my moaning -- goodness knows generations of women made do without KitchenAids, and worse, this is very dull.

I've been thinking a bit about Restaurants in Old Movies I'd Like to Go To, something that has long interested me. First on the list is the place run by Felix in Christmas in Connecticut. There's also a decent all-you-can-eat place in The Babe Ruth Story (German, I think) and the Raskeller in Shop Around the Corner has always appealed to me. More recently, I was drawn to the tea room they frequent in Cat People. My requirement is that they have old-fashioned atmosphere, be jolly, have good food, and, ideally, small shaded lamps on each table. If you can think of others to add to this list, please do let me know.

I have leapt with great enthusiasm into a new project so explosive I can't say anything more.

My time's up.

2004-01-25T08:46:00.000-08:00
I'm afraid I'm in love. You will recall, perhaps, that some weeks ago I revealed a half-joking fascination with the young man who does such a brilliant job of maintaining the Stevie Smith webpage. Well, this weekend I did a bit more investigating and discovered that he graduated Balliol college (Oxford), worked in finance until recently (he quit to pursue various eccentric things) and does a good bit of freelance as well as creative writing. This is all besides the point, however. The meat of the thing is that he lives in an old farmhouse in Cambridgeshire, is an enthusiastic gardener and has a tremendous interest in food (to say nothing of Stevie Smith.) To cap it all, he is in the habit of giving guest sermons at his village C of E parish! All of his sermons are reproduced on his personal homepage, and pretty good they are too -- lots of gardening analogies.

One of his webpages (he has several) is asking for submissions of poems and stories dealing with food, so naturally I'm on it and will have submitted something arresting by week's end -- very possibly dealing with pastry. Failing that, I may ask him to design the web magazine I have in the works (if I can manage to raise a soupçon of capital), which he does, by the way. This would be in good faith, as I very much like his sensibility on the Stevie Smith and Looby-Loo pages.

In an attempt to reach the Musée Jacquemart-André yesterday, Guyon and I got stuck in a very unpleasant embouteillage at Miromesnil station. It seems the transit authority (or its French equivalent) had closed about four stations and redirected all passengers to this rather dinky one. As a result, everyone was packed like sardines and it took twenty minutes to exit the station. Very unpleasant, to say nothing of dangerous -- poor planning, I must say.

Later in the afternoon, popped into Old England to jette un coup d'oeil over the sale prices. Old England is a wonderfully old -fashioned department store carrying lots of tweeds and steamer rugs and plus-fours. I saw the most tremendous pair of beige "sport shoes" you can possibly imagine, but they were pretty dear so I confined myself to the sale racks where I found a few skirts and sweaters to try on. The salesgirl, who took a tremendous interest in the whole proceeding, kept popping into the dressing room in a way I initially found very disconcerting. She also forced me to buy everything a size smaller than I wanted, going so far as to whisk the larger sizes out of the dressing room against my wishes. When she learned Guyon was American she promptly demanded chewing gum, which I found rather peculiar -- what's next, cigarettes and black-market silk stockings?

Today saw us visiting the Notre Dame catacombs and Père Lachaise. I've been off cemetaries lately, but this was jolly enough. We saw Chopin, Colette, Abelard and Eloise and Jim Morrison; Oscar Wilde was kind of out of our way. I kept thinking of the part of The Blessing when Charles-Edouard says to Sigismond, "Take a good look around, Sigi. You shall spend more time here than you will any place on Earth." There's something comforting in that, I suppose; goodness know I felt pretty rootless knowing there was no plot in the world with my name on it (only figuratively, actually, since my grandmother's grave has, I suppose, exactly my name on it -- to say nothing of plenty of others.) I was also pretty annoyed to think about havingto make funeral arrangements for my parents -- when they know how I feel about embalming, and of course it's out of the question to leave anything to Charlie. How much more tranquil for those French people I know who can just leap into their family shack at Lachaise any time they feel like it! Perhaps will make a family plot somewhere, illegally. I'd sort of like to cut out the middleman. I have it! The Arkansas land! More on this later.

We rented The Magdalene Sisters last night, with depressing results. I am always deeply effected by any movie that closes with a shot of
a dead-eyed, catatonic lunatic huddled in the corner of an asylum cell.

2004-01-23T09:02:00.000-08:00
I forgot to mention something that happened the other day. I had a hot chocolate at Angelina one afternoon; rather disspiriting in itself as I was the only one in the whole place sitting by herself and the waitresses gave me rather short shrift. I was reading Theatre Shoes. To make matters worse, when the bill arrived and I tried to pay with a charge card I was informed that the restaurant has a 15 Euro minimum "for such transactions." It so happens I had noted approvingly the couple to my left -- a kind-looking middle-aged woman and an elderly lady whom I assumed was her mother. They were each drinking an Africain (the famous Angelina hot chocolate for each cup of which they melt an entire chocolate bar -- although how they measure that I don't know), which I totaled up to about what I needed to make the minimum. So I asked them very politely if I could pay their check. They'd already paid it and instead ended up paying my check which, as Guyon points out, was a fairly good scam (albeit on a pretty petty scale) and ends up making me look a fool. It turns out it was the mother's eightieth birthday -- "what better reason for us to pay your bill?" asked the daughter -- I could think of a few -- and the Africain was by way of a celebration. The birthday girl, truth be told, seemed to take a rather dim view of the whole proceedings -- well, being eighty and French, one could hardly expect anything else of her.

So, I procured my savior's address and dispatched 6.50 in the mail today. I also somehow committed to going to some sort of folk-singing group she runs on Tusday mornings. She assures me a lot of Americans go -- well, one guy, anyway. We'll see. I do seem to end up looking a fool rather more than the average mortal -- but then, one can't avoid one's calling.

Regarding Theatre Shoes, I'm afraid I can't reccomend it unreservedly. It's quite unabashedly Ballet Shoes redux: the three protagonists attend the same theatre academy, are constantly being likened to the Fossil sisters and, most outrageously, are put through school by them. What's more, the ending was abrupt. It had the strangeness of all Noel Streatfeild's children's books, which is sort of what I like -- lots of odd, harsh adults and children being forced to go on the stage against their will etc.

Speaking of book chat, I finished that biography of Joe Carstairs. I won't give it away, except to say that Lord Tod Wadley was cremated with her in 1994. The best thing about it was the cataloguing of all the absurd bohemain characters who were all for "instantly mythologizing" themselves in the '20's. I do think it's a shame that money doesn't translate itself into eccentric affectation as it once did -- seems to be a force for dulness instead. I've been thinking, in fact, that with the plethora of Hipster Handbooks/How to be a Lady/Bombshell Manual of Style manifestos clogging amazon these days, someone really ought to turn out an Eccentric's Manual of Style. I shall probably have to do it myself. And don't tell me that that ridiculous Simon Doonan's Wacky Chicks was the same thing, because his definition of wackiness seems to be pedestrian Mame stuff and that's not what I have in mind at all. Maybe a Spinster Manual of Style while I'm at it. Was Minnie Pearl married?

I purchased today a copy of Bonjour Tristesse. All my reading will henceforth be in French; look for this book on the streets of Manhattan this summer when it is produced, by me, to great effect in various cafés and subway cars.

Oh! The apricot croissant! First let me say that, as I was suffering from a migraine and the attendant nauseating effects of Excedrin Migraine this morning, the purchase and sampling of the apricot croissant can be viewed as a supreme sacrifice in the interests of science. That said, it was excellent -- two apricot halved and a little almond cream. My one criticism was the gratuitous sprinkling of confectioner's sugar on top. As a whole, too subtle, perhaps, for the common palate -- far better recollected in tranquillity.

Eleanor called the Cathedral today while I was on duty and was delighted when I neglected to say, "how may I help you?" What's worse, she heard Florette shouting in the background and reminded me sternly that that elderly lady is to be denied access to front desk facilities.

Florette was in bad form -- the soup kitchen brings out the worst in her. "The arrogance! The arrogance!" she sputtered repeatedly -- at what, I'm not sure.

I talked a good deal with the sexton, John, who, as it turns out, comes from a family of eleven and highly reccomends it. I also got in trouble with the Francophone minister over a switchboard error -- I was very defiant about it. Today's lunch, by the way, was Shepherd's pie.

After that I went to Brentano's, as I'd never been, and found it rather dreary. As far as anglophone bookshops go, I'm a Gagliani man -- it's the oldest in Paris and has a venerable aspect and good cookbook selection. Then I marched up to the Musée de la Vie Romantique, which featured a lot of George Sand's effects and not much else. Not bad. I walked several miles to an alleged Viennese coffeehouse that has, apparently, vanished off the face of the earth, and then I took a subway home. I got into a brief rencontre with an old man (oddly carrying a Vespa helmet) but that hardly bears getting into. As any of my intimates can tell you, I have a higher-than-average incidence of hostile encounters with the elderly -- possibly because I spend so much of my time at Lion's Club Pancake Breakfasts and similar. Bearding them in their den, as it were.

I am attempting, momentarily, a certain Moroccan style of meatball in a spiced tomato sauce. Over and out.

2004-01-22T06:57:00.000-08:00
So here's a bit of all right: I came upon the most tremendous find at the used bookstore San Francisco book company yesterday, a biography of Joe Carstairs, famed lesbian speedboat racer and '20's personality! Says the blurb:

"...(T)hough she entertained actresses, duchesses and priests, she reserved the greatest love for her boats, her cars and the enigmatic doll Lord Tod Wadley."

The enigmatic doll Lord Tod Wadley is, I was glad to see, well-represented in the biog -- there is an entire gallery of photos of him in various getups.

Joe Carstairs was also queen of her own kingdom, "founding and ruling a colony of 500 black Bahamians." Altogether, a very good buy -- I'm a big fan of dolls, enigmatic and otherwise.

I think it's pretty darn thick that I should be stuck rotting here when I could be in London seeing a Shins/Modest Mouse double bill, and just because Eleanor at the cathedral couldn't find another volunteer to take the desk tomorrow. That said, there's something a little bit devastating about going to concerts all by oneself -- especially when one has gone to another country in order to do it. Then too, now that my friend in London has died, it's a question of staying in some seedy B&B in Victoria, and there's a lot to be said for not doing that.

Truth to tell, I'm getting slightly wormy about the solo stint in Lombardy, planned for early February. I've gotten myself a single room in a hostel (not the one that boasted 'seventies design' although I'm sure mine has that as well). A double is cheaper, but if there's anything creepier than sharing a tiny room with a stranger, I don't know it or want to. That said, I suppose legions of West Point drags had to all bunk together on hop weekends, to say nothing of men in 18th century taverns...No, this is better. I am also now the proud holder of a ticket to see the 6:30 showing of "The Last Supper" on Thursday 5 February. Must remember to get new specs before then -- or, at least, bring opera glasses.

Saw Mona Lisa Smile yesterday, as I'd observed the filming in Wellesley-stand in Tarrytown in the past year. Tarrytown was not much in evidence; the presence of clichés and ridiculous Boston accents in abundance made up for it, though. I always like period detailing, however, and Guyon was quite ravis over this wedding in it -- morning suits and swing bands, that kind of thing. Guyon, for those who don't know, is a tremendous dull dog when it comes to weddings. The only thing I care about in that respect is having box lunches à la Sally Bell's bakery in Richmond containing:
Item: one sandwich, chicken salad or similar
Item: one deviled egg
Item: one cup potato salad
Item: one pickle, cucumber or peach
Item: one cheese wafer w/ pecan half on it

The rest of it can go hang, so far as I'm concerned.

2004-01-21T06:11:00.000-08:00
I can't tell you how peeved I am. I looked up 'oyster stew' on Epicurious and they didn't have a single recipe. Food TV had several -- all, oddly, from Emeril and containing andouille and stuff like that. Naturally, I'll be dipped if I use a recipe of his...

My interest is purely academic. I have been planning a hypothetical menu that I would serve were a food writer coming to dinner tonight.

I think I could probably wing it (hypothetically, of course) -- I get the idea that a pint of oysters is pretty much de rigeur for four. Having looked up the metric conversion for a pint, however, I find myself unwilling to request '474 Mililitres' from the grizzled oyster-seller at the end of our road. This fellow, who has a voluminous white beard and is always dressed head-to-toe in oilcloth as though he's on the deck of a trawler, is one of the better characters in our rather touristy neighborhood.

I am also fond of the wino who hangs out by the ATMs and chuckles bitterly and continually -- no one's sure whether he wants money or not -- and the girl who works in the bakery and with whom I have an artist's fascination. She looks, to my eyes, just like a Vermeer and always has a mocking smile behind her eyes. I have brought several people -- well, Guyon and David -- in to look at her, and neither one was particularly impressed. If I could paint, I'd ask to do a portrait of her, but it would be pretty thick to sweep in and ask for something like that and then present her with a poorly-executed stick-figure. Rather more sympathetic is the wizened, gnomish girl who works as a waitress at Paul bakery café and who admires my fake fur coat tremendously.
"Ah, c'est beau!" she always exclaims. "It is so very beautiful!"
I always tip her all the change I have -- not least so I can tell that odious bum Jean-Baptiste Grenouille, truthfully, that j'ai pas de pièces.

I've just handed over a squib on the frivolous subject of the "French Trophy Friend" -- the goal of every anglophone expat (I contend.) All my "postings" are defiantly lightweight stuff like that -- eminently unsatisfactory to the Intellectual Tone of the thing. The editors' last two posts are on, I notice, Stravinsky's "Dunbarton Oaks" and the critic Schwarz.

Re: the French trophy friend, I had to dinner on Monday a young man to whom I was introduced at the American Cathedral.

"Now, I'm not trying to set you up," said Eleanor, "but I do think you'll find this young man congenial. He's a believer, you know."

I'm not sure whether the dinner was dull or not; the meat was certainly tough. Guyon was gratified to find that our guest, Antoine, knew a little something about Carthusian monks.

"And he really seemed to know what he was talking about," said Guyon afterwards. "Not one of these guys who pretends to know about Carthusians -- he actually said that they were the order the least changed since the middle ages -- and he knew about the production of Chartreuse!"

Last night, saw Les Tripelettes de Belleville which I reccomend to anyone who likes really slow-moving animated grotesquerie. Speaking of which, I'm making like a tree to catch a matinee of The Cat People; the little boys are seeing Brother Bear today, so I'm skint but free.

2004-01-20T06:04:00.000-08:00
So, Eleanor, my superior at the cathedral, is quite the most redoutable figure I know and is roundly despised by the bulk of her acquaintance. She is, in fact, so much of a grotesque that any description of her seems inflated. I believe I mentioned to you on Saturday that she is eighty.

"When one is my age -- I'm eighty -- one gets to know such things," she might say.
or
"You must be thinking, 'she must be ninety to have been in the RAF in forty-one.' Well, I'm not -- I'm eighty!"
or
"Talking of Monaco (and I'm just Rainier's age, you know -- eighty), it seems to me..."
or
"In the year when I was born -- '23 (I'm eighty) -- there were any number of MP's...)

You get the idea -- or, no, you don't, because you'll hear all that within one hour, and the accumumated effect is quite indescribable. I ought to know -- I was required to do more than twenty-four hours of training with her before I was allowed to assume the awesome responsibility of sitting at the front desk.

"It's very hard for people as efficient as I," she says. "That's why I was so invaluable in the war --I'm eighty -- I'm naturally efficient. The problem is, people want to cut corners; you can always tell when I've been here because everything is done properly!"

Indeed, the office is organized, labeled and filed to such a bewildering degree that it is wholly impossible to find anything. Large pacakages of hoarded office supplies are hidden in file drawers marked "Private! Keep out! Property of Eleanor DuBois!" She is almost remarkably inefficient; nothing seems to run properly when she's on duty.

Eleanor has created a rule book for the procedure to be followed in everything from picking up the phone (she calls all the time to test the volunteers) to writing out a message. One is never allowed to simply put a call through, needless to say. One is required to note the date, time, correct spelling of the name and express reason for the call.

"Canon Reed? This is Eleanor DuBois at the front desk with a call from your son, Arthur Reed -- that's A-R-T-H-U-R R-E-E-D -- regarding the placement of his football jersey. Shall I put him through?"

Often callers are unwilling to state the reason for the call and a fight ensues. Indeed, Eleanor gets into at least ten fights a day. These usually end with her slamming down the phone or shutting the sliding door of the guichet with a clatter.

"These people are impossible!" she shouts. "You see what I have to put up with -- don't let them get away with anything!"

She fights particularly with the homeless people who come to sign up for the soup kitchen lunch; she is extremely unpleasant to them and it's quite uncomfortable to witness. She is also high-handed with some of the immigrants to visit the church to pray -- demanding legal documentation and all sorts of things wholly outside her jurisdiction as front desk volunteer. She likes anyone English-speaking, however, or from a country she's been to, and will favor anyone who matches this description with a long recounting of her war history.

I was warned early on not to let her "take advantage of me" -- apparently she has a history of making people pick up her dry-cleaning and forcing them into marathon drinking sessions. I've so far managed to avoid the latter, and when the time comes, am planning to bring David as an English buffer. I suppose I was rather taken-advantage of during my training sessions -- I did once spend over two hours tying a peice of string around a cardboard box until it matched her specifications. As a result, however, I am very much in her good graces.

"I knew the moment I saw you that, like me, you were efficient!" she says.

Make no mistake, she can be very roguish -- she is often roguish with elderly Australian men, or the bishop.

"Of course I'm not appreciated," she says all the time. "The truly efficient ones -- the ones who keep the world turning -- never get the credit we deserve!"

She and Florette despise each other; it is she who has forbidden Florette access to the office.

"We can't have her shouting at everyone, frightening them away -- something must be done!" she declares all the time.

It was Florette who filled my ears with near-unintelligible gossip about Eleanor's trouble with her mother-in-law and late husband, a Mama's boy.

"Some nights, she would sleep here, in the garden, so she didn't have to be around that belle-mere!" Florette told me once -- I think.

Anyway, it's all pretty fascinating.

Speaking of fascinating, on Friday evening Guyon, David, our friend Sam and his girlfriend Jenny and the painter, Bridget, went out on the town. Out on the town is about my least favorite place to be, and red generally the last color I want to paint it. But at my age one has certain obligations, so I tagged along gamely and stuffed myself into a couple of bars. One of them had a very extensive drinks menu -- I had, I think, apricot nectar and Grand Marnier, although it was called something goofy. One of our party became quite inexplicqbly three-sheets and got us into a conversation with a large party of French people that somehow culminated in my having to take a sip from some guy's drink with very poor grace -- they claimed this was some kind of tradition and I happened to be sitting closest to their table. David started shouting very aggressively about being Jewish, apropos of nothing -- his way, I suppose, of preempting anti-semitism. Anyway, none of this was fun, BUT...

There was a baby who came into the bar pushing a child-sized shopping cart. I got up to investigate him further, and what should I find but an ancient old lady in black, beaming and tucked behind an old-fashioned cash register -- and this was quite a youthful, trendy bar. She was not connected to the baby, I think, but they were both back there. That was sort of the highlight, for me.

Sunday Guyon and I visited La Conciergerie -- the highlight of this was that I surreptitiously touched a guillotine blade -- much nicer than going to bars.

There's this young guy bothering me a bit so I have to go -- don't think I'm one of these girls who's always moaning about being draguee by way of showing how attractive she is, either -- it's partially my own fault as my method of dealing with it is to look uncomfortable and chuckle a lot.

2004-01-17T15:27:00.000-08:00
A bit of weekend chat; I owe as yesterday was such a lapse, so probably you'll get tomorrow into the bargain. As you can see, it's fairly late here -- the Access Academy's a ghost town; so much the better.

Highly disconcerting: about fifteen minutes ago someone on the street shouted my name, and it turned out to be this guy I went to college with. Numbers were exchanged etc. I'm feeling rather shaken-up, having my cover blown like this -- although I was highly vivacious. The odd bit is that I once ran into this same guy in the Guggenheim several years ago -- but then, one tends to see the same people over and over -- perhaps I'm actually the one who's ubiquitous, Twilight Zone-style? Very likely. It's all to the good; we are secretly hoping to acquire enough people that we can fill our apartment respectably should we decide to throw a cocktail. Our apartment, by the way, is roughly two by two. Slightly disappointing that he should recognize me; I'd hoped I'd changed radically -- I was even wearing the fake fur coat.

So: good progress on the application front. The first person I approached has replied in the affirmative. I'm not anticipating verbal fireworks; I never had the impression she was hog wild about me (although I once wrote a letter of complaint to Southwest Airlines for her; I think the pilot was drunk so they couldn't take off), but my first choice has vanished off the face of Modern Bride. I require two reccomendations, of course. I've laid the groundwork for the second by replying (three months late) to an informal survey the prof sent out to old students on ways to improve the English department. I fired off a few ideas (a storytelling series and a reading-aloud seminar) and she wrote back to say that they were typically "different" or something. So that's all right; I'll bide a wee and then spring the request, cravenly. Again, I have misgivings; I always got the impression she might have thought I was sexually repressed or something -- she was very aggressively into gender politicking etc. and I was a bit of a waste on that front. However, she is efficient and reliable and has a working email address -- three advantages over my aging BA advisor.

I have to tell you that the guy in the bush hat at the next computer is watching a Dido video and singing along loudly. It's pretty endearing, actually.

The apricot croissant didn't materialize -- literally, I mean. I had to content myself with my old reliable, the escargot aux raisins. In any event I didn't have much leisure for eating, and I like to eat in solitary splendor. Florette wasn't there (I had to eat her biscuit myself), but I was pestered continually with calls from Eleanor.

Eleanor (and it's amazing that I haven't mentioned her before as she's quite the most redoutable figure I know here) is an octogenarian Englishwoman who is in charge of front desk volunteers. She is roundly despised; as someone recently muttered, "She'll be around forever; Heaven won't take her and the devil doesn't want the competition!"

Her age is not a matter of speculation; she mentions it at least ten times an hour, to everyone whom she encounters -- often worked in artfully with tales of her RAF service.

Oh no! I accidentally erased about an hour's worth of sparkling description of Eleanor -- quite the best writing I have done on the blog! I am so thoroughly disspirited that I'm going to go to bed.

Well, I'll come back to her in a few days when the grief isn't so fresh -- I will tell you briefly about the Mission Lunch. When I arrived yesterday the woman who runs the lunch program approached me and said,
"Now do be careful, because the girl who was here last week -- it wasn't you, of course -- admitted two lunatics. One of them bothered the bishop for over two hours."

I would not have found it odd had she been unsure if I was the same person -- but to be so sure I was different? This was odd -- must make a careful note of yesterday's hairdo.

Besides one drunk who went on a bit of a rampage, all was tranquil. One of the volunteers was kind enough to bring me a plate of soup kitchen food -- a rather undercooked pork chop covered in soy sauce, rice with soy sauce and some beans -- which I ate gamely; no trichinosis to speak of -- I'd be in good company, anway, were I to die.

I don't usually like to give cute blow-by-blows about the internet café, but since I mentioned him before, it might bear reporting that the guy in the bush hat is now looking at porn of some kind -- not very endearing, really. It does make me wonder how he got around the screening service, though -- can I use these arts to hit the sales at the verboten Girlshop.com? I think I'd better go; maybe there's something to be said for coming here before midnight.

Don't forget: Eleanor, Friday evening, the girl at the bakery, the saddle, whatever happens tomorrow.

2004-01-16T06:47:00.000-08:00
I made the stupid decision to try writing on the second floor of the internet cafe today, thinking it would be more private, and it's so much the reverse that I don't know how long I'm going to be able to stand it. There are about five groups of people shouting around me; if I had a bayonet, there'd be trouble right now...

So, I've been reviewing my travel options and have decided that I'd better go home on a Cunard liner. Cross-channel rates to Southhampton are so reasonable that the remaining three thousand dollars will be a mere bagatelle. I can just see myself curled under a steamer rug with a novel; taking bouillon at eleven; strolling the decks in a dashing playsuit; appearing at dinner in a dazzling Dior creation. Maybe picking up an English lord in the process.

Re: this, this morning a girl told me I had a Chicago accent; last week a French guy said I looked like Janis Joplin. Disspiriting stuff, that. The French guy, who was a manifest ass, I believe meant it as a compliment.

I have a great deal to tell you re: the cathedral, but this is simply intolerable. I can't go on.

2004-01-15T03:43:00.000-08:00
Last night I suggested to Guyon that, in an homage to fellow Parisian expat Benjamin Franklin, he take to wearing a beaver fur cap at all times and affecting the persona of a North American rube of the late 18th century. He rejected the suggestion summarily.

As indicated, I did my usual stint with Gilbert et Giles yesterday afternoon. I regret to inform you that, in the words of Mr. Darcy's housekeeper (at least the BBC representation) they were very wild, very wild indeed. The deal is that their father, who is himself half-American, wishes the boys to learn unaccented American English while they're still at the impressionable age. So I talk English at them four hours a week and they acquire a word here and there -- "potato," "hello," "green." The truth is, when the parents aren't around I have to slip into quite a bit of French, just for expediency's sake. Like all young children they are fickle and treacherous and apt to turn on one at any moment -- albeit adorable and very cuddly-- so great cunning is required.

Yesterday they had some new Christmas presents to show me -- an airplane, one of those marble-rolling courses and a petit camion that, although by far the least impressive of their combined presents, became a bone of great contention. They progressed from a cold hauteur in which they addressed each other as "Monsieur" for several minutes, ("Ca c'est pour les bébés, Monsieur Gilbert"), into the usual kicking and hitting and required the distraction of "A Pup Named Scooby-Doo." They also had a new computer game involving young children's letter-and-number games and things and hosted by an animated moose attired in what looked to be a very brief pair of underpants. They are really very sweet, and always bid me farewell with a cheerful, "See you Nesquik!"

I noticed, when I first arrived here, that French siblings tend to be dressed in identical outfits most of the time -- whether for convenience's sake or aesthetics, I don't know. On my last playdate with the boys, Giles suddenly declared to his mother that he did not like dressing like his brother; Gilbert agreed. Yesterday when I arrived, I noticed that Gilbert had received a new, green coat -- a pleasing show of individual spirit.

Rear Window was excellent, by the way, my favorite Hitchcock and a very good new print -- although I tend to like anything with Thelma Ritter in it. I especially like her in The Misfits, the way she always addresses Marilyn Monroe as "Dear Girl." I keep meaning to address Eloise as "Dear Girl," but it's slipped my mind again and again. I must remember to do it next time I see her. Perhaps I'll start a Thelma Ritter fan page, if it doesn't already exist. You think I'm being ironic, but I'm never ironic -- she should and will get the recognition she deserves from this generation of moviegoers.

I've jumped with great gusto into the publishing course application; I have sent out a series of inspid emails to prospective reccomenders, and while it made my skin crawl at the time, I'm now feeling exceedingly productive and highly efficient -- always pleasing in its novelty. I am also planning to do a draft of my essay. I can knock stuff off in a trice -- the discipline comes with revision -- I'll keep you posted. I've decided to definitely lead in with a reference to Author's Agent, that classic career romance of 1957. I'll reference the winsome, earnest Lorna Craig, the playboy Noel Whitcomb (son of famous literary agent Randall Whitcomb) and the vicious divorcée Maxine Morelli. How this leads into my reasons for wanting "a career in the publishing world" has yet to be determined. I wonder if I could pull off cat's eye glasses.

Tomorrow being Friday, I join the usual gang of idiots chez American Cathedral. I must remember to bring something soft for Florette to gum, as I feel ill-mannered eating in front of her with nothing to offer. I think a flan might do the trick. As for myself, I've earmarked an apricot croissant for my Cathedral breakfast -- with any luck it'll prove a decided boon, not in the tradition of the Copenhague.

2004-01-14T04:34:00.000-08:00
The burned dessert really isn't a very interesting story. The upshot is, I accidentally set the oven (more of a huge toaster oven, really) to 'broil' and as a result, bruléed that tart but good. The thick flotilla of burn wasn't too hard to lift off, but there wasn't much dessert left, either, and what there was, bad. Not in my usual style at all, but not a tragedy either. I've mellowed considerably on the cooking front. When I think of the hours I devoted to catering my college parties -- the stuffed mushrooms and sugared bacon and miniature latkes -- for the effort it took, you'd have thought I was feeding visiting dignitaries rather than pubescent lushes. And that's to say nothing of the house cocktail, 'The Eidelweiss."

As to the mix-tape to which I devoted three hourse yesterday: it was, as stated, for three young girls fans of mine (you may ask why; I refer you to the definition of celebrity as fame without accomplishment.) Because they are young and carefully brought-up, I was very circumspect in my choices -- I left out a Galaxie 500 song that had a line about 'staying in bed' in it, for instance, and muted the line in 'Heart of Glass' that goes,
"Once I fell in love, and it was a gas/ Soon turned out to be a pain in the ass."
I allowed the T-Rex song 'Bang a Gong' but am now entertaining grave doubts about its suitability; although the chorus of "Get it on" can safely be called nonsensical, I don't want to be regarded as a corrupting influence. I'd be grateful for feedback on the subject.

So, I've purchased passage to Milan on the HMS EasyJet Flight 749, departing 5 February -- the day my legality runs its tether. I am a bit worried about what I'll do in Milan -- besides risotto, one imagines. I am wholly uninterested in shoes, and know little else about the city...I'll apply to a chum to went to high school there and report back. I also have to find lodging. One girl I know here told me that she went there, stayed in a hostel and met a lot of people -- I didn't say so, but neither one of those things appeals to me at all. I want to live in total anonymity and meet no youths. We'll see how feasible this is.

You may notice that I am reporting a bit earlier than is my wont; that's because on Wednesdays I babysit/talk English to two little boys of 3 and 5, Giles et Gilbert, from 3 to 7. It's a big chunk of time; sometimes we do things like donkey rides or childrens' amusement parks -- I feel in my bones that today we won't be doing either...but you'll soon know. Tout a l'heure.

2004-01-13T11:55:00.000-08:00
So, yesterday evening I thought I'd confront the bum (whom I privately refer to as Jean-Baptiste Grenouille) in his lair, and marched right up to his usual bakery de choix, Paul, for a late-afternoon hot chocolate. Normally I'd have gone somewhere else, and was, in fact, considering trying a new spot that Time Out describes as being like a Vanessa Bell painting (although they then go on to say that it's decorated with this bunch of silver spray-painted pinecones, so who knows), but I opted instead for not living in fear. Of course he wasn't there; perhaps he's changed his routine for good -- maybe he's just making sure I don't get too comfortable.

I'm still glad I went. I was surrounded by Americans, so I very consciously gave the impression of being French, and felt very superior. Of course someone phoned me, though, so I had to reveal that I was American, and the girls at the next table knew I'd been eavesdropping on them. They were having a very poorly-written, girl-talky conversation about not sleeping with boys on the first date ("that's the Golden Rule") and doing shots etc. etc. -- no surprises there, but decent entertainment nonetheless. Midway through my repast a plump and roguish Frenchwoman and her considerably less plump and roguish daughter sat down at the next table. The woman ordered, with great relish, "deux beaux chocolats!" which caused us to twinkle at one another (as I was drinking a hot chocolate myself, remember.) She also talked about cake a lot, which pleased me.

After I was revealed, I saw nothing wrong with producing my book (which would have been a giveaway), an ancient copy of The Blessing , another fruit of Eloise's package -- apropos as it deals with an expat in Paris. More of Nancy Mitford's obsession with philandering Gallic charmers. The little boy in it, Sigi, is the gayest thing in nature and quite annoying. Still, good fun overall.

One of the primary draws of this publishing course is the certain knowledge that, were I admitted, I would be forced to submit a list of my seven favorite books to be printed up along with everyone else's picks -- something I've been training for all my life! Indeed, when I heard about this last summer from a friend in the program (before I had any thought of applying myself) I was so entranced by the challenge that I set about preparing a hypothetical dossier. It is a delicate balancing act, a deft blending of honesty and well-concealed affectation. Most people screw this up with obvious picks -- classics like Catcher in the Rye or cuteness like A Light in the Attic, or else you can see the wheels turning and it's all too obviously calculated -- although a math or physics text, when used well, can add just the right je ne sais quoi. The trick is to catch people off guard, to seem genuine, but interesting. You have to assume most people are lying, so it's really just a question of who's the most skillful. I'll let you know how this shapes up.

Note: list of all B-Victorians no one's heard of? Something to consider.

While I'm thinking about that, I've got to get on with securing some reccomendations -- the awkward business of ascertaining whether or not old employers and professors remember one. Normally this last would not be an issue, as I only graduated college in June, but the prof in question -- a mid-known writer of the '70's -- is so alarmingly vague and odd it's quite possible I've slipped through the sieve; she didn't really seem to know my name during the six months she was my thesis advisor.

I want to tell you all about a tart I burned and a mix-tape I made today for some little girl fans of mine, but Guyon is tapping on the window of the internet café to indicate that it's time to go to the 9:40 showing of Rear Window, so-

2004-01-12T06:29:00.000-08:00
I'm thinking that the one-post weekend ediiton might be my usual format. We'll see, though. I wasn't, actually, too busy to have written yesterday, but I was terribly depressed by reading about the murder of a kind, 83-year-old pensioner in a little English village. That, in turn, got me thinking about that girl whose parents kept her chained in a closet all her life and wouldn't touch or speak to her, and by the end of it all I was so blue I couldn't bear to take up the pen, so to speak. After that, I got into a very wild, silly mood and leapt around the apartment singing,
Giacomo is my now de plume/I whistle a song but I hum a tune!
for a very long time. Then, still full of beans, I picked a very stupid fight with Guyon because he refused to say categorically that, if he were to get a dog, he would never put a bandana on it.

I think I'll have a career on the stage, playing annoying sad sacks who get killed off, rather in the tradition of Shelley Winters in such films as Lolita, A Place in the Sun and Night of the Hunter. This last I saw last week under the title Nuit de la Chasseur. I'd be a sensation.

My theatrical career to date has been admittedly uninspiring. I have been taking a hiatus from the stage since my appearance in the original student musicalem>The Romance of the Rose, in which I played The Old Woman and did a variant on my Lotte Lenya. I also garnered raves for my "work" in a summer camp production of Once Upon a Mattress at 16. This was so lackluster that the drama teacher himself, rather creepily, had to step in to play the "juvenile lead" for lack of a real boy. However, the costumes, which were custom-made, were extremely elaborate and the wardrobe mistress had a strange fixation with me and my "beauty" (at that age, rather inconsiderable) and insisted on keeping a signed photograph of me in my costume. If you include in this my choreographic effort -- an "Abbots Bromley" in which several of my friends were forced to leap around with stag's horns and recorders (I was The Fool, in motley) -- it's a fairly impressive dossier.

As stated in initial posting, Gilbert and Sullivan is on the year's agenda -- perhaps in doll or puppet form. I have half a mind to let the Truman Capote and Gore Vidal handpuppets put on a revue. No funny business, either: this would be the real deal. Or maybe I'll start making movies; it might surprise you to know it, but I have a trick or two up my sleeve. One thing is clear: I'd better form a troupe of players, post-haste. I'll see if David's up for it.

Bad news. I was on my way to the market today, via the roundabout route, when I heard his voice:
"It's been a long time. You don't want to visit me anymore? What's the matter, princess, bad night?" etc.
There he was, lounging in the doorway of a spice shop! Is there no escape? Had he deliberately found me out and intercepted me? Which route do I take now? Things are going from bad to worse; at this rate I'll have to leave the country before the month is out.

I've been dying to see the mediocre Betty Grable vehicle,
Billy Rose's Diamond Horseshoe lately.

I think I'll write a little more this evening. The truth of the matter is, I sort of want to hit the sales while the hitting's good. I have my eye on something: a porcelain reproduction of one of those Poirrot heads used to hold lollipops. I think the time is right.

2004-01-10T08:58:00.000-08:00

I wanted to be sure to slot in a brief Weekend Edition.

Last night, my boyfriend (who objects to his 'colorless' pseudonym and would prefer to be known by his own name, Guyon) our friend Sam and I went to hear a couple of New York bands play on a small boat in the 13th.

Now, as you know, I broke my glasses a few weeks ago, and while this has not inconvenienced me unduly, I was rather concerned about visibility at the show. What kismet, then, that yesterday a package should arrive in the mail (from Eloise) containing a pair of opera glasses! The package also contained a package of Old Bay-flavored potato chips, a tablecloth, some cufflinks, a biography of Wallis Simpson circa 1940 and a handkerchief with a gnome on it. Naturally I resolved at once to ply the lorgnette come nightfall.

Ply it I did. Disappointingly, the venue was too small to necessitate their constant use, but I gave every member of each band a thorough scan at the beginning of the set, and so didn't feel anything was being put over on me.

The crowd was a mixture of hipsters (whose uniform is universal) and plain old French people who, like models, are generally skinny enough to go anywhere and not feel out of place.

"Just so you know, we hate George Bush!" the frontman of the opening band, Ladybug Transistor, shouted early on in the set to general merriment.
"We don't like Jacques Chirac either!" cried a guy in the audience in heavily accented English. Later in the evening, this wit struck again.
"You guys have been great," said the frontman, to which the French guy shouted,
"Yes, we are great! We are fucking great! It is because we are French! We smoke!"
I also saw a girl whom I had seen the night previous at a movie theatre and had noticed for her lame Les Miserables sweatshirt. She was wearing it again and so was readily recognizable.

We chatted a bit with the band -- not the sort of thing I generally go in for, but one does such things in other countries. The frontman (Gary, as I now know) had fallen off the stage rather ignominiously during the middle of a song; he claimed there was an "obstruction" on the stage not visible from the rest of the boat -- I didn't get a chance to check it out for myself. I felt as though we ought to have gone out with them afterwards, but was secretly glad we didn't, and met up with David instead for a sandwich Grec.

David was in great form and full of optimism about our projects. "We're young, we're clever, we're secular." he declared. "The world is our oyster and we can eat it!"

Oh, one brief note before I close, about stuff like that throwaway "our frined Sam." I don't mean to imply, by this sort of insouciance, that I'm rolling in friends, so to speak. Quite the reverse; I so dislike the process of courting, socializing and revealing myself, that I don't tend to acquire scads of new people, and so don't take anyone for granted -- I would hate for anyone to get the wrong impression. I am always saddened when I learn someone has hundreds of friends. I don't know why that should be, but so it goes.

Think of this one as a parenthetical -- I'll try to find the time for the real deal tomorrow.

2004-01-09T08:22:00.000-08:00

Yesterday someone said I reminded him of Sarah Vowell. Am not at all sure how I feel about this...hope he did not mean to imply that, like S.V., I've got a face for radio. God knows I haven't got the voice.

I'm in very fine fettle; David and I just had a long bull session at a Jewish joint in the Marais and came up with any number of brilliant creative and potentially lucrative schemes. I cannot, obviously, reveal them, as the ideas are pure dynamite.

The day was off to a rather slow start since, this being Friday, I was working the front desk of the Cathedral. Several things conspired to ruin my pleasure in the morning. First of all, and this may sound trivial, but it's the truth, I chose my breakfast pastry very poorly. Because I work 9-1 and can't get up from the desk, I always get myself a sustaining treat -- usually a clementine and an escargot aux raisins. Today I took a flier on une Copenhagenne -- a rather more fanciful and elaborate creation than is my wont -- and was so excited about it that I sang "Wonderful, wonderful Copenhagen" all the way across the Pont de l'Alma Marceau. Imagine my chagrin to discover that what I had thought in my near-blind state was a poached pear half, was in fact a large and unembellished pile of plain old pastry cream!

My heart sank further when Florette tapped on the window of my guichet with her cane. Florette is an ancient, palsied, near-bald and toothless old crone who spends her days at the cathedral. Now, I'm a great champion of the elderly, but it cannot be denied that Florette is a highly odiforous specimen and an A-1 bigot such as one one doesn't often run across in this enlightened age. Everything about her, in fact, recalls a simpler time when old people were genuinely terrifying -- a far-cry from the apple-cheeked breed we have in the States.

It is the general feeling around the cathedral that Florette is "completely out of control" and "acts as if she runs things." Given her state of physical debhilitation, I find it hard to believe she's up to running anything -- but what do I know? It is true she has a disconcerting habit of shouting unintelligably at visitors, and occasionally snubs minorities who are trying to be kind to her -- but I I'm not with the camp who feels she should be barred from the building.

When I am working she often taps on the door and asks if she can sit with me. She's supposed to be "forbidden access," but of course that's out of the question so I generally spend the whole of the four hours in very labored French conversation with her. Between her palsy and lack of teeth, and my faulty French, it's rather hard going. Today she was very full of herself, and the conversation quickly devolved into the usual batterie of racial slurs -- no fun, let me tell you.

It was also Mission Lunch day, always colorful. They served chicken. I wasn't a very good screener today -- apparently I admitted two lunatics, one of whom monopolized the bishop for over two hours.

I also wrote out classified ads for some people looking for housecleaning work. We're not supposed to do that, but if someone's struggling with English, I figure I might as well put my degree to good use -- what's more, I write them up in very dashing style.

Re: petites annonces, today someone posted an ad that specified "very experienced at baby/old sitting." Someone else described himself as "young boy of 35," but that was not funny, of course.

I have been researching cheap airfares -- I need to get ex patria before 5 February (as we say on The Continent.) I had wanted to go to Italy or Spain, but fares to the UK are so dirt-cheap, I may just hole up in a B&B somewhere for a few days. There is some feeling that I should go to Glasgow and search out the Pastels, but this is of course a bad idea and highly impractical into the bargain. There's every chance I may just hop over home and get some tooth work done, but I can't know for sure. I like very much the idea of travelling alone, a la Betsy Ray in Betsy and the Great World. As that immortal work reminds us,

Down to Yegeneh and up to the Rhone
He travels fastest who travels alone!

I have started several serious pieces on European monarchy and Arts funding, respectively. I have also returned to work on my romance novel. This, while somewhat embarrassing, is surprisingly satisfying. Sometime I'll give you a full briefing on that.

I'm afraid I'll have to keep things brief tonight as I have sloppy joes to prepare, among other things. I read today that it is Magyar Madness month, in honor of Hungary's absorbtion into modern Europe. Maybe I should make a goulash instead.

2004-01-08T06:36:00.000-08:00

Let's say I were, theoretically, to expand this blog somehow -- say, add some links or a means of contact with myself. What would it gain me? Any feedback I got (and that's optimistic in itself) would surely be abusive (I have visions of "narcissistic" and "precious" dancing in my head). And if it wasn't abusive, matters would be worse still, after a fashion...

I am not an adept navigator of the internet; I restrict myself to a few sites which I look at as a matter of course, and a couple of others I check every few months. Now that I work from the internet cafÃ©, I'm more limited still, by a prudish restricting service that refuses to allow me access to Vice magazine or Girlshop.com's post-Christmas sales.

I spent over two hours surfing last night -- most of it spent on a Georgette Heyer message board. I also visited the "Midnight Snacks" section of outlawcook.com, navigated a California coast drive on Roadfood, and checked in briefly with the Pastels official website and the oddly well-maintained Stevie Smith fanpage.

This last is worth a look, both because it is so meticulously executed and, more oddly still, because the webmaster appears to be a straight man. A young man, at that -- I am so smitten by his oddity that I've made him the romantic hero of a rather mediocre short-story. A thoroughly mysterious figure.

Okay, here we go: this brings me back to the subject of 'Mystique' I suggested by way of a discussion question two days back. It occurred to me, when I undertook this project, that here before me was an unparalleled opportunity to create a bit of mystique for myself. To present a character of mystery, of charm, of allure. I'd even planned it -- the persona I was going to create would suggest monogrammed stationery and bone china, definitely White Shoulders and quite possibly blonde tobacco.

Of course I screwed it up immediately -- started shouting about feuds with bums, and broken glasses and turnips -- leaving myself with all the mystique of a reproduction pewter mug.

I admire mystique tremendously, I suppose because it's so foreign to my own nature. My best friend, Eloise, has tremendous mystique. Naturally, it is a seamless combination of effortlessness and affectation. Her omnipresent crimson lipstick, her wardrobe of severe vintage suits and dramatic trench coats are, of course, carefully executed. Her icy hauteur, her grace with a cigarette, her biting wit, however -- these are inborn. Well, maybe not the cigarette. I know, I think, one other person my age with true mystique -- a furtive and artistic young man with a beguiling stammer and a distrust of the theatre. Like Eloise, he is both natural and conscious, and he leaves many broken hearts in his wake.

In addition to these, of course, I have known any number of posturing asses in fedoras. Likewise, affected hipsters in Brideshead Revisited gear swigging from monogrammed flasks. This is not mystique. Mystique depends upon not only coolness, but genuine remoteness. This is a big part of my trouble -- someone who breaks into raucous Lotte Lenya impersonations at family parties, or conducts ten-minute long pretend phone conversqtions with a character called "Mr. Coneybear," cannot be accused of frightening remoteness.

Hope springs eternal, however. Should I be accepted into a certain publishing program this summer, I am assured that I will need a smart and smashing wardrobe. Taking as my inspiration The Best of Everything, I shall acquire not merely the trappings of sophistication, but a fabulous mid-century career-girl image! Think one of the secretaries in a Sam Spade. Decidedly hard-boiled, but a bit of a bombshell, too -- and an extremely enigmatic figure into the bargain. I will spout a good deal of Raymond Chandler-esque slang, smoke American Spirits and carry vintage pulp in my top-strap handbag 24/7.

First, of course, comes the inevitable agony of the personal statement. For all that I like to write, my strengths don't tend towards the calculated confessional, and I've screwed these up royally in days gone by. This time around, I have armed myself with a strategy. As soon as I can get my hands on a copy of Gidget in Love (the only Gidget that didn't make the silver screen cut -- for good reason), I will take to my laptop and quote from Rick James's initial essay. Gidget, you see, becomes an English teacher in a very progressive high school. Rick is a rebellious bad-boy who knocks her socks off with his rough-edged and candid personal statement, crackling with rage, brilliance and the desire to shock. The essay is actually, of course, idiotic and hackneyed and full of mild faux-profanity. It strikes me as just the ticket -- I'll allude to it, or even quote from it, and -- well, as you can see, it'll be dynamite.

From there I may well reference The Best of Everything -- well, no, probably everyone does that -- and then maybe some journalism-minded fifties career romances, like Author's Agent or Carol Stevens, Newspaper Girl. In this way, I'll be demonstrating a thorough-going knowledge of literature and the hard realities of the literary world.

I submitted a little piece today to that blog I write for -- on, rather pompously, "The Cult of Spinsterhood." Tomorrow I work the front desk at the Cathedral. Await a full report.

2004-01-07T07:31:00.001-08:00

I dreamt last night that someone tried to present me with a very expensive fur bonnet. It was ugly and had a pair of real bobcat ears attached to it; it was lined with some other sort of fur.

My friend David (who is English and also hanging around in France) and I have big plans for tomorrow. We are planning to sit in on some Sorbonne classes and look French. We've been planning it for a long time and have decided that tomorrow's the day. Provided they don't ask for ID cards. We also need to be careful we don't end up in an engineering lecture or something.

I asked David today if he remembered the incident of the guy with The Georgette Heyer Omnibus.

"I tried for ages to impress some Hasids on the tube the other day when I was reading The Chosen," he replied.

"That's a losing battle," I said kindly. "Everyone knows it can't be done."

I know I listed a number of subjects which, yesterday, seemed to me imperative. At the moment, however, I can't seem to muster the necessary enthusiasm. The truth is, I am rather preoccupied with a feud in which I am engaged.

About a month ago, I embarked upon the feud, which is, incidentally, with a bum who works a bakery around the corner from my apartment. I had never cottoned to him; half the time he was stuffing his face while he held up his "J'ai faim" sign. He was in his late twenties, always quite well-dressed, and sort of looked like a skinhead into the bargain. I often saw him smoking and drinking wine with a couple of friends at the end of the workday, so to speak. But, although I never gave him money, this was all pretty back-burner stuff, if you get my meaning. Then one day, he threw a cigarette at me, and it struck my bare hand. In fairness, I can't say with any certainty that it was deliberate. The smirk that followed it, however, most certainly was.
"You could apologize," I said coldly, in French.
"You could give me money once in a while," he replied.
After that, things escalated. I was tempted to change my route, but unwilling to give him the satisfaction. Instead, I was forced to endure his insults -- the bulk of which I couldn't understand, anyway -- every time I bought groceries. I must confess to some very unworthy behavior on my own part, like jingling large handfuls of change very ostentatiously as I walked by him, or giving money to other people in full view of him, or munching on loaves of bread and throwing him triumphant looks.

I decided I would behave charitably and end it, come Christmas. On Christmas Eve, I marched up to him and gave him a two euro coin. I was conscious of some pleasure at having nonplussed him. It took him only a moment to recover; he sketched a mocking bow and thanked me disingenuously. I was pleased, even so, to think that I had bought myself a measure of peace -- like paying for mob protection, sort of.

And then, today, it started again! As if nothing had happened! I was minding my own business, carrying my empty tote bag to the supermarket, when I heard his odious voice:

"What's the matter, bad night?" (This was one of his standards.) "That's right, you little bitch, ignore me! God forbid you get your pretty feet dirty! That's right, princess, walk away!" And more of the same.

I felt shaken and betrayed. I guess he thought the potential gains were not equal to the loss of pleasure he receives in harassing me. Well, he's probably right -- some people thrive on this kind of thing. I think, however, that I'm going to try a different route from now on.

There are many examples in my neighborhood of that antiquated specimen, the wino. Bums who don't beg, or do heroin, or anything except swig from bottles of cheap red. You can imagine, I think, some of the unpleasantness that ensues. My mother can't drink red wine without getting sick, either. The other night I saw a drunkard stumble up to a crepe stand and start shouting and weaving. The crepe guy, I guess feeling this was bad for business, came out from behind the cart in his apron and threw the drunk to the ground. When he hadn't gotten up after a minute or two -- yes, I stayed to watch -- the crepe-seller helped him to his feet and gave him a free crepe.

I made the chopped liver, and very delicious it was, too. I had it again for lunch today, as a sandwich. Tonight, though, I will probably have a TV dinner. They are very fine here -- all the chefs put out their own lines of frozen meals, and you can get a rabbit terrine or a blanquette du veau or any number of good things.

A demain.

2004-01-07T07:31:00.000-08:00

2004-01-06T08:22:00.000-08:00

Gosh! I wish I could change this stupid, stupid site name and caption! It's unbearable! I may ahve to start afresh. I also feel so wholly incompetent; I had a look at some of the other "reccomended" blogs and they are so high-tech and full of links and interactive stuff. It also made me feel bad to see that the site picks the best ones to highlight, as now I'll feel bad about that when I'd hoped this whole experience would be wholly salutary. I certainly can't compete with "Belle du Jour: The Diary of a London Call-Girl." Her site is very nicely-done as well, with an FAQ and all sorts of things. Well, gosh. I'm going to go make some chopped liver.