My friend Me-Me just gave me the lemonade stand award. Me-Me has two blogs: Mad Mad Margo and The Turquoise Moon.

I've known Me-Me in my non-virtual life for at least 10 years. We didn't pal around like terrorists or anything (well...), but I always enjoyed her company whenever I had the opportunity to hang with her. Now that she's joined the Blog-uh-sphere, I feel like we live right around the corner, even though she's encamped in the Arizona desert and I'm hiding in my apartment in Paris. We meet up on Yahoo chat sometimes, when she's sleepless and listening to the coyotes mangle a bunny, and it's the next day here, and I'm listening to church bells across the street (why do they ring for a full ten minutes? why?) or the revelry of the Galecians, who have a little social club on the first floor of my building, and like to sing songs outside on the sidewalk on special occasions.

I've never told Me-Me this, but I had one conversation with her years ago, that I've never forgotten and that helped me enormously. It was during a really difficult time for me, after being fired from my job in the family business, and disowned by my family. It was like I'd been kicked in the stomach, and just couldn't find a way to stand up straight. I certainly couldn't go out on corporate job interviews. They prefer that you arrive somewhat upright for the interview. Then they ask you stupid questions like, "Where do you see yourself in five years?" I could only imagine me stuttering, trying to keep myself from saying, "Still kissing your ass for the sake of health insurance?" Instead, I went underground and cobbled together waitressing and hostessing jobs, drove a van for a trail riding company and babysat an art gallery.

During this time, Me-Me was working in corporate banking. So, I confided in her about my precarious financial situation: an overhead of about $3500 a month and if I was lucky, an income of about $800 a month. I lived in a great apartment, but it was in the ghetto. I only paid $500 a month, and split that with a roommate. I always made sure I paid my rent. I just couldn't pay all the rest of my bills. So, I became paralized. I never went to the mailbox. Too many threatening letters. I didn't answer the phone. When I did tie myself to the kitchen chair and force myself to pay bills, I called it "in-basket bingo" (a term stolen from my corporate buddy Steve). I just closed my eyes and grabbed one of the bills in the pile, and wrote a check for $25 to them. Everybody else would have to wait.

To this day, I still avoid the mailbox.

I guess, when I told Me-Me all this, I was confessing my financial avoidance behavior to a banker. At that point in my life, I projected a lot of validity on the corporate world, and worried too much about what the people in that world thought of me. But Me-Me told me the story of her own "fall from grace" at an earlier time in her life, and how she too became paralized and avoided her finances. It was very kind of her, to reveal her own humanity. And it made me realize that underneath the suits and ties, the practical pumps and professional briefcases, we are all human.

Me-Me knows a lot about making lemonade out of lemons. So her little blog gift of the lemonade stand is more poignant for me than she imagines.

Recently, when I was having a tough time, Me-Me wrote to me in an email, "I'm a fan of Lisa Wines." That statement inspired me to become a fan of Lisa Wines too.

And right now, as much or maybe even more than before when she was still wearing her banking suit, I'm a fan of Me-Me King.

A few days before Christmas I was on my way out of my apartment building and heard my name called. Loudly. I turned, and my Guardien (super) hooked his finger to summon me to his office. I was in trouble. Déjà vu! (If you're wondering what that means, it's French for "I have been in trouble most of my life. So I know an angry finger hook when I see one." The French are amazing how they simplify such complex concepts into two words, n'est-ce pas? <-- That, by the way, is also two words.)

Then he started yelling at me in French as he jabbed his finger in the direction of a medium-sized box on his desk, then back in the direction of my nose. Most of what he said I didn't understand, but the part about it being "la dernière fois!" (the LAST time!), I understood. Evidently, he had placed the usual slip of paper in my mailbox telling me that a package was waiting for me. But I never open my mailbox because nobody ever sends me anything. That box had been sitting on his desk for 32 seconds longer than he could stand, so he was mad. 

It wasn't a good day for me. I took the box, tail between my legs, went back upstairs to my apartment, set the box down on the floor, and burst into tears. Then I wiped the snot on my $1.50 Target gloves, took off my coat and hat and called my girlfriend to tell her I was too late to meet her at the cemetary. I mean, in my condition, strolling through the avenues of mouldering death at Père-Lachaise didn't appeal to me any more. Fuck Jim Morrison. I've already seen his grave anyway.

I didn't look at that box for a couple of days. When I finally did open it, I was stunned.

A few months ago, my oldest friends from Marple Newtown junior high in Newtown Square, Pennsylvania had found me online. One of them, whom I'll call Dina, had been my bestest buddy. But when my parents moved me to Scottsdale, Arizona when I was 15 years old, it began a gradual separation between me and Dina. It was purposeful on my parents' part. They never approved of Dina, or any of my other friends. Those girls weren't Catholic. They were 'publics.' They were hippies and whores and such. The interesting thing is that they are now all normal humans with husbands and kids, and I'm, well, not married and I have no kids and I'm a dirty socialist...and such.

But be that as it may, after Dina and I exchanged a few emails, she asked me for my mailing address. Then she boxed up and sent me every letter I had ever written to her - from the letter I wrote on the plane from Philadelphia to Phoenix on the day we moved - July 1, 1971 - through my three years at Xavier high school in Phoenix, through my short and tragic time at University of Arizona in Tucson, through running away from home, through my love affair in Guadalajara, Mexico, through my time with David the drug smuggler. At one point I had asked her in one of my letters to save them all for me. In a note Dina wrote to me that she slipped on top of the letters in the box, she copied my letter and circled that sentence. She said in her note that she saved them not just because I asked her to, and not just because she's sentimental, but mostly because she thought that they would make a great book one day.

I think she's right. I just need to get my arms and head and heart around it all, and figure out how I want to approach it.

I cried salty tears and laughed out loud as I read every letter. It took me two days. I smiled or cringed sometimes at my naivety. I was surprised at my insights. I was sad for the girl that I was, who missed her best friend so much, stuck in what I thought was a cowpoke town, wishing I was back home. My parents strung me along with a promise that they would send me back to Philadelphia to visit my friends if I saved my plane fare. I was washing cars, cutting people's hair (shag!), and had my friends in Philly sending me dollars and quarters in the mail! I saved the money, and my parents reneged on the deal. In desperation asked Dina's mother to write a letter to my mother, inviting me to come and stay, and reassuring my mother that I would be safe. My mother's reply letter was in the box. She was gracious, but said that "these are different times, and these are different children," and she worried about me, and needed me to be where she could keep an eye on me.

Trust me, I managed to get in way more trouble on my own in Arizona than I ever would have gotten into with Dina in Pennsylvania. Let that be a lesson to parents out there - while you're locking the kid's bedroom door, she's sneaking out the window. Control isn't the answer, communication is.

And I don't remember any of this drama. I don't remember working for the money. I don't remember my never-ending longing to be back in Pennsylvania. I don't remember my deep disapointment when my sister told me that my mother laughingly told her that they would never let me go. There's an amazingly big gap in my memory, across the board. I professed love for a couple of different Bills so many times. I only remember one gorgeous, Jewish Bill. (THAT must have delighted my parents.) Who were all the rest? I don't know why, but there are events and people in those letters that I have no clue about.

There were two guys that I dated pretty seriously in high school that I actually do remember, one of whom was Glenn Keane, the son of Bil Keane, author of the syndicated Family Circus cartoons. But I never remembered how that relationship ended. After reading the letters, now I have some idea, but still not the whole story. Glenn is head of animation now at Disney. He went to work there directly out of college and never came back to Arizona.

Almost every envelope I sent, almost every letter inside, was illustrated. Once when my parents took me and my brother to a friend's cabin in Heber, Arizona for a week, I bought a Son Of Big Chief writing pad and vowed that I'd fill the whole thing up while I was at the cabin. And I did! And that whole Big Chief pad was in the box that Dina sent.

I wrote long letters in it, full of my adventures and thoughts, copied my favorite poems and song lyrics in there. There were line drawing portraits of my mother on the couch reading a book. Her one leg was tucked up under her like it always was, her other leg on the floor, her hair in a flip, with her reading glasses on. My Dad was sitting in a chair reading the paper, with his legs up on a hassock and his feet crossed at the ankles, the way he still sits even now, at 85 years old, in his home in Scottsdale. My brother had surprisingly long hair (how'd he get away with that?) and he was sitting in a chair reading Mad Magazine. I captured them all, in simple, quick line drawings. I was such an artist then. What happened to that part of me?

My letters were 20 pages long! (Shocking, I know.) Looseleaf sheets, every line filled, both sides of the paper. I guess I was a writer all the way back then. I wonder why I didn't follow that path? I had even started a book called Available Men And Where To Find Them (I was 16!). I had typed up (and mimeographed - remember that smell?) a questionaire for the guys to fill out, and I'd sent the questionaire to all my friends and told them to go and get single guys to fill them out so they could be listed in the book. I even had a legal release for the guys to sign. Wow.

With this blog, I've regained the writer in me. I'm also now making money from my writing. I will be forever grateful to Blogger for giving me this space to express myself, so I could finally realize my dream.

Perhaps it's time for me to start drawing again too, n'est-ce pas?

In the next few weeks, as I sift through the slips of paper and doodles that constitute my past, I'll scan some stuff in and post it for your pleasure, and mine.

Dah-yam. OK. Here's your card. Sorry.

If you are viewing this post in an email, please click through to my blog to view the videos:

From my favorite Funny Frenchman, VinVin (of the sadly abandoned but still hilarious Bonjour America!), came the pleasure of this video. I realized when I saw his post heading, "j'adore", that Europeans really romanticize the American West.

I remember my British husband was desperate to be a cowboy. The minute he got to Arizona he bought the requisite boots, hat, belt, snap-buttoned western-tailored shirt. He already had the suede fringe jacket (I pretended I didn't know him when he wore that), and the bow legs too. Not sure how he got the legs, having never been on a horse in his life.

Anyway, suddenly, after living in Europe for a while, I watched this video through European eyes, and I could grasp the romance, the rustic, desolate openness of it all. And I realized that the "cowboy way" isn't really a myth - made up in the minds of outsiders, or manufactured in John Wayne's Hollywood. I've personally viewed all those scenarios in the video. The bronco and bull riding, the dust from the arena settling on the trucks in the parking lot and the steel-bar corrals. I've leaned on the fence and smelled hay and horse sweat. I've watched the horses' heaving sides, their flexing muscles, listened to their snorting breath, as they flummoxed by me on the way to skirting the next barrel.

I've been both pilot and co-pilot in many versions of that old GMC truck.

You can look at the video images of undulating, golden dust prairie and imagine that these places hold a steady silence. But all you have to do is stop your truck and stand on the side of an empty road, just for a minute or so, to let the world settle around you, and you'll know that this is a silence chock full of sound. Pebbles scuttling down mountain sides, birds cawing in the distance, wind - hot or cold, depending on the time of year - wafting against your ears, stirring your hair. In Arizona there are large hawks who work in pairs, with one in a tree top or telephone pole, the other on the ground. As soon as the lookout spies a mouse or other prey, she makes a sound the likes of which I've only heard at 3AM in dingy honky tonks when some guy is puking in the bathroom. At the sound of the puke, the hawk's partner takes off after the prey on the ground and catches it for both he and his partner to enjoy.

And when it's 120 degrees in these parts, you can almost hear the pavement sizzle, the cicadas rub their legs together at amazing speeds and the rocks slowly crack. At night, the desert comes alive, with hooting owls and coyote howls.

I don't miss America. But I had a little stirrin' in my heart for the peacefulness of this certain kind of nowhere, this plentiful nothing.

(If you're viewing this post from an email, please click through to my blog to view the video)

It's Christmas time in Paris and I love it. The 3 Euro ($4) lobsters are back in their long tubes in the frozen section of my local Franprix, bringing back memories of last year's New Years feast. I've already had one of them steamed in a mushroom-filled Asian broth. It did wonders for my nasty cold.  I plan to have many more before the season ends.



The blue lights have been strung between the buildings across rue Poteau, and late the other night, as I walked home from the Metro in the drizzling rain, I was mesmerized by the reflections of those blue lights on the wet pavement. The corner that I was standing on, with my back towards Jules Joffrin Metro station and the Mairie or town hall of the 18th arondissement, and my scarved and corduroy-hatted front facing down rue Poteau, is usually bustling with people. When the cafe to my right is open, it has an outdoor seafood station full of oysters, and even in the cold weather, people are sitting at little tables, smoking their recently-banned cigarettes, sipping a glass of Sancerre or Rosé or a hot Cafe Creme, and enjoying freshly-shucked oysters. But on this late night, I was the only one there, just me and the clouds of my breath stirring the silence. I took some pictures so that you could enjoy this moment too.



The first photo is looking down rue Poteau. The second photo shows the golden reflection of light on the pavement, with just a little hint of a blue reflection too. The third photo is after I walked a little ways down rue Poteau until I came to rue Letort, where they have strung some blue lights on the trees in front of Cafe Reinitas, a great place to sit outside and watch people go by as they shop in the outdoor market on Wednesdays and Sundays. The fourth photo is standing at the same place, but looking down rue Letort.

I found this today and really loved it. It's a film and book by Andrew Zuckerman. You can find out all about it here. Below is the trailer and the making of video. Both are worth watching. (If you are reading this post from an email, click through to my blog to view the video.)

This morning I was sitting peacefully in my bed, where I work, and I heard an interesting sound out on my balcony. I started to ignore it, since there has been some remodeling going on in other apartments, so I thought it was just some more of that. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a black-gloved hand gripping the railing of my outside balcony, and then a helmeted head pushed its way, with a large male body attached, up over the railing. Clunk, went his boots as he landed on my balcony, and with climbing gear and ropes clattering and dragging behind him, he came my way.

Uh. Clothes on? Check. Teeth brushed? Not for days. Can he see me in here? Probably, but he has other things on his mind.

Tap, tap tap went his hammer...on the concrete sections of the railing, and on the outside wall above my head. I heard a mild smashing sound. He bent over the rail and yelled to someone below. Then, he was gone.

My cat, who had been sleeping inside her carrier that sits on top of the piano, must have gotten a full-on view of the intergalactic alien hammer wielder muscle man building climber guy as his hands, head, and then body popped up right in the French doors, in front of which she was, until that moment, snoozing. I was too wrapped up in checking my hygiene (and hair) to notice her, but a few minutes after the guy left, I saw her making her slooooooowwwww way over to the bed to eventually hide under my legs in her favorite place which I call "The Tent." It took her at least a half century, maybe two. One paw slowly pushed forward, her belly fat fur dusting the floor as the next paw moved, an inch every 3 minutes, and then her back paws followed. Her eyes were glued to my thighs as I moved my knees up to make way for Mao The Tent Girl. In she went, but by now I had sprouted three more thick gray hairs from that freaking mole on my chin, and I had had a few more birthdays.

Later, when the coast was clear, Mao and I both went out to investigate, and we smiled at each other that her plastic container of valuable cat grass had not been stolen by the big bad man. There was, however, a large chunk of the concrete railing that was gone. I sure hope one of the old ladies I was talking about in my last post didn't happen to be shuffling by at the wrong time. Of course, what a way to go, with a chunk of concrete flying down from the roof top, pummeling you into the sidewalk. Nice.

While outside, I took a peek over the railing at the church across the way. The same one I referenced in my post yesterday. And there, sitting in one of those brown oak chairs that you see in French cafes, in the middle of the sidewalk, was an artist making a drawing of the front of the church. Now, this church has got to be one of the ugliest post-modern, Dachau-red brick 60's industrial depressing architectural wonders of the neighborhood. And even though they must have put a new, dingy concrete facade on it in about 1973, it just made it even uglier. So, what in the heck was he drawing?

Inside, the church is actually pretty cool. And when the old priest is there, a tall friendly guy, he leaves the front doors open and you can gaze all the way inside to the altar. So maybe the artist was drawing the interior. I suppose I'll have to actually get out of bed, brush my teeth, and go down there and stoop down and see if I can look through the eyes of the artist, and try to find the beauty that held him there for many cold and damp moments this afternoon.

I will also look out for flying concrete objects, and men in ropes and chains.

In my neighborhood, I notice a lot of old people, alone or as couples, who walk very slowly, with canes or walkers, to buy their daily bread from the boulangerie. Or they roll a creaking chariot à provisions behind them on their way to and from the grocery store. Sometimes I see a younger daughter or son walking slowly with their parent, holding one arm and keeping them steady.

Maybe in big cities in America you also see this, but I never saw it in my experiences living in Arizona and California. Of course, those cities make it impossible to live without a car, and at a certain age, none of us should be driving. In Paris, where you can find everything you need within a few blocks of your home, an older person could very easily manage things for themselves.

I also have the impression that in America, we tend to stow our elderly parents away in homes, rather than have grandpa or grandma living with us until they die. I can't pass judgment on this, because I know there are instances where medical necessity or mental illness make it impossible to have your elderly parents living with you. But, if you have children, I think they miss a valuable lesson about the realities of age, about acts of patience and kindness towards a person whose physical and mental capacity is diminishing.

But here in Paris, these older people seem to be living primarily alone, and taking care of their own needs. Perhaps the state looks in on them, or perhaps not. But they are all over the place, and there's something I like about this aspect of living here. It forces me to slow down to let them pass, to nod and smile, to contemplate my own future. There's one woman in particular that I see all the time. She wears a full length fur coat on her stooped body, with a perfectly matching fur hat, no matter if it's winter or summer. Being a writer, I always look at her and wonder what her story is.

Recently, I was discussing with a friend the fact that there's one street, on the way from the Metro station back to my apartment, that I'm afraid of, and I avoid it when I'm walking alone. On the right side are buildings with dark inset entrances, and I imagine the boogie man jumping out at me at any moment. It's also a favorite place for stumbling drunks, and I've rounded that corner many a time to see a guy in the proverbial pissing position, as he anoints the tires of a parked car or the base of a building. The left side of the street borders a park, and just after the park is a long church building, so you might think this side of the street would be better. But for some reason, it's always heaped with dog shit. But distasteful is better than unsafe, so, unless I take a big detour along a different street, I tend towards the left side (as in other aspects of my life).

But even the left side of the street has its drawbacks. At the end, where it meets my own street, there's a set of steps leading up to a side entrance of the church. There, on most days and nights, a crowd of young men and occasionally a woman, sit or stand around and laugh and drink beer. I usually have to walk through their little crowd, and interrupt their banter. Sometimes they stop talking, other times not. Once or twice they have begged money from me. One of the women had been pretty aggressive with me last summer, asking for money in different languages, and following along right beside me as I walked, so it's not my favorite place to be.

I told all of this to my friend, who, as a guy, doesn't have the same worries. He doesn't dismiss my fears, but he doesn't have the same impression of the church gang. He greets them and smiles, and they smile back. And, I had to admit, the times when the woman wasn't hanging with them, and the men said, "Bonjour Madame!", I looked up at them, eye to eye, and smiled and said, "Bonjour!" They were very happy at my response, and smiled big, bowing and motioning me on with a polite, "Allez-y!" (Go ahead!)

And so, my guy friend told me a story. He was out walking one day, and he noticed way ahead of him, a tiny old lady, head bent down, as she walked with her cane, ever so slowly down our street. She was carrying a couple of grocery bags. As she came upon the group of guys on the church steps, they called out to her. She stopped, steadied herself, and looked up. Her smile was broad and her face happy. One of the young guys jumped up and ran over to her, and took her bags into his hands. Then, he gallantly offered his right arm to the lady, and he walked her the rest of the way back to her home.

Now I know a little bit more about one elderly Parisian lady's story. She is independent, and she stays active, even if she is a little slow. She's probably been in this neighborhood most of her life, and she knows and loves her neighbors. She even trusts the supposed tough guy on the street, with her groceries and her life. She stood taller as he escorted her, and they had a little chat.

And so then, shall I. Stand taller, that is. The next time I walk past the dog shit and the rest of my fears, I'll be tall with confidence, as I pleasantly greet my neighbors on the church steps.

Last night I decided to go out and buy some smokes and have a little dinner. As usual for me, it was 5:30 and nobody in their right mind in Paris even thinks about eating dinner until 8 or later. Most restaurants don't open until 7:30 and if you show up then, they will begrudgingly seat you. So I wandered about my little neighborhood, trying to kill some time. On Rue Poteau I saw the beautiful Italian actress who is my next-door neighbor. She was bundled up in a wool coat with a warm hat and was putting something delicious in her mouth as she walked back home. Probably some delectable pastry, by the looks of her face, eyes closed in pleasure. I watched her as I walked, and once she opened her eyes, with cheeks as full as a Philadelphia squirrel (they are the only ones I've ever seen up close), she smiled at me. I smiled back. It was all we needed to do to let each other know how much we like each other.

I sat down at the Maryland, a nice cafe with a large outside patio that has a great view of the five corners at its intersection. I lit a cigarette, hoping that my friendly waiter who wants to learn English would come out and take my order for un verre de blanc. But everyone stayed inside, and I didn't push it. It was one of those nights when I didn't really want to see anyone I knew. My mind was full of thoughts and I didn't feel like making small talk, especially in my bad French. So, I moved on. I wandered up another street where a new Italian restaurant had just opened. I imagined a crisp dry Prosecco and some warm ravioli stuffed with ricotta and pine nuts and drizzled with fragrant olive oil and fresh sage leaves. But unfortunately, they weren't open yet.

Finally, I found my way to the only restaurant in my neighborhood that is open 24/7, or actually, it's open 24/7 if the woman who owns it is in a good mood. She was, and it was, open. I sat outside and ordered un pichet de vin blanc vingt-cinq, and settled in to watch the Parisians making their way home from work. The restaurant specializes in steamed mussels, but I was in the mood for a pizza, so I waited until the pizza oven fired up at 6pm.

The pizza was lovely, oozing with cheese and topped with artichokes, ham and green and red bell peppers. The edges were a little burned, just like I like them. An Australian couple had a few beers and looked over their map. A French woman and her daughter sat down and started a dueling-cigarette rapid-fire discussion, and only glanced in my direction when the waiter came, so that they could order the same pizza that I had. A Parisian woman sat behind me, statuesque in black jeans, with her waist exposed, and a wool coat thrown carelessly and elegantly over her chair. Her cell phone was glued to her ear as she drank a thick café crème and argued as only French women can. Then she snapped her phone shut, tossed a few coins on the table, whisked her coat off the chair, and took off to destinations unknown.

I paid my bill and had the nerve to ask if I could take the other half of my pizza home. This is a definite no-no in these parts, but since they sell pizza to go and had boxes, I figured I'd give it a try. The owner was happy to bring me some foil, and I was grateful. By now, it was probably 7pm as I wandered back home.

It was when I started down rue Rambuteau that I noticed there were very large white trailers parked along the curb. Since they are always making films in my neighborhood, I figured that the little crowd up ahead on the corner would be a film crew. First I walked past four or five people who were speaking at low volume. Another sign of a film set in action. And then, I came to the corner and saw five or six paramedics, two of them setting down a gurney and the rest working on a man lying on his back on the ground. He was dressed in dark colors, with a black wool cap. His hands and face shone white like wax in the light of the street lamps. At first I thought he was a dummy.

Then I realized that there were no cameras. There were no complex lighting stands. No sound man. I stopped for a moment, and looked back over my shoulder. One of the paramedics stood up and said "Il ne respond pas." He doesn't respond. There was no urgency in the faces or bodies of the paramedics. They all looked at the man who spoke, and then down at the man on the ground. I turned away and walked a little farther down the street. A man sat sideways on his motorcycle that was parked on the sidewalk at the corner. One knee up on the seat, the foot of his other leg bracing him on the ground. He was pensive as he smoked a cigarette, and never took his eyes off the tableau across the way.

I stood behind him and watched as the paramedics placed the man, his feet dangling, onto the gurney. None of the onlookers came forward as if they knew the victim. There was no sobbing girlfriend or mother. The gurney was placed on a track and it rose at an angle up into the ambulance, jolting hard, twice. I winced, as if I was this man and each jolt made my injuries seer in pain, or my blood pump out of me faster than I would like. Four of the paramedics stood with their backs to the truck, and lit cigarettes. Two others climbed into the front of the truck.

There was no siren, no rushing.

Life itself is a movie. In my movie, I worry about things and walk the streets too early for dinner. I order more food than I can eat and drink more wine than I need. An Australian couple plans tomorrow's touring and a mother and daughter catch up on their lives. A restaurant owner has a good day for a change, and reflects her mood upon her customers. A gorgeous French woman spends too much money on cellular arguments and a gorgeous Italian woman gets pleasure from eating a small delicacy. A man stops his motorcycle to have a smoke and to watch someone else's life end. Tomorrow, we will all be busy making unimportant things important, once again.

Except for one unknown man, in a black wool cap.

I spoke to my friend Rhonda back in DC yesterday, and asked her about the mood in America right now. I had already heard from my friend Lisa that the economy was all everyone in the states was talking about. Rhonda agreed that the mood in DC was not the best, and since she's in the event sales division of a high-end restaurant group, she's waiting to see what happens. Many companies may not book a restaurant for this year's Christmas party, and have it in their office cafeteria instead. She worries about her job. But, the interesting thing she said was something like, "This will make Christmas pretty bad for most people."

Having lost mostly every "thing" in my life, I can watch the economic downturn in America, and in the world, with a bit of emotional distance. It's the comfortable position of someone who has nothing else to lose. I have no investments to worry about. My load has been lightened, by choice, as well as by circumstance. But last Christmas was not a bad one for me, and as the weather gets crispy here in Paris, I look forward eagerly to this Christmas. To the blue lights that are strung across the streets, to the amazing displays in the specialty food store windows, to the fois gras booths set up in the markets. I love to just look at it all!

I think the assumption that Christmas will be bad this year for some people in America, is based on the culture of consumption. If we don't have a beautiful tree in our living room with hundreds of wrapped gifts underneath it, the world, as we know it, will come to an end. If that's true, then maybe it should end. All of the "stuff" that we consume doesn't fill our emptiness of spirit. We buy so that we can have a quick emotional fix. We get excited about a new jacket or shoes, and then wear them once and they no longer have the energy they had when we first bought them. We buy more and more stuff and we struggle to find a place to put it all. The more stuff we have, the more we have to worry about losing it.

I feel very free without all my stuff. I feel so free of stuff, that when I'm tempted to buy something, I think twice about it. I usually walk away. I think about my tiny apartment and the lack of storage and the fact that I already have enough stuff, so unless it fulfills a critical NEED, it ain't coming home with me.

My joy right now comes from the people in my life, and the times we can spend together laughing, crying when necessary, and sharing our insights and dreams. The true gifts in my life are the friends and family I have, and the memories of our times spent together. They give me gifts of love and support on a regular basis. And I try to send them love, and listen to their hopes and fears too. These gifts are lasting, nothing else is.

Last Christmas was lovely. And there was very little money. But I found a tiny live Charly Brown Christmas tree abandoned on the street near my apartment, and there were lights here to string upon it, and I had a feast up here, looking out on the Paris skyline. We drank cheap bubbly and ate steamed lobsters at some ridiculous price like 3 Euros each! We had a big cake that cost nothing, and we warmed up vanilla cream sauce to pour on top of it. Somebody brought a bottle of Poire William, and we toasted the season.

This Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years, cook a simple meal at home, invite your friends and family, and leave the TV off. Sit across from each other, look each other in the eyes, and tell them how much you appreciate the fact that they are in your life. If you must give gifts, give only one gift to each person. Make a big deal about presenting it. Stand up and sing them a song, write them a poem, or a short story, or draw them a picture. Make a collage for them, cutting out pictures and words from magazines that you think represent the best parts of them. Hand it over to them and say, this is a picture of all the wonderful things I see in you.

Then, if you have a piano, or some musical instruments, sit around and play easy songs that everybody knows. Let the kids bang the tambourines or drums. Don't try and be perfect, just try and play along. Sing easy and fun songs.

I promise you, that instead of this being the worst Christmas you ever had, it will be the best. You may never want to go back to the never-ending hampster-wheel of corporate consumption. Maybe it's finally time to get off of the shopping train that never stops, until you are in terrible debt, and yet still unfulfilled. Stop letting unconscious advertising drive you to wanting more and more and more. Slow down. Look around you at all the natural beauty, and at the faces of your loved ones.

Then, not only will the 2008 holiday season be full of lasting memories and joy, but 2009 will be the best year you ever had.

I found this on Radioloab. If not for the scientific interest, watch it for the cuteness factor. My lullaby is the theme song for Mystery Science Theater. I just start one of those shows on Google video or YouTube and before the song is over, I'm asleep. But I can never be as cute as these puppies. (If you are reading this post in an email, click through to my blog to watch the video.)

This little habit that I've taken up, after at least ten years of abstinence, continues to be an interesting journey. It fascinates me that I'm still smoking when I hate the taste, hate the smell, and it makes me dizzy. I wouldn't be surprised if smoking contributed to me passing out in a restaurant this summer. Plus, I'm paying about $8.00 a pack. When I was smoking in my 20's, one pack cost 75 cents. These days, I have to skip a meal to justify my habit.

Well, that won't kill me.

On the train ride down to Biarritz a few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of reading David Sedaris' book When You Are Engulfed In Flames. He is a funny guy, to say the least (even though saying the least is not my strong suit). And, he talked about how smoking made him dizzy and he liked that. I'm not one to dismiss somebody's legal high, but I don't look forward to my next cigarette just so that I can have that delicious dizzy feeling. I keep thinking that I get dizzy because I'm just starting out (for the third time in my life). And as soon as I become hard core, the dizziness will stop.

But Mr. Sedaris was an accomplished smoker. A sophisticated, transatlantic smoker. He bought multiple cartons every time he traveled, and asked his friends to bring him more cartons when they visited him in Paris. I wondered where he stored them all. Under the bed? In the attic? Maybe he had a special room, stacked to the ceiling with cigarette cartons. He would go in there, alone, from time to time, and gaze upon them with pleasure, and stroke the boxes lovingly. If this paragon of smoking was still getting dizzy enough to write an ode to his first-drag dizziness, then I better get used to being dizzy.

On that train ride, I noticed other smokers for the first time. I didn't see them when I wasn't smoking. They're pretty quiet. But they know all the stops along the way, and as the train comes 'round the bend and into the station, they walk down the aisle towards the end of the car, steadying themselves by gripping the seats along the way, so that they can jump onto the platform for the very few minutes that the train will be stopped. They don't know each other, but they share a common bond. They nod in a businesslike way, and offer their lighters. Then they stand silently, looking down at their shoes or far down the tracks into the distance, and take quick, long puffs. There's not enough time for a whole cigarette, so when they hear the bell, they toss what's left of about forty cents onto the tracks, and climb back into the car.

I thought about joining them. After all, it was a five hour ride. A long time, in cancer years, to go without a cigarette. And I sort of wanted to feel like I was a member of this furtive but exclusive club, if at least for a few moments. In the old days, it would have been a great way to meet men. But these days, my jowls seem to get in the way. That's ok, I had visions of me getting dizzy and missing the bell anyway. There I'd be, out on a platform somewhere between the vineyards of Bordeaux, La forêt des Landes and Dax, with the sound of my train fading away in the distance. My longtime fear of being lost or stranded trumped my desire to be one of the smokin' boyz.

I also wanted to pride myself in the fact that I wasn't as addicted as them. I didn't need to step out for a smoke, I just thought it would be a nice thing to do. Those poor guys have such a desperate need, such a jones for their addiction, but me, I just have a casual, social habit. I can quit any time.

I can quit the kind of casual, social habit that kills you, evidently. In France, they're not so subtle about their anti-smoking messages. In America, the focus is on the interests of the corporation (I'm sure many of you have figured that one out in the last few weeks), and not on consumer interests. So, their death threats are small, easy to miss. In France, it's exactly the opposite. Therefore, tobacco companies have a tiny place on the pack for their logo, maybe two or three more lines for ingredients, and the rest of the pack is covered with huge dire warnings:

SMOKING KILLS.


















SMOKING CAN DRAW AWAY A SLOW AND PAINFUL DEATH.

















Alrighty then! Certain death stares up at me, in big black block letters, as I go through the ritual - the only thing I really remember about smoking in my youth. There's so much pleasure in the buildup, the foreplay. Opening my purse, searching for the pack. Opening the flap of the box, sliding a fragile stick out, putting it in my mouth. Then searching for, and finding the lighter. It's now that I look up, and around. I don't see anything, but I want this moment to last a second longer. Me, with my fresh new unsmoked cigarette in between my lips, my right hand wrapped around the lighter, my left hand cupped protectively around the future flame site, right thumb poised on the flick switch, hovering just below the business end of the cigarette. A perfect stance. One to hold on to. The deciding moment. Just before the climax of the cigarette, the lighting of it, and the first inhale. That first inhale is heaven on earth.

After that luscious moment, everything else is shit. Blech. Pull after pull of noxious fumes, the brown stain of poisonous, addictive nicotine growing darker on the end of the once-pristine filter. Hard evidence of my folly. The chemical additives make it burn faster. Thank God. When can this be over, I start thinking. When can I justify throwing away this disgusting, expensive thing? Or must I finish it to the bitter end, making sure I get the best bang, shall we say, for my buck?

If I had servants hovering behind me, holding the tailings of my silk gown above the mud and slush, I'd pass the fucker on to them and let them have at it.

Instead, I wait for the dizziness to reach its zenith. It takes about three hits. Then, my eyes blur a bit, my stomach turns. I carefully flick off the molten end of the cigarette, and put the butt back into my pack. There are pennies there, you know. Pennies I need to save. But the next time I start my foreplay ritual, it disappoints. Because all of the fresh, unsmoked sticks have now been tainted by the insertion of their ashen, stunted brother. Everyone's embarrassed. Including me.

In this most recent book of his, David Sedaris decided that he needed to quit smoking. I don't remember why. For someone who cherished every moment, even the dizziness, I would think he would smoke until he put down his humorous pen for the last time. But, par for the course for Mr. Sedaris (one book and see how familiar I get?), he decided he couldn't just quit quietly. No. He needed to quit big. As big as his room full of cartons. So, he and his lover moved to Tokyo. Japan! That's where smoking is a status symbol. If you don't smoke, there's something wrong with you. Why, this is the perfect place! He also spent a fortune on nicotine lozenges (5 boxes!) and invested in 80 patches and, maybe a few cock rings. I don't know. Whatever works. But he didn't use most of them. He just got all wrapped up in the talking appliances in his Japanese bathroom, and all the places on his body that they so gently, so politely, offered to clean. In hopes of avoiding the washing out of the wrong crevasse, he started taking Japanese lessons.

I've already accomplished step 1. I've run off to a foreign country. Perhaps now I need to take some time and get to know my French toilet. It refuses to speak to me, which I'm sure does not surprise you. Those snooty Parisians! The bath tub, unaccustomed to people who bathe on a daily basis, is currently feeling overworked and is pouting. I'm suspicious of the sink. It tends to run hot and cold. I expect une grève du bain at any moment.

I think I'll have a quick cigarette, and contemplate my strategy.

I believe that all human beings are one at the cellular level. Our cells align themselves in different ways, which makes some of us blue-eyed, some of us brown-haired, some of us dark or light skinned, some of us gay, some of us straight. But at the very root, we are all the same.

We have certain rights as human beings, some of which have been made into law in order to protect us from abuse. Like the right to habeus corpus (oops, we lost that one), the right to a fair trial (oops, some of us lost that one too), the right to know who our accusers are (oops, that's gone too), the right to our privacy (Gol-darn! That's gone too!), the right to peaceful protest (Um. Ok, after the Republican National Convention, I guess that one's out the window too), the right to free speech (that one's teetering on the brink). Well, ok, we don't have many more rights left, so let's make sure we appreciate the ones we do have.

It took way too long for women to get the vote, for black people to win equal rights. Someday soon, I hope that America grows up and gives all rights to gay people: all the rights associated with marriage (no, civil unions are NOT enough so don't even go there), the right to be protected from discrimination because of our sexual preferences.

Today, because of a post over at pandagon.net, I found out that it is National Coming Out Day. So, I decided I've been in the closet for way too long. I need to be bold and declare:

I am coming out as a straight person who is an ally of gay people. I went over and signed The Straight For Equality Pledge. I did this because I love my fellow man and fellow woman. I want the best that life can offer to be available to each and every one of us. I'm not talking about material things. I'm talking about the freedom to love one another as we see fit. I stand steadfast and support my fellow human beings and will defend them, at every turn, against ignorance and abuse.

I urge all of you other straight folks out there to do the same.

And for those of you who are gay and have not yet declared yourself, I wish you the courage to do so, in your own time. As a person who just decided to start being myself at the ripe old age of 50, I can tell you that trying to be someone you're not can make you depressed, and physically ill. And while trying so hard to please others in order to be accepted in whatever silly game that was currently being played, I was depriving the world of my most exquisite uniqueness. So, be gentle with yourself, and be bold when you are ready. I'll be there in spirit, cheering you on.

For my friends in Arizona, California and Florida, please...

California: Vote No On Prop 8
Arizona: Vote No On Prop 102
Florida: Say No 2 Campaign

I recently hosted an old friend of mine and her guy friend when they came to Paris for four days. I'll call her Wanda, and call her friend Reynaldo. (They will be amused, I'm sure.) I met them at the airport so that I could help them navigate the train and Metro to their hotel in St. Germaine. I was so excited to see Wanda, as I have been friends with her since 1985, and even though she faithfully reads my blog and sends me email comments on a regular basis, it's not the same as seeing her skinny little ass right in front of my eyes.

We've had our ups and downs as friends, but mostly ups. She's a Republican, and well, if you've ever girded your loins and wandered over to my political blog, you'll know that I'm not exactly a Republican. On the train ride, Reynaldo, who is a Mormon, said, "This election is so difficult, because there's no good choice available." To which Wanda quickly responded with a big grin, "I told him we should NOT talk politics on this trip." And then I said, "I agree with you Reynaldo, but for different reasons. McCain is definitely not a good choice, and Obama is not liberal ENOUGH." He paused and his face registered surprise. Wanda laughed out loud and said, "See? I told you so."

But she and I never came to blows about politics, as she is an experienced and calm debater. She enjoys a feisty conversation. I have gone off like a shot gun in response to her ill-conceived ideas (always stated with authority but unsubstantiated with facts - nah nah Wanda!) about immigration, for instance, but she has maintained her dignity throughout. So, politics has never been a problem between us. Nor has it been the elephant in the living room, a subject to avoid. She has taught me some interesting things about back-room politics and the realities of political campaigns, and I have taught her, well, nothing. Otherwise, she wouldn't still be such a fool to remain a Republican.

In the beginning of our relationship, she was ten years older than me, and my mentor of sorts. And this type of relationship transitioned naturally, after I became more independent in my thinking. It was at that point when I wanted more depth to our friendship, versus just having an adviser. I got tired of having her always in a superior position, and wanted her as a peer instead. It was when I realized that she "didn't need me" as a friend, that I dropped out.

Time went by, and Wanda experienced the shit that happens to all human beings. She found resistance where previously she had experienced none. She started a new career where public slaughter and humiliation was a regular occurrence. She got divorced from a marriage that was easy going for many years, started dating, and then she had her first heart break. I remember how honored I was when she called to tell me about how sad and confused she felt. She became more human, I think. And she needed me as a friend. I preferred, and still prefer, that form of relationship. She's still older than me, and more experienced and successful in many ways, but what I enjoy the most, is our equality as human beings, and the sharing and mutual support that happens because of it.

In the emails we exchanged prior to her trip, I asked about her objectives - what she and her friend wanted to do or see. She surprised me and said that she didn't want to do any of the typical tourist stuff, she just wanted to meet the people and go to the places that I have written about on my blog. I was delighted, as I didn't know if I could stand another trip up the Eiffel tower, or another meal in a restaurant where the menu is in French and English.

And so, I took them to Chateau Rouge, also known as la Goutte D'or, which means "the drop of gold." It's an ethnic enclave, teeming with North Africans in their colorful costumes, as well as Muslim women in Hijab. Not the first place one would take conservative American tourists. But, I've always been a rebel.

We walked up boulevard Barbès from the Barbès-Rochechouart Metro station, and turned right onto Rue des Poissonniers, so that I could take them into the back end of the Chateau Rouge outdoor market on Rue Dejean. (I stole this photo from here. I would like to give credit to somebody, but I couldn't find out who took it or posted it.)


As we turned the corner onto Poissonniers, we noticed a large crowd of men in front of the Mosquée El-Fath. A closer look revealed that the men were praying, with foreheads to the ground, on the sidewalk outside of the Mosque. I had never seen this before, but perhaps it was Ramadan, and there were so many men praying, that they couldn't fit them all in the Mosque and had to use the sidewalk. Wanda and Reynaldo were astounded. The only Muslims that Americans see are on American TeeVee, and they're shouting and running around and burning effigees of George Bush. (Not the Americans, the Muslims)

So, I turned around to see Wanda and her camera clicking away, and thought it might be a good idea to ask her to be subtle about it, as I don't know the custom in these here parts. Unlike the last time we were in a Muslim country together, over 20 years ago when we traveled together to Turkey and she decided to go topless AND bottomless on a day-long boat trip (to the point where the teenage boys on the boat couldn't get up or they would reveal their, erm, boyhood) - she actually obeyed me. And, she got some great shots. I hope she sends them along.

Until then, you can view this French video made by a female Polish film maker who lives in la Goutte D'Or. It's an artistic impression of the area, and a little lengthy, but you can see the Muslim men praying on the sidewalk beginning at time code 2:08:

(If you are reading this post in an email, please click through to my blog to view the video)

Recently I visited my friend Marla and Larry, her cardiologist boyfriend in Biarritz. One night, Larry was on call, and so he had to spend the day and night at his clinic. Early that evening, Marla brought me into the office of a lung doctor friend of Larry's, because Larry and Marla didn't like the fact that I was coughing so much. I still had the lingering effects from the cold I got while I was in Ireland, and I've started to smoke again, so that could be why I was coughing. But the truth is, I've been coughing for years. In my mind, I've run through the whole gamut of dramatic scenarios about my cough. I'm either dieing of the rare lung disease that my sister has, or dieing of the lung disease that killed my Dad's sister, or just coughing because I'm nervous, or because I've always had allergies, and so I always have gunk in my lungs. But I'm not big on going to the doctor. I'd rather cough and not know, then know and cough anyway.

But, since Larry had so kindly offered this free lung doctor visit, I couldn't say no. Marla and I waited in Dr. Lung's waiting room and then he came out and ushered us into his office. He was super high tech, with computer systems and printers and WiFi boxes on top of his elegant mahogany desk. Marla and I sat facing him in richly upholstered arm chairs, our feet silent on a thick oriental rug. And as usual, he had no staff. I constantly compare the difference between going to a doctor here in France and going to one in America, and the biggest contrast is the huge number of staff in an American doctor's office, and the total lack of staff in a French doctor's office. In America, there's a reception desk, and there's usually two to three people there. Then there's the nurse that comes and gets you from the waiting room and weighs you and takes all the preliminaries. Then the doctor comes in for 45 seconds and writes some prescriptions and asks a different nurse to come in and take blood, which she will then take to a different staff member in the lab. There's back office staff and sometimes several other doctors and many more nurses. Here in France, there's the doctor. That's it.

Anyway, Marla tells him all about my cough, and he asks me some questions and I tell him all about my cough, and then he asks me to yank off my top so he can listen to my lungs. Marla whistles and looks out the window. Marla is used to doing this since she has become my official doctor translator. I think, "Man I wish I hadn't worn this dingy old yellow bra." That's what I was thinking. Then the doc asks me to go into another room where I take off my dingy old bra and slap my breasts up against a cold metal panel, my chin resting on a curved blue chin rest. Visions of Marie Antoinette dance in my head. I wait for the guillotine to fall. Instead, the doc tells me to take a big breath and hold it. He slips off into a room and takes an x-ray. We go back into his office where he magically has the x-ray in hand, and we all look at my chest. Nuthin.

He says maybe I cough because I have enlarged trachea, or maybe I should get an MRI because x-rays don't show everything. Nah. I just cough when I'm nervous, and when I'm cold, and when I'm nervous and cold. And when my allergies are in high gear, which is every day of my life.

Marla and I wandered around Biarritz after my appointment and bought some chocolate and then went over to see Larry at his clinic. He was all alone in the building, so it was a little eerie to be wandering down the antiseptic yellow-walled hallways. The only sound was our footsteps, and the creaking of doors. We whispered, when we didn't have to. Like we whisper in museums, as if our voices had the power to alter the course of antiquity or raise the long-dead bishops from their tombs.

Larry led us into his on-call apartment, so I took some pictures. This is the overnight life of an on-call cardiologist. A bed, a newspaper, a TV. The kitchen had a tray full of the detritus from his dinner, a small unopened bottle of Côtes du Rhône and a half-eaten chicken leg. He wasn't very hungry.








































I gave Larry a big chocolate bar, and he gave me the wine to drink on my train ride back to Paris. He pulled my x-ray out of its envelope and jabbed his finger in the general direction of my lungs and said, "Smoking, smoking and smoking." I told him I'd remind him of this the next time he bummed an after-dinner cigarette from me.

Then he took my hand and led me down the creepy hall and into an examination room. Marla came along too. There was an exam table and a very cool computer, so he asked me to get up on the table so he could do a complete heart exam for me. Cool! Except, I had to take off my top and my dingy yellow bra. This time, it wasn't some lung doctor I would never see again. It was my girlfriend's boyfriend. Ah, well. I suddenly remembered all the topless French women I'd seen that day on the beach, and decided to be French. Off it all came.

Marla had never seen me naked. Nor had she ever been in the same room with her boyfriend and a topless girl. She decided to make jokes. Larry was oblivious. He just started glopping KY on my ankles, then clipped electrodes there. Then did the same along my arms and in a couple places on my chest. When I was all hooked up, he ran an EKG and printed it out for me. Then he went over to the other side of the exam table and glopped some more KY on my chest and asked me to lie on my side with my back to him. He sat down next to my back, and reached around in front of me and started running a wand along the area of my heart, under and to the left of my left breast.

I could hear my heart beating as he did this. But I couldn't see the screen. He and Marla discussed my heart valves in a language I didn't know. Metral this and illiac that. But no infarction, as far as I could tell. Then he rolled me back onto my back and glopped some KY on either side of my neck, and started pushing the wand up and down my neck. This time, I could hear the far-away sound of the blood flowing through my arteries. Very cool.

Larry: "Marla, do you see right there? The tumor?"
Me: "!!?"
Marla: "Oh, where?"
Me: "!!?"
Larry: "This one here, on her thyroid. But, it's benign."
Marla (to me, as if she needed to translate Larry's English): "Oh, yeah. I see it and it's benign."
Me: "!!?"

You would think that when one is told that one has a tumor, one would ask some questions. But, as I already told you, I'd rather not know. But...!!?

Then Larry's emergency cell phone rang, and he ran off to meet the ambulance downstairs. He pushed some paper towels in my direction so I could clean up all that KY. It was a little disappointing. All that KY, yet no happy ending. Marla's happy ending was seeing me properly clothed again.

This is when Marla and I turned into giggly teenagers. She started posing on the exam table, draping herself with all the electrodes, while I took pictures. We made lots of noise, forgetting about the bishops in their tombs and the poor guy downstairs who thought he was having a heart attack. Later, we found out that he had gripped Larry's arm and asked him, wide-eyed, if Larry thought he would make it. Because he had a young, beautiful wife, and they had been married for only one year. Larry was touched, as he reassured him.

Meanwhile, upstairs, one could hear middle-aged female laughter, the clamping of electrodes, and the distinctive sound of Marla playing dead.

I just wanted to check in quickly and let you know I'm doing well and have been really busy getting ready for school (which I thoroughly enjoy) and touring two of my friends around Paris for the last four days. I have many stories, as you can imagine. Some untold stories from my Biarritz trip (a late night look at the innards of a cardiology clinic where I got naked in front of Marla's boyfriend, but, well, you know, it was clinical, even though there was a lot of KY) and some stories of the last four days (visiting the Paris Mosque and buying a Koran in English).

So, stay tuned for more hilarity.

Meanwhile, while I have many bloggers who have become good friends, I have not had any friends become bloggers. Now I do. I would like to introduce you to my friend MeMe who just published her first post on blogger and is wading through the widget/gadget world of BlogCatalog and MyBlogLog, etc. If you have a moment and you are a blogger, stop by and say hello and make her feel welcome in our little world. And anyone, blogger or not, can enjoy her great reminiscent post about Kool-Aid.

I just found a great website called BuyMyShitPile.com. I really like the guy who is selling his wife for $100. And I quote: "used wife - 49 years old - great breadwinner - shitty spouse"

I couldn't resist putting my condo up there. I mean, why not? Pretty soon, it's just going to be another shit pile on top of the heap of every other working American's sorrow. You'll notice that I lowered the price. Not exactly what my Realtor suggested ($49.50), but close.

Since the Good Ol' BushCo Boys are about to ask us all to bend over and hand one guy $700 BILLION dollars so he can buy all the "bad assets," or shit piles, of his banking buddies all over the world, I might as well try and sell my very own shit pile too. If all the pinstripe-suited Lehman Brothers bankers will get to keep their $200 BILLION in BONUSES for doing such a great fucking job FAILING, while simultaneously (you know, they are multi-taskers) robbing America to fuel their incessant greed, then I should be able to get my "bonus" for doing such a great job not selling my ass...ettes.

Now that I've seen all the fun things that other people are selling, my mind is spinning with new ideas. I could sell the portion of my American life that is now owned by the Chinese. I could sell my soul (again). I could sell Random Tarot Card readings, and tell all my clients that they will meet a short, graying, feeble-minded stranger who will smile at them like a father figure while his lobbyist campaign staff rob you blind, while his wife throws down another bottle of downers before she has to appear in public with his ass again, and his religious fanatic running mate plots the krishtian takeover of the promised land: Russia (she can see it from her house!). She'll do this by the way, while she clicks her red come-fuck-me high heels together and closes her eyes and says, "There's no place like your home, there's no place like your home, there's no place like your home."

I could sell my sarcasm too, for $5 a smirk.