France in Your Pants
France Drops Its Pants
If Carla Bruni can’t wear pants or burqas or bijoux, what’s to become of the common (wo)man, the proles, Jo(sephine) Blow, le petit peuple ? The next time we’re groggily standing in front of our closets, how will we resolve that life-altering question: What am I going to wear?
France In Their Shorts
I still don’t know who I’m putting my money on, but it may well be Brazil. Especially if those cute, wiggly, tight-butted Brazilians take my advice. And they should – I am a serious sports strategist/analyst/fashion consultant after all. They should really consider the whole short-shorts thing.
Liberté, Fraternité . . . Solidarité (Jews Need Not Apply)
To speak of grocery-shopping in Paris, we must speak of war. To speak of war, I’d like to propose the Parisian grocery store.
Francifully Yours…
We receive numerous inquiries about our coverage of Paris . . . some fanciful, some France-i-ful . . . bref, it seems that everyone, everywhere, has a little France in their pants! And they want to know more!! Much more!
There’s Something About Serge
Gainsbourg: vie héroïque begins at the beginning but doesn’t end exactly at The End.
I’ve Fallen In Love With A Dead Man
A certain journalist had intended, for all intents and purposes, to compose a resolution-related entry. But then she fell in love, and you know how all hell breaks loose when one does that. She fell in love! With a dead man.
I was a Parisian Waitress
When it came to uncorking wine she was, properly put; purely and positively proper. Last night’s cork ripping in half probably signified something, something significant, something tragic, something dark and ugly and bleak.
Paris Tiltin’: Vodka, Olives & Love on the Rocks
Olives – green, unpitted – are all that’s in the fridge. The vodka – chilled, spiced, Polish, Zubrowka – was in the freezer. Both constituted sustenance for the last 16 hours: the former as nutritional nourishment; the latter as an antidote to a hangover
Extra! Extra! Lumberjacks Invade Paris!
It all started with Louis Garrel. In all of his French actor-inspired glory… wearing a lumberjack coat. A lumberjack coat! On Louis! It was all very upsetting. There had to be an explanation – it was an art film, after all.
The Prettiest Painter in Paris
Julián, if you’re reading this? Besame mucho. Or, well, don’t. It’s your choice. I mean, it’s not like I was really asking you to. I mean, you could if you wanted to, but it’s not like I just put in a formal request or anything.
