The view from Chang's room this morning |
Showing posts with label Le Trayas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Le Trayas. Show all posts
Sep 24, 2014
Apr 30, 2014
The Term Resurrectors of Trayas (Maud)
We met Maud in the street the other day, and she, normally a serene neighbor with a charmingly stand-offish approach to local gossip, she was all-aflutter.
"Michael," she says, "I have something for your. I've seen the light! Have you ever been a member of the Militant Grammarians of Massachusetts?"
"Yes," I say.
"And?"
"Well, I got evicted."
"By Avril Mondragon?"
"How do you know?"
"Never mind," she says, "but we're getting the band back together again. There's a new society. The Term Resurrectors of Trayas."
"The what?"
"The Term Resurrectors of Trayas. Let me explain. Or better, let me not explain. A picture says a thousand words."
(She shows me this picture:)
"Here, she says, "queer" resurrected. Queer!"
"Michael," she says, "I have something for your. I've seen the light! Have you ever been a member of the Militant Grammarians of Massachusetts?"
"Yes," I say.
"And?"
"Well, I got evicted."
"By Avril Mondragon?"
"How do you know?"
"Never mind," she says, "but we're getting the band back together again. There's a new society. The Term Resurrectors of Trayas."
"The what?"
"The Term Resurrectors of Trayas. Let me explain. Or better, let me not explain. A picture says a thousand words."
(She shows me this picture:)
"Queer" |
"Here, she says, "queer" resurrected. Queer!"
Nov 24, 2013
Sunday matinée
Nov 19, 2013
Erosion
Oct 12, 2013
It's cold outside
A tiny reptile (I think it's a salamander, not a lizard (Jacki, what's your take on this?)) on the inside of the widow pane of the bedroom, before sunrise. Real tiny, tinier than it looks on the picture, with large, bulgy peepers, eying me suspiciously as I take the shot. Coldest morning so far this autumn.
Update: I's a gecko, Jacki and Muad write in unison! (Thanks, Ladies!) And then Maud adds ominously in her email: "You're lucky, you don't have cats." It's a Hobbesian world out there, folks, even on a Sunday morning (at least higher up the hill, where Maud lives).
Oct 9, 2013
Back in the house
May 18, 2013
The view this morning
Feb 2, 2012
"Mon amour" -- Goats on the loose
We are on our morning walk, striding past Alain's house, as he stops us and asks for help. "Les chèvres." As you possibly know, Le Trayas employs goats to control the brush growth around the hill to protect us from forest fires. And the goats are on the loose again. During previous outings (using openings that wild boars had helpfully created in the fences), they had already devastated well-tended gardens, and climbed on neighbors' roofs, dislocating roof tiles and provoking costly leaks.
Fences have been mended, and electric fencing put into place two rows deep, but the goats have learned to jump over said fencing now to seek out the greener pastures on the other side.
Alain packs me into his car. We cannot see through the icy windshield. Alain divines us up the hill to meet the goats, but we survive. The goats are on the road, one step away from the no-longer-so-well-tended gardens of our neighbors. Alain brings out a plastic box with goat feed that he shakes rhythmically to attract their attention. The animals are unimpressed.
The goats are everywhere, in particular in Josie's garden, grazing on the terraced meadows below her infinity pool. Max (Annie's husband --- Annie, our neighbor, the famous cook) and I are charged to chase the goats back to where they belong, wherever that may be.
Fences have been mended, and electric fencing put into place two rows deep, but the goats have learned to jump over said fencing now to seek out the greener pastures on the other side.
Alain packs me into his car. We cannot see through the icy windshield. Alain divines us up the hill to meet the goats, but we survive. The goats are on the road, one step away from the no-longer-so-well-tended gardens of our neighbors. Alain brings out a plastic box with goat feed that he shakes rhythmically to attract their attention. The animals are unimpressed.
Goats, Alain. Note the snowy top of the Pic d'Aurelle (323 m) in the background. The yellow shadow is a blossoming Mimosa |
The goats are everywhere, in particular in Josie's garden, grazing on the terraced meadows below her infinity pool. Max (Annie's husband --- Annie, our neighbor, the famous cook) and I are charged to chase the goats back to where they belong, wherever that may be.
|
| ||||
|
|
Josie is famous for her crie de coeur, "mon amour, mon amour," which she extends to her husband Gianni when he is in sight, but Gianni is not in sight, so Josie restricts herself to friendly gestures gracefully delivered from her balcony.
We learn that the idea is to lure the goats back into their shed and lock them up there until le bureau can reach a decision on their uncertain future. This is easier said than done. Some give-and-take ensues, involving Jojo, (le réproducteur) the only male element of the herd and a necessary condition for the numerous offspring that causes the herd to seek more food on the greener side of the fence. Jojo is stubborn ("balls").
The goats are quite unwilling to enter the shed, seeking all sorts of flimsy excuses despite our well-meaning efforts. Finally, Pasha, the wonderdog, arrives on Annie's leach. The goats are quite impressed by Pasha and do what he wants. A happy ending ensues.
We learn that the idea is to lure the goats back into their shed and lock them up there until le bureau can reach a decision on their uncertain future. This is easier said than done. Some give-and-take ensues, involving Jojo, (le réproducteur) the only male element of the herd and a necessary condition for the numerous offspring that causes the herd to seek more food on the greener side of the fence. Jojo is stubborn ("balls").
|
| ||||
|
|
The goats are quite unwilling to enter the shed, seeking all sorts of flimsy excuses despite our well-meaning efforts. Finally, Pasha, the wonderdog, arrives on Annie's leach. The goats are quite impressed by Pasha and do what he wants. A happy ending ensues.
Max, rasender reporter, Alain, Annie (note the leach, Pasha in off), picture taken by Josie |
Jan 6, 2012
Ronald Searle died
Dec 19, 2011
May 10, 2010
LustralBoy
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.
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.
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.
Mar 29, 2010
The giant wave: the mysterious visit of Donna Pérignon
Saturday night. The wind howls around the house, the timber creaks, the rain beats on the windows, the sea roars below.
The doorbell rings.
On the intercom, a female voice. "Excusez-moi de vous déranger," the voice says, "je ne peu pas expliquer trop, mais je suis Donna Pérignon," (Sorry to disturb you, I can't explain too much, but I am Donna Pérignon)." "Donna?", I ask, and she replies: "Yes, Donna like in Ma-Donna, or Donna-stag, or Donna Versace, or Gianni Versace, or Giorgio Armani, or Emporio Armani, or Emperor Napoleon." I push the remote for the gate. Michelle Pfeiffer emanates from the dark.
-"You can't be Michelle Pfeiffer", I say.
-"How so?", she replies.
-"You are without your entourage."
-"Elémentaire, chèr Watson, she replies.
-"Enchanté", I say.
-"I am coming for ... ," Her voice trails off, her sentence ceases. Then, in French: "C'est urgent, mais d'abord, Pérignon."
A pause. She gazes at me through her shades---she wears shades at night, radioactive vision, cool. What can I say? "Pérignon, Pérignon" I say to Chang. Chang gives me the Marx Brothers look. "Any Pérignon left in our cellars?" I ask, kindly.
Chang has been a fan of Keeping up Appearances, the BBC tragedy, all his life. He disappears, and while I am helping Donna to undress (only the coat), a cork pops in the kitchen, and Donna takes notice, and Chang reappears with three champagne glasses, filled. "Dom Pérignon", Chang says, handing out glasses. She raises her glass. "Santé," she says. She drinks.
Chang refills her glass, artfully hiding the label on the bottle. This bottle does not look like a Pérignon bottle to me (they have a special shape), and it does not look like a Pérignon bottle to Donna. She drinks some more. "Truth to be told," she says, "a great champagne tastes differently every day. Show me your blog."
We proceed to my desk.
"La vague géant," she commands, more Brigitte Bardot than Michelle Pfeiffer now. She sits down in my Eames aluminum chair. I bring up the giant wave posts on the screen (pictured). She studies the pictures, carefully, intently. Then she gets up. I need a cigarette, she says, and proceeds to the terrace outside. There, her glass is refilled, her cigarette lit.
She returns after a cigarette length. "The blue tulips," she commands. I'll go and fetch a blue tulip. She sniffs at the blue tulip.
-"Elementaire, chèr Michael", she says, and then, "Je dois partir maintenant" (I have to leave now). She claims her coat. We refill her glass. She sniffs her tulip some more. "Il n'y a pas des secrets" she says. She posits her empty glass on the secretaire in the hall, blows kisses, makes her exit, makes more of her exit, exits, is gone.
The doorbell rings.
On the intercom, a female voice. "Excusez-moi de vous déranger," the voice says, "je ne peu pas expliquer trop, mais je suis Donna Pérignon," (Sorry to disturb you, I can't explain too much, but I am Donna Pérignon)." "Donna?", I ask, and she replies: "Yes, Donna like in Ma-Donna, or Donna-stag, or Donna Versace, or Gianni Versace, or Giorgio Armani, or Emporio Armani, or Emperor Napoleon." I push the remote for the gate. Michelle Pfeiffer emanates from the dark.
-"You can't be Michelle Pfeiffer", I say.
-"How so?", she replies.
-"You are without your entourage."
-"Elémentaire, chèr Watson, she replies.
-"Enchanté", I say.
-"I am coming for ... ," Her voice trails off, her sentence ceases. Then, in French: "C'est urgent, mais d'abord, Pérignon."
A pause. She gazes at me through her shades---she wears shades at night, radioactive vision, cool. What can I say? "Pérignon, Pérignon" I say to Chang. Chang gives me the Marx Brothers look. "Any Pérignon left in our cellars?" I ask, kindly.
Chang has been a fan of Keeping up Appearances, the BBC tragedy, all his life. He disappears, and while I am helping Donna to undress (only the coat), a cork pops in the kitchen, and Donna takes notice, and Chang reappears with three champagne glasses, filled. "Dom Pérignon", Chang says, handing out glasses. She raises her glass. "Santé," she says. She drinks.
Chang refills her glass, artfully hiding the label on the bottle. This bottle does not look like a Pérignon bottle to me (they have a special shape), and it does not look like a Pérignon bottle to Donna. She drinks some more. "Truth to be told," she says, "a great champagne tastes differently every day. Show me your blog."
We proceed to my desk.
"La vague géant," she commands, more Brigitte Bardot than Michelle Pfeiffer now. She sits down in my Eames aluminum chair. I bring up the giant wave posts on the screen (pictured). She studies the pictures, carefully, intently. Then she gets up. I need a cigarette, she says, and proceeds to the terrace outside. There, her glass is refilled, her cigarette lit.
She returns after a cigarette length. "The blue tulips," she commands. I'll go and fetch a blue tulip. She sniffs at the blue tulip.
-"Elementaire, chèr Michael", she says, and then, "Je dois partir maintenant" (I have to leave now). She claims her coat. We refill her glass. She sniffs her tulip some more. "Il n'y a pas des secrets" she says. She posits her empty glass on the secretaire in the hall, blows kisses, makes her exit, makes more of her exit, exits, is gone.
Mar 21, 2010
Hauptstadt Berlin
You may recall the days of The Wall, when West Berlin was still officially the capital of Germany ("Hauptstadt Berlin"), but the government was ruling from Bonn (the birthplace of Beethoven), and Siemens had left Siemensstadt (Berlin suburb) and decamped to Munich, where its executives were taking classes in Bavarian ac-cent. In those dark days, Berlin (West---the East, on the other side of the wall, was, in fact, the capital of the communist GDR) needed all the help it could get to stay the capital of Germany. Count Dracula's grandson would visit, or a minor relative from the Indian branch of the Windsors, the (West) Berlin press would always manage to ask them about Berlin, and they, right on cue, would always reply "It's good to be back in the Hauptstadt."
Along those lines, Jean-Marie Le Pen, the has-been inverted Islamo-faschist, has pulled the same trick on us, by putting Le Trayas on the background of his election poster for today's regional elections.
Along those lines, Jean-Marie Le Pen, the has-been inverted Islamo-faschist, has pulled the same trick on us, by putting Le Trayas on the background of his election poster for today's regional elections.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)