We are rolling into Lincoln City in our spacious, luxury bus, where we will spend a few days. This is the number one visited town on the coast. We stop at a statue of a young Abraham Lincoln on a horse. The first thing you will notice is that his head and hands are HUGE. I’m not taking about big, farmer hands I’m talking huge, elephantiasis hands, his elongated, pumpkin-head seems to teeter on his small body. You may also notice that the artist signed the work by etching her name on the horse’s penis. I don’t know if this is a standard place to sign a statue but it seems to suggest some deep-seated issues. I’m not judging, I’m just saying. For long time readers of this blog, you may remember my moment of too much information when I discussed the boyhood crush I had on Lincoln’s mother. -so I have my own crap to deal with

While ruminating on the psychology of all of this, a larger question might present itself. Why did they name this place Lincoln City? Sure emotions were probably high after he was assassinated but Lincoln City didn’t get its name until 1965. You can certainly understand the overuse of Lincoln’s name in Illinois; you can’t swing a dead cat without hitting something named for him, but why in Oregon? Especially, when you consider the fact that in 1849 President Zachary Taylor tried to appoint Abraham Lincoln as the Secretary of the Oregon Territory with the possibility of becoming governor and Abe turned him down. I believe his exact words were. “I don’t think that’s gonna happen Zack, baby”. Maybe I live on a deeper level of resentment but I sure as hell wouldn’t name the city after him unless it was to name it Lincolnsucks City or Boothtown. I admire the higher road they’ve taken- for me that’s a road less traveled.

The name came about in 1965 when, the 5 towns that make up the city, incorporated. Instead of fighting over whose name would be the new name they held a contest among school children and, inexplicably, the name Lincoln City won. As for the statue, the sculptress, Anna Hyatt Huntington in 1965, donated it. She actually had some trouble giving the statue away because of the $25,000 shipping costs (keep in mind that back in 1965, $25,000 would have bought New Zealand and a pack of smokes). The State of Oregon turned down the offer because of the shipping costs, as did the City of Eugene. Lincoln City, with its new name, jumped at the offer and paid the $25,000. Mrs. Huntington donated it to them with 4 conditions.

1. The statue must face west. (it faces east)
2. The statue must be accessible to children. (it sits in a small lot surrounded by busy traffic)
3. The statue must not be used as a tourist destination (it was our first stop)
4. Lincoln City must never change its name.

Like the man said, “3 out of 4 aint bad.”

So what have we also learned here today?
1. Never let school children or a resentful blogger choose the name of your city.
2. If you give something to Lincoln City, get the terms in writing.
3. Don’t fall in love with a dead president’s mother- it will only lead to heartache.

Our first stop was Drift Creek Covered Bridge, where we met the remainder of our group. I don’t get the fascination with covered bridges- aren’t they just like regular bridges but…I don’t know…covered? I soured on covered bridges when I tried to read “Bridges of Madison County” . The book is about 6 pages and I could not get past the first 2 but people loved that book. I remember running into a woman I worked with in Chicago, she was finishing up the last few pages of that book and tears were streaming down her face.

“It’s so romantic.” She explained
“But isn’t the woman in the book married and having an affair with some random guy?”
“It’s a love you can’t understand,” she said angrily, as she wiped the tears from her face.
“I can’t help but think that if it was some guy having an affair because he was bored you might find it more piggish than romantic.”

In a fit of anger, she lunged at me with a knife that she had concealed in her sleeve. Thank goodness I am well versed in the art of self-defense and I quickly subdued her 4’ 6” frame, took possession of the knife and held her until the police could be summonsed. Today, she sits in an 8 x 10 cell, another victim of passion and bad reading habits. Anyway, the point is every time I think of covered bridged I’m reminded of adultery, tear stained cheeks, jail-time and a really crappy book. Imagine my surprise, when I found myself fascinated by Drift Creek Covered Bridge and the story of its survival.

The Drift Creek Covered Bridge was built in 1914; the wet condition and lack of attention began to rot it away. The bridge was condemned in 1997 and scheduled for demolition. Kerry and Laura Sweitze felt drawn to the bridge. They lived 8 miles away and the thought of a piece of Oregon history being treated so shabbily left them uneasy. Apparently the repair and maintenance of a bridge is expensive so they decided to just let the bridge rot and fall in on itself, much like the wedding vows of the couple in “Bridges of Madison County”. It was then that the coincidences began. The Sweitzes had a concrete bridge that spanned 66’10” across a creek that went to their house- the Drift Creek Covered Bridge spanned 66’10”. I wouldn’t have been moved to do anything because of this coincidence but I also wouldn’t have built an Ark just because I heard voices. (Not listening to the voices has also kept me from stalking Megan Fox and buying a convertible sports car). Still unsure about their role in the fate of the bridge, the Sweitzes prayed about it. The following day a calendar, with a picture of the bridge, arrived in the mail. That settled it- they gathered volunteers, donations and moved the bridge 8 miles to their house and rebuilt it. The tenor of the trip was set. This is a journey about passion, not mine of course, but other people’s passion. The Sweitzes had a passion and they did something about it.

Kerry and Laura donated the bridge and the land to Oregon. It’s a worthwhile visit- even if you don’t “get” the covered bridges you have to respect the passion.

To get there travel east of Lincoln City on Highway 18, about 3.5 miles. Turn south on North Bear Creek Road .The bridge is 1 mile on the left.

It took Lewis and Clark almost 2 years to get to Oregon from Illinois. In that 2-year period there were brutal winters, starvation and murder. There was a constant, nagging feeling that they would perish.

I arrived in Oregon 4 hours after I departed. I guarantee that I bitched more than Lewis and Clark. Between getting up 5 AM, paying a taxi, switching planes in Seattle and not smoking I was in a state of agitation. The truth is that I would have lasted 5 minutes on the frontier and they would have been 5 minutes of intense griping, name-calling and finger pointing. I am cut from a different cloth than those folks- a more delicate and fragile cloth- perhaps lace. This isn’t a realization that I wanted to discover so early in the trip but it makes sense. I’m traveling with professional and successful writers and there is a “less than” feeling. Thank god I am well versed in the art of denial.

I was picked up at the airport by a deluxe bus that was well stocked with cold drinks and appetizers. Several of the travel writers were already on board and we began our trip from Portland to the coast. There were a few unscheduled stops for wine tasting, so we were already behind schedule and perhaps a little tipsy. I, an abstainer of most things fun such as alcohol, arrived clear headed and delighting the other writers with my constant complaining and insightful observations about how my feet had swollen from the flight and all the free pretzels I had consumed. I would have delighted them even more but they all seemed very intent on taking notes about the trip thus far- I figured I had better put on my travel writing cap (resembles a wizards hat but without all the queer stars) and take some notes too. They will find out I’m a fraud soon enough, no sense in blowing my cover so soon into the trip.

I received a call a couple of months ago from COCO, Central Oregon Coast Association. They invited me to tour the central coast of Oregon as a travel writer. Apparently someone with COCA followed my Paris exploits and suggested it might be good to have a blogger mixed in with the “real writers”.

COCA: You’ll be joining a group of professional writers and photographers on a 9-day, expense paid trip along the central Oregon coast.

Misplaced: You’ve read my blog?

COCA: We’ll be touring lighthouses, exploring the beaches, walking through a world-renowned aquarium, ATVing over the dunes in Reedsport, and sand surfing in Florence. You will, of course, be staying in the finest hotels and B&B’s that the coast has to offer. A chef will prepare each meal and winemakers will explain the art of their craft. We will be picking up all the costs and, in turn, we want you to blog about it.

Misplaced: You HAVE read my blog, haven’t you?

I researched COCA to make sure I wasn’t joining a cult or selling myself into white slavery or worse, some time-share sales pitch. Turns out they are legit and even if I did have to shave my head or serve espresso wearing nothing but tubes sock and a smile I figured what the hell. Clearly, I was in over my head but the greed of wanting to visit the central coast of Oregon easily out-weighed the ethical responsibility of saying “You are making a horrible mistake- hire a real writer!!”

I need to get back involved with the blog. It turns out that unless I write every day I wont write at all. To get you up to speed: I moved back to my little corner of the Midwest in October after living in Paris for the past year and a half. I still haven’t received my deposit back for the apartment in Marais and the landlord moved to Argentina- it looks promising.

The economy has taken a nose-dive and everyone here is scrambling to get their financial affairs in order. Not to brag, but I irresponsibly blew through all my money in Paris before the coked-out, 20-something investment bankers could lose it for me. My friends complain about the state of their 401k plans I shake my head in commiseration while silently belching up a little pain aux raisin. “Excusez- moi suckas”

My life has gone through a few major shake-ups since returning from Paris. No point in going through that here but it seems that getting back to writing might be a good mental health activity. Long story short, I’m rolling with the punches and taking some time off in Oregon.
You: “Time off from what?”
Me: “Shut up

With the threat of 2 inches of snow the city is abuzz. The grocery stores are crowded; there is a run on milk- we must hunker down for the impending doom. Everyone talks about the “winter warnings” The city is already saying they wont have enough salt for the roads to get through winter- it’s unclear how this is possible due to the fact that it has only snowed once so far and it snows each year.

Frogs might as well be falling from the sky to hear the local news programs. The weatherman finally gets his day- with all the catastrophes in the word he often feels left out. There are dark circles under his eyes because he’s been up all night “tracking the storm” Of course tracking the storm means he’s been looking at a satellite pictures in a comfy chair- I suspect it’s easier than tracking the one armed man but he looks more run down than Richard Kimble. He’s on edge- ready to smack the bubbly, blonde-headed news anchor right in her perversely white teeth but not so frazzled that he will mess with the sports guy.

All we can do is sit and wait for the 2 inches of cold death to appear over-night. We sleep uneasily. The roads are deserted.

When we awake there is no snow- nothing. “The city has been saved!” we cry. The “Great Storm of 2008” shifted north sometime time during the night- the weatherman tracked it. He looks relieved. I'm half expecting him to say, "I'm getting too old for this shit." We all take the day off just in case it sneaks back to get us. When did we become such wimps?

I didn’t really miss Paris until I went to the American Library in Paris- sad I know, but that is one of the few places that tolerate me and I love the people. Several of us went to a Scottish bar in the Marias to play snooker. Snooker is essentially pool with only two colors and the balls are smaller than the pool I’m accustomed to- no reflection on the English, I’m sure.

As you may recall, my New Zealand friend and I were thoroughly trounced upon by the French in petanque- pool was a different story. We played like champions and just before we beat them into submission they all quit.

“Uhhh?” I exclaimed as they lay their cues on the table.
“This is a boring game” they replied and went off to eat some cheese or something.

I’d write a musical about it but the music left me that day.

I’m staying in New Zealand’s girlfriend’s room in the 8th while she is away on vacation. There is one stipulation to staying there- if the owner of the building or the concierge questions me I’m to tell them that I am her cousin- otherwise they will ask me to leave. It’s a Catholic thing I’m told- very strange. She pays rent, has lived there for years but she is not allowed to have a man stay in her room. I could understand it if it were a home for recovering crack-whores but, as far as I know, this is not the case.

HOT TIP- BIG NEWS: David Sedaris is speaking in Paris next Wednesday. It isn’t being advertised and it’s free. (This is what we call a cliffhanger in the biz.)

I’ve been pulled out of the security line at the International Kentucky Airport. There is a “situation” with some of the items discovered in my bag. The dentally challenged security lady pulls out two small jars of Jif Peanut butter.

“You can’t bring these on board.” She says, eyeing them with the same lust and greed that I viewed Caligula at the age of 14.

“You’re taking my peanut butter?”
“Sorry” she says, not sorry at all.
“They don’t sell peanut butter in Paris”
I am nervous; beads of sweat begin to glisten on my forehead. The withdrawal has already begun.
“But what about the change of which Obama spoke?”
“Not going to happen,” she says as she rifles through my bag some more.

An American needs peanut butter- it’s what makes us America. I try to see her point, I suppose I could force the pilot to eat a spoonful and overtake the plane while he tries to extricate it from the roof of his mouth. I should probably thank homeland security for battling peanut butter terrorism- but I’m feeling less than gracious.

“This is too big.” she says, taking a silver can out of my bag”
“Not my product!” I cry as she studies the can of hair gel.
“This” I say, pointing to my luxurious head of hair, “doesn’t just happen”
Unimpressed, she tosses it in the bucket with other illicit items that will undoubtedly make lovely Christmas gifts for her rather large Kentucky brood.

The rest of the trip is uneventful- I’m given the exit row by myself, God’s way of trying to make it right and I sleep for the entire trip thanks to raiding the medicine cabinet of my neighbors.

I’m sitting at Le Grand Corona near Pont Alma sipping an espresso and soaking in the atmosphere. But with all this beauty around me, I can’t help but imagine a toothless, Kentucky security guard with perfectly quaffed hair and the stink of peanut butter emanating from her rather large pores.

Well, that was short lived. I'm back to Paris November 10th for a short trip. My petanque skills have diminished but my language skills still rock- Ca va- C'est bon

I wrote up the London trip but after re-reading it, it didn’t ring true or my heart wasn’t in it- I don’t know which.

I haven’t written about this before but my Paris time has come to an end. I’ve packed up my suitcases and the cat (the tri-colored bitch from hell) and flew back to my corner of the Midwest yesterday It’s a bitter sweet time for me; I miss my family and friends in the Midwest but I’ll miss the Paris life I had but I knew it would eventually have come to an end.

That being said, it also seems like a good time to end the blog. It’s been fun but the purpose of it was to write and to tell about this Paris dream, which ultimately became a reality. What I hadn’t expected was how much I enjoyed the comments and the visits. I was surprised to find so many like- minded souls out there that were ready to chuck it all and live a dream. Unfortunately, it’s time for me to wake up.

Thanks.

One week in London

I go to the boulangerie around the corner to pick up a baguette and a pain aux raisin, a lovely little pastry that will ultimately kill me. I’ve been off ice cream and sweets for 2 months now and once a week I a get a pain aux raisin. Today there are none.

“There are no pain aux raisins” I think she tells me
I have that panicked look that people get when they realize that they didn’t buy enough booze and the stores are closed- ok, maybe this was just me. I motion to the back, maybe, like shoe stores, they keep the main supply back there. They don’t.

"C’est Triste" I say as I pay for my baguette. “It is sad”
She laughs, not because its funny, but because I always say “C’est triste’ if something is not good. If something is good I say “C’est bon". That is the extent to which I can express my feelings in French. With my limited language skills there are no grey areas for me in Paris- if something is not good then it is sad, end of story. There is no lukewarm, there is no comfortable middle ground if it isn’t sad its good.

When she picks through the basket of baguettes to find the best one I respond with “C’est bon” and give her a knowing smile. If the bread is still warm, I feel it and smell it- “C’est Bon” I say again almost lustfully. She smiles not because she appreciates it but because she thinks I’m an idiot. C’est triste

My brother, who lives in Brussels, stayed with me for a couple of days. We go to the café around the corner, next to the boulangerie.
“He is your brother?,” the waiter says in French while shaking hands. He brings us out a plate of complimentary hors-d’oeuvres. “C’est bon” I exclaim because it does not fill me with sadness. My brother, who speaks flawless French, looks at me and shakes his head.
“It’s a crime that you still can’t speak French.”
“C’est triste” I agree because it is not good.

Check out this blog . Neighbors in my little corner of the midwest have quit their jobs and taken their two daughters on a year long odyssey of the world. The midwest is having a tough time keeping its citizens contained.

There is a crowd of people gathered around a small section of the circular pond in the Tuileries. They are snapping picture after digital picture. Murmurs arise from the crowd- I make my way through to see the celebrity. I will not be denied. Who is it, Britney, Lindsey? It’s no one, just two ducks standing on the edge of the concrete embankment looking for treats. It’s hard to not try to capture every moment of ones vacation, but people, we need to try.

I’ve brought my book with me, which is good because all the bookstores are closed for the Feast of the Assumption. Everything is closed. I went to Catholic school for 6 years and I have no clue what the Feast of the Assumption is but what I do know is that everything is closed and the only diversion in Paris are two ducks

It seems that the Germans are slowly replacing the Italians as tourists here. I don’t know if there is a travel pattern but if I were a hunter I would say that German Season has begun. Dark hair and tan bodies are being replaced with blondes and sunburns, incessant loud banter for low guttural sounds. A beautiful blonde German girl sits in the chair next to mine and when she spoke to her friend it reminded me of the sound our 1968 VW Bus made when we tried to start it in February. The German tourists have that wistful, ‘what might have been’ look. They snap out of it long enough to photograph the ducks.

If you think Paris is slow in August, you would be right, but imagine Paris in August during a 3 day weekend- I’m half expecting tumble weeds to roll down Boulevard de Sebastopol The “assumption” being you can’t do anything except sit by a pond with a book and generalize about entire populations. The trinket shops on Rivoli are open. They know what their clientele want: ashtrays, key chains, scarves, lighters, t-shirts with either the Eiffel Tower or the ubiquitous Chat Noir. I swear, put that black cat on anything and it will sell. I don’t know what the plan is for the new Iran policy but if they put a black cat on the front cover people will buy into it.

Where are all the Parisians in August? They aren’t all on the southern coast or holed up in the family’s country homes. I suspect that those that aren’t out of town are hiding in their attics so no one knows they didn’t go anywhere- their windows are blacked out, food is scarce.

Scene: Small room, dark, window shades drawn. Marie sits at the kitchen table preparing cabbage, again. Jean Claude enters smoking a cigarette.

Marie: Where did you get cigarettes? I thought you were out.
Jean Claude: I snuck out late last night, no one saw me.
Marie: Mon Dieu we will be discovered!


Me, I’m enjoying the sun and reading a bad book about London by Bill Bryson. Someone has been kind enough to write up their opinion of the book on the inside cover- the penciled review is two pages and it isn’t flattering
“A vocabulary and style beneath that of a rapper- his vulgarity is appalling.”
The vulgarity doesn’t bother me just the fact that the book did reasonably well and was probably better suited as a …well a blog.

People are still photographing the ducks, when the ducks stick their head in the water and wiggle their little duck butts you can hear a collective “awwww” and CLICK.

Paris- open some store, we are dying out here.

Who knows what you will find when you rip down an old Metro wall.

I was at a French friends apartment for a party. My New Zealand friend and I began bragging about our petanque prowess. We mentioned our having whipped two Frenchmen at their own game- big mistake. The gauntlet was thrown and it was snatched up by several of the French partygoers.

It was Westside Story for the 21st century and there was even a girl named Maria (Marie actually but work with me). It was Sharks Vs Jets but without the ballet dancing. New Zealand got his ire up and I had to hold him back singing.

“Play it cool boy, real cool”
“Keep coolly-cool boooooy”

The rumble was to take place after the dance at Place Dauphine on the Ile de la Cite.

Ile de la Cite,
You lovely island…
Island of expats with visas
Always the tourists are going
Always the petanke balls are rolling.

New Zealand and I walked down the middle of the street, snapping our fingers. We would have danced but the petanke balls are heavy and we promised to bring the water so we were pretty weighed down

When you’re a Jet
You’re a Jet all the way
From your first cochanette
To your last petanke play

The rumble didn’t go as planned. Namely we played poorly. It was a matter of national pride so as we got further and further behind I began to slowly slip into a New Zealand accent. Finally, we were put out of our misery and the French triumped. They beat us fair and square although we did accuse them of cheating because that how we roll.

The sun had set and we and everyone drifted home. I gently wept as I walked slowly across Pont Neuf.

Tonight, tonight,
Our asses were kicked tonight
The French took their revenge, tonight
Tonight, tonight.
New Zealand was disgraced tonight
Team Kiwi played like the All Blacks tonight

I'm not certain why blogger deleted all the comments on the last post or why it won't let new comments be added. Blogger is a fickle mistress.

I’m on the train from Paris to Amsterdam. Is there anything better in this world than a large comfortable seat on a train in first class? I’m new enough to train travel to delight in it completely. My head is against a pillow, turned toward the window. I’m watching the world go by: Brussels, Antwerp, and Rotterdam. Bob Dylan’s Blonde on Blonde is playing on my iPod: Visions of Johanna, I Want You and Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands. Life is good, unless, of course, if you despise Bob Dylan then it would be a personal hell.

I am taken with the differing modes of Amsterdam travel- I tried to capture a few of them. My camera is having trouble focusing, much like its owner, but I’m including them anyway because Karyn and Erin were kind enough to ask.







...and of course

This picture of my niece and I wandering the streets of Montmartre is one of my favorites. She came to visit this spring and was bitten by the Paris bug. I suspect we have a future expat on our hands.

I walk down a cobbled street when I notice a beautiful woman winking at me. She smiles and beckons me over. Another woman, more beautiful than the last, is also enamored with me, she too winks and smiles. I should probably mention that they are both standing in storefront windows and wearing only their underwear. Being from the Midwest, I give a short, embarrassed wave and look anywhere but at her body because that’s how we roll.

Welcome to a small part of Amsterdam and watch out for the vomit ahead. It looks like banana vomit, which makes sense, across the street, is a bar called The Banana Bar where 45 euros buys you 1 hour of drinks served by naked women. You can, if the fetish is within you, pay extra to have a banana served in any way you’d like.

Prostitution is legal in Amsterdam. Each woman is her own small business. She rents the storefront and is probably a member of the Red Thread Union. She pays taxes and is heavily monitored by the government and health officials. Even with the seemingly legitimate feel of prostitution one still thinks, “Surely, there’s something else these women could be doing.” But the simple truth is that there is money in sex. A good prostitute can earn 500 euros a night, which is about 10 clients. If we assume a 5 day work week, that’s 130,000 euros ($208,000) per year. The down side is…well, you’re a whore. The other downside is the guys shelling money out aren’t Robert Redford in An Indecent Proposal, but shaven-headed drunken English hooligans that probably just vomited up a banana.

Amsterdam is so much more than the Red Light District for which it is so well known. It is probably one of the most beautiful European cities that I have visited. It is quiet cafés along tree lined canals. It is friendly, approachable people and a laid back atmosphere. There are 100,000 Dutch Elm and Lime trees, 1,200 small bridges that cross 100 canals. It is winding streets, bicycles and electric trams.

Late in the evening I stood on a bridge admiring the view and catching the breeze that makes its way down the canal. I commented to Dutchman near me about the marked different between the majority of Amsterdam and the Red Light District. He had to think about it for a moment- the Red Light District seems to be almost an afterthought for him. “The drunk hooligans come for 2 weeks and never stray from a three block radius, they never see the real Amsterdam and that’s fine with us.”

I sit at the cafe enjoying a late night espresso and watch the bikes go by. The caffeine is a bad idea at 10 in the evening but even after many miles of walking aimlessly through the city I have no interest in sleeping, that's the life of the flaneur. Let the drunken tourists have the their three blocks, I'll take this particular corner at this particular time.

I just returned from Amsterdam and was reminded that Catherine Sanderson was reading from her new book, Petite Anglaise, at Shakespeare and Co. Despite the heat, she had a good turn out. I was amazed that I knew 3 people in the crowd- granted I don't know them well but it's nice to recognize people in this rather large city. I also lined up a possible petanque match. I believe the women sitting next to Ms. Sanderson, is Sylvia Beach Whitman the daughter of the George Whitman who opened Shakespeare and Company in the 1950's.

I'm finding it harder and harder to post. Maybe it's the weather or I have finally run out of things to say. So I'm just going to plow forward and try to kick start the postings again.

I'm finishing up Anne Frank's diary- I don't think I had ever read it before; I saw the movie version with Melissa Gilbert but never actually sat down to read the book. It's amazing. He father censored the originally published book. He felt, and it's true, that it was very critical of Anne's mother but I suspect that all early teen girls have battles with their mothers. He was also uncomfortable with her discussion of sex. The latest edition has the entire diary. I highly recommend this book- I was absolutely blown away. It does bother me that this 13-year-old girl is smarter than I am but I'll get over it.

I began reading her journal because I'm off to Amsterdam this weekend. A friend is in Geneva and we are meeting there. Apparently, there is more to do in Amsterdam then smoke dope in cafes- who knew? So I'm reading up on my history and hunting down the bookstores on-line. Any suggestions once I'm there?

Last night I went to a friend’s apartment for dinner and afterwards sat in a cafe until 12:30 with the New Zealander talking. We agreed that it's good to be in Paris on a cool July evening. I just barely caught the last train home and stayed awake until 3:00 AM re-thinking the late night espressos. I made the terrible mistake of buying a pack of cigarettes and smoking- hmm 3 years of abstinence. Oh well- life goes on, just maybe not as long as one would hope.

Parachutes and Petanque


They begin to drop from the sky.




Some land not as softly as they would like. A metal of valor will be issued




The young niece knows that form is eveything.



Someone's gotta school these suckas- might as well be me.




A competitive bunch, each boule was measured and remeasured. Fights ensued, only a dance-off could keep blood from being shed.

Another Day In Paris

I had a horrible beginning to my day. I try not to burden others with my pain but lets just say as an ARTIST- I feeeeeeel more than the average person and yet, as a John Wayne. stoic type, I keep that pain locked away. It will, of course, one day express itself by forcing me to a bell tower with a high-powered rifle but for now it makes me a relatively low maintenance friend.

To lift my spirits, I wander out to get a coffee at my corner cafe where the barman loves me but when I arrive he act as though he doesn’t know me. This is odd. Just a few weeks ago we shook hands and laughed like school girls tormenting the fat girl. Where’s the love? I've been tossed like yesterdays grounds. I keep a stiff upper lip and I try to engage the other waiter in friendly banter just to get a little jealousy going- That always worked in Junior High but doesn't play well in the sophisticated City of Light. Oh hang one…he’s a waiter in a coffee shop- what do I care?

As I step out of the cafe I bumped into Jenna Fischer, who plays Pam in “The Office”. She is with her alleged boyfriend, James Gunn. (see update) I don’t recognize anything he’s been in but in some movie he plays “The Insane Masturbator”- so I think we can agree that Jenna probably footed the bill for the Paris trip. Most of you might feel this was just a chance encounter between Jenna and I but in my journal she is stalking me.

Across the street two models were also caught stalking me- models make lousy stalkers as they tend to get dizzy from lack of food and topple over on their high heels. I managed to get a photo of them just before they fell to the ground like wounded pheasants.


Update:
There was a sudden, angry surge of readership (ok...9 people) from the Watercooler , a discussion board about "The Office". regarding my running into Jenna Fischer. From the message board I learned several things.
FACT: James Gunn is rich and can afford to take a trip to Paris if he wants.
FACT: James Gunn is Jenna's ex husband not her alleged boyfriend so chances are it wasn't him. (I still think it was)
FACT: Misplaced in the Midwest is weird, doesn't know what he is talking about and might have been smoking crack during the encounter.

Note: They did not dispute my claim that Jenna is stalking me...now where's my crackpipe?

I took a long stroll through the streets of Paris. I ended up buying a small Cuban cigar. I quit cigarettes a few years ago but I’ve felt this constant pull to smoke again. I kid myself that if I don't inhale I wont be lead back to a pack a day habit. I end up along the Seine next to the Petit Pont- near Notre Dame. This is where it all began for me- this fascination with Paris. I was taken aback by this encounter with the city- I felt the endless possibilities and I associated that freedom with Paris. Sitting in this spot years ago, eating an apple, watching the Seine and thinking to myself that I want to live here. I’m back where I began but not at all the same. I sit there quietly, watching the boats go by, smoking my cigar and kidding myself.

Today is a little cooler than it has been. I stroll down to the American Library to continue my masterpiece- ready to remove the bodies that have littered the front porch. My backpack contains my lunch and my computer. My intention is to walk right into the library and begin editing; instead I pass the entrance and make my way to the Champs de Mars. Near the base of the Eiffel Tower, in the very slim shadow of a sickly tree I eat my lunch. An impromptu picnic with a cast of hundreds providing the entertainment.

A young American couple are taking pictures of each other in front of the Eiffel Tower- being from the midwest, I offer to help.

Misplaced: Do you want a picture together?
Couple: Thank you! We are on our honeymoon.
Misplaced: Congratulations.
(I take the camera and the guy explains the basics)
Misplaced: One Two Three. (snap)
Couple: You speak English very well.
Misplaced (confused)....Thank you.

All and all not a bad way to spend a Thursday.

A friend of mine just had two very successful art shows in New York. Check out his work "Marais Reflection" was inspired by the view from our apartment in the 4th on Rue Des Francs Bourgeois. Demetrius is a perfect example of a guy pursuing his dream.

South of France
Nice Jazz Festival
Leonard Cohen


What god did I please?

If you’ve wandered through the square in front of the Hotel de Ville you may feel as though you’ve taken a wrong turn. Suddenly you will find yourself in a beautiful garden complete with a mini-lake, grass, trees and plants. Welcome to the “Ephemeral Garden” another green space brought to us by Paris mayor, Bertrand Delanoe.

Over 6,000 plants and trees have been installed in a 31,000 square foot area. The purpose is to offer a little nature in the middle of the big city but also to show how urban gardening can change the feel of a city. It is meant to encourage people to take an interesting urban gardening. The exhibit is temporary; it will be dismantled in early July and replaced, interestingly enough, with a mini-golf course for the remainder of Paris Plage. Maybe next year they can replace it with a mini-housing development.

I have been remiss in posting lately, sorry about that. My plate is full and I haven’t been very motivated to blog about the goings on. It occurs to me that I haven’t taken a long Paris stroll in sometime -maybe that will help. Anyway, I sent out an article about my Moroccan trip to a slew of newspapers and magazines. My New Zealand friend edited it down from 4,000 words to 900 and with a few other tune-ups it is out. I’ll let you know how it does.

I’m at a stand still with the book. I have it down to three acts but I feel as though I’m forcing some of the newer characters and story lines that are introduced. I like them but they don’t seem to belong and I hate to get rid of things I like. This, of course, explains why I was edited down from 4000 to 900 words. I had it explained to me like this; “You put all the babies on the porch (ideas, sentences, words) the next morning you keep the ones that are still alive and get rid of the dead ones.”

Don’t let the lilt in their voices fool you; New Zealanders are a dark people.

There were over 50 of us that gathered at the American Library to hear Edmund White read from his new book “Hotel De Dream”. It was an excellent time. I’ve never gone to one of these free gatherings- the wine was flowing much like wine, which doesn’t mean anything to me but the bottled water was cold and I appreciate that.

The audience was probably one of the friendliest groups of people I’ve had the pleasure to meet. Obviously, the word “gay” comes from just how friendly gay guys are. Edmund White attracts a gay audience because his books are high in the gay factor. Unfortunately, I think that some people don’t read him because of this- big mistake. I’m reading Hotel de Dream and, so far, it is fascinating and tough to put down.

Hotel de Dream is about Stephen Crane, author of The Red Badge of Courage, and his wife Cora. Historically, there has always been a rumor that Stephen Crane began writing a story about a boy prostitute named Elliot that he happened to meet in New York City. Crane, supposedly, had never met a homosexual before although it is rumored that he was fond of hookers and the seedy underbelly of New York life, He spent a great deal of time following Elliot around and interviewing him. Crane wrote about 40 pages and showed them to his friend Hamlin Garland. Garland read them and said, “These are the best pages you have written and if you don’t tear them up, every last word, you’ll never have a career.” He convinced Stephen Crane to throw the pages on the fire. It is from here that Edmund White begins his fictional story. Stephen Crane is dieing and decides he needs to write the story of Elliot's life.

I’m surprised that Edmund White doesn’t do more readings- he is a very entertaining man and added a great deal of flair to the event. As he read aloud from his book he would break off to tell a little 19th century gossip- he was especially humorous about Henry James (someone in the audience actually took offense- which wasn’t very gay at all). Other than the loud mouth that felt he needed to “set the record straight about Henry James” it was a wonderful evening. I got my book signed and he asked about my writing. "It's crap" I said. "Well, maybe it isn't as bad as you think." He asked about my corner of the Midwest which is where he was born, we shook hands and said goodbye. All and all it was a very nice evening. Keep you eye out for his new book about French poet Arthur Rimbaud.

I’ve been a bit out of the loop lately- I don’t watch the news so I get behind on what’s going on. I just heard that George Carlin died of a heart attack, very sad. I was immediately transported back to my young adulthood. In our basement was an old record player- the needle was worn and it seemed there were more crackles heard than music but that is where my brothers and sister listened to our records and played pool. The Beatles, Pink Floyd, The Who, Frank Zappa and George Carlin are the performers that come to mind.

I feel as though I grew up with George Carlin. My older brothers bought the albums FM & AM, Toledo Window Box, On the Road and my favorite, Class Clown with “The Seven Dirty Words You Can Never Say on Television.” I would listen to these albums constantly- having them memorized. My parents let us listen to him, I suspect because, while he may have been talking about the seven dity words, it was genuinely funny.

I saw him in concert in 2001. He was funny but it seemed a bit tired. Some of it seemed to be crude for the sake of being crude- or maybe I had gotten older and wasn’t titillated (which is not one of the seven words) by that kind of humor anymore. I didn’t follow him too much after that although from the review it seems his HBO specials were pretty cutting edge and he had gotten back to what he did best, which was make people laugh.

On the first day of summer Paris throws a party to beat all parties. Le Fete de la Musique encourages musicians to play for free throughout Paris and beyond. It seems that every corner and every public park has the volume turned up to 11. I believe that all of life is a lesson and if la Fete de la Musique has taught me anything it is that techno music really, really sucks.

In Brief

Edmund White will be speaking at the American Library Wednesday June 25th at 7:30. He wrote “The Flaneur” and “Our Paris”. I’m always surprised to find Paris lovers that haven’t heard of him. He is a must read. Word on the street (Nerd Street that is) is that you should get there early as they are expecting to fill up quickly.

The American Library hired a new guy and he is…wait for it…an incredibly nice person. His name is Ed; say hello and he will respond. He also will kill anyone that talks on the cell phone in the library. That is the one time capital punishment seems fair and reasonable.

I have become a bit of a handshake whore. A friend and I go to at café everyday at 3:00 to take a break from writing. I won’t leave until everyone one that works there shakes my hand. (They are very good sports about it.)

A while ago we discussed butt crack being the new cleavage. Amazingly there is something even more annoying than that- pants hanging low showing the back of the thong. I’ve heard this referred to as a “Whale Tail”.

Once a week I go to a writers group we don’t often talk about writing- actually I’d be hard pressed to explain what we do talk about. I heard about the ‘Whale Tail” there if that gives you an idea. Email me and I can fill you in on when we meet. It’s really fun and a nice way to meet people- I think we are meeting for a picnic this week.

When I first moved to Paris I met a man that told me that this was a city of lessons. I immediately tuned him out, these ambiguous statements are too convenient and they are often accompanied by an exaggerated, world-weary look. Despite my obvious disinterest in his observation, he continued. “People that come to Paris are looking for an answer to a question they weren’t aware they asked.”

I don’t know if that is true or not but I thought of it yesterday as I was crossing the Pont de l’Alma. I watched as a man removed a ring from his finger, considered it for a time and let it drop into the Seine.

Well I turn another year today. I’m too jet lagged for reflection. Actually I’m getting tired of reflection- maybe a year should just go by without soul searching- maybe it should just be enough that it’s another year done. I’m 4 years older than John Lennon was when he died. How is that possible?

My trip home was wonderful. Sometimes you need to step away from a place to be reminded of its qualities. It was hot. Not a little hot, but HOT, 95 degrees and humid as hell. My parents sit on the balcony of their downtown apartment and read. I try to sit with them but end up complaining and watching mold grow on the pages of my book. Sitting in a puddle of my own sweat, I ask them how they can stand the heat. They respond, “Well it’s a little warm but with the breeze it’s not so bad.” Depression babies are like that- we must be patient with them. They also claim there is no such thing as free lunch of course by now they must have noticed that I stole all their peanut butter so I guess that little chestnut has been debunked.

I went to my secret superhero meetings, which are always entertaining and sometimes informative. Best show in town for a dollar. It gave me a chance to see some of my superhero friends. I had the opportunity to sit down with a couple of writers and compare notes with them. I have much to learn about the craft of writing but I also need to learn about the business of writing. I have no clue how this works but if I can shut up for a few moments or two there is a lot of good information out there and kind people willing to educate.

In my 44 years I guess I have learned that I am a wimp, a thief and not as clever as many of the people around me. That’s probably why I’ve never been a big fan of self-reflection.

Does it sometimes feel as though we are moving in the wrong direction?

I’ve been reading expat blogs for several years. In my experience I have found that there are two things that will kill a Paris blog.

The first, and this is instant death to a blog, is having a baby*. The simple truth is that other than very close friends and family no one cares about your newborn. Just as no one cared when my cat vomited on me while I slept because she was angry that I moved her food. I’m not saying I don’t understand- I will be the #1 offender when K- squeezes out a little bean. After that you might as well stop coming around because this blog will be loaded with pictures of the adorable little tyke and a detailed description of each crap and vomit. The entire blog will be done in baby talk. “Ohh little baby-wabby pukey- wukeyed on the kitty-widdy.” I will, of course, be incensed when you loose interest in baby-wabby and my bloggy-woggy.

The second thing that will temporarily kill a Paris blog is the inevitable hometown visit. I'm going to my little corner of the Midwest for two weeks. I’m guessing that I won’t be blogging. But I can give you a quick run down of what I’ll be doing.

1. I will be delighting my friends with an affected French accent and pretending to struggle for English words even though I've only spoken 6 words in French since I've been here.
2. I will enthrall my friends with constant comparisons of the Midwest and Paris. When I complain to the waiter about the bread, I will let out a sardonic laugh and sadly shake my head. "This would never be tolerated in Paris."
3. I will talk about "my cafe" and how much better the coffee is in Paris than it is in the Midwest. (Strangely, this is not true.)
4. I will be certain to use words like “provincial” and phrases like, “that is sooo American” whenever anyone tells me their opinion.
5. I will be certain to explain how Americans live to work while the French work to live-because that expression never gets old.
6. Anytime the word "French" is used to describe something, I’ll say, “That’s not French." i.e. “That’s not French coffee.” “That’s not French bread.” “Those aren’t French fries.” "That's not French kissing."
7. And when everyone refuses to give me a lift to the airport because I’ve been such a pretentious jerk I’ll mock his or her big American car.

*The one exception to this rule is Michelle's new baby because that is one cute kid but her blog is blocked so I guess you’ll never know.

My younger brother, who I admire a great deal, once told me that one of his New Year's resolutions was to get a rejection from The New Yorker. The purpose of the resolution was to just get something written and submitted. I vowed then and there to beat him in getting a rejection. Today, after waiting 6 months, I can say that The New Yorker has rejected me flatly. I don't want to gloat but.....I win!!!!! Yeah me!!!! In your face Brendan. The New Yorker hates me and not you. Weeeeeeeeeee!

Most of you know that the gypsies have been courting me to join their band of merry mischief-makers. I’ve been holding out for a proper dental plan and matching 401K but they want me to settle for some gold ring they keep picking up off the ground.

Walking home yesterday I saw the police harass some of my potential colleagues. I wonder why the police chose to pick on these three young ladies out of the hundreds of people milling about suspiciously in front of Notre Dame? I get the sense that “racial profiling” is not frowned upon here. It’s a shame, the Doyouspeakenglish girls probably work harder than anyone out there, except me*, of course.

*If you consider "thinkin' about stuff" as working.

Between the library and my secret super-hero meetings my world has become very small. I’ve tried to be more disciplined about writing and so I’ve committed 6 hours a day to working on the never-ending novel. It’s easier than you would imagine, especially when your novel has no discernable continuity or plot. A character that died of an overdose of heroin in chapter 3 suddenly reappears in chapter 7 with an opinion on the proper way to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I was reading a book, I think by Roddy Doyle, where he tells the true story of a soap opera character that goes upstairs to get his tennis racket and never is heard from again. He just disappears with no explanation. Poof! I have a few characters like that. They say their piece; make a not so clever observation and then Poof! They are gone. I should probably send a search party out looking for them or maybe get their pictures on a milk carton. Have you Seen Me? Perhaps, an age progression mass mailer could go out.

Missing- Lisa, a Life Coach trainer.
Last Seen: Battling an amphetamine problem in chapter 5.
Description: The author never bothered to describe her
Missing for 7 chapters.

I heard an expression that if a gun is sitting on the fireplace mantel in scene two it sure as hell needs to go off in scene 3. Well I have an arsenal that hasn’t been discharged.

Maybe there could be a mass-murderer that is slowly killing off all my characters. The book ends with everyone dead, except for Lisa, covered in blood and a terrible case of speed breath.

My great aunt became too frail to care for herself so she was moved from the south side of Saint Louis to our little corner of the Midwest, about six hours away.

“You can move in with us.” My mother told her, trying to put a happy spin on an unpleasant situation.

“Oh, you two could never afford me.”

She seemed to ignore the fact that my father had been supporting her since he started working. She went into an expensive retirement home near us. I’ve seen the bad ones, the smell of urine is overpowering. Pity the old with no funds.

Her looks seemed to change overnight. She could no longer have her hair dyed the bright red of her youth so she began wearing hats, which she would fumble with to keep her head covered. I hadn’t realized how dark she kept her house until I saw her under the blaring lights of the old folks home.

I went to visit her after a prolonged absents. The nurse told me she was in the community room. I looked around there were about 20 residents watching TV in various stages of decay. I couldn’t see her anywhere. One older woman was staring at me. We looked at each other for a good long while. I walked up to her, still not sure and I had to ask, “Aunt Nora?”

It's a warm weather thing.

Do we need another reason to love Paris?

I took a stroll through the neighborhood this afternoon and was astounded by the number of pirates out and about. In the Marais you always expect a few pirates in search of booty but this was an absolute infestation. Passing the Blancs Manteaux I noticed that this seemed to be the pirate hive and it was abuzz with activity.

Back in the states we have groups that participate in Civil War battle re-enactments. They dress in period costumes and pretend to kill each other. It unclear why they do this, scientists are looking for a cure. I’ve always wanted to re-enact the medical surgeries performed during the civil War, such as drilling a hole in their skulls to let the demons escape and sawing off their limbs without anesthetic but I’ve yet to be invited. (It seems to me that if you aren’t going to really commit to the re-enactment you ought to hang it up.)

Anyway it turns out that these swashbucklers aren’t pirates at all but 17th century musketeers or something (I'm so bored with this post I can't even look it up) and they were sword fighting. There were also children dressed up in costume, with fake mustaches drawn on their faces. At what point can this be considered child abuse?

As you can see the name of the event is Lames Du Marais which loosely translates to (apologies to my French teacher, Samantha) "The Lamers of the Marais" I quickly dashed home to get my drill- it’s demon-freeing time.

There is an excitement to living in Paris. At every corner there seems to be something to get the imagination flowing. Whether it’s crossing Pont Alma, as I do daily to get to the library, and being reminded that James Joyce would stop in the middle of the bridge with his publisher, and discuss writing as they watched the Seine. And while we've established that I'm not a fan, how can you not think of Henry Miller when wandering the base of Montmartre. He was 40 years old he quit his job and came to Paris to write- sound familiar?

But it isn’t only the people in the past that can propel us forward. Today, I spoke with a friend who spent the last week in London with literary agents that love the project she is working on. An English guy I’ve admired and chummed around with for a bit works for Reuter’s News Service and was discussing journalism with an American that worked on the wires during Watergate, Billy Jean King beating Bobby Riggs and the Vietnam War. He painted an exciting picture of tearing the news stories off the wire and running it to the editors- just like in the movies. He gave up journalism to pursue jazz guitar, which spun off into a whole new discussion about Dave Brubeck's “Take Five", which I do know something about. A woman I met recently gave me her web address so I could check out her graphic design and it turns out that it has incredible recordings of her singing songs she wrote. Beautiful songs.

I often toy with the idea that you can have a “Paris state of mind” anywhere in the world and therefore I shouldn’t be too upset if I have to leave but I’m just kidding myself. It isn’t just Paris that stirs the imagination it’s also the people that have chosen to come here and make Paris their home despite the uncertain finances and distance from their families. These are the people that inspire others to work toward their dreams.

My mom and dad have been renting an apartment around the corner from the Louvre for the past 2 months. They go back home at the end of the week and we will miss them terribly.

My mom called my brother before a shopping trip. “What’s French for bleach I need some bleach?" My brother, who knows even less French than I, said, “I don’t know, try babel fish.” Two hours later, in Monoprix, my mother was asking a befuddled employee “Ou est le babel fish”

Everyday for the past 8 months I have gone to the L'Etoile Manquante to get a café and read at the zinc bar. I am always polite with my “bonjour monsieur”, “au revoir Monsieur”, “S’il vous plait” and “Merci”. Yesterday, after saying my usual hello, the bartender looked at me and after a moment of thoughtful consideration he walked over, said “bonjour” and…. shook my hand.

In my mind the café became dead quiet -you could hear a pin drop. Suddenly everyone in the café stood and began applauding. A spotlight hit me. I blushed and fanned myself with my hands but that couldn’t keep the tears from welling up. I accepted his handshake as though I were accepting the Miss Teen U.S.A crown.

I shook his hand as I left, trying not to appear too pleased with myself.

I need to finish up my Moroccan tales, readership is at a dangerously low level. Dissatisfaction is high, moral low. "We want Paris not Morocco!" I hear you, your silence is deafening. Well, this final tale of Morocco begins in Paris, and really that last post was all in Paris and yet no one cared. I few anonymous comments from the New Zealander mafia- the dreaded "Kiwi Boys" threatening to rearrange my furniture. Other than that I couldn’t get a rise out of you.

As we were waiting on the runway for our plane turn to take off, I noticed much movement in the center median. And there I saw thousands of bunny rabbits frolicking. Frolicking- I tell you. I immediately looked to the side of the runway to find the bunny carnage splattered, but there were none. Of course, if a plane hits a bunny taking off or landing I doubt there would be much left. You’d think the loud noise might damage those big ears. Maybe Bridget Bardot could fund supplying the big yellow earmuffs for the bunnies.

So the take off to Morocco was magical- everything involving bunnies is good. The landing back in Paris was a different story as I had been vomiting in my seat for ¾ of the flight. I used 4 barf bags. I'm not bragging or anything, but it was 4. I admired the gay flying waiter’s commitment to being friendly, every time I handed him a “used bag” he accepted it with a smile. If I had been flying Delta the bitch would have probably pistol-whipped me and planted an explosive device in my carry-on. I looked out for the bunnies but my eyes were blurry and couldn't see anything but my own frightening reflection.

As I’ve mentioned about 6 times, Hassan met us at the Marrakech airport. It is important to me to immediately say the wrong thing. This lets me know that I’m alive.
“So, you're Arab?” I say as we shake hands.
Hassan bristled at the mere mention of the word. “No, I am not Arab. He said with a look that would be repeated from the lady that was sitting in front of me on the flight back.
“I am Berber”
As I write this I am picturing Yul Brenner in the King and I with his fists on his hips and his legs planted firmly. “I am Berber”

The conversation continues in the 4x4. Moroccan culture is new to me, so I wasn’t certain if I had really put my foot in it as I like too.

“So you’re saying Berbers aren’t Arabs?”

Hassan clutched the steering wheel and breathed deeply, undoubtedly a Celine Dion song was playing in his mind to calm his soul.

“No a Berber is a Berber – they are not Arabs. Berbers are the original people of this land.”

I started to interrupt.

“You will see!” he snapped. “You will see as we drive through Marrakech what the Arabs are about. And then you will see what the Berbers are about.”

He was right about seeing what the Berbers were about. We only stayed in Berber hotels, ate in Berber restaurants and traveled through Berber towns. There was one town that he felt he needed to clarify. “These people here, all these people” He said motion to the 3 women on the street. “They used to be Jews, now they are Berber.” It was unclear what that meant and he wasn’t providing any more information. “This is my band.” He said as he put a CD on. “The singer he is crazy.” We listen to the hour-long improv drum solo as he beat upon the steering wheel to the sound of him beating on drums. I put my iPod on and looked out the window and thought about the Berbers that had one time been Jewish.

“There are no scorpions in the desert he has to tell me for the 10th time.”
“I find that very hard to believe” I persist. “In all the Sahara desert there are no scorpions?”
Other tourists at the cafe listen in, this, after all, affects us all.
“There is no water in the desert. Therefore there are no scorpions or snakes.”
“I watch Discovery channel and I’m certain they’ve discussed snakes and scorpions in the Sahara. I was told that I should shake my shoes out because scorpions will climb in to escape the sun.”
Who told you that?” demanded Hassan. “An Arab? Arabs know nothing of the desert. We are the original desert people. There are no scorpions.”
The crowd seemed to be siding with me on this one.
“You know, scorpions.” I did a little hand gesture to show a scorpion striking.
Hassan considered for a moment. “Ah yes, we do have those.”

I loaded up my Rick Steve’s backpack (a sure sign you are traveller and not a tourist) and walked from my apartment in the center of Paris to the metro at Hotel de Ville. As I trudged down Veille du Temple with my walking stick, safari hat and snakebite kit dangling from my belt, I ponder my next adventure. I’m off to Africa. I feel like an adventurer, but a stylish adventurer as I was also carrying my man-bag loaded down with treats. I take a small break after a block, it’s important to not overdo it on your first day. Swigging from my water bottle, I swallow a salt tablet and I look out over the terrain. As I mop my brow with my new bandana, I hear my wife Kelly yell from the window. “Did you take all the toilet paper?" I quickly gather my things and stagger down the street. Kelly is fleet of foot and I won’t be stopped, not this early in my journey.

“Africa!” I say out-loud to know one in particular. The local tribesmen of the 4th arrondisement stare at me as if to ask “Where is that dapper fellow with the practical backpack, excellent man-bag and perfectly coiffed hair off to? “ They seem to snicker with respect. “I’m off to AFRICA suckas!” I respond with my slight wobble from an over-packed bag and a lower back that’s already beginning to ache. Rue de Rivoli is just another block away and then to the metro station. Discouragement begins to descend upon me, as it must have for Dr Livingston. “I will keep my spirits up.” I say aloud to some German tourists who have that ‘what might have been’ look that they always get when they visit Paris.

”A new continent!” I say to bolster my sagging spirit. “ The dark continent. Dark because…well…because there are a lot of dark people there or because it is shady or something.” My thoughts are interrupted by the pang of hunger, the candy bar I ate a few minutes ago isn’t going to cut it. There is a fruit stand at the next block where I can replenish my supplies and perhaps throw out some of these candy wrappers. Finally, after 10 minutes, I have made it to the metro station. My back is drench in the sweat of a good, honest trek. A well-deserved rest can be had on the train, unless one of those old ladies try to steal my seat.

I take a breather before I descend into the Hotel de Ville metro station- the next leg of my journey. I sip some water slowly and wipe my mouth with the back of my sleeve. I swallow another a salt tablet even though my wedding band seems unusually tight and the laces of my sneakers are straining. The sun is beating down on me- it must be at least 50 degrees Fahrenheit but it easily feels like 60 . I eat some jerky; the salt will do me good. Wiping the grit and chocolate that has accumulated on my face and neck from the hike, I reflect on the 10 minute journey thus far, the changes I have seen in myself and the people that I have met. I smile at the thought of that nomadic tribe of people that sit on the corners with “J’ai Faim.” written on cardboard. It seems to me that if they were really “famous” they wouldn’t need money from me but I try not to judge. I note all of this in my Moleskin notebook. It occurs to me that other than the “famous” people I haven’t really been paying attention to anyone else, but I did catch my own reflection in the Melchior window so I wrote a quick Haiku to myself, which I wont share here. Let’s just say it was good, real good.

I descend down the Metro steps. Longing for the comfort of the two old women that are always sitting there with their belongings, piles of day old bread and their “I am famous” signs. "Aren't we all" I say to myself, shaking my head and smiling as though my observation actually meant something.

I keep referring to our trip as a trip to Marrakech, but in fact, we only were in Marrakech because of the airport the remainder our time was spent making our way to the desert and back. We were picked up by a 25 year old Berber named Hassan in a Toyota 4x4and we drove and drove and drove. 18 hours in 2 days to the Sahara desert. It was incredible. We went through the high Atlas Mountains, Tizi-n-Tichka, through Ouartzazate, El Kelaa M’Gouna, Gorges of the Dades Tinerhir, Gorges du Tondra, Erfound, Rissani and finally off-road to the edge of the Sahara. We got out of the 4x4 and on to the 8x8. It’s a Berber joke that was repeated by every Berber we met. The 8x8 is a camel. One would think that if you were about to get on a 1,500 lbs of exotic pot-roast you would be given a little instruction- not so. The information our guide gave was less than helpful for instance, I don’t know how to tell a camel to ‘stop’ but I do know that Celine Dion is a musical genius. Is it ok to shrill like an African woman or will that cause the camels to stampede? Do camels stampede? I don’t know- what I do know is that Celine Dion is a musical genius- that’s what I have learned in the Sahara.

The desert and the dunes are breathtaking and yet when the camel in front of you craps you are drawn to it like a magnet. The camel is a large beast, six feet high, ten feet long and yet their poop are the size of marbles and the marbles roll down the dunes gathering at the valleys where they are met by thousands of other little marbles. Beautiful dunes, covered in countless shadows cast by the small ripples in the golden sand surround me. Bright blue skies, light wind, a lone Berber walks into the desert miles away and yet I’m drawn to the marbles. I blame MTV for my fascination with watching crap go downhill.

Everywhere I go I am met by New Zealanders. They are everywhere- like a pandemic. In the Sahara Desert, under a Berber tent I shared a meal with, yes, you guessed it, a New Zealand couple. They introduce themselves but I immediately forget their names as I am thinking only of myself and suspiciously eyeing the butter that sits on the table. Who eats butter in the desert? Is dairy safe in 100-degree temperatures? I would ask our guide but I’m not interested in knowing that Celine Dion was nicknamed “Vampire Queen” in highschool. The Kiwis are an older couple- hardy. They don’t sleep in the Berber tent they’ve reserved but under the stars, I like them immediately. I name drop my New Zealand writer friend and the title of his award-winning book. They’ve never heard of him or the book. It occurs to me I’ve never actually seen this book he claims to have written. New Zealanders are like butter in the desert- refreshing? Sure. Delightful? You bet. Suspect? Definitely.

The 14 tents set up in a figure 8 define the living area. The entrances to the tents are on the inside of the courtyard. The courtyard itself is covered in rugs, a low table is in front of each side along with a mattress to sit on or sleep under the stars. We reserved one of the larger tents for the 5 of us. A young Greek couple wandered into the compound and asked the Berbers if they could send the night. For a little cash they were given one of the outdoor mattresses. At one point the Greek guy walked into our tent to have a look around. “Something we can help you with?” We query. While we might all be pretending to be communal nomads for the night we will kill you if you try to steal our sleeping space. “You have a lot of room in that tent.” The Greek says and waits for us to respond to his non-question question. “Very observant, Zorba- there are five of us- now back the fig away.” They guys girlfriend made some disparaging remark about Americans and she smirks at us through supper. Later that evening she kept the compound awake with her vomiting- beware of butter in the desert and my evil-eye, I’m not kidding.

Good morning and welcome to Morocco.

I have been really bad at posting these last few weeks and I am sorry about that. The combination of family in town, trying to write and my daily required nap has left me with no time. I'm off to the desert to think about my life and try to convince to Berbers to accept me as one of their own so I won't be able to post until next week. I bought a large floppy desert hat, #50 sun-block, a suitcase full of snacks and a copy of "Camel Riding for Dummies"- I'm ready. Have a lovely week.

This morning I was reminded that I’m going to Marrakech on Sunday for the week. I wont be able to blog. I had completely forgotten about this trip. I might have been blocking it out, but it certainly explains all the terrible desert songs in my head- sorry in advance if these tubes haunt the remainder of your day. Originally the plan was to spend some time in Marrakech and then go to the beach but the plans got all fouled up and we are now crossing the Atlas Mountains in a 4x4 and somehow ending up in the Sahara Desert on camels and sleeping in tents.

Wouldn’t you know we’re riding on the Marrakech express
Wouldn’t you know we’re riding on the Marrakech express
It’s taking me to Marrakech
All aboard the train
All aboard the train

The Moroccan company that offers this trip has a long list of items we are to bring- from the unsettling (toilette paper) to the bizarre (jogging suit). Of course, the first order of business in planning a trip is to buy a dashing new hat to protect my porcelain skin from the ravages of the sun.

I’ve been through the desert on a horse with no name,
It felt good to get out of the rain
In the desert you can’t remember your name
‘cause there aint no one for to give you no pain

I have no preconceived notions about Marrakech or the route we are taking. We will be traveling over the Atlas Mountains, through the Valley of Dades, toward Tingher to Rossani, which is the start of the desert. From Rossani we will be traveling by camel through the desert and sleeping in Berber tents, presumably with their permission.

Midnight at the oasis
Sing your camel to bed
Shadows painting our faces
Traces romance in our heads


I read the description of our trek from the Moroccan company one more time- hoping it makes more sense than it did the previous reading. “In the SOUTH, it’s to learn, to meet itself one even and to keep for ever in the memory an idea of eternity.”
It doesn't. I suspect they used babel fish when preparing their english brochures.

Our first day is spent in Marrakech in an “air-conditioned room with a swimming pool*” The "*" could mean anything as there is no key to what we can expect to find. It could be * Shark infested or *It will be you job to oil the very large Turkish men on vacation.

Day 2: We cross the Atlas Mountains, according to the guide it will be “covered with snow by the collar of the TIZI NOT TICHKA, the highest collar of the realm offering magnificent resembling landscapes magnificent very colored patchworks.”

Day 3 is a little sketchy. We are driven 7 km into the desert and “acquainted with your dromedaries’ (I’ll save you the trouble; a dromedary is a camel.) We will “attend the sunset of the dunes and pursue your ballad until the environment of dunes.” We will continue to “cross the night in the oasis under the Berber tents in full desert.”

This goes on for a week. Does this sound to anyone else like we might be making a pornographic movie? Perhaps it is the nerves and excitement of a new journey but I can’t help but think I’m being lead into a poorly laid trap- a lamb to the slaughter.

It occurs to me that I hadn’t told you that I would be gone for a while. It was as though a housemate went away but never said where they were going or when they’d be back. Kelly and I decided to go to Aix-en-Provence for along weekend. Of course, had you become my Facebook friend you would have known this, but you opted to snub me.
We are on the train back- lovely first class seats with plenty of room. It’s a three-hour ride so I should have plenty of time to discuss our trip.

We arrived in Aix Friday evening. I had no perceived notions about the city; there was no planning or researching done. I thought it might be similar to Antibes, a city in southern France that I had been to a few time before- it was not.

Friday night we walked the streets of Aix in the rain, it was cold and quiet. There was no one out- the streets were deserted. If you’ve ever visited a beach community during the off-season you’ll know what I’m talking about. It feels lonely, depressing and the miniature golf parks are all closed. The chipped paint on the abandoned rides and ticket booths reveal the true age of a tired town. That’s what Aix felt like Friday night, it was depressing. Kelly and I walked back to our hotel and wondered if we hadn’t made a terrible mistake.

Saturday the sun shone and life was fine again. We loaded up on café crèmes and excellent croissants and fantasized about living here. We followed Cezanne’s life through the streets finishing with a walk to his studio and a view of Mont Sainte-Victoire, which he painted 39 times. There were no markers for Emile Zola and I wished that I had researched his life a bit more. The food and craft markets were in full swing and I watched a Japanese woman photograph a large loaf of bread much to the amusement of the baker. The rains came later in the evening and we hid in our hotel having learned our lesson.

On Sunday, the only placed closed was the British bookstore. All the museums were open which was great. Again it was a day of walking and pondering whether we wanted to stay here beginning next year. The sale of out house is still up in the air but in the next few weeks we will know if it’s time to go back to the states. It didn’t seem that we would be saving any money by moving to Aix as compared to staying in Paris. Here’s the real problem. After Paris, where do you go? Paris is the pinnacle- it’s the top. It is the “Citizen Cane” of cities- what could Orson Wells have possibly done after that (other than the wine commercials)? We have basically screwed ourselves for any other city.

On the #1 metro this morning I saw a very attractive, young women get on the train. She sat down next to a young man who was standing. I watched as he looked at the woman several times out of the corner of his eye. He seemed shy and respectful of her space but he couldn’t help but, upon occasion, look at her.

She stood up to get off at the Concord stop, standing next to the young man. The train made a sudden stop, throwing her into him. They momentarily held each other to steady themselves. She was embarrassed and apologized. “No problem.” He said. The woman stepped off the train and we resumed our trip. The young man closed his eyes briefly and smiled. Sometimes it’s the small moments that can really make a day.

The cynic in me suspects she might have stolen his wallet. Oh well, it's a happier love story than the last one I posted.

I signed up for a Facebook account and I want friends. Please, please, please befriend me. We can stay up late, listening to 45’s, eating ice cream and just talking.

I'm not certain how being on Facebook is any better than emailing directly but it seems to be all the rage and I’m all about staying current, it makes me feel groovy and ‘now’. While this technology is probably old hat to you I have found myself a stranger in a strange land. For instance, I was informed, through Facebook, that a young friend and her boyfriend broke up- I know this because an icon of a broken heart that was sent to me as an update on her life and he has been removed from her Top Ten list. Later, I was "poked" by a friend of my wife and I'm not certain how I should respond to this. Back in the day getting “poked” meant something else and the best response was slipping out unnoticed. I noticed that Nicole was "gifted" some chocolate chip cookies; they aren't real cookies but rather drawing of cookies. Another person had a bad day and they are requesting that drinks be sent to them, again, pictures of drinks not real drinks. This person is looking to get their virtual buzz on. If they have too many pictures of drinks do they then put a picture of vomit on their shoes? It's all very confusing and light in calories.

I do have a Myspace Page- although there is something inherently sketchy about a 40 something man with a Myspace Page. If it should happen to come up I'm quick to add that my wife told me to get a Myspace account and that we can buy a house near the high school if we wanted to. On Myspace you will notice that I have a plethora of close friends. Leif Garrett, the 1970’s super-duper star, is a friend of mine but K-Fed (Britney's ex) would not accept the hand of friendship from me. David Sedaris became a friend with a buddy of mine but doesn't want anything to do with me. Thank God Charlotte Gainsbourg and I are still tight. Charlotte has stood by me through a lot of tough times. I’m sure she’s tired of my late night calls about David and K-fed, it certainly would explain the restraining order. But that’s ok because Regina Spektor is also a friend but not a very good one. She sends me her concert updates but then pretends to not know me when I see her on the street or need to borrow money- actually she is like many of my friends. Of course, I do the same thing to Leif Garrett when he asks me for money. Oh by the way- when you see Leif pronounce his name as “Leaf”. He will look at you as though he smells something bad and say that it’s pronounced “Life”. You can either laugh or just say “Leaf…who cares?” That’s what friends are for.

So anyway- I want friends. Please befriend me. Please?

I’m not certain what the problem is but we are sleepy. There must be a slow leak in the apartment because I think I’m sleeping more than my cat Ponette. I can't blame the weather; it’s been warm and spring-like.

Today, Kelly forced me out of the house. We’ve been kicking around ways to stay in Europe- one idea involves moving to Southern France or Spain where it is, presumably, cheaper and the other idea is to give up our apartment in the tony Marais and move to another neighborhood. So, this afternoon we took the #11 metro to Belleville in the 20th arrondisement. Our visitors won’t enjoy it as much as where we are now but it will enable them to visit us again next year. It seems like a nice area, although I don’t know how much cheaper it is. We strolled around the Parc de Belleview (I wasn’t prepared for the beautiful view of the city) and enjoyed a coffee on the Place des Grandes Rigoles. Oddly, the espressos were more expensive than in the nicer cafes of the Marais. We leaned back in our chairs ,enjoyed the sunshine and watched the people wandering about. I liked the diversity in the area and there seemed to be fewer tourists- nothing against tourists but the streets seemed quieter and given more to families going to market or playing with their kids than people taking pictures of each other or pointing and giggling at dog crap.

I read a profile of this area by Catherine Sanders in the UK Guardian. Ms Sanders has become famous as a Paris blogger turned published novelist. She snagged a two- book deal for some very nice coin. I read her blog before she became a star and I’ve always enjoyed it, I hope the book does well for her. She needs to get a copy of her book to the American Library or directly to me; some of us are on a budget.

Speaking of the American Library, I ran in to one of my French friends, yes I actually have French friends… well one. He told me that a lot of the French feel that the library is a CIA front. Now I try to act suspicious when I lean against the building eating my lunch. It’s hard to appear dangerous when eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, especially when the peanut butter sticks to the roof of your mouth.

We were walking down the Rue du Belleville when the weather broke suddenly and a cold rain began to fall, softly at first and then harder and colder. We ran to the metro stop and made our way back to the Marais. The more I think about it, the less I am ready to give up on the dream just yet.

OK I'm recycling a post. A woman that I went to high school with has discovered my blog and now knows entirely too much about me. She has tagged me to answer 7 random things about myself. I was tagged to do this last year so I thought I'd do a little cut and paste action and call it a day. Thanks for the tag Jill- don't judge me too harshly.

I also need to tag 3 other people.
1. It's save to say that Dodging Lions is in even more need of blog ideas than me.
2. My brother Sean's Paris Blog has taken on a decidedly morbid and depressing tone- lighten up man. The deer and cow had it coming.
3. Last but not least I'm thinking of two people that sometimes leave comments on my blog but don't have blogs of their own. Mindy and a person that signs themselves as "Z". If you want to participate, and I hope you do, leave 7 random facts about yourselves in the comment section or email them to me. (Mindy left a question for "Ask a French Woman" and Z has commented on my art posts and suggested I flip apartments in Paris)

Writing 7 random things about myself is easy, in fact everything I write is on this blog is useless, random stuff about myself.


1. When I was a child my sister, little brother and I always had a contest called "Who can make the sharpest pointy” A pointy is made by using the end of your pillowcase, preferably very well starched, and folding a section, about 2 inches into a point like a paper airplane. It felt really good to run this ‘pointy’ along your arm or your upper lip- it tickled. I’m 43, I still do this in my sleep (to be truthful I also do it when I'm awake.

2. I stopped drinking at 33 and have never had an alcoholic drink since – except once, when a Thai restaurant put hard lemonade in my ice tea.- I still don’t know what hard lemonade is, but it isn't a pleasant taste.

3. My parents, to punish me for bad grades, wouldn’t let me get my license at 16. By 18 they were begging me to take the test.

4. Everyone seems to love the “Mona Lisa” -it’s considered a masterpiece. I don’t know what makes the “Mona Lisa” any better than the painting of the dogs playing poker.

5. I fell in love (from afar) with a girl named Jackie LeBlanc in the 7th grade- she had a crooked nose. If Jackie is googling herself, "Hi Jackie"

6. I took 5 years of Latin in High School- I can’t speak Latin.

7. When I was in grade school I saw a boy in my class get hit by a car as he walked home. His mom came running down the street screaming and crying. Even though his legs were turned around backwards he said “Don’t cry, mom” I’ll never forget that.

Monday at 11:00 AM I’m waiting at the Trocadero along with several hundred others. Across the Seine, at the Eiffel Tower, the Olympic torch is about to begin its 17.4-mile run through the city of Paris. At the Trocadero there are protests against China- loud chanting, speeches from former Tibetan prisoners. I climb up the fountain to get a better vantage point despite my bad back because I care about you- the reader.

I hear that there is a pro-China rally at the bottom of the hill. I’ve never actually met someone that was pro-China so I scurry down the hill, camera in hand. There are an over-whelming number of Asian women waving the Chinese flag along with, strangely enough, flags with the Samsung logo on it. (Photo to Follow) Samsung is one of the sponsors of the 2008 Olympics and apparently handed out little flags to wave. At the bottom of the hill the crowd is more mixed- Tibetan and Chinese flag- to two opposing groups shout at each other. A Tibetan demonstrator runs in front of the Chinese flags and waves a cardboard “Free Tibet” sign- it is knocked out of his hands. That’s the only sign of violence between the two groups that I see. My hair looks great.

The French riot police arrive and form a line between the two opposing groups. I happen to be on the Tibetan side when they come. We are forcibly pushed across one street, the median and across another street. We are pushed hard. The Tibetan women yell at the CSR riot police and push back. The police keep their cool but they push us even harder until both groups are away from each other, separated by Avenue du President Kennedy, just west of the Pont d’Iena.


Security is massive for the running of the torch. I wonder how much it’s costing the French. There are 3,000 police and security forces involved in this relatively short run. Among them are 160 of Frances most feared CRS riot police; these are the guys we saw the most of. There are 100 police on rollerblades, 100 running firemen who seemed the most pissed off and 16 security vehicles following behind while helicopters patrol above and 3 patrol boats on the river Seine. As the Avenue du President Kennedy nears the Pont d’Iena the road narrows- what had been two columns of security becomes a single file line. At the Pont d’Iena is a large, unruly crowd waving their flags waiting for something, anything to pass them that represents China’s oppression of Tibet. They yell at the athletes in busses and anyone carrying a Chinese flag. People dressed in suits drive by as part of the procession, they are also booed although no one knows who they are.

The Olympic torch comes near- surrounded by police. The crowd screams in anger. The bearer of the torch is in a wheelchair- the torch has blown out he makes the international gesture for “I need a lighter.” An older man and his wife boo and shake their Tibetan sign at him. He probably was honored to have been asked but he looks uncomfortable- I wonder if he has kids in the crowd. The crowd at Pont d’Iena have been waiting for this moment- there is a rush from the crowd.

Tear gas is released by the police- people lean over the stone parapet facing the Seine to escape it. They vomit and spit, snot hangs from their noses. The protests get so bad that the torch rides the rest of the relay in a van.


I walk to Pont Alma and take the train to Hotel Deville, where the procession will pass in an hour. A crowed has already gathered there- the same speeches are being made; the same signs are being waved- I’m suddenly tired by the whole thing. I wait for awhile and admire the sign that Paris Mayor Bertrand Delanoe had placed on the Hotel De Ville- “Paris defends the rights of man throughout the world.” Then I go home.

There was a sudden realization today that filled me with sadness. We’ve been going back and forth on the house we own in the Midwest- the renters have decided they might want to buy it but after doing the math- selling our house, even at the amount we feel we should get, is not going to help us stay in Paris. The dollar is in such a state that it has crippled us. I should have realized this sooner but denial is strong and I’ve been knee- deep in doing the things I like that I hadn’t bothered to pay attention.

The options are get jobs in Paris, which doesn’t seem possible or head back to the Midwest and pick up where we left off. That seems a lot like taking many steps back. I also realize that I’m not that interested in continuing the blog. It was started to discuss the move and life in Paris and after it’s over, in several months, there doesn’t seem to be much point in continuing it.

I took a walk across Pont Louis Philippe to the Ile Saint Louis- even the crazy guy playing the flute with that weird-ass portable fountain failed to cheer me up. It’s a warm night and the streets are filled with people. I browsed through Shakespeare and Company and took the long way home. The walk, as you can imagine, did not cheer me up. This sucks.

If anyone has any suggestions let me know.

Spring is a wonderful time for bird watchers to begin spotting and checking off the list the many bird inhabitance of the metro system of Paris. So gather your book, pencil and binoculars and lets begin.

1. Ruby Throated Door Doofis: This is one of the more common and annoying birds on the metro it is also one of the easiest to spot. As you can see, he is standing in the station, positioning himself in front of the doors so he can board the train before all others. He will not step aside to allow the other birds to disembark as he might lose his valuable positioning. His goal is to get a seat no matter the cost. You can push this bird and shout out a sarcastic “Excusez-moi” He will not budge. It is suspected that this bird was permitted to nurse of its mother's teat for a bit too long. The general rule for nursing is if your chick says- “Mother, I’d prefer to eat at Quickie Burger.” Then it is time to stop nursing.

2. The White Capped Pole Leaner: Again, a common bird that is easy to spot. In the train car by the doors you will find a pole running from floor to ceiling. This pole is installed so that many birds may gather around and hold on to it for dear life as the conductor slams on and off the brakes for no particular reason. The White Capped Pole Leaner will lean against the pole with their entire sweaty body. No amount of subtle and not-so-subtle knuckle to spine punches will dislodge this tenaciously lazy bird from the pole. As the majority of the other birds know, you should never become this intimate with a pole unless someone is shoving dollar bills in your underwear.

3. The Flushed Faced Jolly Greeter: The Flushed Faced Jolly Greeter is a carefree meadowlark of a bird; with his beverage between his knees he shouts out a “Bonjour” to all who enter. Sometimes the Flushed Faced Jolly Greeter will even offer a sip of his libation to an attractive bird or a serious bird dressed in a business suit. “Lighten up world, don’t take yourself so seriously” is his call, “Look at how happy I am”. Several hours later the Flushed Faced Jolly Greeter takes on a decidedly different demeanor. His eyes half closed, he wobbles like a weeble to the train movements. No longer the jovial, mischief making Elf he vomits on the metro floor and doesn’t seem to care about his shoes at all. The young adult of this species will eventually become the more erratic Bulbous Nosed Drunken Ranter or end up in a 12 step program giving advice to people that are happier than he is.

4. Bulbous Nosed Drunken Ranter: The Bulbous Nosed Drunken Ranter should be easy to spot and check off your list. This fellow was once a carefree meadowlark of a bird but has become an angry, resentful bird. You will find them having loud arguments with anyone that is foolish enough to make eye contact with them. The best way to flush one of these fellows out is to let it be known you are an immigrant to the country, for the Bulbous Nosed Drunken Ranter is well aware that you have stolen his job, slept with his woman and have slipped pixie dust into his pockets which are causing the sores in his mouth.

5. Urine Soaked Train Sleeper: The Urine Soaked Train Sleeper uses his unusual scent to keep the other birds away from his territory. Notice in a crowded train how the entire back half of the car is empty save for the Urine Soaked Train Sleeper. While we may pity the Urine Soaked Train Sleeper notice how he is reclining across the seat sound asleep while you battle for the pole with the White Capped Pole Leaner and defend against possible blows from the Bulbous Nosed Drunken Ranter.

There are, of course, many other birds to be spotted but this is a good start to being able to find and identity the wonderful wildlife around you as you travel by metro in Paris. Please feel free to add to the list.

I don’t mean for this to turn into a sports blog- trust me I’m the last guy you want discussing sports but last week I saw a rugby match and this week (Saturday) I watched a soccer game, Paris versus Lens. As I mentioned, the Rugby match was violent but the fans were very demur and respectful. Soccer is a whole different makeup. The game is played by gentlemen and watched by animals. The quiet of the rugby field was in sharp contrast to the riotous chanting of the soccer (european football) fans.

Walking to the Stade de Paris from the metro I was struck by the drunken yelling of young men. Alcohol is not served in the stadium so all the best drinking is done outside. Young men screaming at the top of their lungs to other young men who, in turn, scream back a response. An impromptu song breaks out shouted by hundreds of people. This is, mind you, on the way to the stadium. The game won’t start for another 2 hours.

Our tickets are free, a gift from a major French news organization via a wonderful woman that writes at the American Library. I am with the more successful Misplaced In New Zealand. We are discussing the coup in scoring the tickets and the terrible state of our professional careers- although he is quick to remind me that he has actually published a book and won awards for his novel as well as having numerous articles published in a well-respected paper. I mention that I had 12 commenters on my Henry Miller post and that I was almost in a movie- he seems unimpressed. I bust out that I met a very famous supermodel- he agrees that I win- but suggests that I am more of a stalker than an actual friend to this woman. “Nicely played,” I concede. “Revenge is a dish best served cold.” I think to myself.

Paris Saint Germaine is playing Lens, a small commune in northern France. Lens is well represented at the stadium their orange flags out number the blue Paris flags 2 to 1. We walk to our seats and my day gets better- my seat is on the aisle- oh happy day- unfortunately the more successful Misplaced’s seat is being occupied by a large Silver Back Gorilla waving a Lens flag and chewing on a carrot. “I believe you are in his seat.” I said in English motioning to the seat number and the nervous New Zealander. I’m secure in the knowledge that if there is trouble I don’t have to outrun the gorilla just the New Zealander. They must get the Nature Channel in New Zealand because my Kiwi friend seems to know what happens to the submissive gorilla when the dominant male is challenged. He quickly employs the defense mechanism used by New Zealanders for centuries- charm. He gives the Silver Back a great big New Zealander smile and begins to speak in stilted French. It’s amazing to hear French spoken poorly in a New Zealand accent- it’s like hearing the Queen pass gas; you know it happens but you just can’t believe it when you hear it for yourself.

The gorilla is disarmed and unbalanced by the atrocious French pronunciation and scoots down a seat. Unwilling to concede complete defeat he shoves a large Lens flag into the Kiwi’s shaking hand and, thankfully, grunts instructions on how to wave it. For the remainder of the game the New Zealander, a fan of Paris but a larger fan of life, holds the flag tightly, his knuckles whitened, his Lens flag trembling. He shouts a small “hooray” when the Lens team does well. I half expect him to begin picking lice out of his new friends fur.

I have always heard that soccer was dull- I played soccer and felt it was dull. Soccer is not dull. The score is 1-1 we go into overtime. The stadium now resembles Thunderdome, red flairs are ignited in the stands, and smoke bombs go off. Security magically doubles on the field- they don’t watch the game, they watch us- I haven’t needed to be watched in a long time- it feels strangely exhilarating- it’s a prison riot waiting to happen. Good-looking guys with nice hair, like me, know to disappear during a prison riot- but I persevere. Paris scores break the tie and win the game!! New Zealand guy slyly gives me a thumbs up- but frowns sadly at the Silver Back and returns the flag to him as if to say, “well, we did all we could.” The crowd is screaming- the noise level unbearable. Disenfranchised youth with enough disposable income to buy tickets are about to explode. We hightail it out of there and meet up with our host who has wisely squirreled himself away in the press box.

We take the train home with 70,000 others enjoying the esprit de corps albeit cramped cars.

The posts have been few and far between, haven’t they? I have found that once I get out of t habit of posting it becomes very difficult to come up with topics. If you are a regular reader of this blog than I’m certain you would agree that the topics are never that well thought out to begin with. If I can’t equal the my conversation with a crackwhore topic I think you would agree that the well is truly dry.

I scoured my memory for some writing exercise fodder and I realized that I hadn’t told you about my run in with a super model last month. That’s right, it doesn’t top the deep and lasting friendship that I’ve developed with Pete Townsend after spending some time with him in the South of France but this woman was clearly better looking and I will pick beauty over talent any day of the week.

Anyway, I met Jessica Stam. You probably don’t know who she is, I didn’t either but a quick Google will show that she is the 15th highest paid model in the world and has a handbag named for her, the "Stam Bag" by Marc Jacobs. As you may recall I am the 14th highest paid super model so the meeting was awkward, as you can imagine. I tried to break the ice by relating the story of the fan letter I sent to Brook Shields after she appeared in The Blue Lagoon- the Citizen Cane of 13 year-old boy fantasy movies. Unfortunately, this did not break the ice but caused her to laugh nervously and back away without making eye contact.

Modeling is a competitive field but I really feel that we super models should be able to break bread and vomit it back up without all the petty acrimony.

Paris vs. Toulouse vs. Me

Last night I went to my first rugby match, Paris vs. Toulouse. I went with a guy that was writing a story for a newspaper. I was going because I have an extraordinary amount of time on my hands and he gave me a ticket. He explained the rules of rugby as he jotted down notes in his professional journalist notebook. Not to be out done I began jotting notes of my own on scraps of paper in my coat pocket. One of my quickly written reminders was, “Man, it’s cold out here.”

The second note I wrote was commenting just how pink it all was. The Paris team colors are pink and pink. The flags they wave are pink, their outfits are pink, the lays around the fans necks are pink, even the track around the stadium is pink. It’s all very…pink. Their rugby shorts might have been pleated, I couldn’t tell.

The opening entertainment was straight out of Vegas- there were blowup dragons and green sleezaks on stilts. An elephant, draped in a pink costume, was led around the pitch. Appropriately enough everyone saw the elephant and knew it was there but no one mentioned it. The players ran to the field, a loud pop was heard, which wasn’t a gun and streamers were dropped unto the field from the sky. The gold and silver streamers covered the playing field and the game began. “Very messy, poorly thought out” I noted on my piece of paper.

There is no break in the action. American football has a lot of stopping and starting, which can get a bit dull. That is not the case with rugby; with the non-stop action these guys don’t get a break. An injured player dropped to the ground in pain the medic ran out onto the field- while the ball was still in play. He dodged players and treated the injured player. It was like war but with no death and the soldiers dressed in pink... a lot of pink. I furiously scribbled down my clever observation.

There was a penalty called. A remote controlled car came out to the field with the ball stand. The kicker took the stand and prepared the ball. He did not seem at all surprised that it was a remote controlled car that brought it out to him and that the guy operating it is a grown man. My journalist friend mentioned that in New Zealand they trained a sheepdog to bring the stand out but the noise of the crowed freaked the dog out and he would run away. “Now they use a remote controlled car.” He explained this as he jotted a few more notes in his notebook. I too made some notes. “63,000 people in the stadium, 10 train cars on the metro how long will it take to get out of here? It’s sooooo cold. Dogs are cool. I miss my kitty.”

A few other observations.

-When the ball is kicked into the stands the fans actually throw it back instead of taking it home and enclosing it in Plexiglas and telling me the story of how they got it every god damned time I go to their house.
-They play disco during half time and people in the stands actually dance to it. I danced because that's how I express myself.
-Chicken kabobs are tasty.
-Don’t say “oopsy daisy” when the ball is fumbled, that sounds queer in any language.
-You can bring your children to watch the game- the fans are very respectful. There were no drunk, obnoxious, shirtless, fat men screaming obscenities at the refs – except me, of course, I was representin’.

My memory is probably faulty, but I seem to remember searching for Easter eggs and then having to eat all the hard-boiled eggs that we found. Easter evening turned into a surreal “Cool Hand Luke” scene with my brother screaming, “Nobody ever eat fifty eggs before” and me, lying catatonic on the ground, surrounded by dyed eggs shells, mumbling something about “anything so innocent and built like that just gotta be named Lucille." Kids have it easy today.

I had a very peculiar dream a few nights ago. I hate hearing other people’s dreams so feel free to skip this entry.


I have been interested in Erik Satie (1866- 1925) ever since I tried to visit his living/ work studio in Montmartre. It is billed as the smallest museum in the world- but has been shut down for an indeterminate time. It measures 10 square feet (3 sq m) -about the size of a single bed. He lived and worked here for 8 years in the late 1800’s referring to it as his cupboard (placard). Satie earned his living playing piano in the Montmartre cafes while he wrote his concerts. The minimalist music he composed is beautiful. (I tried to put one of his pieces on the post but was unable- anyone have any suggestions?)

OK so back to my dream. I dreamt of a possible character in a story. This person tries to live his life in the same minimalist way that Erik Satie composed his piano pieces. He takes the minimalist approach so seriously that he refuses to learn the language of his adopted country because he wants to eliminate all conversations feeling they are extraneous- there is no small talk or superficial pleasantries. He purchases what he needs by pointing and when annoyed grunts like an animal. He is unable to make any friends, but that is all part of his plan to live a minimalist Satie life. When in a train he is surrounded by the many conversations, which are just rhythms and beats but there is no coherence. The meaningless sounds remind him of an orchestra warming up before a concert that will never be performed.

While I was sleeping I kept thinking, “Wake up this is great.” I woke up, wrote it down, and re-read it a few days later. “hmmm, this is crap.” I thought. Isn’t that funny how dreams work? I wrote a little story about it anyway but I don’t think anything is there.

Sorry about the lack of posts lately- I've been on a writing streak at the American Library and haven't devoted much time to the blog. I also bought Season 2 and 3 of Lost, which hasn't helped.


I have been reading some Henry Miller these last few weeks- “Quiet Days in Clichey and “Tropic of Cancer”. Flipping through a biography about him yesterday I noticed that on his to do list he had written, “Steal good books from the American Library”. I showed it to the librarian at the American Library in a sad attempt to connect with her; she laughed but it did nothing to help my standing. Sometimes I read a celebrated author and can’t help but wonder what people see in him. Henry Miller is one of these authors. Granted I haven't read much and will continue but what I gather from these two books is the main subject matter seems to be a 40 something-year-old balding man writing about his sexual conquests in Paris. But if he's paying hookers, or not paying them, as is often the case, it is hardly a sexual conquest. I find the whole topic fairly depressing- it seems to be the subject matter for a 16 year-old boy's fantasies than that of a middle-aged man. I've heard Henry Miller described as Celine- but I'm not seeing it.

I acknowledge that I know only a small amount of his work but so far the only thing I learn from his writing is that if Henry Miller can get laid in Paris than pretty much anyone can.

My parents arrived in Paris this week. They are renting an apartment for two months and everyone is very excited. This will, of course, begin the mass family visits. My 10-year-old niece arrives on Wednesday. Here is my letter to her and her response. It seems clear that neither one of us has a firm grasp of reality- but she has fewer misspellings than me, which makes me sad.



Dear A-

Your Grandma and Grandpa arrived in Paris yesterday. The Brussel Sprouts (nickname for our family members living in Brussels) came in town to surprise them. We hid in your Grandparents new Paris apartment and shouted, "surprise!" when they walked in. They didn't seem very surprised- I guess they are old enough that nothing surprises them anymore.

I mentioned before that Grandma and Grandpa live next to the Louvre
where the Mona Lisa lives. Last night the Mona Lisa had a birthday
party for Venus de Milo and it was so loud that Grandma marched over
there, banged on the door and told Lisa to "Keep it down!" Winged
Victory was there but she was so mad because she couldn't eat any
birthday cake because she has no head- very sad. Venus de Milo was
also mad because she couldn't open her presents because she doesn't have
any arms. It was a poorly planned party.

Can't wait to see you this Wednesday.

Love Uncle Misplaced





Hi Uncle Misplaced! It's A. I just set a trap for a leprechaun to get trapped in. I heard that they like shiny things, so I put a spoon, knife, aluminum foil, and coins in the old- fashion box trap. Smart me! I wrapped the stick that you hold it up with in aluminum foil! Just in case you don't know what that box trap is, I'll explain it to you. It's when you put a stick by the edge of the inside of the box, and put the catch of the day's favorite thing inside the box. When they come, they'll knock down the stick and... BOOM! You've got you're catch of the day! (Your "catch of the day gets trapped inside the box)Well, that's that. I'm DYING to see the Mona Lisa! C ya there!

There is no way to write this without appearing to be an old man. But the simple truth is I don’t understand kids these days.

I have three college students, in their early twenties staying with me this week. One of them is the daughter of a family friend. She’s doing her junior year abroad in Strasburg. She and her friend called and asked if they could stay in our guest room. They brought flowers. The third is P- my cousin’s son from the State of Washington. Do you want to feel old? Spend 10 minutes with people in their early twenties and compare how you were in your twenties to how they are. I did not fair well in this comparison. First of all I never would have had it together enough to visit Europe. It was a major undertaking for me to get to Florida for spring break one year- and, of course, I blacked most of that trip out and ended up with third degree burns on my sun-blistered arms and kissing some dentally challenged girl that might have been in town for the tractor pull or maybe she was a carnie

So I mentioned to these 20ers that I don’t have alcohol in the house but if they wanted to pick up some wine or something that they should feel free to do that. None of them were interested. I was baffled. And so I mentioned it again to my cousin’s son, P- and he said….get this.

“I don’t really do that.”

I kept my amazement to myself so as not to scare off this strange alien creature.

“Really, never?” I queried subduing the urge to shake him by the lapels and scream “ARE YOU INSANE!”

“No if it’s an interesting beer I might try it just to experience it.”

I had to reach for the guardrail to keep myself from tumbling into the street. Have you ever heard of such a thing? If I was in Paris during my early twenties s the wine would be flowing like…well, like wine. Which, of course, explain why I don’t drink anymore. When did these kids get so healthy and wise? I’ve also heard rumors that these kids don’t think smoking cigarettes is cool. What a difference a decade makes. I still think smoking is cool- I think the only thing that would have made Fonzie even cooler, and yes he was cool, would be to have a cigarette dangling from his mouth as he had his arm draped over a buxom Pinky Tuscadero.

P- came home last night at 1:30- he was late because he and a bunch of people “closed down the Eiffel Tower”. He wasn’t in a bar room brawl and he didn’t need to get bailed out of jail. Before he went to bed he cleaned up my cat’s vomit. I don’t understand kids these days.

This morning I was rudely awakened by the front door buzzer. It was the postman with a cylindric package from Barcelona. Inside was a large, large box of Quaker Oats Old Fashioned Oatmeal- the slow cook kind. I love oatmeal- I especially love oatmeal raisin cookies- directly out of the oven. Taped to the bottom of the oatmeal box, like drugs, were 5 CDs- A Stephen Sondheim collection-"Into the Woods", "Sweeney Todd" (2 disks), "Sunday In The Park With George" and "Company"


And so, tonight I will be baking cookies and singing along with musicals. I know very little in this world but I know for a fact that the Marais got just a little bit gayer.

Let us continue our Montmartre tour as we move on to Le Bateau-Lavoir. We're walking people, walking.

It is said that modern art was born at Le Bateau- Lavoir. This former piano factory was modified to house artists that could live and work there. It got it’s nickname for the Laundry boats that once traveled the Seine. One tenant described it as “…a weird squalid place filled with every kind of noise: arguing, singing, bedpans clattering, slamming doors and suggestive moans coming from studio doors.” It was here, between 1890 and 1920, that some of the most talented writers and artists of the day lived and worked. My pal Modigliani did his time here before moving to Montparnesse, as did Braue, Juan Gris, Van Donges Marie Laurencin and many others.

In 1904 an unknown Pablo Picasso moved in here and in 1907 painted Les Demoiselles d’ Avignon which is regarded as the painting that began “Cubism”. I would disagree with this, as my great, great grand uncle was painting ‘cubie’ ladies in his little cottage in the western part of Ireland in the late 1800’s- I don’t wasn’t to suggest that Picasso stole the idea from poor ol’ Uncle Shamus, but it seems pretty apparent that he did. By the time that Picasso moved out of the Bateau-Lavoir the thieving Spaniard was famous- but later he said, “I know one day we’ll return to Bateau- Lavoir. It was there that we were really happy- where they thought of us as painters, and not strange animals. oh yea, and thanks for the idea Sucka'...I mean Shamus.”

Le Bateau-Lavoir burned down in the 1970’s and was later replicated. I believe it is still used to house artists- but the charm is lost when you realize that it is a reproduction. Perhaps one of the current artists will bring it back to its former historic glory. Uncle Shamus died penniless, but not before doing a little time for his "special drawings."

We have had friends visit us in Paris. The visits are great until we get to Montmartre. I have absolutely no knowledge of this area. I can walk you to Sacre Coeur and afterwards take you to the crepe place I like. The tour goes something like this.

“YEA, HA HA YOU GUYS WANT SOME CREPES? THIS PLACE IS GREAT HA HA. THERE’S A PICTURE OF JACQUE BREL ABOVE THE PIANO. NO, HE’S BELGIAN. BOY I SURE LIKE HAM ON MY CREPE. WE SHOULD HAVE BROUGHT SOME PICTURES TO PUT ON THE WALL HA HA. MONTMARTRE JUST A BIG OL’ HILL HA HA!”

It’s pathetic and painful yet I continuously drag people through this crap. Well not this time- I’m ready for visitors. I have a slew of family coming in town over next two months. My mom and dad are renting an apartment near the Louvre from March through May – and so for two months all my siblings, their spouses and kids (I have 12 nieces and nephews under the age of 16 will be traipsing through Paris, and I am ready to tackle the big hill. I have mapped out an excellent tour of Montmartre- it includes everything murder, transvestites, hookers, gypsum mines, revolution, theft, hearts entombed in catacombs, and we will finish off with the order in which animals were eaten during the Paris Siege starting with dogs through cats and finally to the rats. There will be some art because- well, their parent will question the other things I’m teaching their children, but then we will roll right into alcoholism, drugs, and insanity of the local talent.

If I have done my job these kids will have nightmares of a drunken Toulouse-Lautrec chasing them through the streets of Montmartre dressed as a woman.

What is wrong with this guy- does he post anymore? It sort of seems like he's been "phoning it in" lately. Remember that time he couldn't think of anything to write and then he just reposted an old post- lame and pretentious. I hope he doesn't do that again. Have you noticed how he always talks about how great his hair I used to think he was joking but I'm beginning to think he's serious. Someone ought to tell him it isn't that nice- kind of ratty really. "Yo misplaced, the 1970's called- they want their hair back!"- Ha ha sucka'... and what's up with him always talking about meeting Pete Townsend? Pathetic.

Someone recommended, I don’t remember whom, that it would be a good idea to write about what I do all day. I suspect that whoever suggested this was in fact saying that they know I don’t do anything and I’d better start proving that I’ve got something going. So this is my day.

As I mentioned, Kelly is off to Fez today for school. She and her fellow female classmates at the American University of Paris are, more than likely, on their way to being sold into white slavery and will undoubtedly end up in an arid land serving coffee to a Sultan in a Princess Leah slave outfit. We had our tearful goodbyes and I asked her to send money if the Sultan should happen to throw her a buck or two and then she was off. Emotionally drained, I immediately went back to sleep. After my fitful rest I went to the post office to mail out the short stories that I had been working on. I’m hesitant to say this, but I have never waited in a line at a Paris post office. I’m certain that I am jinxing myself by saying this but, once again, I was immediately sent to the front counter and was patiently waited upon by an incredible friendly French fellow who delighted in my butchering his language. My letters to New York and Barcelona were ready to go within 2 minutes and I was back on the street.

I passed an American TV star but could not think of his name- he was heading into the crepe restaurant on Francs Bourgeois. This is the second time that I’ve seen famous people and yet they look only faintly familiar to me- it’s important that I watch more American television.

The last time Kelly went out of town I shaved my beard into a goatee- as you will remember, the female readers were quick to write that they absolutely love goatees on men and that that fashion will NEVER get old. What else could I do now that Kelly is gone? I went to the BHV and bought a cheap hat to go with my goatee. My green hat, which looks like a beret but isn’t, was lost in Granada (probably pilfered by a Carcassonian on vacation).

After I bought a hat at the same place that sells lamps and electrical outlets, I did something I have never done before in my life. I wrote a fan letter to an author*. I finished “Our Paris” by Edmund White and loved it. One of my all time favorite books is also by him called “The Flaneur.” I've written abou tthis book before, reading “The Flaneur” reminds me of an exchange I had with my father, who is a sculptor. We were walking though an exhibit of Degas sculptures and I said, “Seeing these makes me want to take up sculpting.” My father replied, “Seeing these makes me want to quit” That’s how I feel when I read people like Edmund White- I will never be able to get there in my writing and it’s a little disheartening. Anyway a few hours later, still wearing my hat, of course, Edmund White responds to my email. He suggested a bookstore that he likes near my neighborhood and asked what I’m doing in Paris. I don’t mean to brag but that’s a pretty good day.

Still basking in the glow of my email and hat I began making a compilation CD for my niece in Brussels- I’m more than a little concerned at the crap she listens to so I’m doing my duties as an Uncle and pulling together some good music- but keeping it somewhat modern. So pleased was I with the CD I burned one for my sister and father-in-law.

So, as you can see, I’m keeping most busy and life is pretty grand. I will miss Kelly but of God feels she should be a white slave than who am I to disagree.

* I did write a fan letter to Brooke Shields when I was a young lad (17 years old- God I wish I had been younger) but that was before she wrote her book it was more in response to her excellent work in The Blue Lagoon....and I was 17.

Graffiti In Granada

I'm trying to put pictures from Granada up but Blogger wont let me- most annoying. Although when blogs that I read put vacation photographs up I generally skip them so maybe it for the best.

Kelly is visiting Fez, Morocco for two weeks to attend a class on non-profit organizations or NGO’s, as they are known here. I'm not certain why she needs to attend this class as we have been non-profit for the past 8 months but off she is going. I have to figure out what I'm going to do for two weeks. My brother and his family are in the Alps skiing and then they are off to Tunisia. It occurs to me that I should probably make some friends or something.

It's been my experience that after your early twenties it becomes more difficult to make lasting relationships. I have made one very good friend in the last five years- a neighbor down the street. We used to meet weekly at a coffee shop and complain about our wives. Nothing serious but a fella needs to vent. My other close friend I met in 8th grade and we have been buddies since. Both have visited us with their wives but neither is irresponsible enough to quit their good jobs and move here- so I am forced to actually try to make friends.

Have you ever tried to befriend a guy? Guys, by their very nature, are idiots so you have meet a lot of bucket heads before you find a cool guy- and then he might think you're an idiot or he might be all full up with guy friends so you're sunk. The plus side in guys being stupid is that very soon they will send out subtle signs that they are not friend material. "Fox News ROCKS!!" "Pamela Anderson is a TOTAL BABE!!!" The 'high five' is always a great weeder out of potential guy friends.

I’ve watched Kelly befriend girls- they will meet for the first time and by the end of the conversation they say - "Hey lets meet for a coffee or go shopping” look at that, they are on their way to becoming friends. If a guy says to another guy at a party, "Hey let's meet for coffee or go shopping" it sounds like a bad pickup line. And let's face it; a slim, good-looking guy with incredible hair such as myself is often mistaken for gay and my intentions may be misconstrued.

The super secret anonymous club I belong to should make it easier to meet people but the simple truth is men don't befriend other men easily. I've always found it easier to befriend women but I’m no longer permitted to be friends with pretty women -so sayeth my wife. By the way- I met a woman that tried to kill herself by jumping in the Seine- (reference to an old post that I'm to lazy to look up and link to)- fortunately she's just average looking so she is "friend material" but...well... she did jump in the Seine and I'm looking for a long term relationship.

So these next two weeks I will try to make some friends and when Kelly gets home I'll ditch 'em.

Smells and tastes always transport me. A fresh cut field reminds me of playing soccer when I was a child- A smell will come from nowhere and I will be immediately returned to the halls of my high school. At the time I don’t realize that the smells or tastes will stick with me but I believe that in the future, no matter how long I’ve been away from Paris, the smell and taste of a clementine will bring me back to these days. I will bore the grandchildren with nostalgic tales of my clementine days.

Our friend Cecile, of "Ask A French Woman" fame, has posted my answers to her questions. I must warn you that my answer are terrible in comparison to hers but you should check out her site it's very good. Are you worried that you can't read French? Have no fear- go to http://babelfish.altavista.com/ and have the page translated from French to English. For those of us that want to learn more about the French this is an excellent site.

ASK A FRENCH WOMAN

As you may recall, a few weeks ago we began compiling questions that we could ask a real, live French woman. Cecile, a Parisian at ceciledequoide9.blogspot.com, has graciously agreed to answer any questions we had- and we had a lot. I hadn't realized that I sent so many over and so I want to thank Cecile for being such a good sport. I'm only publishing the first 12 today and I'll do the rest throughout the week. Thanks everyone for the questions. I think some expat magazine should pick this series up and pay Cecile many euros for her work. you can visit her site to read my answers to her questions.


1. What would be the one French music CD you would recommend?

It really depends if you’re familiar or not with the French culture and what kind of music you like. If I have only one choice, I guess it would be a compilation of songs of Serge Gainsbourg songs, one of our greatest songwriter (a poet actually) and melody makers. Most French people just love this guy.

This record should include titles like:
- Harley David son of a bitch
- Elisa
- Requiem pour un con (“Requiem for a jerk”)
- Qui est “in” qui est “out”
- Love on the beat (one of the hottest songs I know)
- Initials B.B. (he wrote this one for Brigitte Bardot)
- Je t’aime… moi non plus (this song was one of the rare French songs n°1 in the English charts… He wrote it for Brigitte Bardot but was married at that time and asked him not to broadcast it. So he sang it with his next girlfriend Jane Birkin. The title means something like “I love you… neither do I”)
- Bonnie and Clyde (my favorite, the female voice is Brigitte Bardot)
- Je suis venu te dire que je m’en vais (I just came to say I leave)

I have plenty of other suggestions of brand new great French bands on my blog and you can listen to them on myspace… If you want, I can also make a compilation of “French standards”.


2. What is your favorite French book?

This book is not known at all, it’s called “Septentrion” and the author is Louis Calaferte. My second guess would be “Le Petit Prince” by Antoine de Saint Exupéry which was first published in N.Y.C. during WW2 and was for many decades the most translated book in the world (except for the Bible)… and then came a guy named Potter, Harry Potter… “Le Petit Prince” is really really really (I insist) a beautiful little book, with beautiful drawings by the author and very easy to read in French.

3. What are the most prevalent American stereotypes? (Be honest)

I’m not sure to understand the question well. If it is “what do French people think about American people?” I’m afraid the “honest” answer required is not very pleasant. Don’t get it wrong: despite all that was written in the papers when the second war in Iraq started, French people just LOVE American people and kind of admire then. Really. But as we say: “qui aime bien châtie bien” which could be translated approximately translated by “The one who truly loves, really know how to punish” (I manage to write longer sentences in English than in French… strange…). So, I have to admit that the most common stereotypes are “American people are arrogant and want to rule the world” (this one is quite recent) and the other one is “American people are stupid”.

I have a video in my blog, a report for an American show actually, where a journalist asks questions like “how many angles does a triangle have” or “what’s the British currency?” and get all kinds of crazy answers… That’s the funny part of the video… What follows is kind of creepy. The journalist then asks “what country should we attack next?” and surprisingly everybody has a precise idea about this particular question… Scary.

In another one a woman is asked for the capital of Hungary in a T.V. game. The problem is not that she doesn’t know the answer… (Nobody has to know everything after all but still there is a minimum). The problem is that she has never heard about Hungary and says “hungry?” There is a country called “hungry”, really?”

Of course those example aren’t representative but they are funny. We have a lot of stupid persons here too but I just can’t imagine an adult walking down the street not able to give the correct answer to “combien y a-t-il d’angles à un triangles?” or not answering “Are you insane?” to a journalist asking, “quel pays devrions-nous attaquer?”

4. What do you think the most prevalent French stereotypes are?
One is about the same: “French People are arrogant” but not for the same reasons I guess. We don’t give a shit ruling the world but we think we’re smarter than anybody else on earth. Am I correct? Isn’t it our reputation most of the time?
There is a Belgian story about us which goes like this: “Do you know why French people choose the cock for national symbol?” and the answer is “Because even both feet stuck in the muck they keep on singing”.
- Savez-vous pourquoi les français ont choisi le coq comme emblème national?
- parce que meme les deux pieds dans le fumier, ils continuent de chanter.

The second stereotype is, I think: “French people always complain… They’re always on strike, they shout all the time”. Kind of right but as we say “Ca fait partie de notre charme” (it’s part of our charm). The positive aspect about this is that we have no traces of hypocrisy. We can just argue about almost anything for hours (we love to talk so much…) and then shake hands and have a drink together (we love to drink too).

5. Do all Germans dress badly or just the ones that visit Paris?
It’s worst in Spain!

6. Where did you learn to speak English?
At school and I spent some times in the States… All French kids have to learn at last 2 foreign languages. I started with German and then English. Do not forget that French people listen to English songs all the time; we see English/American movies, etc.

7. Do you miss the French franc?
Why would I? I don’t care about the currency as long as:
- It is the one chosen by my country
- I get enough money… ;o)

8. Who do you think would win in a nude, Lime Jell-O wrestling match Bush or Sarkozy?
Hum… difficult question. Bush is much taller and certainly stronger but I guess Sarkozy is sharper and more nervous. It would be strength against strategy, muscles against brain, calm against anger… I bet on my president but on the other hand Bush would be on his own field, as we’re not really used to Jell-O here…

9. If I stood outside Carla Bruni apartment singing “Love me tender, love me sweet” wearing nothing but a tee shirt and socks -would that be considered romantic or creepy?
I’m afraid you wouldn’t even get closer to her metro station dressed like that and it would be kind of inappropriate even under my windows…

10. Is it just me, or do the English seem to be drunk a lot?
It is not just you. It is just them.

11. The men in Paris seem to take a piss anywhere- is that something you become used to?
I’m not used to it after 15 years in Paris… and my building and the one next to it makes an angle in a small street if you see what I mean…

12. I was told that French women find American men speaking French incredibly sexy- I was later told that that whoever said that was lying to me- which is it?
I’ll tell you that after a drink or two to check your French level…

Do you feel as though you've been abandoned? I went to Granada in the southern part of Spain and forgot to mention that I wouldn't be blogging for the week. Sorry about that. I took a slew of pictures and will get them up as soon as I get myself situated.

I have been remiss in posting this week. We had guests and at some point we are supposed to move away from the computer and actually live a life worth blogging- at least that what some people believe.

We re-watched “Dead Poets Society” and then went out to live life deliberately- you know- suck the marrow from it. The inspiration that comes from a movie, as well as motivational speakers, lasts about 3 hours so we had to move quickly.

The Chinese New Year was brought in with a parade designed to chase away the evil spirits. I think it worked. Which brings up a point- is it ok to say that Asian people can be very pushy, in the physical sense, without appearing racist? Note: I’m not worried about being racist just appearing racist. This also happened at the Bateau Mouche. At the end of the boat ride there was a stampede to the exit. I asked a Chinese guy behind me if the boat was on fire- he laughed and pushed me out of his way.



In the Marais a man danced with a fish bowl on his head- I’m not certain why but there it is. A pet peeve I have regarding photographers. If you are going to take a picture of the street performers you should throw a euro in their hat. I’m amazed at the number of people that stand beside a silver elf, have their picture taken and not give the guy a little money. He’s dressed up like a silver elf with pointy ears- give him a euro




In the 3rd arrondisement I found the charred remains of a row of bicycles, mopeds and motorcycles. It looked like art- I was then thinking that could become a performance art piece that could be performed around the city. Only after awhile it occurred to me that that would be arson. Sometimes the line isn’t so fine.




We spent time with the dead, as I mentioned. This particular gravestone was of interest. I couldn’t read the inscription but I suspect that this guy wasn’t the most fun to be around. Anyone know the history of the person that wanted Promethius on his gravestone?






I wrote about Victor Noir’s grave a few months ago. I didn’t realize that we have two things in common- one is that we both wear Chelsea Boots.







Sacre Coeur is incredible in the sense that on a cloudless day we all appear to be skilled photographers.

Yesterday was spent with the dead at Pere Lachaise. What better why to put your life in perspective and contemplate what’s truly important than to be reminded of your own mortality. While wondering through the cemetery I ran into an old friend Amedeo Modigliani.

Modigliani died January 24, 1920 of tubercular meningitis at the age of 35. His excessive drug and alcohol use was a major factor in his death. The following day his common-law-wife, Jeanne Hebuterne, eight months pregnant, jumped from a 5th floor window- she was only 22 years old. They had a 14-month-old daughter, Jeanne, who was adopted by Modigliani’s sister. Very sad- Modi should have put down the bottle and the pipe and taken care of his family.

Last night we were treated to a wonderful meal at Les Bouquinistes by Dodging Lions and his lovely wife, Red. It was an incredible meal at a very fancy restaurant. The waiters were knowledgeable, fun and charming. When Red ordered the Cod the waiter said, “No the Sea bass is better I will give you that.” When Dodging Lions ordered the veal he said No no I will bring you the scallops and you can have some of his veal."- He said motioning to me. The evening was perfect. Well…except maybe the bathroom.

Dodging Lions was giving me grief because when I point out Parisian sites I would also mention the nearest best bathroom to the site. It isn’t that I have to use the bathroom very often but it’s nice to know where a clean, comfortable, free bathroom is located. For instance, in the 7th arrondisement The American Church has a lovely bathroom. Or, let’s say you’re strolling down the Champs de Ellyse and you pass the Louis Vuitton store- suddenly the urge hits. Don't panic, take a right at George V and go to the the American Cathedral. The doorman has to buzz you in- and will ask you what you want tell him your going to an AA, NA, or SA meeting- he’ll be too embarrassed at your non-French candor and buzz you in without looking you in the eye.

So a new segment to this completely worthless blog is rating bathrooms around Paris. As with the other segments on this blog I will do it for a little while and then it will end as quickly as it began. Remember “I See Dead People”, “Helpful Household Hints” “Argument’s I’ve Had”, “People Who Done Me Wrong”? All of them gone after one or two posts. Follow through has always been an issue with me.

The bathroom at Les Bouquinistes needs a bit of work. The fixtures are stainless steel and the sink basin is marble The quarters are tight but most bathroom in Paris are small so you can’t really hold that against them and the sink was with the toilet which is always welcome. Many bathrooms in Paris are unisex and the sinks are in a communal area- it’s hard to be suave with the ladies when you are washing your hands after a noisy pee. What is less forgivable is the lack of cleanliness. I hate to say it but it needed a good scrubbing and their male patrons have a tough time hitting the target, if you know what I mean. Kelly suggested that they toss a Cheerio in the toilet, which would give the guys something to aim for. I started to complain that that’s how you teach a child to pee in the toilet and that we aren’t children but I realized that it would probably work and would in fact be fun. (Note To Self: Carry a few Cheerios in Man bag). I’d have to give it 2 stars out of a possible 5. It would have been 3 but since it is such a fancy restaurant we expect better from them

There is still time to Ask a French Woman.

We were originally going to have the "Ask A French Woman" answers today. Unfortunately, Cecila had some unexpected business come up. If you haven't figured it out Cecile is an international spy- She was called in to her main spy headquarters to help in taking over a small country- whose name she couldn't release. Cecile thought it would only take a week- she's that good. It's bad news for that small country but good news for us. Keep sending in those questions. Dyna that means you too.

We will have answers next Wednesday.

Did you get the last post? I was suggesting that Sarkozy was a geek and that his marrying a hot supermodel would be a victory for Star Trek geeks everywhere. My wife didn't get it and when I explained it she still gave me a puzzled look.

On Saturday night there was a loud cheer at Star Trek conventions around the world.

I had a lovely Sunday. It’s cold in Paris- 40 degrees if you consider that cold in February. Kelly has a paper to write so I decided to help in the best way I knew how and that is to get out of the way.

On the first Sunday of the Month many of the museums are free. I think we’ve established that I’m umm…. frugal and so it was off for a free afternoon at the Louvre. One of the many pluses in living in Paris is that there is no need to cram everything in. Walk through a museum until you are saturated and leave. There will always be another free day on the horizon. The last time I was there I focused on the French sculptures on the lower ground floor- this time my plan was to hit the French painters- but was sidetracked by the “Objets d’arts” on the 1st floor of Richelieu wing. Very cool- I was particularly impressed with the tapestries. A few of those tapestries are down right salacious which, of course, makes it all the more interesting. It’s easy to only glance at them as you walk by quickly- but study them. My goodness, I think you’d be surprised. If they were in a porn shop I’d be a pervert but since they are at the Louvre I’m a clever little art monkey.

I’ve mentioned this before but I’m all about beating a dead horse. Watch people the next time you are in a museum. Many of them walk up to a painting look at it for a second and snap a picture of it. They must have a hundred digital pictures by the end of their visit. Even more fun are the people holding up their cell phones and snapping that perfect shot. I saw one guy walking around the perimeter of the room videotaping the paintings- he saw them only through the viewfinder of his camera! I realize that it is his experience and not my business but Jesus man get in the moment. I’m sure he’s thinking that he will study the art later, in the comfort of his home. I’m guilty of that kind of behavior too- it’s hard to be in the present and enjoy the moment for what it is. I don’t need a souvenir; I don’t need to prove to anyone that I was there. I just need to enjoy it at that moment. Easier said than done.

Is the only thing keeping you from moving to Paris the fear that you wont be able to find a good burger? Trust me, I understand, but fear not. I went to a café around the corner from the Louvre called Café De La Comedie and I had a, dare I say it, GREAT burger. This place is a total tourist trap; it was expensive but completely worth it. I should have looked at the menu and ordered water instead of diet coke- I ended up spending 1/3rd of my weekly spending money- but it was a good burger and I was content.

I went home to pester Kelly who was deep into her 20-page paper. Just looking at it made me tired so I took a 45-minute nap and then went to a group meditation meeting. I’ve been going to this meeting for about 3 months every Sunday. Fifteen of us meet up at the communist headquarters in the 3rd Arrondisement and do a 1½ hour guided meditation. It’s nice and the people are just crazy enough to be interesting. I go to my “happy place” with pictures of Che Guevara grimacing down at me. If the numbers on the white board are any indication the Communist party isn’t doing so well which might explain Che’s furrowed brow.

When I got home I found that Kelly had roasted a chicken- the apartment smelled wonderful. We had a meal that couldn’t be beat and chatted about our day. I tried not to let on how perfect my day was so she wouldn’t be jealous and I fell asleep reading a mystery novel about a stolen Modigliani. Can a day get any better?

Remember, there is still time to Ask a French Woman.

I wrote once about our 1966 convertible bus, which we owned for 20 years. My brother sent me a picture of it recently and I thought I’d share it. I don't know all of the people in the picture- some are siblings and my mom, who loves her some Lime Jell-O, is the babe leaning near the back of the bus. I’m the dashing young lad in the front passenger seat with a head as big as all outdoors.

I reread the post and it made me miss that bus all over again. I think my brother Sean dropped the engine and put it in the lawnmower or something sketchy like that.

Remember, there is still time to Ask a French Woman. You have until Monday to ask a real live French person any question you want- she has promised not to ignore, mock or pssssst! you. Ask your questions in the comment section or email me at mgmullaney@mac.com. We will run the questions and answers next wednesday.

Finally something exciting is happening in this blog!! A very famous French blogger, Cecile, asked if I would answer a few questions for her blog. I don't know if you all realize it, but I'm a pretty big deal in France- the tabloids just ran photos of me topless on a beach with Carla Bruni (I was topless, Carla was not -despite my pleading). It makes me so angry that they don't respect our privacy. Anyway her line of questioning will be based on the "Chinese Portrait", I've never heard of this form of questioning but it's common in France- An example of such a question would be "If Paris was a color, what color would it be?" I agreed to answer her questions (my answers will, undoubtedly, suck) on the condition that she answer 20 questions for me. She has foolishly agreed. My questions will have no format- just French things I have wondered about.

I've been putting together some questions but since everyone who reads this blog loves Paris - except for that anonymous chick that noone likes- this is a great opportunity to ask those nagging questions you have. What do you want to know from a real, live Parisienne? Politics, dating, art, living in the big city, fashion, making out on the first date, boxers vs briefs- anything you need to know now is your chance. Even if you are an expat who has been living in Paris for years certainly there is something you'd like to ask.

I'm calling all of you out- Self-Taught Artist, LDP, Demetrius, Karyn, Lil Bro, Michelle, Big Bros, Chef Brocket, Dyna, New Reader Mindy, Jersey hoodlums, Polly Vous Francais, Jay, La Belette Rouge,Kate, Panic in New York, Our Family in Paris, Barcelona Kevin, Catalan Laura, Aralena, Solvakia, Taryn, Melissa, San Francisco, all those people that read the blog but never comment- we want questions from you. A chance to ask a real live french woman whatever you want. I'll compile the questions and forward them to her. Answers will be published soon.

You can leave the questions in the comment section or, if you are shy, email me mgmullaney@mac.com

I have to admit that I’m a bit old school when it comes to male beauty products. I find them disturbing. Being in Paris I’ve kept my feeling on the DL (down low) and haven’t put anyone out on FS (front street) but men seem to be spending more time getting ready to go out then women and that just seems wrong to me.

Men run off to the tanning booth looking for that healthy glow year round- they are plucking their eyebrows, getting facials, highlighting their hair, putting a little curl on those eyelashes and dashing off to the ObGyn- ok, I made that last one up. The latest trend, thanks the Beckham underwear ad, is men having their entire bodies waxed- all of it- everything. What has become of us? I pondered this in my copious free time as I worked on my cuticle looking for that perfect crescent moon and it occurred to me that maybe I was going down this slippery path.

When we moved into our Paris apartment the previous tenants left a ¼ bottle of Dior Hommes cologne in the bathroom. I put some on out of curiosity and my wife liked it so upon occasion I’ve been wearing it. I’ve also begun to like to like the smell. The bottle is now gone and I miss the scent- it’s as though it was my scent- it seemed sophisticated and Parisian. Without mentioning it anyone I snuck into a store and priced a new bottle. 60 Euros! Cheapness trumps smell every time. Lately, whenever I’m near the BHV I slip in and spray some of the Dior Homme sample on me. How far away can a complete Brazilian wax be?

I have a fun Parisian scavenger hunt for people who read this blog. If we are successful it could mean a great deal of money for us and believe me I need the money because butter cookies don’t grow on trees. That is the one mistake that God made- no butter cookie trees.

As you may recall, I've been a little obsessed with Modigliani. I've always felt that anything worth doing is worth overdoing so I've been studying his life and his work in the library when I should be writing the next mediocre American novel.

Interesting Fact
Modigliani moved from Montmartre to Montparnasse in 1909. He was broke and had taken a break from painting to sculpt. Since he had no money, he had to steal his materials to work. It is not a coincidence that all his narrow, rectangular wooden figures are the same dimensions as the oak sleepers on the train tracks.

Background
In 1913, near his home in Montparnasse, Modigliani spotted blocks of stone on a building site. In the evenings he would sneak onto the building site and chisel away on one of the larger blocks. When the statue was nearly completed the workmen placed the chiseled stone into the foundation where it belonged. Modigliani made a scene but was run off by the workmen.

The Mission
So, somewhere in Montparnasse, in the foundation of a building that was begun in the summer of 1913, there is a Modigliani waiting for adventurers like us to discover/steal. Come join me- you know you've always wanted to quit your damn job and move to Paris to be involved in a caper. that's right- I'm talkin' about a caper.

Nothing To Do With The Mission
I've added a new Paris blog to my favorites called Musings.

I once wrote about having a crush on Abrahams Lincoln’s mother. I know, I’m not proud of that fact but we had a children’s book about Abe and there was a sketch of his mother and she was good looking and I was a boy…so what are you going to do?

Anyway I was reminded of a Harper Lee quote after reading some chucklehead’s anonymous comment who basically said “America, love it or leave it!” Harper Lee said of some of her fellow American travelers “When in Rome do as you done did in Monroeville.” which lead me to the following internal dialogue.

-Harper Lee is a babe.

-WHAT?

-Yea, for some reason I think Harper Lee is hot.

-You don’t even know what she looks like.

-God, you’re right- Oh yeah…the actress (Catherine Keener) that played Harper Lee in the Truman Capote movie is very attractive.

-So now you have a crush on Catherine Keener?

-No, I think it's a crush on Harper Lee

-You better not let Abe’s mom find out about it.

The more I think about it the more I realize that I should probably get a job or at the very least a hobby.

I have a pet peeve about some Americans abroad. I will admit that I am also guilty of this annoying habit so this is really a post to myself. Americans in Paris want to be accepted by the Parisians. We all understand this need to be loved; maybe Americans have this need more than other as I have heard suggested- I don’t know. The next time you are in Paris watch an expat or a tourist when they are first introduced to a Parisian. The conversation will begin politely enough- general conversation- “I love your city!”- “Wow, that is some tower you got there” “Is it true that there is a place in France where the ladies wear no pants?” You know, the usual icebreakers. As soon as there is a lull in the conversation watch the American. He begins to twitch and get excited. He wants to say something but he doesn’t know if it’s too soon. He’s trying to hold back the comment but he can’t. He’s going to burst- he must say it…. can’t….hold….out…much…longer…

“I didn’t vote for Bush!”

It spews from his mouth like projectile vomit splattering everyone within earshot.

Unable to restrain the flood the American will go on and on about how he doesn’t like Bush he doesn’t know anyone that voted for Bush, certainly none of his friends- the election was rigged. He will then roll into American racism, slavery, and freedom fries. He will have a new thought that politician's extra-marital affairs should not only be ignored but encouraged*. As the American discusses these woes they will laugh- a short “please love me” laugh. “American’s are so stupid. ha ha ha Aren’t they? ha ha ha”

It’s painful to witness. I cringe when I hear this- I cringe even more when I’m guilty of it. We can pretend that we are discussing politics but I think all we are trying to do is convince a complete stranger that we aren’t like all those “other” redneck, provincial Americans who don’t know diddly about squat. It’s a rather pathetic attempt to fit in. We assume that the Frenchman hates America or Bush and that they devote most of their day to thinking about this hatred. Essentially we are buying into a stereotype so that we wont be stereotyped by a person that may or may not stereotype Americans in that way. I can’t say that I am a particularly good or proud American but Jesus have a little loyalty for your homeland- don’t be so quick to sell out your country and perpetuate stereotypes so that you can be liked by a guy that probably supported Sarkosy.

*My thought regarding politicians that cheat on their spouses- If a person cheats on their spouse with whom they love and have made a solemn vow how long will it take before they screw over a complete stranger (you)- other than that I don't really need to know about who's sleeping with whom.

What's a fella to do? Three of my favorite blog, as shown on the right, have decided to go private. Since the purpose of listing the favorites is to direct people from here to there is there any reason to keep them on the blogroll? Also, if you have someone on your blog favorites and they don't put you on theirs is it just plain bitchy to delete them from yours out of spite? Let me rephrase that: I know it's bitchy, but is it acceptable bitchy?
Blog rules and etiquette are so complicated.

Goodbye 2007 Audrey Tautou




Hello 1964 Francoise Hardy

I’m not saying I would do this but it is tempting. On trash day, grocery stores throw out expired food items. Their garbage cans are filled with wrapped, edible food. The fruit and vegetable markets do this also; food that is perfectly good, perhaps a bruise or some such thing but otherwise ok. There are always well-dressed people as well as clochards digging through the garbage filling their carts with this packaged food. It must be a huge savings. Is my thinking that this is a sound idea the first step in becoming a bagman?

I go to the American Library to get some writing done. Second floor behind the stacks there are tables and outlets. Several people are writing here- I notice, in the corner, a guy I know. We nod to each other. We have the same first name- that’s where the similarities end. He’s working on his second novel. I’m sorry I should clarify- he didn’t just write a novel, he had it published. He’s working on his second one, which will, undoubtedly, be published.

I’m staring at the empty white screen, the curser is blinking. I’m cursing the blinking curser. I hear the other, successful Misplaced behind me. His fingers are flying on the keyboard. It sounds like a goddamned semi automatic weapon back there. The wind howls on my side of the room-a tumbleweed tumbles by, a dog barks. I’m trying to find one of the Clementines I packed in my bag- it got squished- things are sticky in my bag. The other guy probably ate lunch before he got to the library.

How can anyone think with all that typing going on? I ought to complain to the librarian but they don’t like me here, something about a book they claim I never returned- librarians are such liars. Notorious fabricators- the smell of mendacity is thick upon them. That whole notion about a button down librarian taking of her glasses and shaking her hair out to reveal a sexy lady is a total lie. They are just mean spirited nuns but without a God and no fear of Hell no keep them in check.

I must concentrate- finish up the short story- get the new one going. I need to send a story out.

“His cigarette pierced the lugubrious night.”

Oh Christ that’s crap.

The other Misplaced chuckles behind me. Is he laughing at me? No, no he’s laughing at what he wrote- maybe. He took time from his rapid fire typing to laugh at what he wrote. It was probably pretty funny. Damn, look at him with his purple shirt and full beard- no missing patches on his beard. My beard looks like a dog with mange- if my beard was a dog it would be put down. Probably bought that purple shirt with the royalties from his first book. What a show off. Jerk.

I looked his book up on-line. It’s about a guy who works in a video store- I used to work in a video store, and mine had unusual porn in it. Damn, I should have written about it. His book got good reviews. Bastard.

He’s from New Zealand. I’ve never much trusted New Zealand and it’s people. Aren’t they basically Australians with very dark disturbing secrets? They seem to lay low- too low. Other than the Hobbit movie, what do you know about New Zealand? Nothing. Don’t spout out some crap about good hiking and majestic view, you don’t know. What you think you know about New Zealand is what New Zealand wants you to know. Trust me- we need to keep an eye on that crowd. They are bidding their time- waiting, waiting, waiting. Just waiting to plant their seed on our women. Where the hell is New Zealand anyway? I ought to march over to him and say- “New Zealand, New Zealand? Where is Old Zealand! New Zealand my ass!” Forget the Chinese or the Carcassonians- they are just street punks compared to New Zealanders.

Listen to that New Zealander go -he’s hitting those keys a mile a minute. I want to scream, “Hey man, writing is a journey not a destination!” But I don’t really know what that means. He’s probably writing some great New Zealand coming of age story. All I’ve got is a modern version of Mary and Joseph living in Ireland- Joseph unemployed and drinks heavily. They move a lot because they don’t pay their bills. Mary is smoking a Woodbine in bed; Joseph is passed out next to her. She hears a voice, “ONTO YOU A CHILD IS BORN” She takes a deep drag off her cigarette and she says in a thick, uneducated, Irish accent “Oh Christ not another”

Yea, that’s what I’ve got in my bag of tricks. Man oh man I used to make pretty good money. I should never have quit my job. This move huge mistake.

New Zealand guy is working away- his glasses are perched on his nose- he looks scholarly. He does not look up from his laptop. I’m trying to eat a squished Clementine without the damn librarians getting up in my face. I’m downloading an illegal copy of “Grey’s Anatomy”- I want a butter cookie.

I once wrote about being addicted to following the site traffic. I’ve gotten much better about it I don’t much care about the numbers any more (over 11,500 hits to date), but I love discovering where you all are from. I recognize the same geographic faces. Beirut, Jerusalem, Oakland, Huntington Station, Juarez, Sydney, Vallejo, Dublin, Tacoma, Dubai and now Eugene. I assume that if you are reading this you have a similar take on life otherwise why would you bother? We are all cut from a similar cloth. I would like, at some point, to borrow money from each and every one of you, except maybe the guy from Jersey as I suspect I’d have to pay him back.

There is one location that fascinates me. I’ve googled it; I’ve studied in on a map; I’ve even bounced the idea of trying to visit there. That place is called Martin / Zilina, Slovakia. It’s actually two cities in northern Slovakia I don’t know why it fascinates me- the reader comes by upon occasion and I love the fact that my very small life is being read about in Martin/ Zilina Slovakia. Somewhere in Slovakia someone knows that my mother’s favorite recipe is Lime Jell-O or that my sister conned a neighbor kid out of his Mountain Dewback in the 70’s. I love that Martin /Zilina Slovakia reads your comments, as peculiar as they sometimes are.

Anyway, somewhere along the line we lost Martin /Zilina Slovakia. I was hoping it was the inane comments from you all that drove Martin / Zilina Slovakia away but I soon realize that it was probably me. Where ever I go there I am. It may have been something I said or didn’t say. So this is a note to Martin/ Zilina Slovakia.


Dear Martin/ Zilina Slovakia,

Please, give me another chance- I can make it right. Maybe I didn’t listen to your needs and your wants. Do you feel that I took you for granted? Did it just get old and routine? In my minds eye I can see you at your computer; it’s early in the morning, you’re holding a cup of coffee, your hair is tosseled from having just woken up, laughing and smiling at some new hot shot blogger with his fancy words, his cohesive thoughts and his spot on grammar. I'm certain he is a younger, funnier blogger with an exciting font and not just the stock blogger spot background. He probably even spell checks- the bastard!

He seduced you with his profile.
Favorite Book: Time Traveler’s Wife
Favorite Movies: Anything by Ingmar Bergman
Turn Ons: Long walks on the beach
Turn Offs: Mean people and pollution.

These things are lies Martin/ Zilina Slovakia- Lies I tell you! That isn’t real- he doesn’t presume to know you like I presume know you. He is a flash in the pan a blogger that will one day just disappear. No goodbyes, no thank you just a blog that slowly disappears and is replaced by a porn site. I’m not saying that your picture will turn up on that site Martin/ Zilina Slovakia I’m just saying that I don’t trust him, not one bit. If I tell you that noone will see those pictures but me and you then you can trust that- well, you can’t take it to the bank but you know what I mean. Just reconsider, that’s all I ask. We’ve come to far to throw it all away.

Much Love,
Misplaced in the Midwest

Back to the Pompidou today to check out the Modigliani- somehow I missed an entire floor- the 1906 to 1960 Modern Painting section. There seems to be a lot of things we can’t do at the museum such as take pictures, talk on the phone or draw mustaches on the portraits- these should be called the PompiDon’ts- unfortunately I violated 2 of these 3 rules but I wanted a picture of the bust of Gertrude Stein ( yea, I think you know what I’m talking about) and the Modigliani because I’m reading his biography and then my stupid brother called me. so there I was 2 PompiDon'ts and no magic marker to make it a trifecta.

As I was leaving the building there were two people at the exit with the “Free Hugs” sign. I’m a hugger, I always have been. When I first got to Paris I could appreciate the kiss on either check with the hand on the shoulder- but you know what?- it isn’t very satisfying. I need a hug- it’s how I roll. The huggers were male and female- quickly I weighed the options because if I hug the woman she might think I’m just looking to cop a feel. I must use caution with my new Goatee and sideburns, I oooooze sexuality- despite what all the women* said on my last post. I hugged the man because I believe in preserving the integrity of the non-sexual hug. The guy seemed to be taken aback by my hug – I gave him plenty of warning, “Coming in!” I yelled. But it occurred to me that he might have thought I was gay and trying to cop a feel (it’s also possible that my new look unleashed desires within that he was not aware he possessed). I can appreciate that he might have thought I was gay, lets face it I’m an excellent dresser, I have phenomenal hair and I have the hips of a 12 year old girl still he should not have been too surprised that I busted out with a big bear hug because he was, after all, holding a “Free Hugs” sign.

I began to walk home through the Marais thinking about this latest development- catching my reflection in the shop windows as I passed because the goatee looks just that good. And it occurs to me that gay guys must have sex all the time- men are dogs- and I was thinking they ought to put that in the brochure when they are recruiting young men to join their sexual orientation lifestyle. Remember the seminars we all had to attend when it came time to decide whether we were going to be gay or straight- Remember, how all the “Undecideds” ended up being bi. God, that was funny. The other thing they should have mentioned in their literature is that if you are gay you effectively double your wardrobe when you start dating another guy- and not crappy stuff either. Of course the negative aspect of being gay is that you probably have to sleep with guys- they may want to de-emphasize that aspect of the gay lifestyle. Whenever a possible recruit ask about it they can bring up the musicals again.

*When Brenda delurks- Brenda DELURKS

View in the 'dou

A Pompidou View

Kelly will be in Oregon until next week. When the cats away the mice will what? Good question- let me lay it out for you. I fired up the electric razor and shaved my beard- but not all of it. That's right I left long sideburns, not quite muttonchops but long enough to show that I mean business and a goatee- I'm sportin' a new look for the new year. I'll be sliding on my boots and be steppin' high in tall cotton. It's a look that says- "Hey world here I am! If you can't handle my facial hair then you can't handle me- Sucka!" put it also says in a whiny small voice, "Please love me".

Here's the thing about guys with goatees and sideburns and now that I'm one of them I feel I can let you in on this secret, when they look in the mirror they don't see what you see. They could be 300 lbs, have more chins than a chinese phonebook, male pattern baldness and a lazy eye- they will still look in the mirror (with their good eye) at the long sideburns and goatee and think to themselves, "Damn, I kind of look like Johnny Depp" It's true, very sad but very true.

This new look will disappear before Kelly gets back- the only reminder will be the small hairs in the sink which i will inevitable miss.

Next Week: The Soul Patch

There is no getting around the fact that most art does not move me. I want it to. I want it to speak to me but it mumbles something about a doctor’s appointment and then runs off. I mentioned before that I cannot tell the artistic difference between the Mona Lisa and the painting of the poker playing dogs- I don’t mean this as a joke I’m being very serious. It seems odd as I come from a very artistic family, my father is a sculptor and my mother is a writer- so it seems I should know better- but, alas I do not.

Yesterday we visited the Foundation Cartier exhibits in the 14th arrondisement with some family friends. Lee Bull, a Korean artist, has an exhibit there. I contemplated, prodded, soaked in her work and the result was nil. But I wasn’t dissuaded because there was another exhibit of an art form that I do appreciate, photography. Robert Adams black and white photos of the Pacific Northwest. - But again I felt nothing. Actually that isn’t true, I felt bored. That’s ok, I said to myself not all art is going to reach everyone.

The following day (today) I went to the Pompidou center for the Alberto Giacometti show. You will probably know him from one of his sculptures entitled “The Walking Man.” I did enjoy this show- but no so much for his art, although I could appreciate that, but for the added attraction of seeing his studio. I focused more on and was more interested in where he created his work and less on the work itself. I then found myself devoting most of my time to watching the people as they viewed his art- students sketching his work and scribbling away in their notebooks, tour groups taking up far too much space, old women pushing others out of their way.

Perhaps I am just one of those people that doesn’t “get it”, or maybe the emperor really has no clothes. I suspect I am not alone in this fault; the last time I visited the Louvre I was amazed that half the people there were looking at the art through the viewfinders of their movie cameras. Although art must do something for me because i seek it out. I go to the musems, not because I'm supposed to but because I want to. It's all very strange but today I don't have inclination to dissect the reasons for it.

There are certain expectations that you have to let go of when you move to Paris. Customer service is perhaps one of the biggest. Not only is the customer not always right- the customer is actually something to be avoided much like the woman squatting behind your apartment building or the guy with the infected sore sitting on the train.

Back in the States, Kelly has often bragged that she can return anything. It doesn’t matter when or where you bought it she will get your money back. Before we moved to Paris we had a garage sale to sell our possessions. Our neighbor, Don, brought over a juicer still in its box and asked if he could try to sell it. It was a gift he received a few years ago. He used it several times and then it gathered dust in his basement.

“Of course you can.” I said. “Price it and put it on the table.”

Kelly’s sixth sense kicked in and her head popped up like a prairie dog from behind several boxes of books.

"Where’d ya get it?” She asked her voice a little too loud with excitement. Her eyes narrowed, she licked her lips, somewhere, far off, a dog barked.

"I think they got it at Target” He replied, backing up and looking at me nervously.

“Sure you can sell it here and maybe get 25 bucks for it but it’s probably worth 5 times that new. I’ll return it for you."

Don, a nervous math professor, stammered “No that’s ok- $25 is ok. - I used it and it’s been a few years”

“Ha!” Kelly barked.

I stepped between the two as she lunged for the box.

“Let the man sell his juicer.” I interjected, never realizing that I would ever have to utter such a sentence.


We knew those days were gone when we moved to Paris. You simply don’t return things here. It isn’t done. Kelly bought a pair of boots at a vintage store in the Marais a while back. They are good looking boots, fashionable and since “vintage” really means “used” they were reasonably priced.

“Do they seem too big to you?” She asked the next day, pushing at the toe.

“Oh merde.” I muttered.

“Really- feel my toe, it’s all the way back here.”

“I don’t want to feel your toe. They look fine”

“Hmmmmph” she eyed me suspiciously.

Kelly went to the cobbler down the street.

“Do these seem too big to you?” She asked him.

“How should I know they’re your feet not mine” (Honestly that’s what the cobbler said)

3 days went by.

"Where’s the bag that the boots came in?” she queried.

“Mon Dieu.”- I’m learning French but not the kind I had hoped for.

“I’m going to return these boots. They are too big”

“Good luck with all that.” I smiled to myself, secretly delighting in her inevitable failure.

Two hours later she returned with the boots exchanged and a triumphant look in her eyes.

“The guy at the store told me that he has never taken back a sale and I told him ‘but that’s what’s going to make this so much fun.'”

By the way- Don did not sell his juicer at our garage sale. He walked home with the juicer under his arm and his head hung low. Kelly watched from the front porch, shaking her head in pity, her arms crossed as he took that long walk of shame back to his house.

* This may look familiar- I was editing some posts and thought I would republish this one with the changes.

New Years




My only New Year's resolution: Wear Chelsea Boots

This is the longest I’ve gone without writing; it’s easy to get out of the habit. It seems the longer I go without posting the less I have to write but what it might be is that my standards rise the longer I’m away from the blog- I did, after all, write a post about the different color twist is on bread.

First of all- Happy New Year! We went down to the Seine along with thousands of others and waited for the Eiffel Tower to sparkle- a loud cheer went up- Champaign was popped; in my case Perrier was unscrewed.

We went for a walk the next morning- vomit was everywhere. That is a terrible way to celebrate in the New Year.

Creepiest thing I’ve done in 2008 – keeping in mind it’s only been 3 days. Yesterday while at the American Library I was checking my email on one of two computers. A woman was on the other computer typing thoughtfully- I peered over to see what she was writing because I have no sense of personal space- noticed she was writing a blog entry. Looked up her blog as I sat next to her. It’s pretty good- I sent a comment saying as much.

The two computers at the library are named Gertrude and Ernest. A few weeks ago an older woman told me that Ernest was faster than Gertrude and I responded that that may be true but Gertrude could kick Ernest’s ass in a cage match. It occurs to me that I actually wrote that in a post last year. It also was probably an inappropriate response.

The bar on this blog is very low.

I quite smoking 4 years ago today- I miss it everyday but refuse to pick up the habit again. I’m more motivated by the financial benefits of not smoking then the health benefits.

Paris maybe fuming over the anti-smoking laws that come into effect this year but I truly don’t care. I think most people are pretty polite when it comes to smoking- smoky cafes don’t bother me.

We were in the restaurant below our apartment – it was very tight seating. The tables were pushed up against each other. A woman sitting next to my friend finished her meal and lit up a smoke just as my friend’s meal arrived. It’s people like her that make these laws necessary.

Public humiliation is a great behavior modification tool.

Bring back the stocks!

Did you know that one of Marie Antoinette’s handmaids was torn apart- literally torn apart- by the revolutionary mob? I don’t remember that song from the musical.

We had friends in this past week- the only thing better than exploring Paris is exploring it with old friends.

I bought a pair of Chelsea boots last week. When I was in high school I believed that boots were similar to hemorrhoids- sooner or later every asshole gets one. It turns out that is true.

We have several sets of visitors coming to see us and we are excited! Here is a little Parisian teaser to whet your appetite.

Madam Chemel lived in the apartment below ours when we first moved to Paris. She loves jazz. She lent me several French jazz CD’s to rip and has, since we moved to the Marias, tried to set up a time for us to go “hear some jazz”. Last night we heard some Jazz.

We met Madame Chemel her 20 something son and his girlfriend, Sara, at the Sunset-Sunside Jazz Club near our apartment. Bugge Wesseltoft, a Norwegian, is apparently all the rage in Paris jazz clubs. It was advertised as "Bugge Wesseltoft, his piano and his machines". His machines turned out to be a mixer and his apple computer. I would like to think that I’m up for new things but the truth is “experimental anything” is not on my cup of tea. My thinking is that if you can play the piano, and he can play the piano, then lose all the electronic bullshit and tickle the ivories. But it was an enjoyable evening and Madam Chemel is a sweetheart and the 20 somethings are a cute couple so we had fun.

I noticed that there is, apparently, no “maximum capacity” numbers to clubs in Paris. Everyone had a seat but once you sat down you could not get up- no aisles. The waitress carrying our drink order, looked at us from across the crowded room, smiled, shrugged her shoulders and returned our drinks to the bar. The other thing I noticed was the quiet. When Bugge began playing there was not a peep. No one spoke, there was no chatter, no cell phones ringing, no glasses clinking- people were there to listen to the music only. I was talking to the French guy next to me between sets. He had the complete skinny on Bugge and was happy to share it- I mentioned how respectful it was to the musician as well as the others in the audience for people to remain quiet. He looked confused and said, “How else would it be?”

I was reminded that I had not updated the readers on the theft perpetrated against your humble blogger by the treacherous, fortified city of Carcassonne. As you may recall, I visited Carcassonne with my brother and his family a while ago. During this trip, a drug crazed Carcassonnian degenerate broke into my brother’s car and stole my IPod- nothing else was stolen and there was no sign of forced entry. Without “polluting” my mind with the “facts” of this case, I wrote a heart felt post about the Carcassonnian menace and how they are corrupting our youth and possibly hiding Weapons of Mass Destructions that they may have stolen from Iraq which would explain a great deal. T-shirts were made up- other hate groups enlisted and I’ve been writing some pretty interesting, not easily substantiated “facts” about Carcassonne in bathrooms all around Paris.

Well people, our perseverance, our singleness of purpose and our rightmindednessity have paid off. I received a call from my brother in Brussels; they found the IPod in the storage well in the back of the car. The thieving Carcassonnian, obviously fearful of my written attacks, and the clout I carry with the fortified city tourist market journeyed to Brussels and return the IPod to the car from which it had been stolen. The mischievous Carcassonnian, undoubtedly high on his “jazz cigarettes,” was unable to resist the temptation of placing it in a puddle of water next to the spare tire.

The IPod, after a few days of drying, is working again. Justice has, once again, prevailed. Yeah Team Misplaced!!! BOOO Carcassonnian Menace!!!!

* There is no such thing as an “over use of quotation marks”

I forgot to post this picture of us in Barcelona.

A Dance With The Dogs

I’ve been under the weather since Tuesday. I’m thinking it’s the flue- my hair follicles hurt, my body aches and I also have that annoying pain right behind the nose in the throat. I normally don’t get sick so it throws me off when I do. This has been a particularly annoying illness as it wont let me sleep- 3 AM…4 AM…5 AM. The “Dog Hours” my dad calls them- awake, nothing to do but think. And think. And think. He thought about his kids- I think only of myself. Of course, the more you think the more you stay awake and the more you stay awake the more you think.

At one point, while watching the clock goose-step through its military time I was thinking about regret. Life’s to short to regret I reminded myself as I lay there, but the Dog Hours told me that life’s too long and I’m too human to not have some regrets.

There is challenge going around the blog world that basically asks to write a letter to your 13-year-old self. And so I thought about this for a spell. What would I write to myself? What was I doing at 13 years old? Beware of these questions when the clock strikes 3 AM- this is how the dance with the dog begin.

When I was 13 years old a friend and I said to ourselves, “ya know- we ought to learn to play the guitar- yes indeed, that would be a fine thing”

When we were 23 we said, “You know if we learned to play the guitar when we last discussed this we’d be pretty good right about now- I bet we could play some Neil Young tunes. Women might swoon”

At 33 years old we didn’t talk about it- but we did remind ourselves that McCartney and Lennon were 26 when they came out with the Sgt. Pepper album- We would have been playing guitar longer than George Harrison- we might have mocked his lack of maturity on some of the tracks, but we still would have loved the album.

Now I’m 43. I would have been playing for 30 years. My fingers would be callused, my trusty guitar would be old and beat up but still weeping on demand. Through the years I would have gone through many phases- I would have learned rock and then probably become more interested in bluegrass and, of course, Dylan perhaps even a bit of Woody Guthrie- but by 43 years old I would be singing my own songs. They wouldn’t be clever songs- I would have outgrown the need to impress- but they would be truthful and from the heart. My songs would speak to the exact emotion I was having. “I wrote this in a cheap hotel in Owensboro, Kentucky- the home of mutton” I might say before rolling into a sad song about misdirection and aged meat.

Of course, you are probably saying that if I learned to play guitar beginning today I would still have 30 years to go through all these phases. But these are the Dog Hours, and the Dog Hours aren’t about solutions, the Dog Hours are about regret and fear.

It seemed that everyday my 5 siblings and I had to bring something home from school for my parents to sign. Usually they were questions regarding a church service or a field trip. Before my first communion there was a suddenly flurry of questions being sent by the nun that taught me. “When is the best time for the service? Should the boys wear dark trousers? Will the girls wear veils?” Since there were six kids my mom didn’t have time for this foolishness but answered all the questions until I brought the last request?

“The teacher wants to know what you favorite recipe is?” I said, a mouth full of day-old strawberry Zinger.

In my innocents I wasn’t aware of the maelstrom that would follow. It must have been the straw that broke the camel's back because my mom was putting her foot down. She would not answer. The battle lines were drawn- my mother against a Catholic nun- it would be a battle royale. The nun, having taken a vow to give up most everything, was not about to cede her last pleasure, which was total control. Each day she would demand the recipe and each night my mother would say no. It was a battle of wills and I, the humble messenger- an innocent amongst Carcassonian treachery, would bounce back and forth like a ping-pong ball with the serve of “Recipe tomorrow!” and a return volley of “Not a chance!”

Finally, the nun, in a breach of game etiquette made a proclamation. “Young Misplaced will not be allowed back in school until he brings your favorite recipe forthwith.” My mother weighed the options – Concede the battle or allow her 5th child, who had incredible hair, even then, to live in the darkness of ignorance for the rest of his life. She apparently was still weighing these options the next morning, as she had not given me a recipe*. As my mom filled 6 brown paper bags with lunches, I repeated the terms of surrender to her. It was quiet- the last apple fell much too hard on the sandwich in the bag- I made a mental note to not take that particular lunch. My mother, in a rare display of melt down, stormed into the pantry, pulled down a packet of Lime Jell-O, ripped the back off and said in a dark, ominous voice, “Give this to the Nun”. The incident was eventually forgotten and my little brother got the dented sandwich. My world was once again golden


First communion arrived, as it always does, near Mother’s Day. In appreciation for raising us Catholic and not some heathen, bastard offshoot of Christianity, we gave our mothers cookbooks that had been illustrated by us. These handmade books contained the favorite recipes, with detailed instructions, of all the mothers. Included were such gems as, Mrs. Gunderson’s favorite Lamp-of-God chops, Mrs. O’Connor’s heavenly homemade Irish Soda Bread, Mrs. Bedelias’ Favorite Lemon Merigue Pie.

And under the M’s could be found

Mrs. Misplaced’s Favorite Lime Jell-O
Bring 2 cups of water to a boil
Stir in content of Lime Jell-O Packet
Allow to cool.

It was some time before the prank phone calls stopped. The story would find it’s way back into our lives. A letter from Father Cunningham saying how much they enjoyed this Jell-O treat; the Lime Jell-O box ornament that would mysteriously appear on our Christmas tree each year; the 25th grade school re-union, where a copy of the recipe was next to the first communion photo. As I consider this now it is very obvious that I have deliberately moved to a country that does not sell Jell-O, I just want to get on with my life.

*Had she known I would be educated and unemployed in Paris she might have chosen differently- hindsight is always 20/20.

We have finally had a sunny day- it’s amazing how quickly the streets fill up. I was among them the masses during my Sunday morning walk. A few scenes of Christmas.


This is in front of the Hotel DeVille.






They have a skating area for kids where they’ve placed an obstacle course- when the children fail, which of course they will, we all point and laugh. It's a win-win for everyone...well, except maybe the kids but I sure had fun. The look on their tiny faces when they've been publicly humiliated for trying is priceless.



The Christmas Tree is set up in front of Notre Dame. As people admire the tree and the church their pockets are picked. Don’t the tourists, with their fat wallets, look like little presents under the Christmas tree? God, I love Christmas.