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 of my computer, the curser is blinking. I’m cursing the blinking curser. I hear the successful Misplaced Kiwi 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 clementine oranges 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 to 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 and 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 that. 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 biding 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- it sounds like tap dancing . 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 is 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 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.

I transferred trains at the Ecole Militaire and was brought back in time. They are renovating the metro stop and removed partitions that covered the original tile work. On these walls are the advertisements and notices of 1962. So, in keeping with The History of Walls, which we began last week, here is the latest installment. This was our entertainment back in the early 1960's.

I have strange obsessions. I wrote about an Asian woman that made her boyfriend take picture after picture of her in Notre Dame. I'm not certain what it is with churches and girls wanting the perfect Facebook photo but here's another one in front of Sacrada Familia in Barcelona. The hapless, balding boyfriend attempts to capture the beauty of his gal as defined by his gal. He continued to take pictures for about 15 minutes. She is working it and giving photographic direction.

I took this video in Barcelona. I don't know what it all represents as it does not concern "my people" and therefore I paid little to no attention. What the video doesn't show is me, hopped up on local cider, wrestling the flag away from the girl and doing a midwestern dance which involves miming a game of cornhole, mowing the lawn while whistling and something that looks like a drunken "lord of the dance. I was then beat like a cagatio to the delight of all. Oh...what a time we had.

What a great city Barcelona is. There is a much more relaxed atmosphere there as opposed to Paris.

It dates back to the 1st century and you find the usual suspects Visigoths, Moors, Franks rolling through leaving their own particular marks. Wilford the Hairy is acclaimed to be the founder of the House of Counts of Barcelona. This means absolutely nothing to me but his name was "Wilford the Hairy". If his name were “Wilford the Balding” he wouldn’t have rated a mention. That’s the unfairness when it comes to guys with hair.

We stayed with friends of ours Kevin and Laura. Kevin is an expat from my little corner of the Midwest. Laura is a Catalan whose roots are in Barcelona. We stayed in their apartment in the Barri Gotic area around the corner from Santa Maria del Mar church. Barri Gotic is Catalan for “incredibly cool” and it lives up to its name. They live in an apartment building that was built and owned by her great grandfather in the mid 1800s and remains in the family. Down the street from the apartment is a large open-air structure. This was originally going to be a large market but after digging for a little bit they discovered the remains of a Roman town. Barcelona is lousy with Roman ruins- it occurred to me that their apartment buildings is probably, in fact, most definitely built on top of such ruins. Who know what treasures lay beneath? My obsession regarding this might have alarmed Kevin and Laura and the idea of swapping apartment for a weekend probably seems less desirable because I will show up with shovels and pick axes. I want me some Roman ruins- bad.


I’m certain there were several times in during the weekend that Laura said to herself, “…and why am I surrounded my Americans?” But she was a good sport about it and our unnatural enthusiasm. One of those times would have been when we were asked to ‘quiet down’ by the ushers at the Palau de la Musica Catalana- a beautiful Modernista concert hall. It’s beauty caused us to give it the highest compliment that can be given- “It looks like something out of the Lord of the Rings Movie!!!” After we were told to “shhhhh” (in a very cute Spanish accent). We left the building and sang “The Lollypop Guild” from the Wizard of Oz . There was a connection between the building and the breaking out in song and dance but I don’t recall what it was- it may have been the ticket office. Kevin likes a good musical and we all know how I enjoy a song or two so it just seemed right.