Visions from Cultural Death Row

 You are going to hurt me, please don't hurt me, just one more moment, I beg you!

Guillotined ~ Madame du Barry, mistress of Louis XV, d. 1793

7 days and counting...

And just in case you were going all Springtime in Paris on me, here's a bitch slap to remind you where you really are:

All it takes is a slip of a vowel...

Ghosts of restaurants past...

In the last 48 hours the self-imposed house arrest has continued apace.  This is probably a good thing, I am less of a menace to society when imprisoned in my bad Oxfam-shop-esque mess of a half-packed apartment with Don Draper.  52 pages of spec script have not however, barred me from access to the internets, and The Yank.  The conversation that follows has been redacted where necessary in order to protect innocent parties...

Begin forwarded message:

On Fri, Mar 4, 2011 at 2:31 PM, The Euro wrote:

Dude, longer mail to follow but for now, check this out:  http://blogs.sfweekly.com/foodie/xxxxxxxxx

Look familiar?  That's because the chef, Ahem Ahem, who is apparently now working at xxxx (which I believe we have been to?) is actually my ex-lover from xxxx xxxx in xxxx aka 'Ahem the Chef'...

The world is too fucking small.  And yes, we are going there next time I am up for no other reason than to see if he still has the longest curly brown mullet I have ever seen...

From: The Euro
Date: March 4, 2011 11:35:52 PM GMT+01:00
To: The Yank
Subject: Re: !

OMG we were fucking there!  It's where we paid like 12 bucks for two cashew nuts. 

Right after this

[Insert:  picture of The Euro with oranges for tits]

On Mar 4, 2011, at 11:49 PM, The Yank wrote:

Holy shit, not only do I love this place for the wine list and oysters...but now xxxx has Ahem the Chef AND his Cuban glory!!!!?  Fuck, i foresee myself in xxxx (The Twinkie's hood) rediculously frequent going forward.  Consider it on the docket.

PS...this photo was at that bullshit Lusk 22, or was it 25 something??? just before we stumbled into xxxx for that last glass of vino, we clearly needed.

On Fri, Mar 4, 2011 at 2:58 PM, The Euro wrote:

Dude, you remember that I broke his heart by xxxx xxxx xxxx a hot bartender from New Zealand xxxx xxxx xxxx xxxx xxxx xxxx xxxx xxxx in the xxxx hospital whilst Ahem the Chef waited home alone for me on the eve of my graduation from xxxx?

The only reason my oysters will taste salty is because they will have retribution jizz in them...

From: The Yank
Date: March 5, 2011 12:03:41 AM GMT+01:00
To:  The Euro
Subject: Re:  !

totally.  hmm, wonder what the statue of limitations is on that?

Continuing our exploration of national identity: exhibit B, the Royal Family

Keep up, keep up; exhibit A was the France v England showdown on Saturday (which, in case you'd forgotten, we won). 

Kunty Karl Finally Speaks Out About The Galliano Situation

Kunty Karl Finally Speaks Out About The Galliano Situation

From The Economist to this. Dlisted just does these things so well.

The USS Ponce: I say old chap, do you understand a word I say?

Thanks to the Champagne Baron who today so kindly brought my attention to this wonderful article from The Economist (bear with me) about the naming of an American warship, the USS Ponce. There is one person in particular in this world who I know is going to laugh his ass off about this, and he can thank me later.

It made me wonder, do you Americani understand a word I say? I was not reassured when the woman from HSBC USA could not understand the way I pronounced the alphabet earlier in the week and so I found myself subliminally shamed into ending our conversation with "Awesome, have a nice day"; I know, I am having a nice cup of tea to restore my stiff upper lip (I cried at Ferris Bueller's Day off, who am I trying to kid, and no, for dignity's sake I really cannot tell you at which part).

Anyway... here's a guide from the internets re London speak, I hope it helps:  Londonslang

If not, just nod your head and clap along to the music...

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a Los Angeles based woman in possession of only a bicycle must need her head examined

Mad dogs and Englishmen, mad dogs and Englishmen...

Isadora's selling me her bicycle,

now that she's gracing the East Coast with her presence.  It's somewhat telling (perhaps worrying?  Or just so god darn Euro) that the first vehicle I purchase in LA is not a car but a bicycle.  Maybe I'm in the wrong town?  Maybe I should embrace my inner hemp-itude and just shack up with the San Francisco tree-huggers after all?   (Dare I say, they seem to have a better independent music scene up north as well, so it's definitely tempting.)

I have, in fact, already tested out my new two-wheeled friend - he needs a name btw, I may just defer to the Yank for naming duties as she has a gift for it, her laptop's called Effin and her car goes by the moniker Smalls - on the 8.5 mile ride from Malibu to Santa Monica and yes, I can confirm that in LA riding a bicycle does indeed attract abuse.  I got called a fucker for just riding in a straight line; apparently it's something to do with the Angeleno's obsession with ownership of one's lane, but really?  I've lived in Paris too long to care. 

At least I know they are trying to improve things in LA, there is after all a movement to build cycle lanes on key arteries through the city - thanks for the info Los Angeles Times - although my death wish will probably get the better of me before that happens (in all honesty we'll all have probably died of natural causes before it is actually finalised but don't let me be the one to curb your enthusiasm...)

Anyway, back to the project in hand:  fucking with LA drivers' sanity, if I really wanted to annoy the crap out of them on Sunset I suppose I could just ride this:

If not death via impalement by my own stiletto then perhaps squashed by a recalcitrant Stretch Hummer will be my fate?    It's all about finding imaginative ways to die...

Murakami@Versailles

If I was writing a scene from a romantic comedy right now, which in fact I am trying to do but it's not happening, today's 'action' would be the all is lost moment when the hero opens her cupboards and everything falls out on top of her (stabbed in the head by her own stiletto not being the way I was planning to die...).  It's the point in When Harry Met Sally when Sally drags a Christmas tree home all alone; did I mention the boxes I have been single-handedly carrying up and down four flights of stairs for hours on end (God's irony:  it gives you a great arse...)?

But rather than share with you the skeletons I have found in my closet, today I'll just gift you this little something that I cut together after I saw Murakami at Versallies.  The 'camera work' (ha, don't give it delusions of grandeur, walking around will suffice) is real shaky but at least you'll get a flavour of something Parisian to amuse you this evening.