Nicolas Sarkozy on Twitter

Following on the rigors of the jambes en l'air-a-thon that was my Fashion Week, I've resolved to focus on more sober and serious matters with the arrival of Le Figaro this morning (and yes, I prefer reading the actual paper rather than the on-line edition). In spite of this resolve, I am confronted with the news that the Elysee is establishing a Twitter account for Nicolas Sarkozy with which le chef de l'Etat can nous tenir au courant. I can just imagine the Tweets soon to be issuing forth:

« Il me prend pour un con, celui-là ! » (This guy takes me for a *%#!)

« Il y a du monde au balcon ! » (I admire her position!)

« Va te faire foutre ! » (Isn't there somewhere else you would rather be?)

« Où sont les filles ? » (We must give women's issues their due.)

« Tu me prends la tête pour rien ! » (It's always a pleasure to discourse with you!)

I think this is a good thing and look forward to seeing where it might lead. Wouldn't it have been insightful if leaders from d'autre fois could have apprised us of their thoughts as they occurred? Imagine Twitter in the hands of George Patton, JFK or Bokassa.

I say we open Twitter accounts for Kim Jong Il and Mahmoud Ahmadinejad before it's too late.

Fashion Week in Paris

The only real consequence of Fashion Week for me is that I need to stay indoors more than is my habit (which is considerable). The last thing I need is to be seen in public by certain individuals who make a point of being larger than life. Mais, on se prend pour qui, eh ?

There is a more compelling reason, I must admit, to remaining close to the doorbell, so to speak. It is well known (at least by me) that Fashion Week brings more than an honest working man's fair share of attractive filles sympas to the neighborhood and, in my experience, sometimes the postman doesn't always ring twice (unlike Desespérée who has gone off somewhere in search of truth or her mojo to use her words). They are the models without whom Fashion Week would be an intolerable confluence of overwrought and overreaching egos that suck the oxygen out of the city leaving it to resemble a large bag filled with squirming appetites. That may be New York's chronic condition but Paris is another matter entirely, I can tell you.

And so it was I found myself last night tending the home fires and watching a DVD of L'Année dernière à Marienbad. It was one of the most amazing films I've ever watched. In every scene, the actors gave the impression of hanging about waiting for the director to remember to call "Action". The big surprise came in the middle of the second act when Vincent Price failed to make an appearance. At least one mystery was solved as I listened to the film score--I now know what became of the fellow who used to play the Wurlitzer at Dodger Stadium.

At about two in the morning, the "doorbell" started ringing and by four we had to call down for another batch of the Widow. Well done, Fashion Week!

David Letterman

Robert Joel Halderman, a producer on "48 Hours", decided that, for the rest of his life, he no longer wanted to work for a living and therefore proceeded to blackmail David Letterman for two million dollars. All I can say is that the fellow must have some money put aside because two million would fall very short of seeing me through and I would require at least that much annually with sporadic cost-of-living increases.

The second thing that struck me in all of this is that Halderman was covering his action by pretending that he was offering a (one page) screenplay for sale to Letterman. For two million dollars and there is no mention of ancillary, sequel, spin-off or merchandising rights?! Where has this man been all his life?