tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-312949772024-03-13T07:44:54.548+01:00Le Blagueur à Parisblagueur (noun): prankster, jokerLe Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13830769667849287708noreply@blogger.comBlogger131125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31294977.post-44147217518377548952009-03-11T15:21:00.012+01:002009-08-17T16:36:44.456+02:00The blogger formerly known as Le Blagueur?<span style="font-style: italic;"></span>Friends, the time has come to tenderly kiss <em>Le Blagueur </em>goodnight.<br /><br />This doesn't mean that I'm done scribbling. Quite the contrary - I'm doing more freelance writing than ever before, and posting the spillover at <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);font-size:130%;" ><a href="http://megzimbeck.com/"><span style="font-weight: bold;">megzimbeck.com</span></a></span><br /><br />Please stop by if you'd like to continue to read about my adventures in Paris and beyond. You can subscribe to those posts with the RSS feed <a style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);" href="http://megzimbeck.com/?feed=rss2">here</a>. And thanks sincerely for all of your visits and comments over the years - you've made this first blog experience very special.<br /><em></em>Le Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13830769667849287708noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31294977.post-60768507948246609582008-11-05T18:04:00.002+01:002008-11-05T18:08:53.808+01:00At Dawn, in Paris<object height="350" width="425"> <param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/QC9DzB0PBu8"> <embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/QC9DzB0PBu8" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" height="350" width="425"></embed> </object>Le Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13830769667849287708noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31294977.post-4951314465284706652008-09-21T21:00:00.003+02:002008-09-21T21:05:27.163+02:00A funny thing I saw yesterday...So the Paris Techno Parade was fairly interesting this year:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjth9OuHgvQE8HlD65uIjWInDN77sicPEtGVeTRS4pJmu85iAnV9LP9r0hCP75fjV4Lisb_1JpaK3M-UXcuVIZcjoTzGwahKHBOg1bifemYiTywnkLHf9ovU7J86ITcCDKVJMUsFA/s1600-h/IMG_1950.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjth9OuHgvQE8HlD65uIjWInDN77sicPEtGVeTRS4pJmu85iAnV9LP9r0hCP75fjV4Lisb_1JpaK3M-UXcuVIZcjoTzGwahKHBOg1bifemYiTywnkLHf9ovU7J86ITcCDKVJMUsFA/s400/IMG_1950.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5248552522518766258" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><br />More about it over on <a href="http://mufoo.net/?p=37">Mu Foo</a>.Le Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13830769667849287708noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31294977.post-3994671695955584722008-09-18T08:47:00.010+02:002008-09-18T11:33:42.729+02:00Home Sick Aloof<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIZhltfsWurn0WHcFmbnLNwr75-PA71qXo9fHQt_fTHNhDYT2PzQ5nDIGJ1th3CrF8y73TwmA0ZcRz1vaCYPOaM4dT_KVqTDudunaNwPqDqswZP2q_ZPFpOZzUmcgLjf6Me4umrw/s1600-h/mov.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIZhltfsWurn0WHcFmbnLNwr75-PA71qXo9fHQt_fTHNhDYT2PzQ5nDIGJ1th3CrF8y73TwmA0ZcRz1vaCYPOaM4dT_KVqTDudunaNwPqDqswZP2q_ZPFpOZzUmcgLjf6Me4umrw/s200/mov.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247276561228040306" border="0" /></a>One of my <a href="http://littleredboat.co.uk/">favorite bloggers</a> has up and moved from Brighton to San Francisco and is just now beginning to unravel. She'll roll herself back up soon, of course, but in the meantime it makes for excellent reading.<br /><br />Today's post finds her wailing about Squash, a particularly foul-sounding beverage that she can't find in the US. But it digressed into something I think expats anywhere can relate to:<br /><blockquote><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><span style="font-style: italic;"> I wept for not knowing how things worked, and not understanding a different culture and its different priorities - not worse, just different. I wept at the overwhelmingness of new sounds</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> and smells and not knowing what brand of coffee bean I liked anymore, but having 500 to choose from. I wept because there is a deluge of wonderful new experiences and I am scared that I am too cautious and shy to enjoy or appreciate them. I</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> wept because I didn’t know when the bin goes out and I don’t know where the bus stops or where it goes.</span> ><a href="http://littleredboat.co.uk/?p=2930">more</a></blockquote>It's the last bit that really struck me this morning. After four years in Paris, I <span style="font-style: italic;">still </span>don't know when the bins go out. There are a whole lot of things, in fact, that I have simply tuned out because the weight of not knowing <span style="font-style: italic;">so much</span> was overwhelming.<br /><br />Moving abroad does explode the head a little bit. I used to take pleasure in the mastery of small tasks, from checking boxes on a To-Do list. Routines were comforting and made me feel like I was the captain of my own little boat. The first years in France, while fun in so many ways, also completely kicked my ass. Faced with the sheer illogic and unfamiliarity of the place, I surrendered the sailor's cap and resigned myself to floating.<br /><br />Homesickness, for me, was never acute in relation to products (although I did profess to miss, of all things, Kraft Mac & Cheese). The sickness came instead from feeling nearly-always confused, and from longing for a place where I was more in control.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGzXCY8KfmxUYstDNkqfYwAYvDny-ZXgPOPXlX-0i0DsTzAIUltd6EhCE2CCFIIOhY9TfRMROdFA7wBpN8m5HZYr3ALYtAofA3NeeyzDBL6a1xeCZyWYGQ0gzUvGqhZ3H_GYTy5w/s1600-h/bra.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGzXCY8KfmxUYstDNkqfYwAYvDny-ZXgPOPXlX-0i0DsTzAIUltd6EhCE2CCFIIOhY9TfRMROdFA7wBpN8m5HZYr3ALYtAofA3NeeyzDBL6a1xeCZyWYGQ0gzUvGqhZ3H_GYTy5w/s200/bra.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5247274622447525570" border="0" /></a>Life in a foreign country brings hundreds of daily situations in which the answer is not at hand. I'm not sure how other people deal with this, but I seem to have adapted by becoming completely aloof.<br /><blockquote>Self: Can I recycle this?<br />Self: I dunno... yes... why not.<br /><br />Self: What's my equivalent bra size?<br />Self: I dunno... just take <span style="font-style: italic;">that </span>one.<br /><br />Self: Is my green card still valid?<br />Self: I dunno... don't think about it.<br /><br />Self: Glass of wine?<br />Self: I dunno... why you are even asking.</blockquote> I know some expats who rise to the challenge and manage to organize themselves and even the natives around them. As for me, I've chosen to protect my sanity by not letting any new questions in. Sure, I may be evading the law and wearing an erroneous 42 DD bra, but at least my mind is clear.Le Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13830769667849287708noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31294977.post-36476713834395611152008-09-10T07:14:00.016+02:002008-09-10T09:29:42.491+02:00Knowing When To Take Your Clothes Off<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQi_Bt6d6n3f4d1UzdO7LOe6ejNihM_Pujew7rv5klv3O4aF4LwekQkmpEXILXnuUFhQ9tnBk-bZi-ZzbHjCtRCEqmz8lBnaDFg7PaoGFCS_Rdt8MvIrjh4dIGLq3qThevb3oNgQ/s1600-h/gyno.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQi_Bt6d6n3f4d1UzdO7LOe6ejNihM_Pujew7rv5klv3O4aF4LwekQkmpEXILXnuUFhQ9tnBk-bZi-ZzbHjCtRCEqmz8lBnaDFg7PaoGFCS_Rdt8MvIrjh4dIGLq3qThevb3oNgQ/s200/gyno.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5244277735742928930" border="0" /></a>The blogging ranks are regularly pressed by readers for advice. Those posting on the <a href="http://www.theparisblog.com/">Paris Blog</a> get emails asking for travel tips. <a href="http://www.petiteanglaise.com/">Catherine Sanderson</a> gets ten-page recaps ending with "so, do you think I should leave him?"<br /><br />This is what I get:<br /><div></div><blockquote style="font-style: italic;"><div>Hi</div> <div> </div> <div>In France do women having gyn exams have to take off all of their clothes at the start of the exam with no gown or drapes provided by the doctor?</div> <div> </div> <div>Thanks</div> <div> </div> <div>(name withheld to protect the vagina)</div></blockquote><div>What an email! It's direct and to the point without any verbal foreplay. A lot, in fact, like a French gynecologist.<br /><br />Here's what to expect when you go for ze Exam:<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><blockquote><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></blockquote><blockquote><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></blockquote><blockquote><span style="font-weight: bold;">Doc </span>- Mme Blagueur? [offers ungloved warm hand] Please follow me.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">You</span> - Bonjour! [sits in chair at office desk] I am here for my annual poke.<br /></blockquote><blockquote><span style="font-weight: bold;">Doc</span> - Congratulations. Now take your clothes off [indicates table and returns to typing].</blockquote><blockquote><span style="font-weight: bold;">You</span> - What here? Yes? Erm... [stands, removes everything south of waist, drapes clothes hastily over office chair while hiding bits behind computer monitor].<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Doc</span> - The top, too.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">You</span> - Even the <span style="font-style: italic;">bra</span>?!!<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Doc</span> - Your bra cannot save you, American.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">You</span> - I see...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Doc</span> - Let's begin. Do you mind if I smoke?</blockquote><blockquote></blockquote><br />So that's <span style="font-style: italic;">mostly </span>how it happens. After parting your red sea, the doc will ask you to replace your pants behind the monitor while she types something into her records/blog. There will be a quick exchange of insurance cards or, if you're paying in cash, 28€.<br /><br />As unnatural as that might sound to Americans, let's consider the reverse situation. I have a French friend who was living abroad and went in for her annual inspection at a Chicago teaching hospital. She was led by a nurse to the exam room, handed something that looked like a napkin, and told "the doctor will be with you shortly."<br /><br />Now, an American knows that this napkin is actually a paper dress that opens at the front. It ties at the neck and protects her dignity.<br /><br />Caroline, of course, knew nothing of this. And so the young American doctor, when he returned after a suitable interval, found a very hot French woman sitting buck naked on the table, a paper gown in her hand.<br /><blockquote style="font-style: italic;">"Bonjour!"<br /><br /></blockquote>The take home message: it is important, when traveling abroad, to know when to take your clothes off. Local bloggers are an excellent source of advice in these matters. Be advised, however, that we may use you as material.<br /><br />To the terrified reader who sent in this question: an apéro before the exam always helps. <span style="font-style: italic;">Bon courage!</span><br /></div>Le Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13830769667849287708noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31294977.post-67164901965735701082008-09-05T13:49:00.007+02:002008-09-17T12:57:05.988+02:00What's up, chicken butt?Not long ago, this conversation took place in my apartment:<br /><blockquote><span style="font-weight: bold;">French boy:</span> I've ordered something online for us.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">American girl:</span> What's that?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">FB:</span> A <span style="font-style: italic;">cul de poule</span>!<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">AG:</span> ...Come again?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">FB: </span>Chicken butt!<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">AG:</span> ... Is that, um, something you'd like to try?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">FB:</span> Absolutely! And it's silicone - so not hard to clean!<br /></blockquote>This went on for some time, with me becoming increasingly horrified until I realized we were talking about cooking. A <span style="font-style: italic;">cul de poule</span> (big sigh of relief) is just a big bowl for whipping and melting.<br /><blockquote><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqTeWw4evceKapo_FMpsIWIpQZam5ztymXnm4eejWWODgeFdKQsgSx7WqkGGsKxeLPTat7W9Tt1d2Y_FgnXBW7e92FvHusmtjXJPFKndebg2e8ufd8jU1vPcz_y10bpuZshMtroA/s1600-h/cul.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqTeWw4evceKapo_FMpsIWIpQZam5ztymXnm4eejWWODgeFdKQsgSx7WqkGGsKxeLPTat7W9Tt1d2Y_FgnXBW7e92FvHusmtjXJPFKndebg2e8ufd8jU1vPcz_y10bpuZshMtroA/s200/cul.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5242514586438630914" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">AG:</span> But why do they call it a <span style="font-style: italic;">cul?</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">FB:</span> Because that's what it looks like!</blockquote>Riiiight. Now, despite my Kansas origins, I've spent precious little time around poultry. Is there anyone out there who can 'splain to me how a bowl, whether silver or silicone, resembles a rooster's back door?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><blockquote><span style="font-weight: bold;">AG:</span> Do you not find that even the <span style="font-style: italic;">slightest </span>bit vulgar?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">FB:</span> I have no idea what you mean.</blockquote>I am completely alone in this country, it seems, in finding <span style="font-style: italic;">cul de poule</span> t<span style="font-family:georgia;">otally giggleworthy. How else to explain the straight-faced existence of restaura</span>nt named Chicken Butt? Caroline Mignot, in <a href="http://tableadecouvert.typepad.fr/table_dcouvert/2008/09/cul-de-poule.html">her review</a> published online today, had nice things to say about the newly-opened (sorry) Cul de Poule. She even admitted that <span style="font-style: italic;">"le nom me plaît bien." </span>And here I thought she looked so very innocent...<br /><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><strong></strong><blockquote><strong><span style="font-weight: bold;">Cul de Poule, </span></strong>53 rue des Martyrs, 75009<br />+33 (0)1 53 16 13 07</blockquote><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-size:130%;">Update!</span> </span></span></span>I have finally tasted the butt for myself. You can read about it over<a href="http://mufoo.net/?p=32"> at Mu Foo</a>.<br /></span>Le Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13830769667849287708noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31294977.post-48634524775606587962008-07-23T09:09:00.015+02:002008-12-13T00:42:54.697+01:00Like a bear in a cave, but with sunI moved to Paris in August, four summers ago, when everything in the city was closed.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/palagret/209472241/"></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoV_UGZDz_k1Xr58noREqyEihhWcoktltiZqRPXb9hnornt6wi6654Onja71zoCVyTZu7BGymxZkxxijsDuAeIiNO-JspIqz_x7uCR4vRIFIPW0kqlnp40mT246ZH_U_SJzJxqzw/s1600-h/209472241_7efe207f9e.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoV_UGZDz_k1Xr58noREqyEihhWcoktltiZqRPXb9hnornt6wi6654Onja71zoCVyTZu7BGymxZkxxijsDuAeIiNO-JspIqz_x7uCR4vRIFIPW0kqlnp40mT246ZH_U_SJzJxqzw/s400/209472241_7efe207f9e.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5226136297691846274" border="0" /></a><br />Those impressionable weeks were spent shopping at Ed* and wondering what treasures lay behind the metal gates pulled over every window. I scanned the empty sidewalks and began to worry that Paris really was, as certain friends had warned me, a dead town.<br /><br />And then a few weeks later, everything changed. The shops on my street reopened revealing cheese and baguette where before there were none. Paris wasn't dead, it had simply been <span style="font-style: italic;">sleeping</span>.<br /><br />I am currently bracing myself for the city's annual coma, and knowing the drill doesn't make it any easier. My butcher called it quits on Saturday, and today my favorite market vendor said goodbye.<br /><br />I find the latter departure the most difficult to accept - there's something cruel about a farm stand closing during the most plentiful season. <span style="font-style: italic;">"But what will happen to all the basil?!"</span> I cried to my usual vegetable lady. She stared at me blankly and backed slowly away.<br /><br />Having cleaned them out of fresh herbs, I am now cooking and freezing as if for a war and padding my shelves for the enforced hibernation.<br /><br />My only consolation is that, like a bear, I can anticipate burning through several layers of fat during this time of nothing-to-eat. September will find me slimmer and crankier - ever nearer to my goal of integration.<br />--<br />*<a href="http://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ed">Ed</a> stands for Épicerie Discount and serves as the French version of ALDI. After three misspent years I learned the correct pronunciation (euh-day), but it will always be Eddie to me.Le Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13830769667849287708noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31294977.post-32886181663718309012008-07-15T12:29:00.002+02:002008-07-15T12:36:15.076+02:00The Opposite of NirvanaBehold the world premiere video from the hottest band to come out of (Benoît's apartment in) Paris... we are <span style="font-weight: bold;">Les Moquettes</span>!<br /><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/EKQ9fTCY8mY"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/EKQ9fTCY8mY" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" height="344" width="425"></embed></object><br /><br />I believe the french term is <span style="font-style: italic;">pitoyable</span>.Le Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13830769667849287708noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31294977.post-59060915932466743992008-07-09T09:33:00.008+02:002008-12-13T00:42:54.997+01:00Why Paris?I've just returned from a holiday spent cycling through the Haut-Médoc - a peninsula that produces Pauillac wines, a surprising amount of pizza, and in this case, a sweet tan.<br /><br />I will tell you about it shortly, but first have to get this out of my system:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Dear Dinaw,</span><br /><br />I'm sure you're a lovely person. Being from Kansas, I'm obliged to offer that, and to apologize in advance for <span style="font-style: italic;">not being nice.</span> That's how we tumbleweeds roll, especially when addressing anyone from New York.<br /><br />An added drop of humility can be a good thing.<br /><br />The question always in the back of my mind - "am I really <span style="font-style: italic;">qualified </span>to say this?" - prevents me from doing things like, say, writing <a href="http://online.wsj.com/article/SB121511516727827437.html">an article that pronounces Paris to be dead, creatively speaking, without appearing to have ever left the boulevard Saint-Germain-des-Prés</a>.<br /><br />Dinaw, and those who will follow you, I beg: no more Flore, pas des Deux Magots. There's nothing to see here, please move along.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglXqSMswVmerPNQrOxXb6xzcaYQzBBKdO8_cVNsB_kgt9pTIlewL9ip9rYHCpNhRLBpIIfkR5LM8_iKIjLxxri6u4mfCC6NGcQQu_dgu95kXqLUxr2BWeYWKhu8PnSGChJsQdZHA/s1600-h/flore+snore.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglXqSMswVmerPNQrOxXb6xzcaYQzBBKdO8_cVNsB_kgt9pTIlewL9ip9rYHCpNhRLBpIIfkR5LM8_iKIjLxxri6u4mfCC6NGcQQu_dgu95kXqLUxr2BWeYWKhu8PnSGChJsQdZHA/s200/flore+snore.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220926468766284178" border="0" /></a>The scene that you came looking for happened sixty years ago. That moment, and those people, are now dead. Their children - those who were inspired by and learned to make money off that moment - are now talking, as the elderly do, about how things <span style="font-style: italic;">just aren't the same</span>. Saint-Germain-des-Prés is, in effect, a retirement community with very expensive coffee. It is not (did you really not know this?) what you were looking for.<br /><br />I have a new friend who recently arrived from New York. A clever writer and musician type, she is, I suppose, the sort of person you were looking to find. I was sitting with her and another writer friend (does that make it a scene?) on a roof-top terrace in the 20th, when she admitted that her new apartment would be <span style="font-style: italic;">over there</span>, in the 7th, at the border of Saint-Germain.<br /><br />We smiled and tried to be supportive, suggested some good markets, assured her that it wouldn't be "so bad." The truth, however, is that <strike>nobody</strike> very few people doing anything interesting live over there. And what's more, the "anything interesting" taking place these days doesn't look exactly like it did sixty years ago.<br /><br />But as I said, I'm sure you're a <span style="font-style: italic;">lovely person</span> who, like Adam Gopnik before you, just didn't know where to go.Le Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13830769667849287708noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31294977.post-80907814983034595182008-07-07T10:13:00.008+02:002008-12-13T00:42:55.229+01:00The root of all obesity<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOY1bisE-CqZ2cf2jwRqr4aEBvf9vkF685eMi0cLTwptjXL_-xDV18FtXY93_q6BpItmdwKZ7RtWh8z2IuOCxLjG9x2TeNVKQxwWK4ehYFN2sjOJT7vzHEqHYnK-W10bJZWvHJAw/s1600-h/peanus+butter.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOY1bisE-CqZ2cf2jwRqr4aEBvf9vkF685eMi0cLTwptjXL_-xDV18FtXY93_q6BpItmdwKZ7RtWh8z2IuOCxLjG9x2TeNVKQxwWK4ehYFN2sjOJT7vzHEqHYnK-W10bJZWvHJAw/s200/peanus+butter.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5220194582672694546" border="0" /></a>This morning I'd like to break a seal of sorts and take a moment to mock my French boyfriend. He doesn't read the blog so this will be our little secret.<br /><br />An entire series could spring from the unintentional smut that sometimes falls from his mouth - the happy accidents that arise from the difficulty of certain sounds.<br /><br />The majority are related to the aspirated <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">'h'</span> that many French add, unnecessarily, to English words that begin with <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">'a'</span>.<br /><br />To illustrate: Once, as we were stolling along the Bassin de la Villette, he offered to <span style="font-style: italic;">"</span><span>rent us a rowboat, along with some hoars."</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span>This happens all the time.<br /><br />And it brings me so much amusement that I have adopted, in some cases, his particular pronunciations. I will ask him with a straight face to take me in his harms, or if my hass looks okay in certain pants.<br /><br />But my all-time-favorite has nothing to do with the aspirated <span style="font-style: italic;">'h'</span>. It revolves instead around a preferred spread, and its French designation as Evil. Dorie Greenspan <a href="http://www.doriegreenspan.com/dorie_greenspan/2008/06/were-not-in-kansas-anymore.html">addressed this</a> recently on her blog when she noted that,<br /><blockquote>"French children <em>never </em>get peanut-butter because their parents are convinced it's the root of all obesity." </blockquote>The boyfriend looks bemused whenever I bring out my overpriced jar of peanut butter. He watches me uncomfortably as I spread the stuff on bread, as if I were wiping boogers on the sofa.<br /><br />And then he asks me every time, inverting the word order and fatally omitting the last <span style="font-style: italic;">'t'</span>,<br /><blockquote>"Do you really like this butter peanus?"<br /></blockquote>I have never corrected him, and have in fact doubled my consumption just to hear him mispronounce it. I suppose this means, in a roundabout way, that the French parents are right.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span></span>Le Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13830769667849287708noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31294977.post-72058987332688678412008-06-26T22:19:00.007+02:002008-12-13T00:42:55.385+01:00Food porn indeed<a style="font-family: georgia;" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6YeWP3EKmaJYOMvOb1y2DHptzkmBgBhrUVydtRp8H3VCbZ-8uBKMvXknBr6i9LltBKJnmVHU6TLde_Dj5E_kwhKZCJpg7jy9b_Zg8fsX3MKoHs_GIFCMj_Ky4Rxqv9wgk0jSIkA/s1600-h/bigicon_sans.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6YeWP3EKmaJYOMvOb1y2DHptzkmBgBhrUVydtRp8H3VCbZ-8uBKMvXknBr6i9LltBKJnmVHU6TLde_Dj5E_kwhKZCJpg7jy9b_Zg8fsX3MKoHs_GIFCMj_Ky4Rxqv9wgk0jSIkA/s200/bigicon_sans.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5216287676869816642" border="0" /></a><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >Seen just this moment on Nerve.com - a "lifestyle" site that has introduced a surprising number of my friends - it's <a href="http://www.nerve.com/regulars/datingadvicefrom/dating-advice-from-food-writers/">Dating Advice from Food Writers</a>!<br /><br />Don't ask me what I was doing there, or if I have multiple fake profiles for my own amusement.<br /><br />Instead, I'll ask you to guess in the comments which food writer said the following:<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">"A good rare beef liver is like being banged hard against a wall in a skeezy alley behind a nightclub."</span><br /><br /></span>Le Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13830769667849287708noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31294977.post-51772655932287151332008-06-16T13:32:00.029+02:002008-12-13T00:42:55.862+01:00Her Big Big Smile<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3BVtEIA62bzi8ujGRzgsDJWtfZ4VCgIqXZRUjtBOcH8LJaNvsrJAWBNMgQijM0m3lAlYJNLyUZQU6sjbnT8XrTI6I0c2GmVsUtdX22YQNm_F90d4egaDo46CsJIGz8ul6oBC_qQ/s1600-h/IMG_2074.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3BVtEIA62bzi8ujGRzgsDJWtfZ4VCgIqXZRUjtBOcH8LJaNvsrJAWBNMgQijM0m3lAlYJNLyUZQU6sjbnT8XrTI6I0c2GmVsUtdX22YQNm_F90d4egaDo46CsJIGz8ul6oBC_qQ/s200/IMG_2074.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5212460121999365314" border="0" /></a>I have just returned from a weekend in the French countryside.<br /><br />Doesn't that sound <span style="font-style: italic;">lovely</span>?<br /><br />There is <span style="font-weight: bold;">no internet</span> in the French countryside, and very little spoken English. One is therefore forced to "relax," away from the computer, usually through HOURS of conversation.<br /><br />Have I mentioned that I don't love French Meg?<br /><br />French Meg smiles and nods a lot. She also laughs on cue. There are times when French Meg understands what you say, but she won't ask a single question. You may have covered that point already, and she probably already laughed.<br /><br />Nod, smile. Ha ha HA!!<br /><br />Not only am I a bit slow, I am indiscretely so. At 5'10'', I'm only <span>slightly </span>taller than average when playing on the home court. In France, however, I am walking <strike>talking</strike> circus show.<br /><br />The result is that, in addition to babbling and smiling, I am often dressed kinda funny. It's not always my fault.<br /><br />This weekend, the countryside hostess offered to lend me her slippers. I pantomimed something like "I don't think they fit!" looking at first disappointed, then smiling enormously.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibeisHcBT-oH4Nr_4QKY3dXHLWRDqPNIyGkVr-S69aLtwhyphenhyphenJFpQHI4WUhIjg6mE2Og335ct9KXuoktKaCd9Ll4JStUe9dyc2Q67uMseRUmEn1KQVUdyclJ9xI9S-dVgSp0S5OYmQ/s1600-h/IMG_1965.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibeisHcBT-oH4Nr_4QKY3dXHLWRDqPNIyGkVr-S69aLtwhyphenhyphenJFpQHI4WUhIjg6mE2Og335ct9KXuoktKaCd9Ll4JStUe9dyc2Q67uMseRUmEn1KQVUdyclJ9xI9S-dVgSp0S5OYmQ/s200/IMG_1965.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5212448168633320594" border="0" /></a>She suggested that I just wear them <span style="font-style: italic;">over my toes</span>, and I was unable to respond with anything other than a smile. I spent the next two days mincing around in her elfinwear, falling down (two times), and smiling.<br /><br />Outside the chalet, her XS parka hit me just below the bra line. Even the mountain sheep were rolling their eyes. "It's <span style="font-style: italic;">cropped</span>," I gestured in return, grinning madly the whole time.<br /><br />My finest performance of the weekend can't be blamed on size. It came one night when I was too tired to climb the stairs for toothpaste, and instead started fishing around in the hosts' bathroom drawers.<br /><br />Do I even need to type this? It's really too predictable...<br /><br />I used their <a href="http://www.fixodent.com/">Fixodent</a>.<br /><br />It was exactly as you imagine.<br /><br />And yet I <span style="font-style: italic;">kept on smiling</span>, even with globs of waxy red stuff stuck in my gums.<br /><br />Upon leaving, my soft-spoken host raised himself up to <span style="font-style: italic;">faire les bises</span> and to say his parting words.<br /><blockquote>"<span style="font-style: italic;">Merci pour venir</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">et</span>..<span style="font-style: italic;">. pour ton sourire... <span style="font-weight: bold;">ENORME</span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;">."<br /></span><br /></blockquote>At least I <span style="font-style: italic;">think </span>that's what he said.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7qt53-RZsaIrZ4u53JW1mxEjcNYhIATiiYpGNcGUdgG00jHYLnwrP818omkdoU3pS0rF__kUt9fBT1-GsV7oi5oTcSLrPqeUZvAseGR-k9ROt2ZdFhYWnuIng_NMtO_RjwK4DUQ/s1600-h/smile.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7qt53-RZsaIrZ4u53JW1mxEjcNYhIATiiYpGNcGUdgG00jHYLnwrP818omkdoU3pS0rF__kUt9fBT1-GsV7oi5oTcSLrPqeUZvAseGR-k9ROt2ZdFhYWnuIng_NMtO_RjwK4DUQ/s200/smile.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5212476038433265682" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />* * * * *<br /><br />For a different take on The Language Problem, please click on the veryfunny following from Paris blogger <a href="http://www.kungfudana.blogspot.com/">Kung Fu Dana</a>.<br /><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Zk62GJVOSXg"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Zk62GJVOSXg" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" height="344" width="425"></embed></object>Le Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13830769667849287708noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31294977.post-68621169409073349722008-06-12T09:27:00.021+02:002008-12-13T00:42:56.988+01:00Afternoon Delight with 'Sex' and Dorie<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuMQE44oLkULvmVljmWSjyWJQNxk9XMrccoA32Qf4dr2Va-jwbVm-VEDItiJisNF32nLaZdzvgiIS_uHHLVuakVWL3jFvKsplwjAhUFXt4fJPJs6b4SAaPbdWaDkXB1odJVpvzcw/s1600-h/IMG_0361.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuMQE44oLkULvmVljmWSjyWJQNxk9XMrccoA32Qf4dr2Va-jwbVm-VEDItiJisNF32nLaZdzvgiIS_uHHLVuakVWL3jFvKsplwjAhUFXt4fJPJs6b4SAaPbdWaDkXB1odJVpvzcw/s200/IMG_0361.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210898235475810738" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZqWgvMtw3yFPvYAMV0gtA8t4n6Ofty8c1_ki2TaaDOIUuhw3CtU0ZRzuQx-9lI5h6rpVh6Z2cY27u_z3f20Gz7Qc8AmJ79JxgdPCv_oambNsKbvlmxPN5GwqqjE_-WaNp4T5M_g/s1600-h/IMG_0356.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZqWgvMtw3yFPvYAMV0gtA8t4n6Ofty8c1_ki2TaaDOIUuhw3CtU0ZRzuQx-9lI5h6rpVh6Z2cY27u_z3f20Gz7Qc8AmJ79JxgdPCv_oambNsKbvlmxPN5GwqqjE_-WaNp4T5M_g/s200/IMG_0356.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210898735271133042" border="0" /></a>...not at the same time, mind you, although these photos may lead one to imagine that Pierre is showing off something other than his tattoos.<br /><br />For someone who has too much work, I was a marvel of doing very little yesterday. There were good intentions and several hours of morning labor before the derailment of a boozy lunch at the wine bar <a href="http://www.morethanorganic.com/natural-wine-restaurants/racines">Racines</a>.<br /><br />No matter. Time spent with cookbook authors <a href="http://www.davidlebovitz.com/">David Lebovitz</a> and <a href="http://www.doriegreenspan.com/">Dorie Greenspan</a> would sort of qualifiy as work if it weren't also so pleasurable. It's not often that I get to raise a glass with such slim-hipped foodie heavyweights and bask in the Rolland Garros-esque batting around of names. "When does <a href="http://bitten.blogs.nytimes.com/">Mark</a> (Bittman) sleep?" and "<a href="http://www.patriciawells.com/books/about_books.htm">Patricia</a> (Wells) says so...," etc. In the moments when I wasn't exactly sure which <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ruth_Reichl">Ruth</a> (Reichl?) was being considered, I was more than happy to keep company with a towering <span style="font-style: italic;">tartare</span>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2PaoerK6dV7C57cb_jhqj5oCHo9VX3xbHPm0IugJNGmEj-QixOYSPn4Q2Gq3dMa3mh11Jhd_7SqmZNgvMghmDt9hJuNaMAYAyhkOGZhwvMqLgHQ9rZAyjhi5LrINgd7y1oBrvtg/s1600-h/IMG_0372.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2PaoerK6dV7C57cb_jhqj5oCHo9VX3xbHPm0IugJNGmEj-QixOYSPn4Q2Gq3dMa3mh11Jhd_7SqmZNgvMghmDt9hJuNaMAYAyhkOGZhwvMqLgHQ9rZAyjhi5LrINgd7y1oBrvtg/s200/IMG_0372.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210915702717892082" border="0" /></a>The food at Racines is lovely (more photos <a href="http://www.flickr.com/search/?q=racines&w=68844513%40N00">here</a>), and <span style="font-style: italic;">almost </span>as nice as the wine, which is <span style="font-style: italic;">nearly </span>as compelling as the proprietor himself.<br /><br />I caught myself staring too long at Pierre Jancou's plate-stacked arm and rhapsodizing about the way his tattoos were set off against a background of colorful floor tiles. Ahem...<br /><br />The only consolation for such behavior is watching all the other customers - journalists from the nearby HQs, young girls, moustachioed middle agers - <span style="font-style: italic;">also </span>trying to conceal their crush. I suppose that's what good food & wine does.<br /><br />When we finally left it was 4pm, three hours before my next date. Not really enough time to go home and work, a bit too long for cafe squatting. I was pondering my options when I walked past the Rex and saw people lining up for <span style="font-style: italic;">Sex</span>.<br /><br />I'm not really the sort of girl who wants to watch in a group and then go out for Cosmos afterward. I frankly don't have the footwear to pull that off.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWiHp-b60GShZbZxLikQjBAImg6J212BDLNdu3mOVb7zuBNRBR5RXEQuqXwysc0VXJc5AYRYOvnzNkAMdYyUBK5rXoPUtQEQVzqxlp4Zt0xmZCQqIcsbwupMAmZAHzLSnPNCKJvQ/s1600-h/sex-and-the-city-les-photos-promotionelles.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWiHp-b60GShZbZxLikQjBAImg6J212BDLNdu3mOVb7zuBNRBR5RXEQuqXwysc0VXJc5AYRYOvnzNkAMdYyUBK5rXoPUtQEQVzqxlp4Zt0xmZCQqIcsbwupMAmZAHzLSnPNCKJvQ/s200/sex-and-the-city-les-photos-promotionelles.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210915977002472546" border="0" /></a>But I was curious and so plunged myself into the theater for some... "Jesus... is this in <span style="font-style: italic;">FRENCH</span>?!"<br /><br />It's true - I have now seen the dubbed! french! version of <span style="font-style: italic;">Sex in the</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">City</span>. And if the reviews are to be believed, I may have made the right choice.<br /><br />A half-remembered snippet:<br /><blockquote>Smith: [looking down at his bulging groin] "J'ai un cadeau pour toi, ma chèrie."<br /><br />Samantha: "J'ai quelque chose pour toi, aussi."</blockquote>Believe it or not, this sort of dialogue actually <span style="font-style: italic;">feels profound</span> when you have struggled to translate it.<br /><br />After the movie, I made my way across town to say goodbye to two friends who are leaving Paris. I fear for their sanity, returning as they are to a land devoid of three hour lunches, where one is forced (!) to watch <span style="font-style: italic;">Sex </span>in the stark original version.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX-x6EY2eqsNSw-3p0OJDjXNhJwL-5sUpppnsr-TRNTjgY-oI-f5rRoYrAr-bmNwpOIoRRqEZOQ2Yasi2UzNPklubLaOWYM2KiklCjxqIbydRHpMe0PY-o9oihUF3lVxHAy7oKoQ/s1600-h/IMG_0255.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX-x6EY2eqsNSw-3p0OJDjXNhJwL-5sUpppnsr-TRNTjgY-oI-f5rRoYrAr-bmNwpOIoRRqEZOQ2Yasi2UzNPklubLaOWYM2KiklCjxqIbydRHpMe0PY-o9oihUF3lVxHAy7oKoQ/s200/IMG_0255.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5210917232491851042" border="0" /></a>Let's all wish them luck, shall we?Le Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13830769667849287708noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31294977.post-7826625059483785252008-06-09T12:14:00.012+02:002008-12-13T00:42:57.938+01:00The 24-hour Wedding<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDVIAm4fn9RIGfiK4hTIUaHmFy-3HPAUqMCXKXHH1IoPKxqiH1hBmsKnaGMrsSd1swSdKGaivZEGYnXwNyRvsYQ1IAIey4e91ZtH0SL0ypqB94yUx8oAN3ieDpvUVMlCjTzZ8yoQ/s1600-h/IMG_0066.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDVIAm4fn9RIGfiK4hTIUaHmFy-3HPAUqMCXKXHH1IoPKxqiH1hBmsKnaGMrsSd1swSdKGaivZEGYnXwNyRvsYQ1IAIey4e91ZtH0SL0ypqB94yUx8oAN3ieDpvUVMlCjTzZ8yoQ/s200/IMG_0066.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209831900738685442" border="0" /></a>At 9am on Saturday I was delivering breakfast pastries for a bride too nervous to eat.<br /><br />24 hours later, I was returning in a cab after sharing a post-party beer in broad daylight (8am) with two old friends and <a href="http://www.theworlds50best.com/restaurants/restaurant_breakthrough.html">Inaki Aizpitarte</a>.<br /><br />This being my first French wedding, I can only assume that they are all like this.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK0RoHcXwAfpihKv1ZsBz_MJ7jkqXwNSvirYwEjDxuDQ6NxDb-mBxEF9yjDPD_srdooz4D7AmxGslfCFgIlH2xG4Xd0S72oFBZ9oB1xHEfGe0izrTMtsuTvuacQTVjUj1n1pbDpA/s1600-h/IMG_0213.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK0RoHcXwAfpihKv1ZsBz_MJ7jkqXwNSvirYwEjDxuDQ6NxDb-mBxEF9yjDPD_srdooz4D7AmxGslfCFgIlH2xG4Xd0S72oFBZ9oB1xHEfGe0izrTMtsuTvuacQTVjUj1n1pbDpA/s200/IMG_0213.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209832495504858482" border="0" /></a>The marriage of <a href="http://www.petiteanglaise.com/">Petite Anglaise</a> and her Boy, in between those two early morning bookends, was a completely joyful affair.<br /><br />Friends from both sides of the English Channel gathered for a ceremony at the town hall, champagne, a sweet lunch at Vin Chai Moi, more champagne, more food, rowdy dancing, and still more champagne.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjetQg09ZPtFlZPWTM2RCY-YGVpJ3R-6kloWEksq2b6hRlrNoCPKGg4ladoHboKqSEEhCnzD-J7kTsZg6ZEHnvsHvvitX9jeNPmGTG674uL7ZPn_WHCeudLv08Dcfw8vVMd9VvV-w/s1600-h/IMG_0112.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjetQg09ZPtFlZPWTM2RCY-YGVpJ3R-6kloWEksq2b6hRlrNoCPKGg4ladoHboKqSEEhCnzD-J7kTsZg6ZEHnvsHvvitX9jeNPmGTG674uL7ZPn_WHCeudLv08Dcfw8vVMd9VvV-w/s200/IMG_0112.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5209832815953290466" border="0" /></a>What I'll never forget:<br /><ul><li>The radiance and endless grinning of the bride and groom</li><li><span style="font-style: italic;">Le Maire</span>, after performing his duties, admitting that he recognized Cath and asking for a photo with the couple<br /></li><li>Seeing the groom's mother shaking her booty to Blur's "Girls & Boys"</li><li>Watching French girls throwing up discretely in the garden before returning to the party looking elegant as ever<br /></li></ul>A few photos are <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/blagueur/sets/72157605517605083/">here</a>. Thanks for a great party!Le Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13830769667849287708noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31294977.post-82099989438382102702008-06-05T19:42:00.018+02:002008-12-13T00:42:58.211+01:00Mucho Macho<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-kQoOQHgkARDh_kL5UD0RWbJUc-tk71NXoQ1JZ9-Z2fac2RA3cLpUzZ1dNvBumNQ6YI-f0oSHy_OUmFL3JATZxIrCsgMGXs8B4Sj7C2rQ2Ud_uSVAzDZC2ACGHUNw27_G3uNijQ/s1600-h/macho+man.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-kQoOQHgkARDh_kL5UD0RWbJUc-tk71NXoQ1JZ9-Z2fac2RA3cLpUzZ1dNvBumNQ6YI-f0oSHy_OUmFL3JATZxIrCsgMGXs8B4Sj7C2rQ2Ud_uSVAzDZC2ACGHUNw27_G3uNijQ/s200/macho+man.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5208722069915930626" border="0" /></a>Paris is a cultural capital for many, many reasons. An abundance of karaoke parlors is not one of them. And so it is with great anxiety that I announce the following:<br /><br />I may no longer be welcome at L'Echanteur.<br /><br />The city's best (only?) karaoke is in the basement of a dive bar in the Marais. Its management and clientele are "hetero friendly," but it helps to be accompanied by one of the <a href="http://bookpacker.blogspot.com/">Stars of Gayraoke</a>.<br /><br />One such Star was supposed to meet us at the bar last Saturday night. I arrived just after midnight with two boys and my new travel editor<span style="text-decoration: underline;"></span> at the <a href="http://online.wsj.com/public/article/SB121120889892103683.html?mod=2_1354_leftbox"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Wall Street Journal.</span></a><br /><br />(Was that vulgar?)<br /><br />Anyway, this <span style="font-weight: bold;">distinguished </span>visiting editor needed little encouragement, putting her Snoop Dogg slip in straight away. My inspiration came more slowly, but when it did I scribbled my song choice and found myself on the stage only moments later.<br /><br />And that's when things began to turn ugly.<br /><br />A "normal" karaoke night would find me taking to a stage much later, after several watery beers and having already witnessed other people's shame. On this particular night there was no posse to shield me from the unknown members of the audience. There was no former session singer at my side to do the backup. I was nearly - gasp! - sober.<br /><br />But none of that would have mattered had I chosen the right song -<br /><br />...had I NOT chosen to sing <strong>Macho Man</strong><br /><br />...in a gay bar<br /><br />...without really knowing the words.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Who knew there were words? </span>Besides the chorus, I mean. They're actually (don't laugh), kind of hard. Which is why I found myself staring out at the horrified audience and mumbling "body... body... body? It's so hot my body? body... body.. check it out."<br /><br />The editor, in an ill-considered moment of great compassion, rushed to the stage and began to gyrate in circles around me and, I think, to pantomime the macho man's chest hair.<br /><br />"...check it out, my body."<br /><br />That went on for <strong>far too long</strong>, the opening verse, but I was just SURE that when the chorus came we would all throw our heads back and our arms in the air and <strong>unite</strong> as macho men together.<br /><br />It was <strong>dead quiet</strong> as Nikki and I, the two white girls in the gay bar, threw our heads back and began to scream the chorus.<br /><br />.....<br /><br />And then the song went on another three or four minutes.<br /><br />.....<br /><br />The DJ, who has seen me perform many <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-RWCBe47h5A">challenging numbers</a> in the past, actually said, "<strong>Goodbye Meg</strong>" instead of "thank you" at the end of the song.<br /><br />And that's when I <strong>dropped and shattered my glass</strong>.<br /><br />.....<br /><br />Nikki never got a chance to perform that night, her name seemingly blacklisted by association.<br /><br />A shame, really, because I would have killed to watch her <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2GYSei66Rh4">Drop It Like It's Hot</a>. I had a clear image in mind of my employer rapping "I'm a bad boy, with a lotta hos," as I booty danced behind her. "SnooooooooOOOOOOP!"<br /><br />Because I have no video of my disasterous performance, I offer instead this treasure from Brazil - two 22 year-old boys dancing Macho in their living room. The long-hair is my new summer crush and the spiritual twin of <a href="http://parisblagueur.blogspot.com/2007/02/i-have-found-my-valentine.html">this guy</a>. Where was HE when I needed him at L'Echanteur?<br /><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/D1K7ZJRE3yg&hl=en"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/D1K7ZJRE3yg&hl=en" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" height="344" width="425"></embed></object>Le Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13830769667849287708noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31294977.post-78953600536644405802008-06-02T16:48:00.019+02:002008-12-13T00:42:59.782+01:00Bridesmaid channelingA "temoine" is not <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> a bridesmaid.<br /><br />She's just a witness who needs to bring her passport to City Hall to sign something in French that she doesn't understand. Working backward, she needs to <span style="font-style: italic;">for once</span> be on time, pick up flowers, and wake up...preferably not hung over.<br /><br />It's not a big role by most people's definition. But because I so adore this friend<a href="http://www.petiteanglaise.com/"></a> (and am by nature a leader of rings), I have expanded the role of "temoine" to include party catering, guest DJing, and Hen Night Bringer of Shame.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFGxF0eh2iw4ZDR9us0nUB_Lo_fctu13GyB_K5kTe6UCNBfmtb0c2AHrPSgGlnjv-zK1wK_1d8N7IYsqsma98MOyGGVG8gqtaIsD_GyYNOgNicIdj81GCN4xU5Uavf0DPlS8YpZQ/s1600-h/reverers.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhFGxF0eh2iw4ZDR9us0nUB_Lo_fctu13GyB_K5kTe6UCNBfmtb0c2AHrPSgGlnjv-zK1wK_1d8N7IYsqsma98MOyGGVG8gqtaIsD_GyYNOgNicIdj81GCN4xU5Uavf0DPlS8YpZQ/s200/reverers.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5207310647568520978" border="0" /></a>The latter role was executed several weekends ago in London. The Brits had amassed on that side of the Channel for what <a href="http://www.blogger.com/www.petiteanglaise.com">Cath</a> had hoped would be a stately affair. She'd even arranged the thing in Notting Hill (the London equivalent of Saint-Germain?) to decrease the overall odds of lewd behavior.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZAZVHjhmc1zN7A438IfRqTTjpb99AIUPU_ImLk5hqCghJdtO_keiKGBnmn8YIYEAtrF2LxddPoZCkazDLT7_lXsRCP3kFPdFpaldi84UICamsM8OoGp__PfOawYo4UXg75MNqpw/s1600-h/shame.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZAZVHjhmc1zN7A438IfRqTTjpb99AIUPU_ImLk5hqCghJdtO_keiKGBnmn8YIYEAtrF2LxddPoZCkazDLT7_lXsRCP3kFPdFpaldi84UICamsM8OoGp__PfOawYo4UXg75MNqpw/s200/shame.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5207308212322064114" border="0" /></a>Little did she know that I had crossed into her territory with a sack full of props and no love for her dignity. And so while Cath's university friend was distracting her with shots, the assembled hens (several men included) were donning feather boas and bribing some Dutch boys to strip.<br /><br />That's about all I can reveal, except to say that <span style="font-style: italic;">once the squealing died down</span>, she really seemed to enjoy it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnvCWK6YLFAWEkh0URbR1hFSPZ2uOOKgjDUDn07hP4ck7Zg1D7OmJmtLlG27VGNfJTYZnvggtgAlWPVxdv-pPdT5X7E3rK5Al3NqQ48oUvrbemEv3Y_EIwgET2PAqzS-WHb8TfKQ/s1600-h/toppled.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnvCWK6YLFAWEkh0URbR1hFSPZ2uOOKgjDUDn07hP4ck7Zg1D7OmJmtLlG27VGNfJTYZnvggtgAlWPVxdv-pPdT5X7E3rK5Al3NqQ48oUvrbemEv3Y_EIwgET2PAqzS-WHb8TfKQ/s200/toppled.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5207306490040178354" border="0" /></a>Whether she remembers any of it is another question...<br /><br />* * * * * * * *<br /><br />One task down, then, and two to go.<br /><br />For my music playlist, I've been instructed to "lay off the obscure indie crap," which leaves...? (I'll get back to you)<br /><br />For the food, she has advised me to "be reasonable," i.e. choose 2-3 items instead of 12 to avoid spending the entire party in the kitchen.<br /><br />Because someone's gotta be out there keeping an eye on that bride. I only wonder who will watch over me?<br /><br />(more Hen Night photo evidence can be found <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/blagueur/sets/72157605119405688/">over here</a>)Le Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13830769667849287708noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31294977.post-16602202387040538912008-05-16T13:38:00.004+02:002008-12-13T00:43:00.120+01:00Learning the EnglishIn preparation for tomorrow's trip across the Channel, I've been learning a bit of vocabulary:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhLEJxjoXTj_cs8QERuOqVUKBOn4BUsiIel5P2ootWhG6XLBML6BF9qEG3fi8ttAba6J97LPFfTqSrvThp_s4qP6y-7OiDQuWePktdpd6kD_kFW0HKz0-z0WsF5aPqIp1E0jsK6w/s1600-h/hennight.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhLEJxjoXTj_cs8QERuOqVUKBOn4BUsiIel5P2ootWhG6XLBML6BF9qEG3fi8ttAba6J97LPFfTqSrvThp_s4qP6y-7OiDQuWePktdpd6kD_kFW0HKz0-z0WsF5aPqIp1E0jsK6w/s320/hennight.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200943272556917858" border="0" /></a><b>#1: Slag</b> is a perjorative slang term, primarily used in the United Kingdom to describe women who engage in casual sex and promiscuous behavior. Its meaning is broadly similar to the terms "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Slut" title="Slut">slut</a>" and "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Skank" title="Skank">skank</a>". It originally derives from the same term for piles of impurities skimmed off during the smelting of metals, and has been <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Backronym" title="Backronym">backronymed</a> to mean "<b>S</b>he'll <b>L</b>ay <b>A</b>ny <b>G</b>uy", referring to promiscuous behaviour.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">#2: Hen's Night</span> - A <b>bachelorette party</b>, <b>hen party</b>, or <b>hen's night</b>, is a party held for a woman who is about to be married as a rite of passage. Companies sell decorations and novelties for bachelorette parties including products like "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pi%C3%B1ata" title="Piñata">piñatas</a>", fur-lined <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Handcuff" class="mw-redirect" title="Handcuff">handcuffs</a>, "<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Willy_whistles&action=edit&redlink=1" class="new" title="Willy whistles (page does not exist)">willy whistles</a>," and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Adult_toy" class="mw-redirect" title="Adult toy">adult toys</a>. Other companies also sell bachelorette party packs with games and party tools. There are all different products sold for this event. Many bachelorette parties have the girls wear matching tops.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqtWbPybEZbv5g8vD9LbXPDk9u-yN6POIHMdyjH36SnYGDqXySsjTo5-dzo4yRmjkPi31OF5NT_YdoiPf4ZbivmcZE0MNaVmQqAX_xo4mC7mxrqJrDSaMCf45jUtk3kQM-QDqanA/s1600-h/cath.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqtWbPybEZbv5g8vD9LbXPDk9u-yN6POIHMdyjH36SnYGDqXySsjTo5-dzo4yRmjkPi31OF5NT_YdoiPf4ZbivmcZE0MNaVmQqAX_xo4mC7mxrqJrDSaMCf45jUtk3kQM-QDqanA/s200/cath.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200942877419926610" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;">#3: Petite Anglaise</span> - Translates literally as "little english (female)", and is commonly used by French people to refer to English people. See also: <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/w/index.php?title=Catherine_Sanderson&action=edit&redlink=1" class="new" title="Catherine Sanderson (page does not exist)">Catherine Sanderson</a>, a British <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Blog" title="Blog">blogger</a> living in Paris; See also, <b>Slag</b>.<br /><br />Further discoveries and photo evidence (matching tops?) to be posted here soon...Le Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13830769667849287708noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31294977.post-14306938227227083992008-05-01T16:23:00.041+02:002008-12-13T00:43:00.462+01:00Turn and Face the Strange<a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_kQnRkb5dks&feature=related">Ch-Ch-Changes!</a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSY_9TTXPjwqbg96wFnXWNjoiaWbzh-ij-_dZjKcKnxBoPRvqUWudMXXkWlXQc5ntEbXZjewNzFdHzedcepV_AdUs5HasD2l9yBshAnnO3XNpAd_iAYwDJT0VNf6Hk_rrE7g7xRQ/s1600-h/layoff.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSY_9TTXPjwqbg96wFnXWNjoiaWbzh-ij-_dZjKcKnxBoPRvqUWudMXXkWlXQc5ntEbXZjewNzFdHzedcepV_AdUs5HasD2l9yBshAnnO3XNpAd_iAYwDJT0VNf6Hk_rrE7g7xRQ/s400/layoff.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195445858874692162" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />There are two broad categories of people in my life: those who have no interest in blogs whatsoever (much more fun to drink with), and those who have at least two blogs of their own.<br /><br />In the latter group, there's a tiny sub-set called Freaks (or, more politely, 'blog watchers'). These are the people who've been emailing me this week to ask, <span style="font-style: italic;">"Did they fire your ass?"</span><br /><br />The <span style="font-weight: bold;">they </span>in question is <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gawker_Media">Gawker Media</a>. Blog watchers know that the most powerful and profitable blog network in the world last week offloaded the travel site <a href="http://gridskipper.com/">Gridskipper</a>. They dumped two other titles in the process, <a href="http://wonkette.com/">Wonkette</a> (politics) and the music blog <a href="http://idolator.com/">Idolator</a>. The three together accounted for less than 3% of the <a href="http://www.nickdenton.org/002013.html">network's total traffic</a>. On a good day, Gskipper brought 50,000 page views. <a href="http://us.gizmodo.com/">Gizmodo</a>, their most popular, brings 2 million per day.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUThkjp4Oli1LVuTL0knaqEhk8j4lmDGZt5cnkKan5Sz5fRiGLZHIZ9fFx_QXEmVy_Pn2hzF1LPa1ot34W4DZoCm1X-VBkzGDDLglQ9Wo4mhiFl6MVa0sqOflyfy6Uw3kzdQp6Ag/s1600-h/gutted.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUThkjp4Oli1LVuTL0knaqEhk8j4lmDGZt5cnkKan5Sz5fRiGLZHIZ9fFx_QXEmVy_Pn2hzF1LPa1ot34W4DZoCm1X-VBkzGDDLglQ9Wo4mhiFl6MVa0sqOflyfy6Uw3kzdQp6Ag/s200/gutted.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5195451700030214754" border="0" /></a>In an internal memo that he encouraged his writers to leak, founder/slasher Nick Denton spoke about the sale of these three sites (for mere pennies, as rumors have it):<br /><blockquote>"I'm relieved we've found pretty decent homes for the three sites, and most of their writers, but we're gutted to lose them... Gridskipper is so far the most sophisticated travel blog: it entirely deserved its inclusion in Time's list of the 50 coolest websites."</blockquote>Gridskipper's "new home" is Curbed Network, owner of <a href="http://curbed.com/">Curbed</a>, <a href="http://eater.com/">Eater</a>, <a href="http://racked.com/">Racked </a>and now (in the interest of consistency?) <a href="http://gridskipper.com/">'Skippered.</a> We received an email ten days ago from Editorial Director Ben Leventhal, promising news about the changes and inviting us to tell him how we'd like to stay involved. We (or at least I) never heard from him again.<br /><br />Rumors are circulating that the revamped site will focus on resorts in and around the United States. That didn't appeal to Editor John Rambow (that really <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> his name), so he and <a href="http://gridskipper.com/385795/so-long-farewell-auf-weidersehen-goodbye"> the rest of his editorial staff</a> are on the sidewalk. As for Denton's claim about finding homes for most of the writers, I don't know a single person from Gridskipper who has been invited by Curbed to stay on.<br /><br />That brings us back to the original question, "did they fire my ass?"<br /><br />Not officially, no, not yet. So I'm still wearing the company-issued underwear and checking my email every five minutes. However, I'm pretty sure that they're not going to pay me ever again, and so I should probably get out of the habit of sifting everything I see onto a mental list of six places...<br /><br />In closing, out of the <a href="http://gridskipper.com/tag/meg-zimbeck/">47 posts I've written</a> since last June, these five were the most fun to work on:<br /><a href="http://gridskipper.com/350113/scene-report-paris-restaurants" class="top"></a><br />#5: <a href="http://gridskipper.com/travel/paris/the-hidden-kitchen-285284.php">The Hidden Kitchen</a><br /><br />#4: <a href="http://gridskipper.com/travel/paris/the-most-horrible-tourist-traps-in-paris-328848.php" class="top">The Most Horrible Tourist Traps in Paris</a><br /><br />#3: <a href="http://gridskipper.com/tag/concerts-a-la-carte/">Paris Concerts à la Carte</a> series<br /><br />#2: <a href="http://gridskipper.com/travel/paris/le-swap-paris-swing-clubs-291712.php" class="super-permalink" title="Click here to read Le Swap: Paris Swing Clubs">Le Swap: Paris Swing Clubs</a><br /><br />#1: <a href="http://gridskipper.com/357298/dancing-french-electro+mimes-battle-in-the-streets">Dancing French Electro-Mimes Battle in the Streets</a><br /><br />I doubt I'll ever find another outlet that allows me to rank the city's best restaurants alongside its <span style="font-style: italic;">clubs échangistes</span>. It was certainly good while it lasted.<br /><br />My sincere thanks to former editorial superheroes <a href="http://gridskipper.com/385599/who-didnt-buy-gridskipper-from-gawker-media">Chris Mohney</a>, <a href="http://gridskipper.com/351043/editorial-exit">Amanda Kludt</a> and <a href="http://gridskipper.com/372275/media-drinking-hangouts">John Rambow</a>, and to all the deranged Paris writers I've met along the way: <a href="http://gridskipper.com/344888/the-coolest-places-to-smoke-in-paris-after-the-ban">Adrian</a>, <a href="http://gridskipper.com/travel/paris/public-sex-in-paris-306455.php">Anna</a>, <a href="http://gridskipper.com/357504/literary-watering-holes-in-paris">Lauren</a> and <a href="http://gridskipper.com/346320/culture-for-cheapskates-in-paris">Morgen</a>.<br /><br />Someone should hire the lot of us. Beginning, of course, with me.Le Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13830769667849287708noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31294977.post-57922768956813775172008-04-28T22:47:00.007+02:002008-04-28T23:20:01.443+02:00The Top 10 Concerts of the SummerBetween now and mid-July, there are more than 40 great indie pop/rock concerts coming to town. For music lovers living and traveling in Paris, this <a href="http://gridskipper.com/384458/paris-concerts-a-la-carte-summer-bonus-edition">Gridskipper article</a> features videos for my favorite 25 shows. The Top 10 are reprinted below for your viewing pleasure. Enjoy!<br /><br />♫♫ <span style="font-weight: bold;">¡Forward Russia!</span> 5/17 @ <a href="http://www.lamaroquinerie.fr/content2/%20">la Maroquinnerie </a><br /><object height="355" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Z3Jossp6fso&hl=en"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Z3Jossp6fso&hl=en" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" height="355" width="425"></embed></object><br /><br />♫♫ <span style="font-weight: bold;">Vampire Weekend</span> 5/19 @ <a href="http://www.trabendo.fr/">le Trabendo</a><br /><object height="355" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/_XC2mqcMMGQ&hl=en"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/_XC2mqcMMGQ&hl=en" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" height="355" width="425"></embed></object><br /><br />♫♫ <strong>Yelle</strong> 5/23 @ <a href="http://www.le-bataclan.com/content/index.php">Bataclan</a><br /><object height="355" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/-uT_T6am69I&hl=en"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/-uT_T6am69I&hl=en" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" height="355" width="425"></embed></object><br /><br />♫♫ <strong>The Fratellis</strong> 5/28 @ <a href="http://www.pointephemere.org/">Point Éphémère</a><br /><object height="355" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/-FinNUQVi9Q&hl=en"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/-FinNUQVi9Q&hl=en" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" height="355" width="425"></embed></object><br /><br />♫♫ <strong>Feist</strong> 6/3-6/4 @ <a href="http://www.legrandrex.com/">le Grand Rex</a><br /><object height="355" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/KPCm4NxjEsA&hl=en"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/KPCm4NxjEsA&hl=en" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" height="355" width="425"></embed></object><br /><br />♫♫ <strong>Sunset Rubdown, Deerhoof</strong> 6/3 @ <a href="http://www.villettesonique.com/">Villette Sonique</a><br /><object height="355" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/DQSLBapowJQ&hl=en"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/DQSLBapowJQ&hl=en" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" height="355" width="425"></embed></object><br /><br />♫♫ <strong>Stephen Malkmus & The Jicks</strong> 6/4 @ <a href="http://www.lamaroquinerie.fr/content2/">la Maroquinerie</a><br /><object height="355" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/axZAsVUpWm4&hl=en"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/axZAsVUpWm4&hl=en" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" height="355" width="425"></embed></object><br /><br />♫♫ <strong>The Go! Team</strong> 6/5 @ <a href="http://www.villettesonique.com/">Villette Sonique</a><br /><object height="355" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/1YRyngdRWY4&hl=en"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/1YRyngdRWY4&hl=en" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" height="355" width="425"></embed></object><br /><br />♫♫ <strong>Beck</strong> 7/7 @ <a href="http://www.olympiahall.com/">l'Olympia</a><br /><object height="355" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/XC7ucvAAVvw&hl=en"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/XC7ucvAAVvw&hl=en" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" height="355" width="425"></embed></object><br /><br />♫♫ <strong>My Morning Jacket</strong> 7/9 @ <a href="http://www.trabendo.fr/">le Trabendo</a><br /><object height="355" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Nhue_xoH_QA&hl=en"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Nhue_xoH_QA&hl=en" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" height="355" width="425"></embed></object>Le Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13830769667849287708noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31294977.post-53807894944451254622008-04-22T11:28:00.064+02:002008-12-13T00:43:02.463+01:00Welcome Home<div style="text-align: left;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIkI5wqBqGH2n4JuYbMH2rnztfc8YLfeZvQKmWT08bW_z3fKtiix8lDLpkPp1yktxFDR0Uh1Df-nNWEK2aaQQrAoIhjSpg-EBmryxXuTtVvStgL4CVz77rvthz0oJeAP2rPYUC-A/s1600-h/cheese.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIkI5wqBqGH2n4JuYbMH2rnztfc8YLfeZvQKmWT08bW_z3fKtiix8lDLpkPp1yktxFDR0Uh1Df-nNWEK2aaQQrAoIhjSpg-EBmryxXuTtVvStgL4CVz77rvthz0oJeAP2rPYUC-A/s200/cheese.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192766134289437074" border="0" /></a>When I visit the U.S. I am invariably asked about if I plan to stay in France.<br /><br />"Who knows?" is usually my watery reply, along with "probably not forever." I tack on that last bit to soothe the Americans who are hard-pressed to understand why I've strayed.<br /><br />I then usually try to explain why I like it "over there." Few among my people have visited, and they're not the sort to squeal about macarons. I've had little success in stammering about the simple pleasures of Paris. I suppose I'm afraid on some level of being insulting or, even worse, being tagged as an elitist. It is hard to extoll the virtues of fresh markets without seeming to judge the Costco member across the table.<br /><br />I will turn to my camera then, to do the job of illustrating why I like it here in Paris. These are images from my first week back in the city after visiting the U.S.<br /><br /><span><span style="font-style: italic;">Eating</span></span><br /><br /><object height="350" width="425"></object><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg5LaeXY7vmsSVCs_AM23Ia7Fu8kmUzk7qQIuWuj3fjplcbgIATUH3Fl7LYZwvAp3AWebBvNjwNlYllAOCKCbC2bFcGcxQke5Xq9jmNhnx0mLR5UhrbaNIQznS0lTiIBABhga4Pw/s1600-h/lunch.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg5LaeXY7vmsSVCs_AM23Ia7Fu8kmUzk7qQIuWuj3fjplcbgIATUH3Fl7LYZwvAp3AWebBvNjwNlYllAOCKCbC2bFcGcxQke5Xq9jmNhnx0mLR5UhrbaNIQznS0lTiIBABhga4Pw/s200/lunch.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192733823250469138" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjncLTXXv6f9pOFapQzgFEu6FDKsKpt0YB_ndmsoYgHNYvehLS2axy_TfKFd9ZQbJRxxtFi81kliMMTsXqOswDekZcgnoRmeDnXN0U8j26p_5UIBAHCCKXbtENllc4YZqd-1R3FBA/s1600-h/ble+sucre.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjncLTXXv6f9pOFapQzgFEu6FDKsKpt0YB_ndmsoYgHNYvehLS2axy_TfKFd9ZQbJRxxtFi81kliMMTsXqOswDekZcgnoRmeDnXN0U8j26p_5UIBAHCCKXbtENllc4YZqd-1R3FBA/s200/ble+sucre.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192007230748102866" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Shopping</span></span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSHd6FIIHQFoRGB5wjLEiD5lvDOPWPJhz7kIbAKBYAYRoXx19KnI7g3isUg9_6hgUh09B5ziVNTf0AQpz1DTZ5PAyU7z4_rOPVmzUTQrNVg0mEfSitmJhLiHhkXUXf2j4ZfR8lCg/s1600-h/cutie+caddie.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSHd6FIIHQFoRGB5wjLEiD5lvDOPWPJhz7kIbAKBYAYRoXx19KnI7g3isUg9_6hgUh09B5ziVNTf0AQpz1DTZ5PAyU7z4_rOPVmzUTQrNVg0mEfSitmJhLiHhkXUXf2j4ZfR8lCg/s200/cutie+caddie.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192734145373016402" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaFXZf1pB4jnCI2LyFCWdU0xTqbaCjESqiDsle4g7UySWQ_YYWCUnPZmd7NVzNGgfcDBq3UTlyXEaFPjISbANEVEX91zf9Navj-5wkbfka2edkb8K_yZk7oZHrWtzq_aWYmkdYbg/s1600-h/market.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaFXZf1pB4jnCI2LyFCWdU0xTqbaCjESqiDsle4g7UySWQ_YYWCUnPZmd7NVzNGgfcDBq3UTlyXEaFPjISbANEVEX91zf9Navj-5wkbfka2edkb8K_yZk7oZHrWtzq_aWYmkdYbg/s200/market.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192733750236025090" border="0" /></a><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />Relaxing</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuBUOqvnh5oR89WlU-F0LtzJx7xCSQmEqodsyQ9wcBsbf9zTTVdDq4DKWpOGDlN6n7ubQ6zhlwPg4NPzt31pNlepC3FmDWz8-CXz3ETNgLr6zOvY1D8OG9piAEReYSr8JgF0WwfA/s1600-h/cafe.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuBUOqvnh5oR89WlU-F0LtzJx7xCSQmEqodsyQ9wcBsbf9zTTVdDq4DKWpOGDlN6n7ubQ6zhlwPg4NPzt31pNlepC3FmDWz8-CXz3ETNgLr6zOvY1D8OG9piAEReYSr8JgF0WwfA/s200/cafe.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192734308581773666" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Exercise</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><object height="355" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/_Asjag6aiwY&hl=en"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/_Asjag6aiwY&hl=en" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" height="355" width="425"></embed></object></span><br /><br />It's an idyllic view, to be sure, and not always so lovely. But such was my week, and I am happier than ever to call Paris my home.</div>Le Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13830769667849287708noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31294977.post-50009486453669866712008-04-17T05:01:00.009+02:002008-12-13T00:43:02.659+01:00Notes from the Jet Lag Lounge<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhLGFJu6ps9139UJcnOH4Ws44XTs14DY6gJXoa1C4bXU1g2LE803_oWh1Q-avO5tIPmxKkweR9xd4yC7Xvt29dS4fcyIeL0g0Z5K18eX1yQuZmk0_Ffr-OIzh-zNkNkCeABfdNQQ/s1600-h/blog+pic.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhLGFJu6ps9139UJcnOH4Ws44XTs14DY6gJXoa1C4bXU1g2LE803_oWh1Q-avO5tIPmxKkweR9xd4yC7Xvt29dS4fcyIeL0g0Z5K18eX1yQuZmk0_Ffr-OIzh-zNkNkCeABfdNQQ/s200/blog+pic.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190058830841265474" border="0" /></a>My very confused engines started racing at 3am, and there was nothing else to do (after last night's dishes) but finally sit down and write a blog post.<br /><br />I used to brag about my immunity to jet lag. No matter in which direction I had traveled, no matter how much coffee consumed, I was somehow able to sleep on command. This talent was developed, along with many useful others, while working the graveyard shift at a Kansas diner.<br /><br />That, however, is a different story, and a seemingly moot point. Because the 'Sleep Whenever' trait has reached its expiration date. I now belong to that unfortunate camp of people who find themselves awake against their will at absurd hours in the morning. The breastfeeding and menopausal, plus me.<br /><br />One week is a silly amount of time in which to visit the United States. I arrived at my mother's and spent the first three days in a haze, waking up in the wee hours and sleeping again at the first sign of light. Near the end of the trip, my body adjusted. I became very briefly delightful and then boarded another plane.<br /><br />Now I'm counting the minutes before I can mount a Vélib' and head over to Au Duc de la Chapelle. My sleep-deprived mind is finding poetry in the idea of pedalling to the Best Baguette in Paris as it is pulled hot from the oven.<br /><br />But will Anis Bouabsa be pleased to find an American sleeping on his bakery's doorstep? There's only one way to find out...Le Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13830769667849287708noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31294977.post-14517697455421110782008-03-14T12:38:00.005+01:002008-03-14T16:24:27.343+01:00Weekly Giftbasket: Dance Fever EditionThis week's distract-a-basket contains intentional juxtaposition: a dancing walrus, an 80 year-old stripper, and a combination of those elements as Last Night's Karaoke.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">1. For the Kids</span><br /><br /><object height="355" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/DDg7kWgs5e0&hl=en"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/DDg7kWgs5e0&hl=en" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" height="355" width="425"></embed></object><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />2. For the Ladies</span><br /><br /><object height="355" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/EEN-D6WxMHE&hl=en"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/EEN-D6WxMHE&hl=en" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" height="355" width="425"></embed></object><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">3. For the Shame of my Eventual Grandchildren</span><br /><br /><object height="350" width="425"> <param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/-RWCBe47h5A"> <embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/-RWCBe47h5A" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" height="350" width="425"></embed> </object><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">*please note the terrorized voice at video's end pleading "stop this!"</span><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />4. What That Was </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Supposed </span><span style="font-weight: bold;">to Look Like</span><br /><br /><object height="355" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/6-4VOLeKBOw&hl=en"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/6-4VOLeKBOw&hl=en" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" height="355" width="425"></embed></object><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">*a white jumpsuit would have helped my performance, obviously.</span>Le Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13830769667849287708noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31294977.post-74637271641010532592008-03-12T10:32:00.024+01:002008-12-13T00:43:03.112+01:00P.S.S.A blog is a good enough excuse to track down your high school boyfriend, engage in some catch-up, and then pose the <span style="font-style: italic;">burning question</span>.<br /><br />BJH and I went out during our senior year. This "going" was conducted primarily on the phone, although I do recall one driveway makeout session with Elton John playing on the car stereo.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ2hSvs1wkZYcLDLzIIEt9PW779ow5gZCYHQ1tBet92X9mL5GAphZjPIzCzOL-UQeKtwhz8VtufqWFCtMoxlCfZQEPA0xQcgLepHtFMwcrE54RE_jtmkdVl5UFDRIFMPRCp8tC9Q/s1600-h/hott+jeans+whoa.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ2hSvs1wkZYcLDLzIIEt9PW779ow5gZCYHQ1tBet92X9mL5GAphZjPIzCzOL-UQeKtwhz8VtufqWFCtMoxlCfZQEPA0xQcgLepHtFMwcrE54RE_jtmkdVl5UFDRIFMPRCp8tC9Q/s320/hott+jeans+whoa.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176890209093579394" border="0" /></a>As blissful as that might sound, BJH was less content with our direction. He ended things after a few short weeks, I suspect because of these pants* =><br /><br />A high waist, double rolls, and one very hot pocket - my jeans must have... <span>intimidated </span>him.<br /><br />In any case, it wasn't fashion that we discussed after fifteen years. It was the dog.<br /><br />Specifically, the burning dog. The <a href="http://parisblagueur.blogspot.com/2008/03/my-roots-are-showing.html">burning dog and erect penis</a>.<br /><br />"BJ," I asked. "What up with that?" The <a href="http://misplacedinthemidwest.blogspot.com/">people</a> need to know.<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span>And now BJ, bless his H, hath responded:<br /><blockquote><span style="font-size:85%;">In many cultures the artistic representation of the erect penis, also known as a phallus, represents power, wealth, and good health. The concept of the phallus is often connected with being the ultimate man, and possessing said phallus is compared to having the divine gift of God.</span><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">The dog has long been known as "Man's Best Friend," and symbolically represents undying love and loyalty. The union of starving dog and phallus under fire represents teenage misanthropic</span><span style="font-size:85%;"> angst in conjunction with an overwhelming desire to deconstruct the norms of an impersonal, omnipotent society bereft of love.<br /><br />Either that or BJH thought it was funny and cool. BJH can't remember exactly.</span></div></blockquote><div style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></div>So there you have it, Commenter #8 - a fine answer from BJH. But while we have him on the line... <span style="font-weight: bold;">are there any other questions for high school boyfriend?<br /></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpzTicHhEayK8K2OjbqXACpElTNdnzrgbWDQUx5IxwerxLmEbLBOtJeRi0aZk89HvPI6Nk8hNn0CgSAM4piYhne2HM0txCVy0Fh3TCvTn6cvFiPr-rN-70YpTVhauH6YVEVcvc9w/s1600-h/bjh.bmp"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpzTicHhEayK8K2OjbqXACpElTNdnzrgbWDQUx5IxwerxLmEbLBOtJeRi0aZk89HvPI6Nk8hNn0CgSAM4piYhne2HM0txCVy0Fh3TCvTn6cvFiPr-rN-70YpTVhauH6YVEVcvc9w/s400/bjh.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5176787207187886562" border="0" /></a><br /><br />* 'pants' in the American sense.Le Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13830769667849287708noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31294977.post-91123394094320110152008-03-07T17:40:00.019+01:002008-12-13T00:43:03.801+01:00My Roots are ShowingFacebook, that beautiful timesuck, seems to have developed a new application. It's called "Find Your High School Friends & Freak Them Out."<br /><br />This has been happening a lot recently. The most recent high school alum to find me was - <span style="font-style: italic;">whew!</span> - someone I actually liked.<br /><br />More often, it's an unfamiliar name along with a message that offers no clues - <span style="font-style: italic;">"Hey there! What have you been up to??"</span><br /><br />All this has led me to unearth The Yearbook.<br /><br />It'd been a long time since I'd cracked this open, and I'd forgotten about <span style="font-weight: bold;">the hair</span>. I dare say, my high school companions may have had the Best Bangs of All Time.<br /><br />I'm from Kansas, you see. And <span style="font-weight: bold;">this is how we roll</span>:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwGFpmfwBxUpMa8X7JX4Fai1O2Ev4M4d5_GrE7weVHpj2l6j4Zr4LQPKBfnkReAPUE0JFmTdDi-eA_qD4kNC9Ar6YNgJ5xROuBVTd_C5ed-IMSEsevGm7XY_j3b8c6JPdpuki0QA/s1600-h/roll.bmp"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwGFpmfwBxUpMa8X7JX4Fai1O2Ev4M4d5_GrE7weVHpj2l6j4Zr4LQPKBfnkReAPUE0JFmTdDi-eA_qD4kNC9Ar6YNgJ5xROuBVTd_C5ed-IMSEsevGm7XY_j3b8c6JPdpuki0QA/s400/roll.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5175049656693453170" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I'd like to claim that I was too cool for this trend, but the evidence shows otherwise:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiWXmbnppn9Wc7EXBPZclgHx-_ntiuM3aP8fe94RnFHRMhyphenhyphenjOLZ8dw1mL6p71eOM7QJJkxKGGapzDX3bee6F5XStOWRo5bnmyH7l0QxRLIs0mdDdwLCjEo4Q3m6xnDpvq4FNZNaw/s1600-h/Hot+Suburban+Hair.bmp"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiWXmbnppn9Wc7EXBPZclgHx-_ntiuM3aP8fe94RnFHRMhyphenhyphenjOLZ8dw1mL6p71eOM7QJJkxKGGapzDX3bee6F5XStOWRo5bnmyH7l0QxRLIs0mdDdwLCjEo4Q3m6xnDpvq4FNZNaw/s200/Hot+Suburban+Hair.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5175072613293650370" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">Bonus points if you can name that grape-scented hair product in the corner.<br /><br />DOUBLE bonus if you still own a pair of white shorts. </span><br /><br /><br /><br />Anyway, the best part of unearthing The Yearbook has been re-reading the old signatures. From one classmate:<br /><blockquote style="font-style: italic;font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Good luck at Gay-U [KU], you pinko-commie baby-killin' fag-lovin' tree-huggin' Hillary worshippin' media mackin' flower-powerin' band wagon jumpin' U2 lovin' feminazi left wing LIBERAL!!! Call me this summer. We'll PARTY!!!</span> </blockquote>Did she have my number, or what?<br /><br />The boy I was crazy about - the one who took me to Homecoming and then dumped my ass - brought my yearbook home one night in order to write something special. The next morning at school he delivered this:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHQ_cq6dF7s9k0f8EAXlooJ6HksQACq2jE6ljybj_8BoR9RAVd6dKHOuvEJlLY6mmHBL_kyR_s94sEUQsLInvSrqIX4hSGxs4PnS0_hTIeq49Jtltho_olRij8ZiejFUsEUIrofA/s1600-h/burning+dog.bmp"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHQ_cq6dF7s9k0f8EAXlooJ6HksQACq2jE6ljybj_8BoR9RAVd6dKHOuvEJlLY6mmHBL_kyR_s94sEUQsLInvSrqIX4hSGxs4PnS0_hTIeq49Jtltho_olRij8ZiejFUsEUIrofA/s400/burning+dog.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5175054192178917778" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />You can see why I adored him.<br /><br />The best, though, are the banalities. While I seem to remember a lot of hanging out in the Taco Bell parking lot, everyone else says we <span style="font-style: italic;">partied hard</span> and had <span style="font-style: italic;">a total blast</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> (!!!)</span>.<br /><br />It must be true.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8xuMW6jGTzXzvSPiMpwgBPua7CIZOxbhC7mxPVQf2PUdHtrUgo1BpfXqTiAQu9uxINWdNQ-I0kR-eLFUkLmve_i_x1HHIWM1qGEwLiPUCcZO3tzqWhvjQh1o1Kge_vZIxY3jOqA/s1600-h/Meg+%26+Melissa.bmp"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8xuMW6jGTzXzvSPiMpwgBPua7CIZOxbhC7mxPVQf2PUdHtrUgo1BpfXqTiAQu9uxINWdNQ-I0kR-eLFUkLmve_i_x1HHIWM1qGEwLiPUCcZO3tzqWhvjQh1o1Kge_vZIxY3jOqA/s200/Meg+%26+Melissa.bmp" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5175077814499045842" border="0" /></a>Le Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13830769667849287708noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31294977.post-22793949919299965632008-03-06T09:23:00.027+01:002008-12-13T00:43:04.292+01:00Weekly Giftbasket: Rap Lobster EditionThese are the <span style="font-style: italic;">critical bits</span> that found their way across the wires this week. I offer them up for your Thursday amusement knowing that, basically, you've stopped working by this point.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">1. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Cookin with Coolio</span><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJrNaGBEMEOqSOC6vgErQ13UFkdS9iMFxVbEasggbAy2coiVoQsf5wB4RohKCwLFm1lJMKXuoHUsbFmQCB1xkrR8YX8ruBpgXMea0HeDbf-Y-oEvDG4FEgiwvavJKsqN3_uiiO3w/s1600-h/logo+coolio.gif"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJrNaGBEMEOqSOC6vgErQ13UFkdS9iMFxVbEasggbAy2coiVoQsf5wB4RohKCwLFm1lJMKXuoHUsbFmQCB1xkrR8YX8ruBpgXMea0HeDbf-Y-oEvDG4FEgiwvavJKsqN3_uiiO3w/s200/logo+coolio.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174555613593073730" border="0" /></a><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /><br /></span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /></span>With a black toque topping his famous twisted braids, this "ghetto witchdoctor superstar chef" implores you to "get your ass into that kitchen, baby."<br /><br />No ordinary <a href="http://www.foodnetwork.com/"><span>Food Network</span></a> nonsense, this is raunch-flavored 2.0 at its best. <span style="font-style: italic;">Cookin with Coolio </span>is shown only <a href="http://www.mydamnchannel.com/Cookin_with_Coolio/Cookin_with_Coolio/4GameDayTurkey_575.aspx">on the internet</a>, and viewers are encouraged to "Live the Dream, Win a Pepper" by posting their video responses. Jenni Powell did, and her <a href="http://www.mydamnchannel.com/PromoSexual/Coolio_Bell_Pepper_Winners/BellPepperWinnerNumeroUno_573.aspx">winning video</a> earned this comment from Coolio:<blockquote style="font-style: italic;">"He seemed like one of those salad eatin' bitches so she made him a Coolio Caprese salad. It worked out, because Jenni got his panties off..."</blockquote> The promo can be seen right here:<br /><br /><object height="355" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/ZFiZPxTt2rM"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/ZFiZPxTt2rM" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" height="355" width="425"></embed></object><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">2. </span>Nuestro Gran Amigo</span><br /><br /><object height="355" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/0fd-MVU4vtU&rel=1&border=0"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/0fd-MVU4vtU&rel=1&border=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" height="355" width="425"></embed></object><br />After watching this video, I for uno don't understand how Obama did not <span style="font-weight: bold;">kill</span> the popular vote in Texas. <span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />Familias unidas, seguras y hasta con plan de saluuuud!!<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><br />3. </span>Stephen Malkmus is Still Damn Hot</span><br /><br /></span>Here's a little trinket for those of you who, like me, wore the tape out of your <span style="font-style: italic;"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Crooked_Rain,_Crooked_Rain">Crooked Rain</a></span> cassette back in '94:<br /><br /><div><object height="252" width="420"><param name="movie" value="http://www.dailymotion.com/swf/x4ly65&v3=1&related=0"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.dailymotion.com/swf/x4ly65&v3=1&related=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" allowscriptaccess="always" height="252" width="420"></embed></object><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x4ly65_861-stephen-malkmus-hopscotch-willi_music">#86.1 - Stephen Malkmus - Hopscotch Willie</a><br /><i>envoyé par <a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/lablogotheque">lablogotheque</a></i></span></div><br />He can hit my plane down anytime...<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">4. </span>And for the 9 People Who Have not Already Seen This...</span><br /><blockquote>"Who would have guessed that when you remove Garfield from the Garfield comic strips, <a href="http://garfieldminusgarfield.tumblr.com/">the result is an even better comic</a> about schizophrenia, bipolor disorder, and the empty desperation of modern life?"</blockquote><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNPqbyfpp-DwxqCzPLKLzztRXR4jSrSIympkCvMmoTYWZnbPwLw964Ow5IZnkmwLfpppkR0M_I02chlJbbZxjWfBvhXcf6AiOdMlzd0F4YopfDzCHWu019uUcO0CDoF6SI0G1OjQ/s1600-h/gfield.jpg"><blockquote><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNPqbyfpp-DwxqCzPLKLzztRXR4jSrSIympkCvMmoTYWZnbPwLw964Ow5IZnkmwLfpppkR0M_I02chlJbbZxjWfBvhXcf6AiOdMlzd0F4YopfDzCHWu019uUcO0CDoF6SI0G1OjQ/s400/gfield.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5174563318764402770" border="0" /></blockquote></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://garfieldminusgarfield.tumblr.com/"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></a>I read every one of those books as a child. Does that explain anything?Le Meghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13830769667849287708noreply@blogger.com3