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!