May 16, 2010


"Voltaire is a village in Switzerland," the Dutch Crown Prince Willem-Alexander once helpfully explained to his fiancéeeee, the lovely Maxima, and to the amusement of the Dutch chattering classes.

The proud burghers of Ferney-Voltaire, a lovely town on the border between France and Switzerland---located right above the CERN quantum ring where brilliant scientists (that we know personally) will soon create vicious Black Holes---the proud burghers of Ferney-Voltaire, not amused by the Dutch bien-pensants thinking, and furthermore used to name changes anyhow, re-christianed their town "Willem-Voltaire" on the spot.

More recently, Willem proclaimed helpfully to his lovely wife: "Allah is great" (Educational Content: unlike other members of their family, Willem and Maxima are happily married now). The proud burghers of Willem-Voltaire took the hint, and opened a new minaret on the central square of their lovely town, this in defiance of a national referendum against such architecture.

May 11, 2010

Jacky, the African Prince, de Lempicka, steet fighting, and the washed-up scriptwriter

Jacky, the other famous film producer, left the hill and returned to Hollywood, but on the way back she dropped by at Buckingham palace, where the African Prince (remember?) suggested a look at our blog---this was after he suggested to Jacky to change into a checkered kilt, which she gracefully declined.

De Lempicka on our blog, however, meant immediate inspiration.

The picture on this wall is possibly real (as real Jacky is herself---she also owns a large farm and raises sheep in Devonshire), and the more I look at it, the more I think that the Monaco de Lempickas were possibly not.

We hear from Jacky via email, and tell her about the desperate fate of the washed-up scriptwriter. No problem, she is producing action movies herself now (trailer below); she'll have a look at his work.

A sample script is posted at the page Feature script: "Justice" at the top.

Washed-up scriptwriter (reposted)

While we were strolling on the Croisette in Cannes the other day, a man approached us right in front of Hotel Martinez, a huge stack of manuscripts in his hands.

"Allow me to introduce myself", he said. "I am a washed-up scriptwriter, and I have been following your blog for quite some time. I am writing political satires framed as action comedies---think Lethal Weapon meets Dr. Strangelove---but I cannot find an agent, let alone a studio that would produce my work. I am at the end of the rope, I cannot carry on. I need your help."  

The washed-up scripwriter, after he handed his stack to us

Then he handed me his stack of manuscripts and continued:
"Here is my work; do what you need to do to get it into the Krug-lights."
"Get it into the Kruglights"---I was weighing his words---"perhaps you would have more success if you were to use better metaphors."
"It's too late now." he replied. "Promise you'll do what's necessary."  With those words he turned around (pictured), ran up to the jetty of the Martinez hotel (pictured), and jumped into the water (not pictured).

"Cool", I thought. Well, there we are. I sort of promised, and a blogger has to do what a blogger has to do. Here is an excerpt from his first script, titled "Promises and Consequences". Judge yourself (I refrained from any editorial input; agents, directors, whoever is out there, take note):

May 10, 2010


We had met him the day before at dinner with Cliona, our neighbor, and Yael, a friend of Cliona. We are all invited over for drinks at his place and will have dinner later at l'Air du Temps, which is halfway between his house and the mansion of Pierre Cardin on the water.

Clockwise: Michael, Pierre Cardin's place, Michael's place, outside, with Yael and Chang

Michael ran a few advertising agencies and is now in charge of his own brand-positioning shop, London, Sydney, the works. The pacific rim is indispensable. The living room is pictured below, including Cliona.

mezzanine candelabra in the kitchen

The place was a bergière. The shepherd would sleep on the mezzanine, and the sheep would sleep below. The fire place is new. The house is not as old as you think. It was built in 1942.

Michael is asked about brand positioning. It's about trends, preferences, worldwide, he replies. His left brain works and his right brain works, that's important. He gets a lot of vibes from Facebook and other internet sites. Trends, preferences, people are young.

His lovers are young, too. While we are taking in the view of Cannes, he relates the story of Yomin, this guy whom he met on the internet, 17.99 years old. The next day they would meet physically,  and Yomin's birthday wish would come true, and his virginity would be gone.

Michael knows about straight life, too. At university, he had been president of the historic society, the student's newspaper, and the nightclub. You meet people. He bedded at least 15 straight men, utterly straight men. I ask whether I can relate this on FF. Sure. Should I use a pseudonym for him. Why? 

Together with his present boyfriend, he runs an internet site, Lustralboy; have a look.

À propos internet: while dating on the internet, one of Michael's friends, a raving queen, finds his own picture used by another guy.

May 6, 2010

May 4, 2010

Back from the races

The 7ème grand prix historique of Monaco is still on, while I am introduced to Alastair, the master of the black holes. Yes, he is a computer scientist at CERN, where the new quantum ring (located conveniently under the town of Willem-Voltaire that erected a minaret recently in the honor of Prince Willem’s sexlife)...where the new quantum ring was built to make newer and better particles.

black hole

The problem is, some of these buggers might coalesce to form black holes---BLACK HOLES---ultra-dense objects that exert a merciless gravitational grip on their environment and could, once created, swallow up the planet in a nick of time. Alastair keeps his cool. "Don’t worry," he shouts across the sound barrier of the vintage cars below, "cosmic rays would long since have created similar black holes,"---the implication being that the holes would long since have swallowed the planet. That’s a comforting thought, and I tell everybody.

Ann-Carole in the middle
Rasender reporter

The glasses are filled again, and we dance to the sound of the vintage decibels to celebrate our new friends, the counterfactual cosmic rays.

Terry and Josie, another neighbor

May 2, 2010

De Lempicka in Monaco

We are still watching the 7ème grand prix historique of Monaco. (Click here for the first part of the story). The champagne flows, more up here than down below on the decks of the superyachts. Is this a good or a bad sign?

I suddenly realize (it must be the alcohol) that two suspiciously small paintings of Tamara de Lempicka, the art deco painter, adorn the room. I try to get the message across, but nobody is interested. Tamara had a run of auction records with paintings selling above US$ 7 million recently, much to the dismay of M&’s favorite art critic, Souren Melikian, who never fails to mention “Edelkitsch” in her presence. The paintings here on the wall should be worth millions, I tell the other guests. Still, nobody is interested. One, out of sheer politeness, mentions that one should never insure in France, what with those leaks at the assurances.

Are these de Lempickas real? One is signed, one is not. Closeup, they look suspiciously flat, as if printed. But they do raise interesting questions, like, “where is the kitchen,” and “is this the right or the left bosom?”

The 7ème grand prix historique race continues with a parade of vintage models, while an alien spaceship lands effortlessly on the shining Mediterranean outside, and then transmogrifies into the super cruiser, The World, the home of homeless billionaires.

No, I stand corrrected. It's not The World, it's just some minor cruiser of the Holland America Line, a hopeless outfit for the toiling masses.

Stay tuned. The story continues here.

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