Christopher Moore's Blog

First, on a light post in Auvers, France. A lost kitty poster…

On the Alexandre III bridge — the clear danger of pissing off the sculpture…

In the late 19th Century, there was a lot of public art, both in France and in England, that personified different industries. It’s like the ruling class just went, “I don’t care what it actually is, just make it look like agriculture.”

Then, there are always the national heroes:

And the institutions they founded:

You start with this, then they take one wall away until you can do it completely free form…

Meanwhile, at the Musee D’Orsay…

Ah, the single life. Here’s a painting of a some 19th century doctors getting ready to perform an autopsy, Entitled: Can’t get a Date.

And finally for today, an encore of “When Sculpture Met Opera” with improvements suggested by a reader….

Au Revoir! mon humide canards de amour. Au Revoir!

So, I visited The Pantheon, which is the place where France keeps many of it’s famous dead guys. It cost like $12 to get in, so I was really hoping for a cool animatronic display of famous dead guys, with maybe Jules Verne driving Captain Nemo’s Nautilus and Marie Antoinette getting guillotined every quarter hour or so. But no, all of the famous dead people in the Pantheon are inside of boxes or jars or both.

Here is the philosopher, Jean Jacques Rousseau, who explored the ideas of inalienable human rights, as well as inventing the aqua-lung and piloting the Calypso around the world on scuba adventures with his sons Jean Michele and Philippe.

Yes, France’s greatest philosopher (Who beat  out 2nd ranked Reneé Descarte, who said, “I think, therefore I am.”  with his famous rebuttal, “Am what?”  In his paper, “My Response to that Douche-bag Descartes.”). Each person is rated by the number of sad faces on their box, as compiled from an online pole. We can see that Rousseau has received 13 faces. We can only guess how many sad faces he might have gotten if they’d put him in here driving the Nautilus, but as a consolation, anyone in the Pantheon receiving more than ten sad faces gets a hot tub and a pool table in his box. (Not quite a cool private submarine, though, are they?)

Still, no matter how many famous dead guys in boxes you have, it doesn’t seem worth $12. But they’re like, “Monsieur, regard: We have not only dead guys, we haveFocault’s Pendulum.”

Basically, knowing that people were going to claim total “ripoff”, unless they had more stuff in the Pantheon, Foucault installed the pendulum as a machine to prove that the Earth was actually rotating. (Sure, there was other evidence for this, like the sun rise and the fact that the continents weren’t all smashing into each other, but hardly anything as mind-numbingly boring as “the pendulum.”

I know. Oooooooo–ahhhhhhhhhhh. Like you need that to fill a ginormous building so you can put your best and brightest in the basement. It’s like renting the Superdome so you’ll have a place for your hamster to run.

But they sensed there was a problem, so they added this element of suspense. Right outside of the radius of the pendulum, is a bronze cat. Now, if the Earth ever tumbles off it’s axis, anyone at the Parthenon will get the total spectacle of a bronze cat being smacked in the side of the head with a brass ball. (BASEMENT CAT IS CRUEL, LOLZ!) Oh, I can’t wait. I can’t wait. It’s like watching paint dry, but without the fun of the low grade buzz from toxic fumes.

Turns out that the Pantheon was already re-purposed for storage, because it used to be the church of St. Genevieve, who is the patron Saint of Paris because she comforted everyone after Attila the Hun raped and pillaged them in 451 A.D. There is still some evidence that it was a church, like this mosaic on the ceiling depicting “The Suspicion that Jesus Might be High.”

Next time we’ll explore some of the elements of French culture as depicted in art, like what they used to give out awards for before guys rode all over the country on bicycles for the honor of wearing a yellow spandex jersey.

1927 French National Naked Ping Pong Champion,
Sophie “I own you bitches!” Calaise

Abientot, my lubricious pomme de terres. Abientot!

You can’t throw a stick in Paris without hitting a Gothic Cathedral (which, by the way, they are totally touchy about, so if you can control yourself, don’t throw a stick while in Paris), and at each cathedral, there is an array of gargoyles, which were, back in the day, used to direct rainwater away from the stone walls.

This is how they are done. They just sit there, doing nothing, now that most cathedrals have been equipped with gutters and downspouts.

In my new, improved version, gargoyles will remain concealed in the wall of the church until someone walks by, then, spring-loaded, they will pop out of the wall and say something to freak people out, as the Church has always intended.

Which brings me to lion sculpture. Pretty much any library, park, or museum is supposed to have a lion sculpture in front of it. This is basically to keep cat people from freaking out because they’ve actually left the house. Here’s your basic, non-threatening lion sculpture.

Well, then they decided to improve the lions by adding elements to make them seem more important.

First they added children, because that just seemed like a good idea for some reason.

Then someone thought, “Know what would look good on that lion? Wings? Breasts? What? Yes, breasts…

Well, first, neither is a really good idea, but there are numerous reasons why wings are a bad idea, in addition to the chance of being hit by a bloody wildebeest haunch on the day you decide to wear your white linen suit out to the park.

Another bad side effect…

But we could ride them? Because lions love it when you sit on them!

But, as if wings on lions weren’t a bad enough idea, someone came up with this:

Then you have this kind of thing happening…

Not an improvement, that’s all I’m saying.
Next time, “Where they keep their dead guys and the worlds slowest cat toy.”

Bon Jour. Today more art from Paris,  my dusty love rodents. Come now, enjoy culture, the beauty, creepiness that is public art in Paris…

IN Jardin des Tuileries (or Garden of Tiles, which, we in the U.S. call, The Mall). This one of the many statues that depict athletics.

Our open field running rocks when we play the midget team!

Naked American Football is HUGE in France. Strangely, they use a pigeon as a ball.

Here a tiny defensive linebacker gets owned.

Hit me! I’m open!

The Job Interview:The girls were perplexed…

Where is the pole? I was told there would be a pole?

Just down the path, Marge was shocked, shocked, I tell you, at public shenanigans:

Quit acting like you don’t know what I’m talking about. You guys were  having a threesome.

On the Alexandre III Bridge (which is one of your fancier bridges anywhere):

When they told Andre that a six men had died mysteriously on the bridge,
he thought they meant that they’d drown. Sadly, no.

Okay, your basic Roman or Greek god, probably high ranking, because of his beard.
Here he’s holding what looks like a giant Sundae Cone and a broken electric guitar and is surrounded by little kids, because that was popular motif at the time.

But what IS this kid doing? And what IS that?

Seriously, WTF is that?

Ah, but a different angle reveals that there’s nothing at all weird about that picture and I have just been Rorchached into making everyone think there was.

A closer look reveals it’s mearly the innocent effigy of a kid blowing a dog.

(It’s rumored that former senator, Rick Santorum, was the model for the kid.)

Back on the Alexandre III bridge:
It’s clear that the gods and goddesses of Paris preferred the Fender Stratocaster:

“Oh Hai, my Dad was in the Cure, want to touch my guitar.”

Before television, fine art was used as a medium for marketing.

Now, a celebrity spokesperson:

Bon Jour! It is I, your tiny Emperor, Napoleon Boneparte. When I’m not building an empire, I enjoy chilling on the couch in La Snuggie. Look, I have made a little tent in here! Josephine, come join me, my darling!

Observe, while I circumsize this unsuspecting Gladiator, with the Super Scissors, from Popiel! Masseltov!

“Regard, mon amis, as I pulverize this tiny angel in one easy step, with Le Ronco, Smash-matic!

Did someone say PIZZA?!!

(insert annoying music)

VIVA, VIAGRA!

It’s his knee. See…

Strangely, though, the name of the sculpture is: “But I Really AM Happy to See You”

(Meanwhile, at the Hotel Invalides – a former hospital for disabled veterans, built in the 1600s, now a military museum.)

Nothing says, “Have a Nice Day”

Like a big-ass cannon.

Really, how bad off are you:

Pick an entrance…

Until next time, I leave you with one of France’s national heroes:

Painted as a Smurf.
(No, that’s not Photoshopped. It’s in the courtyard of the Hotel Deux. I’ll try to get a closer look today.)
Until next time:
Adieu! my murky marmots d’amour. Adieu!

Here’s some stuff that I’ve seen lately, out and about in Paris, for those of you who don’t get the Twitter feed, and some stuff that wasn’t on there.

First, if you’re on the Left Bank of the Seine, and you’re looking for a little fast Greek Food,
What Do You Want?

That’s RIGHT! When a BIG ASS GYRO isn’t enough? Also, not a bad stripper name.
Just saying.

I know you loves the French cheese, oui?
Sure, they may be behind us in some things, but they are years beyond us in Cheese.

My friends Max and Marjory, who brought this to me from South-Western France where they are from, assured me that the man is warning the woman: What ever you do, Mamon, don’t cut the cheese!”

It’s soft cheese. Jeeze.

But look, it’s not just soft, stinky cheese

— it’s digital, hi-def, soft stinky cheese,

on USB key.

By the way, “Digital Hi-Def Soft Stinky Cheese”?

Should not be your first choice for a stripper name.

Sure, digital cheese is different, but uh — well:OUCH, Am I right, ladies?
(Yes, that’s Scotch Bright)

Okay, uncomfortable, probably, but you can see yourself in the shine!

So, I’m staying near the Notre Dame cathedral, and I keep posting pictures of it, because it’s coverd with gargoyles, saints, snakes, demons, angels, sportos, motorheads, geeks, sluts, pinheads, dweebies, wonkers, richies, and teletubbies, but what I didn’t see until this time, up on the South-Eastern Roof:

Looks like a little roof surfing to me:

That right, HANG TEN JESUS!
DOOD! JESUS IS SHREDDING THE BREAK AT PONT NEUF!

But the weirdest thing I’ve seen this week, was this guy, who was sitting all by himself at the Luxemborg Gardens, in front of a chessboard, checking three cell phones.

Yes, look closely. That’s a paper mustache.
Okay, it might be performance art. In fact I hope it’s performance art. And it’s certainly not funny.
But WTF?
If he’s a criminal, including possibly a terrorist, then DUDE, A PAPER MUSTACHE!?
But what if he’s a cop, working undercover. In that case, DUDE, A PAPER MUSTACHE?

So, just in case, I filmed him. Don’t wait for a punch line. Sorry, but it’s just a guy with three cell phones and a paper mustache being really sketchy.

So

ONE DAY AT THE MUSEE D’ORSAY…

Bon Jour, my slippery pamplemousses, here, as promised, is more art from the Louvre. Today, we start with pieces from the French sculpture collection.

This, very lifelike piece is

“I’m ’bout to lick your bald head.”

Is by Pierre August Rodin, from 1891

This one, from Felix Lecompte, is from 1868, commissioned by the Royal Academie, it’s

“Look, I found this kid hanging on a Tree.”

Here’s a closer look.

Is this guy hanging the kid on the tree, or picking the kid off the tree? Is he trying to breast feed it and thinks it will be easier if the kid’s feet are tied to a branch? This is a confused sculpture. I’m confused.

We’ll never know.

Most, if not all pieces commissioned by the Académie, had to have Mythical Subjects. It was the same with the painting and the Acadamie and the Salon, which were more or less the voices of art of the time. You could paint or sculpt the most heinous or erotic stuff, but it couldn’t be real. It it had to be myth. One of the most popular motifs was Leda and the Swan, in which the God Zeus comes to Leda in the form of a swan, shags her, then she lays two eggs, from which hatch Helen and Polydeuces, (the latter named for his incredibly horrible luck at dice). Funny, you never see any paintings of Leda laying the eggs, only shagging the swan. Makes you wonder. Anyway, here’s one where it doesn’t look like Leda is going to resist that much.

Jean Thierry’s work in marble from 1714,

“Bring a Sweater, Daffy, ‘Cause I am Going to Fuck the Feathers Off of You.”

A compelling theme, don’t you think? Go ahead, say it. You know you’re thinking it.

There, that’s the release that fine art gives the soul.

Here’s one by Edme Dumont, from 1753, and it’s either Cronos or Hercules,
but the title is.

“Sigfrid, bring the stun gun!”

It’s very mysterious. The subtitle is:

“Dude, I’m serious. He’s biting my fucking Leg!”
Of course my translation may be off somewhat. It may be, “Le Dude”.

This is one of my favorite sculptures in the Louvre. Really. It’s by Francios Joeffry, from 1839, it’s a sculpture of Venus, called.

“About your Operation, I’ve Got Some Good News and Some and Some Bad News”

It would be 40 years before Degas would exhibit his sculpture of a fully-clothed dancer of the same age with the Impressionists, and it would considered an outrage, obscene, because, well, because she was real. Things were going to change in art, and it was going to be a big deal, the beginning of Modern Art, which I’ll catch you up on.

Degas “Little Dancer, Age 14” 1881 (Not in the Louvre

Hang tough. Here’s a couple other pieces that caught my eye.

In this piece from 1782, Claude MICHEL dit CLODION needed to fill a long base-relief, so he just threw in myths until the panel was filled up. It’s Venus, Cupid, Cherubs, Nymphs, all kinds of stuff. I like to call it:

LESBIAN SPANK INFERNO!
(with deference to Stephen Moffat and BBC’s Coupling – a hilarious episode, by the way, if you get a chance to see it.)
But who is this?

DUCK SLUT!
Yes, Leda again. Being a little more coy.
Like she’s going to make the swan buy her dinner this time.

But back to painting for a bit. As you’ve probably gleaned from my posts, I only know how to say about six things in French. One of them, which seemed somewhat useless, was “The Monkey is on the Table.”*

So, imagine my ecstasy, when, while coming up a wide staircase in the Louvre, I happened onto this:

Deux Singes sont sur la Table!
I stood there, middle of the staircase, pointing out to people who passed, that there were, indeed, two monkeys on the table. In perfect fucking French. Really? Would you like to discuss the monkeys? the table? perhaps the number of monkeys? You noticed that they were on the table. I felt like Sister Wendy with a refreshing breeze blowing up my habit.

But then, on the very next landing, this:

That’s right THREE! Three fucking monkeys on the motherfucking table. Or “Trois singes sur la Table,” as I pointed out to all who would listen. Several German people hurried away, even as I followed them up the stairs, pointing out the exact number of monkeys and where, exactly, they were located. (sur la table! sur le table!). Germans have a well-known fear of monkeys, so I forgave them, but how could the guards, the docents, indeed, the skinny guy with the mace and the helmet, not see the importance of such a major work of art? (Frans SNYDER, by the way, Dutch,early 17th Century.) Then they all turned, like pod art people from Invasion of the Body Snatchers, and pointed to this huge piece, which hung in the same stairwell as the various monkeys on the tables.

They might as well have served Leda a big thanksgiving roasted swan and rubbed its greasy, tumescent giblets in her hair. EVERY-FUCKING-THING was on the table. And, I didn’t know how to say any of that stuff? Hell, I didn’t even know what most of that stuff was. And it wasn’t all “sur la table” like any self-respecting monkey, it was “sous la table” it was all over the place. I hung my head and and mumbled, “Well, fuck you, smug art ninjas, cinque singes sur la table. Cinque!” With equal fluency in both languages. And I skulked away to the Starbucks in the basement of the Louvre to wallow in my own artistic inadequacy.

Sure, I could learn to say, “The evicerated eagle ray is on the table,” in French, but when is that ever going to come in handy? I’m going to have to wander the earth waiting to identify that, and it’s let’s face it, it’s not ever going to be like the monkeys. We always remember our first monkeys.

Gotta go.

Next time we’ll have a short visit from this guy, who we haven’t seen in a couple of years.

BON JOUR!

*Yes, I learned that from Eddie Izzard. Didn’t everyone?

A Note from your host, Sac Poubelle:
Today, my greasy chipmunks, we will have a visit to the Louvre, and I will have to lose my outRAGEous French accent, and along with it, my magnificent animal charm, non? I will let the pig dog Author Guy guide you through our treasures d’art. Commencé imbiceel d’livre.

The Author Guy:
As you know, the Louvre was mostly mythical, until 2005 when it was built as a set for the movie, The DaVinci Code, and Audrey Tatou was installed as the queen of France, overseeing all the French speaking world with her cheeky cuteness, or mignon de joue.

Okay, that’s not exactly and completely true. The Louvre as originally built in the 12th century as a fortress, and over the years was used as a royal palace and residence, and even after the French Revolution (1789), when the revolutionary government established the Louvre as a museum to keep French treasures (yes, including Audrey Tatou) and the French Academy of Art was established there. Until the mid 1800s, the Louvre was surrounded by a slum of lean-tos, and shacks, and even the center courtyard was a slum where poor trades people and scumbags lived. The great impressionist Renoir actually grew up in the slum in the courtyard of the Louvre and recalled teasing the palace guards as a child. Unfortunately, none of the walls or horses that he and his pals tagged have been preserved, otherwise they’d be priceless.

In the 1980s, the a two large glass pyramids were designed by I.M. Pei, and built by the Hebrews in the courtyard (as depicted in the movie The Ten Commandments, with Charlton Heston.)

The giant glass pyramid as an entrance probably seemed like a good idea at the time, but on a hot summer day, it catches sunlight coming into the courtyard and bounces it around, leaving only one small portal for all the heat and people to get out of, so it gets hot. Really hot. This is called the greenhouse effect and is exactly the same way that global warming (and intestinal gas) works, which is why you don’t find any polar bears in the Louvre (or in your butt.)

The first thing you need to know before you go to the Louvre is that it’s huge. I mean really huge. You know how Douglas Adams describes the size of the Universe in the Hitchhiker’s Guide? The Louvre is that big, except inside of a building. A couple of weeks ago the New York Times published an article about how people go to the Louvre but they don’t look at the art. That’s because they only take one day, and you can’t look at all that stuff in one day if you’re going to stop and actually  look at stuff. I’m not sure you could even jog the Louvre in one day unless you were an ultra-marathoner. So, what I’m saying is, if you like art, allow more than one day to look at the Louvre, and if you don’t like art, don’t go, because that’s sort of their specialty and you will hate it. (Unless you are friends with Audrey Tatou and you guys just want to hang out and have some coffee and croissants.)

Here a visitor to the Louvre illustrates to his girlfriend how excited he is about the Louvre. (Note her “You Wish” smile.)

I spent most of the day at the Louvre yesterday, and I didn’t see even see a quarter of the stuff, so I’ll share some highlights with you from the Ecole de Nord (Schools of the North, meaning Dutch, Flemish, and Belgian painters, for the most part) and a few from the French painters collection, which is ginormous. (The photos are from some weird angles and some are a tad fuzzy. You’re not allowed to use flash, and with some of the paintings, the varnish on the surface is so shiny that you have to shoot them at an obtuse  angle or you can’t see the image at all.)

I didn’t Photoshop this. It really is John the Baptist telling you that you can’t use flash.

It’s not really like I need to come up with a caption for this. But let’s call it, FINE TUNING, just for giggles. I swear I thought the Monty Python guys made this one up, but no. This is a portrait of Gabrielle d’Estres, (left, presumably) who was the mistress of this guy:

This is Henry IV, and the thing I love, is how he looks a little embarrassed about killing the dragon he’s standing on. Like he did it by accident. You don’t get that with a lot of royal portraits. I’m guessing from this and the painting of his mistress, that Hank had a pretty fun court.

“Oh, was that your dragon? Sorry, my bad.”

Some royals were not confident enough to show a sense of humor. Like this guy: King Louis VIII

“No, of course I am not gay, despite my outrageously gay outfit.

You can tell because this angel behind me has her breast out, which I love!”

And this painting of the  Cardinal of Granevile by

the Dutch painter Anthonis Vor van DASHORT

“I can’t believe I’m shorter than my dog.”
(The real title is,” The Cardinal de Granville with a really big Dog” which kind of says the same thing, really. Like the Cardinal went, “You’ve got to paint the dog smaller. No? Well, then tell people it’s a really big dog.” )

Now that we’re into the Dutch painters. Let’s look at some Rubens, from who we get the phrase, Rubinesce, typically referring to women who are, let us say, booty-enhanced, or shall we say, gadonkidly gifted, or as the French say, avoir la junque dans la trunque.

This one’s called, “Am I buggin’ you? How ’bout now.”

This is an interesting Rubens as well:

Clearly, not only does Rubens give props to curvalicious ladies of his day, in this one he tells us that not only will old, bald guys get to heaven, they are going to get some action as well.

An old, bald angel makes his move…

Something I’ve noticed about Rubens is that he also had the buffest Jesuses, although there weren’t any in the Louvre, they have some awesome buff Rubens’ Jesuses in Italy and Chicago.

This is Rubens’, The Resurrection of Christ, which shows an awesomely buff Jesus, especially considering he was dead just minutes ago. I think it’s obvious from this painting why Jesus is more popular than Wolverine, despite not putting out a new book in 2000 years.

(Oh, don’t roll up on me all santimonious about Jesus paintings. They weren’t really painting Jesus, they were painting the skinny guy down the street who could take the day off to model because he sold weed for a living and his hours were flexible, so just back off. I’m surprised some paintings didn’t end up with a hacky sac and a vegan girl with dreads in them.)

Think I’m kidding. Check out this anonymous painting from the Dutch School entitled, Virgin, Child and Angels. Notice anything?

No? Look again. IT’S ALL THE SAME FACE!  The artist could obviously only afford one model, so he  just had him pose as every character. You can rest assured that the angels, Mary, and Baby Jesus HisOwnSelf were pot dealers. Baby Jesus, in fact, appears to have twisted up a toothpick spliff to get him through the painting.

And what about this Jesus in the Last Supper by Dutch painter Joos van Cleve (Yes, his real name was Joos.)

Remember the teacher on Beavis and Butthead? Mossy beard in hemp pants guy? Here he is. Yes children, witness,,,,,,, the Beavis Jesus!

Here’s another one by Joos:

I call this one, “Bitch, I Don’t Think So.”

Why? Check out the detail:

“Bitch, I Don’t think So”

Well, this post is getting a little long, so I’ll report tomorrow with more painting and some sculpture. Let me leave you with this one by French scultor, Jean-Baptiste Pigalle, entitled:

“Hey, has anyone seen my tarantula?”

Adieu.

Bon Jour, le bitches, it is I, your professeur, Sac Poubelle, with some observations from the Bastille Farmers’ market, and your first French lesson.

But you say, “Mais mon ami, Sac, your French is, how you say, shit, how can you you teach us?”

You see, my little love piggies, I have been doing the writing for many years, and it is my experience that as soon as a person can string seven words together, they begin to teach creative writing, so how can French be different? Trés brilliant, no?

Commencé

First, let us look around the Market:

Even as they sell their wares, the vendors, especially the butchers, are harvesting “the crop” for the next market.

There are so many markets in Paris, that you need only shop for the day….

All around, people are arriving in their quaint and deadly cars:

And there are many places to eat around the Place Bastille:

There are many crafts and objects d’art as well as foods

And the square is dotted with pitchmen touting the latest gadget:

And customers who can’t wait to try their wares…

And vendors demonstrating the amazing effects of their products:

Now, let us look around the market and learn some useful fucking French words:

A Juggler and some fish, can you tell which is which?

Singers:

Fish:

A Dog:

The Dog is Bored

Now let’s look at some hats. See if you can guess what colors they are:

A good way to remember the word for yellow, is to think of your alcoholic uncle Eddie, who is “jaundiced”

A good way to remember the word for pink, is how rosey auntie Estelle’s cheeks were after you walked in on her in the bedroom while she was playing with her very special flashlight. In French, the word “rose”, is pronounced with several “d” sounds. Like this “rrrrdddoodddesdds”. Now you try it.

Ah, many hats. Could this be the plural word?

Remember “blanc” is white, by thinking of a blank page, and that blanche is feminine for white, by thinking of Blanche Dubois, from A Streetcar Named Desire, who was– yes, that’s right, a crazy white woman.

But what is this?

That’s right, mon petite chatons d’amor, “sans” means “no fucking hat” aux le Francais. You are so clever.

Now, let us combine some of what we have learned:

That’s right, a hat with fish. Did you feel tricked? Are you sore? Did you check for your wallet?

Let us review some colors, because I like this picture of flower pots.

I know that bleu was new to you, but here is an easy way to remember it: it’s friggin blue, pronounced bloo. Don’t be dense, chers, it is how you say? annoying. Ah, but I cannot stay angry with you.

Now, let us explore some more advanced concepts in French.
The concept of “into it”. Regard:

Can you tell which person is “into it”?

Let us try again. Can you tell which person is “totally into it”? :

If you guessed the American in the vest, you were right. The vest serves two purposes, to identify the American to pickpockets in the Metro, and to keep the thief busy checking all his pockets until he reaches his stop. It’s good manners to put a cigarette in each pocket for the thieves and beggars. Much the way you leave cookies and milk out for Santa at Christmas. This is a Christian tradition and is loved the world over. Muslims wearing similar vests, however, are often shunned on the Metro and sometimes hurt feelings result. Be a bon homme, or a mench, as they say in the Middle East: if you see them, smile and steal their shit. If they are in a burkha, it’s okay to feel around a little to see if they are wearing a vest. Just be sure to say “sil vous plait”, and “Allah Akbar”, as that is the polite thing to do, and in fact, is a good idea any time you’re feeling someone up on the Metro.

Let’s try it again. Can you tell who is into it? Very into it? And not into it all all?

If you guessed that the dick head wasn’t into it, you are absolutely correct. Perhaps he just doesn’t like juggling.

Now, mon amis, it’s smile time:

Plural?

Compare and contrast. Who is smiling?

Oh, very good, my dirty monkeys, very good. Trés bon! Now it is time for you to rest until next time. Now, put on your clothes and go home. Sac needs to smoke and, how you say, blaspheme le toute monde.

I leave you with a surprise:

Ha, not what you expected, no? That is why they call it a surprise. Save the towel, the olive oil, and the noose for next time, mon fluffy hamsters.

This is Sac Poubelle, saying, Bon Journee!

So, I think we all know from A Tale of Two Cities, that the French Revolution was the worst of times, and that it all started by the storming of the Bastille, the great medieval prison on the right bank in Paris. So I went there today, totally pumped to see the guillotine guys out steam-cleaning the blades and a woman with an enormous, scary mole, leading some filthy peasants in a chant of: “Guillotine! Guillotine!” if only for the benefit of the tourists. (Come on, we keep the cable cars running in San Francisco, and they’re not exactly the cutting edge of public transportation.)

But no, when I got to Place Bastille, what I saw was this:

And instead of forboding, rat infested prison, there was this:

I know? WTF? It turns out that the first French Revolution of 1789 didn’t take. While it was more or less inspired by the American Revolution (and the writings of Jean Jaques Rousseau, who had the audacity to write about the individual rights of man, which had also influenced Jefferson and Adams) it was different in that the people who were revolted against were in the same country as the people who were revolting, and the revolutionaries, or at least their leaders, held this thing they called The Reign of Terror.

Basically imagine this: Jefferson, Adams, Franklin, and Washington kick the bejeezes out of the British, kill all their families, then go, “Well, that went well, let’s take this newly realized power and just continue to slaughter people we disagree with.” That was the Reign of Terror, which led to a military coup, we’ll call that, oh, Napoleon Bonaparte (should be something about him on Wikipedia) who was a little full of himself. Well, stuff happened, Napoleon lost power, the royal aristocracy got power back, so the French had another revolution in 1830, this one creatively named, The July Revolution, so as not to confuse it with the first one, which, of course, also started in July, but on a totally different day. In this second revolution, they kicked out King Charles X. (No, not the ancestor of Malcome.)

This, is the famous painting by Eugene Delecroix, Liberty Leading the People, depicting the July Revolution.

Clearly, Liberty has found the way to motivate her troops.

So, the French had a couple of more revolutions, which brings us to today, when I went to the Bastille and there was a Farmer’s Market going on…

Where I found these guys:

But the main thing I found were fruits, vegetables, and people snogging in public, which is what people do in Paris. Joni Mitchell even wrote a song about it.

Everybody.

On the Right Bank of the Seine:

Park Benches are prime real estate for Public Snogging:

Sometimes it’s a glance across a crowded market:

Sometimes, even in the market itself:

It’s more or less what everyone is doing or thinking about, unless they’re smoking. Below, one of the new non-smoking sections in Paris:

And we’ll look at the rest of the market and learn some French.

Adieu!