I’ve enjoyed writing for this magazine, but all good things must fade away and die. Or something. But don’t worry. Hopefully some other glossy mag will hire me and underpay.
see you at the soho theatre? may 25 – 30. it’s in london, cretins.
GT
June 2009
At a Paris book lunch, the fashion writer rattling on about red carpet dresses couldn’t really grab the crowd in the corner. But then they were young and sleek and local. A chatty Canadian lady with shoulder-length hair wasn’t in their radar.
During supper at George’s, atop the Pompidou Centre, I sat next to her and watched her teeth. She must have had 80. They were glowing, but not as impressively as the Eiffel Tower, which changes from still yellow to sparkly silver. It glitters, every hour, like a disco ball. Our seats were powder pink plastic. The waitress wore Versace. Can Paris get any more camp? Carrie Bradshaw wannabes inhabited every table. The food, like their male companions and their conversation, was irrelevant.
The writer told us, “It’s very important to have boundaries. I have a friend who writes about her family, and they’re angry. I mean,” She continued, “I did write about my ex husband. Twice. For the Observer. But I don’t now. I mean, I have, reluctantly, for the Times, but divorce isn’t chic. I think there’s more interesting creativity happening. Like Oscar night.”
Our bill was huge, to me. But I’m broke. I paid my portion in coins. A drunk gay sat across from me and every so often he rolled his eyes back so far the pupils almost disappeared. He’d met every name the Canadian lady dropped. She quizzed him about a designer’s mother. She was desperate for an interview. Once again the Eiffel effused.
After pissing asparagus juice, I watched my reflection in the snakeskin sink’s mirror. My eyes seemed insular. I looked lost.
Later, at a cramped, fashionless gay bar, a tiny Gaul told me George’s was for wankers.
“And this place?” I was petulant.
“Oh,” he sipped his beer bottle, which was almost bigger than his head, “I never come here.”
And yet here we were. The French are as enigmatic as addiction. And almost as coy.
“Do you speak French?” It’s the only question the French ever ask.
“No. I have a future.”
He stares. Irony isn’t his strong suit. But Parisians adore thin ties and sarcasm.
“Do you have an American flag on your lawn, like Obama?”
“I have an Obama on my lawn. And a Sarkozy in my toilet.”
I’m not even sure what that means, and actually I think Sarkozy is hot. But frankly, my boutique hotel room has one narrow bed, and I’m not sharing it with anyone who disrespects Obama. Not even with Sarkozy. Him, I’d finger in the shower.
The hotel staff is new and obviously trained by some corporate moron to be nice.
“Did you have a good evening?” I’m asked at breakfast. Their smiles are like grimaces. They grip the coffee kettle so hard that their knuckles are white. The tip I leave behind is stared at blankly, as if I’ve deposited a semen sample. I almost buy a Paris mug at Starbucks, until I notice the girl serving me has one eyebrow up. You can’t change custom. Why Americanize French service? Parisians aren’t rude. They’re passively aggressive, but that has kept their city in tact.
At Brasserie Lipp, the lighting is so bright I think it’s closing time. My food arrives quietly, the waiter is ancient and invisible and thankfully without a nametag. There’s fuss, then a profile sweeps by. She’s in black sequined trousers and sports a bright red something on her lapel. It’s Kate Moss. My two friends disagree. But I can hear her common chatter over the buzz.
She’s encased in entourage. Her female friends are younger and more beautiful, but no one cares. They flank the table like bodyguards, while Kate performs for diners. She’s quite gregarious, but then the French adore her. Her French mocks them. It’s a win/win.
She doesn’t eat. She is quite tan. I walk by the table several times. She leans forward and laughs as men come and go. They squeeze in to be close to her, only to be replaced by another designer or a different conceptual artist. She’s 35 and rich and I want to crawl inside her body and molest every person at her table.
Next morning, my bags are packed early. I would usually email my mother and give her all the details, avec photos. Once home in Hackney, I’d call and she’d ask, “Now honey, remind mom. Who’s Katie Moss?”
I miss my mother’s laugh. It’s like time isn’t passing. This I suppose is grieving. Shutters drawn, I curl up.