Costco nation

Costco: I didn't know if it was day or night/I started buying everything in sight.

I am freaked out. Costco depresses me. I know everybody doesn't have the same opportunities I do to visit farm stands and little markets, but I will fight to the end for inspirational shopping. Costco doesn't even look like it belongs on our planet. It could be on the moon. It has no relationship to the outside world as I know it. The lighting, the temperature, the outrageous abundance. The store has no life and no contact with anything that comes from the earth. Everything is packaged, sterile, clinical. Nothing about the food is emotional. And there is a wicked genius at work, mixing the organic with the terribly processed.

That's not me I'm quoting, but it could be. It's Eric Ripert, one of many Frenchies who have made it in America as a master chef and television star. I don't know which channel he's on. It could be the food channel, or one of them (assuming there's more than one). I don't know because I don't watch television in general; and if I had to choose one thing to never watch, it would certainly be daytime television. He's been nominated for an Emmy, by the way.

I found the quote above by googling the words "Costco depresses me". I googled those words because I actually went to Costco yesterday, a rare event in my world. I am not even a member! That's like saying you are a Commie in this country. Well, I am pretty much a Commie. I believe all members of a community should share their gains instead of stocking up like maniacs at Costco and then hoarding it all. Anyway, Costco. What can I say? You get there and notice that on a rare sunny Saturday afternoon on a holiday weekend, the parking lot is full. What few places to park you see have people standing in them and saving a spot for one of the thousands of grocery getters driving recklessly around the parking lot.

You go inside and it is like stepping into the Twilight Zone or a casino in Vegas. You lose all sense of time, and not in a good way. There is no natural light whatsoever. It could be midnight. In fact, it is midnight -- the midnight of the soul. I always feel I am part of some end-of-the-world hoarding spree when I step inside Costco. For the record, we do not shop for food at Costco. That would be like.... an apt metaphor escapes me at the moment. Let's just say it would not be nourishing in any meaningful way. We were looking for some flowers to plant on the deck. A neighbor told me Costco had a good selection at incredibly low prices. In fact, Costco never has a good selection of anything, but it always has unbeatable prices. The quality of these plants was mediocre at best, which made me want to buy every single one and give them all a loving home. How healthy can it be for plants to live inside Costco, far from the light of day and nature?

I will spare everyone the depressing tally of what my fellow shoppers were stocking up on. But let me just ask if other people besides me believe that five-gallon bags of chips, even if they are labeled "organic", are probably not the kind of food item that is going to help America win the undeclared and mostly unfought war on obesity.

On the way home, Walt and I were ranting about all the bad drivers out on Saturday afternoon. I realized that the vehemence of my rant had more to do with the way Costco makes me feel: like the world is going to hell in a handbasket and that's not such a bad thing considering the state it is currently in. So I said, "Going to Costco makes me..." and Walt finished my sentence for me: "...hate Americans". Or maybe he said "hate America" or "hate the American way of life". Whatever. Yes. What he said.

Going to Costco makes me want to go to the nearest fruit and vegetable stand or farmer's market and just breathe in the odor of ripe tomatoes or ripe peaches. It's too early for either where I live. But I'm sure there are many seasonal olfactory treats at the farmer's market in my neighborhood. I think I'll head up there and take several really deep breaths.

France has a few "hard discount" stores like Costco, but not located inside city limits. It also has supermarkets and even hypermarkets. However, you can always find someone to worry that the the local marchés are an endangered species. Thankfully. I mean, for as long as people worry aloud about them, they stand a chance of surviving. I shopped daily in France without ever getting into my car. I didn't have a car, in fact. In Paris, it was always on foot. In La Rochelle, on foot or by bicycle.

Below, the open market in La Rochelle(the covered market, which you can see on the left in the photo, is superb); my bike in La Rochelle (the pretty mauve one with the basket); some melons.

DSK, the musical

Memorial Day weekend plans are a wash

In Montana, when it rains it floods

It would have been nice to spend five days under the open skies of south central Montana, on the banks of the Stillwater river, in the shadow of the Beartooth mountains.

The closest airport to our place is in Billings, which is just over an hour away by car. If you click on the title, you'll see a photo showing what the recent heavy rainfall has done to this part of Montana. Though nothing like the wave of tornadoes ripping through Missouri and now Oklahoma, the recent weather event has caused one death so far and flood warnings remain in effect. According to meteorologists, otherwise known as The People Who Ruin Your Vacation Plans:

Montana is at the soggy center of the weather pattern. Flood warnings already have been issued for 35 counties...[and] a series of storms is expected to further soak the state through the next week. Colorado and Wyoming also could get hit.

Driving fourteen hours to spend several days cooped up in a house does not seem like a necessary thing to do, even though thunderstorms are promised. I like thunderstorms, but not that much. Mathilde will return to the south of France without having seen Montana. And we will not get back to big sky country as soon as we hoped. I have been known to leave my home base for a vacation without checking destination weather conditions. Once I had to buy a sweater in Sweden, having left the sweltering August heat of Paris without bothering to see what was happening up in Stockholm. Up is the operative word in that sentence, as in up north. When I went to Iceland in 2003, it was so hot in France that 15,000 people died. It was pouring rain and about 45 when the plane landed in Reykavik; it felt like Seattle in February or March (or, let's be honest, May). The first time I visited Ireland, also in the month of August, I was coming off the crushing tropical heat of Shanghai and a month in warm and sunny Paris. In fact, my last memory of Shanghai is the torrential downpour that happened just before I left for the airport. The taxi I managed to find drove through streets that were quickly becoming little rivers. Faster, I kept thinking, drive faster, before we are swept away. So anyway, Dublin: I really wasn't expecting rain and 55 degrees. It felt like Darkness at Noon. Is this exceptional? I asked a shopkeeper. No, he said, this is typical summer weather for Ireland.

The good news is that we're not in Reykavik right now. A second volcano has erupted; ash is swirling all around; flights are being cancelled left and right. The reason to go to Iceland is to see some of the most extraordinary scenery on earth. The food is not even mediocre and costs a fortune. A glass of wine sets you back something like 15 euros. Imagine being stuck there without the consolation of the landscape and being unable to drown your sorrows without going bankrupt. About the only option remaining would be the famed Blue Lagoon geothermal spa, which specializes in treating psoriasis.

Yes we Cannes

Nothing could be finer on this post-rapture Sunday morning than listening "en direct" to my friends at Le Masque et La Plume (France Inter, tous les dimanche soirs ) comment on this year's winners at Cannes.

They spent a few minutes reviewing the scandal created by Lars von Trier when he extricated himself from an unfortunate sentence about his recently discovered German roots by saying "Okay, I'm a Nazi". No scandal = no Cannes. Lars von Trier delivered this year. He said he was sorry, but it is kind of hard to recover from saying that you can kind of understand where Hitler was coming from. His apology just made things worse.
Frankly, I was tired of the whole damn thing before it was even over. Before Von Trier was kicked out of the festival. It's like he got a red card from the referee. Whatever. I am not a Nazi sympathizer by any means, and I think his comments were most unfortunate. I bet he thinks so too. The story is that his mother told him on her deathbed that his real father, not the Jewish man who raised him, was actually a German. I think that would throw just about anyone for a loop. The fact remains that his film, Melancholia, is unanimously deemed to be magnificent. Its female lead, Kirstin Dunst, got the palm for best actress. I'm going to refrain from getting embroiled in this debate or even commenting on it: he has made a magnificent film. That's all I have to say on the matter. If you are interested, you can watch a youtube video that shows Kirstin Dunst reacting with growing alarm as Von Trier tries to find a way out during the press conference. I find the whole thing painful.

Here's the trailer for Melancholia. It has a Robert Altman at his best feel to it.




The Palme d'or went to Terrence Malick this year for The Tree of Life, starring Brad Pitt and Sean Penn. The trailer (below) looks like a life insurance commercial with a very dark underside:



See you at the movies.

Rapture status: rejected!

I got my rapture rejection notice in the mail this morning. Looks like five months of hell on earth for me and anyone reading this.

We're on a highway to hell, people!





The world as it appears is a sad, strange, beautiful and hellish place, all at once. That being so, I think the rapture will go unnoticed. A missing person here and there, perhaps.

Like in this song:



As Judgement Days go, this one is pretty ordinary so far. Camus once said words to this effect: Don't talk to me about Judgement Day. Every day is Judgement Day.

It's just that many self-described believers act as if this is not true, or as if their God weren't watching.

A great song of enablement

And if you're somewhere out there passed out on the floor
Joey I'm not angry any more

Meet the Fokkers

"Permit me to introduce myself. I am Pepe Le Pew, your lover."



Terminé

I was working on Saturday afternoon when the NY Times news alert arrived in my inbox. I could see most of the headline: IMF boss arrested in New York and...

Normally, I don't stop what I am doing and read the breaking news. I figure it broke without me and can develop without me. But this was intriguing. At first, there was no article, just a banner and then a clickable link to the the NY Daily News. The headline spoke of sodomy, the running copy of oral sex, a naked DSK, a chambermaid, a locked room, a call to 911. Wow!

I was in a state of shock. I said to myself, it is 2 am in France. The French are going to be in a state of collective shock on Sunday morning. And they were. Mathilde and I wanted it to be une machination politique. After all, Strauss-Kahn and his wife Anne Sinclair had just received and filed suit over unflattering press coverage about their gauche caviar lifestyle, complete with a photo of them getting into a porsche (not theirs, but never mind, it's all about symbols) and details about the 125,000 dollar custom kitchen in their DC townhouse (the stove hood alone cost 3,000 euros).

Strauss-Kahn had already cultivated a proud reputation as a ladies man. Everyone remembers his "one-night stand" (according to a forgiving Anne Sinclair) with a Hungarian IMF staffer in 2008. Now reports are surfacing that he attempted to rape a journalist who wanted to interview him for a book, and who did not come forward at the time. Others, speaking on condition of anonymity, say he has long been a little too... insistent. Decode this and you get: refuses to take no for an answer. He is not the only Frenchman, or indeed the only man (or woman, why not?), who won't take no for an answer. Her lips said no but her eyes said oui, oui, oui.

The issue of rape and consent is complex. Strauss-Kahn, after denying he was there and promising to produce proof of an alibi (lunch with his daughter in Manhattan), has now got the bad news from the DNA results and has changed tack: consent, he now says. She wanted it, that chambermaid. That's why he sequestered her? She wanted that too? Some kind of twisted rape fantasy?

Okay, never mind. Innocent until proven guilty. We have not heard from or seen the alleged victim. In fact, no one seems to care about her. She is just a bit player in the larger drama. But what about her? And what about Anne Sinclair? She has stood by her man in the past. Is that a good thing or a bad thing? Is she his enabler? His handler? And the rest of his family? A detail from one of the French reports on the story: the daughter he is said to have had lunch with, who is married and a student of politics at Columbia, showed up at his arraignment with her husband. They both wore jeans and grim expressions.

Terminateur


No matter what happens next, and I think it is likely he will go directly to jail as we say in Monopoly, he will not be the socialist candidate for President in 2012. I think I am not the only person out there who is deeply disappointed. Sarkozy, though his approval rating is below 30%, is already claiming privately to have won the "bataille de la morale". Carla Bruni's pregnancy could not have come at a better time. Just a few months ago, people were whispering about her possible affair with Benjamin Biolay. Now she is the smiling Madonna, Nick's "Carlita". She has put out her cigarette. Word on the street is she is expecting twins. In one of the unauthorized biographies about her, the author claims that she was one of many who "tried out" for the role of French first lady after Cécilia packed it in and headed to New York to marry her true love. Carla got the job, beating out several other aspirants after Laurence Ferrari declined the offer.

Meanwhile, in Italy, Berlusconi must face the music over his alleged relations with a minor, 17-year old Ruby; back in the US, we have just learned that former California governor The Terminator fathered a child with one of the domestic staff a decade ago. He kept that hidden from Maria until earlier this year; hence the recent announcement of a split. And how's this for a funny coincidence: Carla Bruni, in the novelized version of the real-life story of how she stole Justine Levy's husband (it's complicated), goes by the name of Paula, aka Le Terminateur (because of her extensive plastic surgery). That may not exhaust the subject, but let's end with the posthumous: Osama Bin Laden, though he now sleeps with the fish, apparently had an incredible stash of porn in that compound of his. This is definitely something I feel better knowing.

There. I feel like I got a lot of crap off my chest this morning. The world is sometimes less a sad and beautiful place and more a ridiculous place. A vanity fair. Everyone was expecting a dirty fight in France if DSK was chosen, as expected, to run against Sarkozy. Now it looks as if he did himself in. Hoisted by his own pétard, hidden beneath a towel.

UPDATE: In the icky detail category, I just read a Daily Beast article with this tidbit, in a rather lurid paragraph ostensibly chastising the French for being interested in sordid details about the alleged victim:

“Physically, accounts differ,” writes the website of Paris Match. “The lawyers for DSK [Dominique Strauss-Kahn] apparently declared they were surprised to discover her face was ‘not very seductive,’ ” when they saw her at the lineup where she formally identified the head of the International Monetary Fund as her attacker. But the French tabloid France-Soir interviewed a limo driver who works with the hotel, saying the housekeeper “was a very pretty woman in her thirties, with big breasts and a beautiful rear.”

So I take back what I said above: that nothing is known about the alleged victim. Now we know that she isn't all that pretty but she has big knockers and a nice ass. Where is the dismay emoticon when you need it?
Il ne manquait que ça.

My lifelong fantasy, come true for someone else

Last Saturday in Toronto, a woman named Rayna Ford went to a Paul Simon concert. She called out to the singer: “Play ‘Duncan!,’” or words to that effect; Simon heard her better onstage than we do in this video taken from the audience. “You learned to play guitar in this song?” Simon replied, and invited her to get up alongside him.

What happened next was very sweet, and genuinely moving: It’s the moment of Rayna Ford’s life, and a chance for Simon to show us that he’s a bit less crazy after all these years.And it made us think that you can be as far as possible from a punk rocker and still buy into rock and roll’s ultra-democratic premise (which is also a promise): Given a level playing field, any of us could simply switch places with our favorite performers. (Although, of course, that Platinum Amex card does get you closer to the stage in the first place.)

When I was a kid and until I was almost an adult, I had this fantasy about being asked to join Simon and Garfunkel. At one point, I actually thought it could happen if I just kept working on my poetry. I had the soul of a singer and was trying to learn to play the guitar. My voice was not so great, but I saw myself more as a back-up singer anyway. It never happened for me, but after seeing this, I think it may not be too late. It is never too late.

You rock, Rayna. You are a rock!

The Lost Coast

When it's 51 degrees and overcast in Seattle in May (there is nothing unusual about this by the way), if you are me you might be thinking about the Lost Coast. Especially when you get an email from a friend who lives there that says: "It is lovely here right now. You should come and visit."

It's a good thing Montana is only three weeks away, though I was kind of alarmed when my brother said something about possibly frozen pipes.

More Gretchen Parlato

I woke up to her this morning, being interviewed on NPR. I heard her talking and thought, that sounds like Gretchen Parlato. She is quite amazing in person, in the most understated way.

SPIKE JONZE PRESENTS: LIL BUCK AND YO-YO MA! - OPENING CEREMONY

SPIKE JONZE PRESENTS: LIL BUCK AND YO-YO MA! - OPENING CEREMONY

Click on either title. How does this Lil Buck guy contort his body like that?

It is amazing and timely. I was sitting on the sofa this morning in a comatose state, drinking my coffee, having gone to bed at 2:45 am after a grueling weekend of work on the heels of a grueling six weeks of work, day in and day out, no break, not even on the weekends.

I was half listening to NPR, then got interested in a reportage on how great exercise is but how limited the benefits can be if you otherwise sit in front of a computer screen for hours on end. Ya think?! I have been doing that for six weeks, and trying to get some physical activity in without further stressing myself by trying to stick to my routine. My routine is simple but time-consuming: long walk with Neko, 15 to 30 minutes on the elliptical, and various forms of exercise -- yoga, my stick routine, free weights, etc. This routine is not compatible with 12- to 14-hour work days. And these work days are not compatible with life as we know it. Luckily, I have a simply awesome husband who in spite of his own scheduling crunch (baseball season!) pretty much took over the daily challenge of foraging and feeding. Not just us but the animals as well.

Anyway, I was thinking, hoping actually, that there is some truth to the notion of muscle memory. I have done some sort of physical exercise all my life and started lifting weights in junior high. There was something about the dumb repetitive nature of it that appealed to me. I started on the circuit trainer in PE class. When I first moved to France I was literally the only female in the weight room; that has since changed. And since moving back to the US, I prefer working out at home. So I bought a weight bar and free weights of various sizes. They have mostly been sitting in their storage basket for the past six weeks, though I have tried to get a couple of workouts in each week. Today, I am back in action full-time.

This seasonal agony I have just survived is getting harder to endure as I age. It may be a question of physical stamina and key body parts getting worn down: doctor my eyes! I check my mouse hand every morning to make sure it just feels like it's the size of a baseball glove. The back of my neck feels like it has been holding the entire weight of my head in the wrong position way for too long. And don't get me started on my left shoulder. Not only that, but yesterday when I woke up I had the most incredible sheet creases in my face from the way I slept on my pillow. No kidding, I did not recognize the person in the mirror and it took several hours for the creases to disappear. I decided it was some kind of reaction to the sorbitol in the simply dreadful sugar-free jelly beans that Walt made me try. That's not true; he tried to warn me after they gave him a sudden bout of you know what. I don't even like candy that much. What was I thinking?!

Word to the wise: never eat those things. They give you the runs and facial creases.

The artwork is by Patti Warashina, a friend I haven't seen in years and a fine artist with a great sense of the ridiculous.

Pourquoi ont-ils tué Jaurès? Part 2

In 2009, France celebrated the 150th anniversary of Jean Jaurès, one of the major figures of French socialism and a founder of the French socialist party, who was assassinated in Paris on July 31, 1914 by the aptly named Raoul Villain. Jaurès was famous for his steadfast pacifism and his fierce opposition to World War I, one of the bloodiest wars in history. Jaurès also founded L'Humanité, a French daily that since the 1920's has been associated with the French Communist Party. In fact, Jaurès was gunned down at le Café du Croissant (Rue Montmarte), where he stopped after leaving the offices of the newspaper. The man who killed him was a militant nationalist; the nationalists wanted war. Jaurès rightly saw the rise of nationalisms as fueling the clash between the superpowers and the clash between the superpowers as being based on economic rivalries. The last ten years of his life were spent opposing the war that came anyway.

I've been thinking about World War I a lot lately, having just finished reading Le temps retrouvé, which is the final tome in Proust's A la recherche du temps perdu. Much of this volume concerns the transformation of Paris during the war and the way in which the war is another "turn of the kaleidescope" around which the various individuals Proust's narrator observes over the years define and reveal themselves. For the dreadful Mme. Verdurin, the worst thing about the war is that it disrupts her daily supply of croissants, until she gets her friend, Dr Cottard, to write her a prescription for them as a cure for her migraines. Proust does not specifically mention Jaurès, but he discusses the dangers and ultimate absurdity of nationalism at great length. What is the difference, he wonders, between the bravery of a French soldier killed in battle, and that of a German soldier? Both are celebrated as war heroes at home, both are worshipped out of the same sense of nationalistic fervor.

L'Affaire Dreyfus, another Proustian turn of the kaleidescope, is also central to the political rise of Jaurès. Initially convinced that Dreyfus was guilty as charged, Jaurès changed his mind after reading Zola's J'accuse and became a militant dreyfusard. He saw Dreyfus as a victim of the military caste and he saw the military caste as the armed guards of capitalism and hence the enemy of the proletariat.

Yesterday I came across a speech Jaurès gave on July 30, 1903 at his old high school (le lycée d'Albi), where he had also been a teacher. More than a hundred years ago, here's what Jaurès said:

L’humanité est maudite, si pour faire preuve de courage elle est condamnée à tuer éternellement. Le courage, aujourd’hui, ce n’est pas de maintenir sur le monde la sombre nuée de la Guerre , nuée terrible, mais dormante, dont on peut toujours se flatter qu’elle va éclater sur d’autres. Le courage, ce n’est pas de laisser aux mains de la force la solution des conflits que la raison peut résoudre: car le courage est l’exaltation de l’homme , et ceci en est l’abdication ...

Basically, Jaurès says that humanity is cursed if eternal slaughter is its way of demonstrating courage. Courage is not about keeping the dark cloud of war -- terrible but dormant -- hanging over the world, constantly flattering ourselves into believing it will burst on others. Courage is not about letting those with weapons solve conflicts that can be resolved through reason: because courage is the exaltation of humanity and this is its abdication.


And that's why they killed Jaurès on July 31, 1914, three days before the beginning of the hostilities and subsequent carnage known as World War I.

And what of Villain, the man who killed Jaurès? He was acquitted in 1918, in a climate of fervent nationalism. Villain then exiled himself, leaving France for Spain, where he was executed by Spanish anarchists in 1936, during the Spanish Civil War.

Pourquoi ont-ils tué Jaurès?

One of the most moving anti-war songs. Hats off to the person who made the video and thanks for sharing. Very stunning black and white images for this somber meditation.
Jacques Brel

Same old same old

Not the first time I have posted Chrissie Hinds singing this song, Back on the Chain Gang. But in my defense, let me say I have never posted this version, which has a nicely retro MTV feel to it.

Given my current work load, this song sings to me, even though it isn't really about being crushed by The Man. What is it about, exactly? You tell me. It has some intriguing lyrics, like these snippets.

A CIRCUMSTANCE BEYOND OUR CONTROL, OH OH OH OH
THE PHONE, THE TV AND THE NEWS OF THE WORLD
GOT IN THE HOUSE LIKE A PIGEON FROM HELL, OH OH OH OH
THREW SAND IN OUR EYES AND DESCENDED LIKE FLIES

And this:

THE POWERS THAT BE
THAT FORCE US TO LIVE LIKE WE DO
BRING ME TO MY KNEES
WHEN I SEE WHAT THEY'VE DONE TO YOU

Maybe it is about The Man after all.

NOW WE'RE BACK IN THE FIGHT
WE'RE BACK ON THE TRAIN
OH, BACK ON THE CHAIN GANG

Magnolia Plays the Giants in Weekend Pairing

Apparently, the two opposing teams were huge, just huge. Unfortunately, I was not able to attend either game due to work obligations, though I was not too unhappy not to stand around for several hours and freeze my butt off. Baseball is a summer sport; that's why they talk about the boys of summer. Coach Cougan managed to make at least one smart-ass remark to one umpire without getting asked to leave the field. The guy made an adverse call (for the Magnolia boys) at home plate that he could not have seen because he was not in position to see it. At least that's what Coach Cougan told me over dinner, which he made as he mulled over the two losses at the hands of the Giants.

Click on the title to read Coach Cougan's game summaries, words of wisdom, etc. And don't blame me for the occasional.... typo. I used to be the proofreader, but Coach Cougan apparently now thinks he can go without.

IMPORTANT UPDATE: Coach Cougan called around, and it seems that the word on the street is that the 13-year olds are generally giants this year. Something about a change in the age cut-off. I told him in the long run it would benefit his kids more to play up, to play against bigger and better kids. He said, that's what Jamie (Moyer) said. He seemed surprised. I don't get that. What is to be surprised about? We big leaguers think alike. That's because we in the bigs. And that's why we're in the bigs.

A little Nina Simone on a Saturday afternoon

I love this song and this animated video rendition of it.
I found it on youtube. I always like to read the comments.
One person wrote: Nina was tops. Luv most of her songs. Only wish I had been able to see/hear her in some dark, cigarette-lit jazz club.

Yes, that's about right.

One guy wrote, underneath the next song: "Let Nina Simone rule the world!"

Might not be so bad. Baby you don't know what it's like...

Comme un voilier

Well, it's poetry month after all. This poem is attributed to William Blake, but seems to exist mainly in French. Someone told every French school child that this was Blake. I'm not so sure.

Je suis debout au bord de la plage.
Un voilier passe dans la brise du matin et part vers l'océan.
Il est la beauté, il est la vie.
Je le regarde jusqu'à ce qu'il disparaisse à l'horizon.
Quelqu'un à mon côté dit :
"Il est parti !"
Parti ? Vers où ?
Parti de mon regard, c'est tout...

Son mât est toujours aussi haut,
sa coque a toujours la force de porter sa charge humaine.
Sa disparition totale de ma vue est en moi,
pas en lui.

Et juste au moment où quelqu'un près de moi dit : "Il est parti !",
il en est d'autres qui, le voyant poindre à l'horizon et venir vers eux,
s'exclament avec joie :
"Le voilà !"...

C'est cela la mort.

Silvio Forever at Cannes?

Officially,

BIENTOT EN LIGNE !



La conférence de presse du 64e Festival se tiendra le 14 avril prochain.

A cette date, vous pourrez télécharger le dossier de presse 2011 avec les listes des Jurys et des films sélectionnés.

Les informations détaillées sur tous les films de la Sélection officielle, les Jurys et les événements seront accessibles en ligne une semaine avant l'ouverture de la manifestation.

So it won't be official until tomorrow. But I have heard that the unofficial bio of Italy's unsinkable, unthinkable Prime Minister will be on the list. Click on the title for a link to the film's official website.

Robert de Niro has been selected to chair the jury that will hand out the awards. This year, the festival begins on May 11 and closes on May 22 with the announcement of the Palme d'Or.

I don't have a bucket list, but I have always wanted to go to the Cannes Film Festival just once. I don't see it happening this year either. And I still haven't seen the winner of the 2010 César and the Grand Prix at Cannes last year,DES HOMMES ET DES DIEUX. It's playing in Seattle right now, at the Harvard Exit. I may have to take a break from the avalanche of work and see it.

Incidentally, the official Cannes Film Festival website is one of my favorites. It is extremely well organized and beautiful to look at.

Speaking of beau à voir, here is this year's official affiche. Faye Dunaway, circa 1970.

Late for the sky

Whidbey Island, September 2010

Maybe not the best version out there, but the most recent I could find. This was recorded by someone in the audience at Glastonbury. Pretty impressive quality, all things considered.



The internet is a treasure trove. I found this version of my favorite Jackson Browne song, recorded in Santa Cruz in 1987 but accompanied by photos taken at the Casino de Paris in June 2010. The photos are wonderful. Thanks to Claude JB - qui que vous soyez - for putting this video together.

Who knows where the time goes?

I am organizing my digital photos this morning -- well, to be honest I am working on several work work projects (as opposed to pretend work projects)and breaking up the stress and monotony with some mindless visual activities -- and just came across this one.

The place: Cle Elum, Washington
The occasion: My sister Carolyn's wedding (she is the only sister not pictured)
The time: Late 2005
The pictured (from left to right): Cathy, Janie, Mom and me

They were married by a guy named Red Dog. That's his stage name, anyway. We averted a wardrobe malfunction and crisis. Cathy's daughter Mary Claire wanted to wear a pair of cut-offs. Cathy said no. MC said she had nothing to wear, could she wear her mom's skirt? What would mom wear? Mom would wear her twin sister's outfit, as she had done so many times in the distant past, usually without asking first. At least she asked. And fortunately, I had something else to wear. So Cathy wore my Max Mara gauzy blouse and silk skirt, not to mention the new shoes I bought for the occasion (not pictured) and the lovely silk purse that my dear departed friend Cathleen had given to me as a gift (pictured). She looked fabulous. Too bad her eyes are closed in this photo. My revenge.

How's your body image?

Click on the title. There are plenty more where that came from.

Ceci n'est pas une mauvaise herbe

C'est du pissenlit (dent-de-lion également) et c'est très bon en salade. En plus, c'est de saison!

Mais surtout, c'est pour évoquer l'état lamentable et oublié de mon petit blog.

Il y a du travail dans l'air! Et en attendant, j'ai fait deux ou trois bricoles.

A suivre...

Jodie aux pays des Césars

En guise de maîtresse de cérémonie, Jodie fut parfaite! Qui oserait dire le contraire ?

Montana calls me

These photos are from a trip we took in August 2007. Can't wait to get back to Montana and hope to be able to say one day that I divide my time between Montana and France.
In no particular order: strange species of Montana bear, buffalo, tough biker chick, Harley guys, getting there, rusted out truck....

Snow daze

Dreaming of warmer weather. Below, two shots of La Rochelle in summer and then one of Portlanders taking advantage of a sunny Saturday in April. Today is a snow day for the Seattle school district.

Home, home on the range

If I were a painter, this is how I would paint Montana.

Is February worse than November (in Seattle)?

It's pretty much a toss-up if you ask me. But, as these photos show, February isn't all bad. In case you are wondering, the purpose of these photos is not to reveal that our windows need washing (they do) or that I don't make the bed or do housework before sitting down at the computer to work (I don't); it is to show you that all the bitching I did last night about February being such a horrible month apparently paid off. The weather gods heard me. They tried to tell me last night, by dumping tiny hailstones on me as I got out of the car, but I was not receptive to the news. However, all is forgiven this morning. The sun is out. Neko and I are going for a walk -- but first, YOGA!!!! I skipped Monday's class because I had an urgent need to brood about the shitty weather. I promise to do double the usual number of sun salutes this morning.

February also features the bogus holiday, St.Valentine's Day, which is not really to its credit. But what are you gonna do? I offered my Valentine some red-only swedish fish, some red-only poptarts (strawberry) and a bottle of fine IPA (with a red label). Do you see a pattern or theme emerging? Red, the color of the day. Entertainment wise, we went to the Triple Door to see a Frank Sinatra impersonator by the name of Joey Jewell. He is local, I think, from Puyallup. Damn, he sounds like Sinatra. He did a 60's "Sands" tribute. He did it My Way. He flew us to the moon and treated us to a duet version of Mack the Knife. The swing band that accompanied him was perfect. A bunch of middle-aged people who looked like you would expect your high school classmates who were in the band to look. The piano player, a very skinny man with a straight back (good piano posture), looked like someone who could have been the piano player for the Addams Family.
The only blemishes on this fine evening were the lady sitting just behind us with her "date", a three-year old girl who I think must have been her daughter. Who in their right mind brings a three-year old to the Triple Door? On Valentine's Day! If I had paid a babysitter to watch my three-year old, I would have been really pissed, especially when the three-year old got tired of the crayons and started making noises that sounded like farts under water. Can you believe it! And to our left, also just behind us, were two couples who apparently had some catching up to do. The two women started yacking it up, during the show of course. So rude! Not just with respect to those sitting around them, but also with respect to the performers, who were about five feet away. My husband finally turned around and said "It must be nice to be able to catch up!" They got it; they got up and went elsewhere (the bar? the restrooom?) to chat. Geez! People! Why not use your mentality, wake up to reality....
Hearing those songs from the sixties made me think of my childhood and my dad. He loved that music, he really did. His favorites were My Funny Valentine and Moon River. And yes, I realize these are not Frank Sinatra tunes. I am talking about the period. Personally, I liked King of the Road and Queen of the House. All that music defined adulthood for me. And for those who are mad about Mad Men, let me say that I saw the real people in action. The cigarettes, the cocktails, the music and shenanigens, the hangovers, the suntans, the bad behavior, the fights, the gossip about affairs, told in hushed and rushed tones on the phone or over martinis in the kitchen at 4 pm, the benignly neglected kids having the time of their lives, unsupervised....those were the days, my friend.

Mack the Knife - I just can't help it

Ella did it.



And so did Bobby Darin. Of course.



Louis too, naturally.

More music, 'cuz I feel like it

Old Devil Moon

How about Old Devil Moon, bossa nova style?



And what about Mose Allison. This dude should be declared a national treasure.

Bound to piss some people off

On this February 14, Valentine's Day in case you have been living in a man cave without a television, I can think of no better words of wisdom than those I came across this morning. Tracy McMillan has some harsh truths for women who complain that there are no good men out there or wonder why they are single, for whatever reason they happen to be single. Click on the title for a link to the article. And don't shoot me; I'm just the messenger.

A friend of mine who professes to want nothing more than a man of character to hang out with and perhaps marry also says that she is only attracted to men who are edgy. This is the grown-up version of being attracted to bad boys, which many teenaged girls are until they finally realize that bad boys are just that, bad. Inconsiderate. Abusive. Nasty. Liars and so on. Girls grow out of this phase. Females who pass the age of adolescence without losing this childish attitude do not become women. It is actually part of a larger syndrome, which is the idea that the man you love needs to be a certain way to complete you. This is all wrong. A man cannot complete you; only you can complete you. And until you do, there will be no happy ending.

I look around me and see lots of people who are dissatisfied. Dissatisfied with their partner, dissatisfied with their job, dissatisfied with their looks, dissatisfied with life. I see married couples who are dissatisfied and single people who are dissatisfied. The good news is that I also see satisfied couples and satisfied singles. What is their secret? If they are single, they like themselves (which doesn't mean they think they are the greatest). If they are married, they genuinely like their partner (and it goes without saying that they like themselves). This doesn't mean they like their partner to dress like a 60's gym teacher; it means that it doesn't matter one way or another how their partner dresses. Back to the "edgy" requirement. For my friend, this has a fashion component. The guy has to have mastered the Seattle slacker-grunge-rock star roadie look. Personally, I might be a little suspicious of a guy who had taken the time to do this. But never mind; I am so very happy to be with my 60's gym teacher. I feel quite certain it is an effortless look, the 60's gym teacher look.

So Happy Valentine's Day to everyone out there with a heart, but especially to the guy who has my heart. Take care of it please. I know you will.

One of the world's greatest love songs. Listen to those horns!

Waiting for Mubarak

What a lovely day this is.

We are all Epyptians today.

The title links to a nice blog by an Egyptian psychologist. Lots of background information about how Egypt got to where it is today and what the Egyptians are basically like: communal and calm.

UPDATE: Egyptians are pissed. I just listened to Papa Mubarak speak to his "children". Not good. Foolish and arrogant man.

Three cool cats

Meet Maya, who spends her days hanging out in the lobby/bar of the Les Chansonniers hotel in the 11th arrondissement of Paris.



Now meet Erica, or Princesse Erica for her subjects, who lays down the law at a little neighborhood café (with free wifi!) that is also in the 11th arondissement of Paris.



And last but not least, meet Mélusine, who reigns over an apartment in the 11th arrondissement of Paris. She plays hard to get and has a scary stare (look at those green eyes) but deep down is a sweetheart who likes to crawl under the covers and purr from about 4 am to about 7 am.



These are the three cool cats who watched over me while I was away from my ménagerie. I think they realized that I am an animal lover (not everyone is) and as such needed watching over. Maya came and sat on the bench next to me as I ate breakfast while waiting for my hotel room to be cleaned so that I could crash on the bed completely clothed -- coat and shoes included -- for a couple of hours after arrival in Paris. After that, she was never far from me whenever I was in the lobby/bar of the hotel.

Erica pounced on my coat for a nap as soon as I sat on the bench at Le Réfectoire, my office away from my office in Paris (free wifi!). She did this every day, though sometimes she chose my leather bag as her bed. One day, I had to move her to get my coat, which was underneath her haunches. She awoke instantly, hissed, gave me a swipe with her paw and then lay back down to sleep. Okay! I get it! I know who's the boss of me.

As for Mélusine, it took her a couple of days to understand that I had not killed her owners or kidnapped Arsène, their two-year old boy and her best friend. I knew she had warmed up to me when I woke up in the middle of the night because I felt a giant hair on my face. I was just about to swipe it away -- which would have been really bad for me in retrospect -- when I saw two green eyes staring at me and heard the purring of an engine. It was Mélusine, who had not been seen... she let me know she wanted under the covers. That was the beginning of a beautiful though strange friendship. In order for this friendship to work, I had to understand that there were certain places I was not to go. This was not so hard, since they were mainly cat-size nooks and crannies. Who knows what she kept in there? The body parts of prior apartment sitters? One night I accidentally set my left hand on the corner of one of her nooks and regretted it instantly. I heard a hiss and felt her claws as they sunk into the flesh on my wrist. Punishment was swift and effective. I never did that again. Mélusine's two favorite activities, besides disappearing for long periods into her nooks and crannies, were drinking from the faucet and drinking from a regular glass filled to the brim.

Three cool cats, whose lives go on without me in the 11th arrondissement of Paris.

Stylish old bags

I don't often find myself at the supermarket in the middle of the day. After today's trip, I'm thinking I should venture out midday more often. I do get outside in the middle of the day, but it is almost always to take Neko for a walk in Lincoln Park. The most recent Lincoln Park masher has cooled my enthusiam a bit. He's the guy who feigns shin splints or follows women joggers until he is close enough to fake a fall from behind them, which requires grabbing onto their hips and planting his nose between their butt cheeks. Yes, you read that correctly. He claims he really just happened to fall in this way four times and that each time, the body he reached for to break his fall was that of a woman in spandex.

Anyway, the subject is stylish old bags. I was waiting in line to pay for my purchases and had a look around. I wish I had my camera. The very, very, very old woman at the counter to my left, paying for her dozen eggs with an American Express card, was wearing an off-white, fitted Chanel coat with a matching belt, under which could be seen her chocolate brown tights and matching short boots. She finished off the look with a Louis Vuitton bag (the one in the photo) that definitely qualifies as vintage. It was in mint condition. She was too, and must have been around 90.

Then I noticed the woman in front of me. She was also about 90, but had opted for the more casual Pacific NW chic look. She was a study in mauve, purple and periwinkle blue from head to foot. She had clearly thought about how to layer herself up for the day. She had put on a soft pink shade of lipstick and was wearing lots of eye makeup. The frames on her glasses tied together her lipstick and the mauve wool hat. She looked fabulous.

Against my will I visited the Louis Vuitton store on the Champs-Elysées while in Paris. It was under construction forever, or so it seemed, and finally opened its doors in 2005. I am guessing it cost the budget of a small Latin American government to remodel. The resulting concept store - and this should come as no surprise - is completely over-the-top, totally bling-bling. There are tons of photos on the internet, but none that quite do it justice; my camera was certainly no match for the gawdy splendor and sheer volume of the place. And it is a zoo, especially on a Saturday afternoon. Most of the masses streaming in and out are foreign tourists, and I am not going to say how I know that. Monique and I looked at the price tags and scoffed, agreeing that we would never buy anything so obnoxiously branded. Later that evening, an Australian friend who lives in Paris said the French don't buy Vuitton and would not be caught dead wearing it because it is too bling-bling vulgar. But the old lady with the Amex card probably doesn't care what the French or anyone else would think.