". . . that regret is an essential component of happiness."

Marquise de Merteuil: "Well, my dear.... So how are you adapting to the world outside?"
Cécile de Volanges: " Very well, I think."
Mme de Volanges: "I've advised her to watch and learn and be quiet except when spoken to."
Marquise de Merteuil: "So we must see what we can devise for your amusement."
Dangerous Liaisons (1988)

I very rarely either praise or enumerate the glories of living in the DHOSF but I thought that I would write a short piece on why I live here and its pleasures. And no, I shall not wax prolific about "oh, the wine! oh, the food! oh, the charm of it all!", although Heaven knows there is quite a bit of that, as well. No, I am not a travel writer and do not have any real desire to be one, but I am a man who is profiting quite well from a rather haphazard decision to burn down one life and build another. I left the USA because of a combination of utter ennui, dead-end syndrome and nagging legal complications that were eating away what pleasure I had left living in the glorious US of A. Add a good dollop of disgust at the out-of-control circus of American politics and a firm belief that it was going to get far, far worse (in which I have been vindicated, I believe) before my very eyes and, voilà! selling off my life at garage-sale prices and launching myself into the void seemed a reasonable, nay, even desirable alternative. It must be said that I had the advantage of having done "the dirty deed" before, so the launch provided no primal fears, just secondary ones that I was doing it again and at my age. But what the hell, live or die, it is the journey that counts, n'est-ce pas?

I ended up in Montpellier quite by serendipity, Avignon having been the plan. Upon arrival in Paris, however, my avignonais friend, who had not really believed that I was going to go through with my plan, after expressing his shocked delight, advised me to try Montpellier if I insisted on the south of France, as Avignon was seriously moribund and dreadful in the extreme for most of the year outside its summer festival. Making the story short, I relocated here to Montpellier. And yes, my friend was right, it was a much better choice. I rented a studio and started my life; within three months I had met my future wife, had changed apartments (to hers), and really began my new life without any serious backward glances. One year after that, I was married (civilly) and another year after that, married again (religiously). Lest you find that weird, the civil marriage is the one that legally counts, but you may believe me that in the French heart it is still the religious one that locks it in, lay society though they claim to be. Yes, we may divorce someday, but what matter once we were married in the church? No real import whatsoever.

Vicomte de Valmont: "You see, I have no intention of breaking down her prejudices. I want her to believe in God and virtue and the sanctity of marriage . . . and still not be able to stop herself. I want the excitement of watching her betray everything that's most important to her. Surely you understand that. I thought "betrayal" was your favourite word.
Marquise de Merteuil: "No, no . . . 'cruelty.' I always think that has a nobler ring to it."

Which brings me to the primary reason that I remain and why I am deeply content to live here: my wife. She makes my life an easy one in so many ways. We both waited an abnormal amount of time to try marriage, and it has paid off in Louis d'or for both of us. My wife has had a fabulous life from which I profit everyday; she is a glittering golden bird of goodwill and generosity and her experiences enrich our life together in unusual ways. Born at the beginning of, well, an "encompassing war", Suzanne (that is not her name, but keeping to a policy of relative anonymity, let's call her that, shall we?) was immediately drafted into the Resistance. Her stroller would often be left strategically placed near an enemy stronghold or point of passage and it was her job to kill the assigned target or place the dynamite in the intended cache. She completed over forty missions during a period of 4 & 1/2 years and was never apprehended; after all, what straight-thinking enemy officer would even dream that the infant in the carriage was an agent provocateur? Suzanne inherited her talent naturally, as her mother, Lucie Fevrier, the famous French silent film star, smuggled Jewish children out of France as well as being the "control" for the group of which her infant daughter was the "point man." After the war, she completed her studies in philosophy and education (yes, she was a precocious child). Looking for opportunity in post-war ravaged France, she borrowed a bit of money and opened a small factory to produce des coings glacés (candied quince - Cydonia vulgaris), which became all the rage in the 1950s. Forswearing marriage for personal reasons, she embarked on a subdued but adventurous life as a successful businesswoman and lively spirit in discreet circles. Ever attentive to the need for economy but style in her private life, she often refashioned clothes from her mother's trunks of cinema memorabilia and succeeded in reintroducing a bit of glamour into an otherwise drab and monotone après-guerre country. Soon, however, life was marked by another tragedy, losing her mother Lucie due to a never-explained accident involving a speeding sports car, a new ensemble from the House of Chanel and three brawny, very young and very naked construction workers. Grief worked its sad magic and Suzanne closed her factory and spent several years in retreat and contemplation in a convent of the Poor Claires. An indomitable spirit, however, can never hide its light under a bushel for long and she returned to public life in a new incarnation, that of the headmistress of a strict and very exclusive girls' school located high in the mountains of the Cevennes. She spent many lovely years there, directing the girls and staff with a firm but loving wisdom, an iron fist in a velvet glove, as the French say. Retiring at an early age, Suzanne finally made peace with her memories, including a young Greek who had amused her greatly during the coing years but who turned perfidious, sullen and greedy faced with such an overwhelming avatar of beauty, talent, and experience, not to mention the money. He ran with the jewels and the bank accounts and Suzanne had never forgiven the betrayal. If she says so, but to tell the truth, I know she had forgiven him, although her pride was loathe to actually admit he meant so little and as for his ill-gotten gains, bah! there are always more jewels and more money. Several gentle years passed while she raised rare orchids and designed Aubusson tapestries at her country mas, then one fateful October day in 2003 we met at the Café Riche here in Montpellier . . . and that is how our story began.

Marquise de Merteuil: "When I came out into society, I already knew that the role I was condemned to, namely, to keep quiet and do what I was told, gave me the perfect opportunity to listen and observe. Not to what people told me, which naturally was of no interest, but to whatever it was they were trying to hide. I practised detachment. I learnt how to look cheerful while under the table I stuck a fork into the back of my hand. I became a virtuoso of deceit. It wasn't pleasure I was after, it was knowledge. I consulted the strictest moralist to learn how to appear. Philosophers, to find out what to think. And novelists, to see what I could get away with. And in the end I distilled everything to one wonderfully simple principle... ...win or die.

Another reason I remain is the place. This is a wonderful, marvelous place to live, but as an American you have to have your sh*t together to live an expatriate life, even here in France. For pictures of the city, check the links in the column at left, for tourist itineraries consult a tourist guide, but for the reality you have to visit Montpellier and Languedoc-Roussillon. I can honestly say it is one of the most beautiful small cities in France and has to be seen and visited to believe and appreciate. I shall repeat the photo link from the left column because it does give a decent idea of the striking loveliness of the city as well as its extreme diversity. I must admit, however, that when friends visit from the USA we/they mostly spend time in l'Ecusson, the old city in the center of Montpellier. It isn't simply a shopping mall and some drab, untended park, (http://www.visualtravelguide.com/medium/France-Montpellier.html) either, but a lively and busy center of life for all of Montpellier and those of us privileged to actually live in the heart are very fortunate indeed. Montpellier is an university town (which is an extreme understatement - 'google' the University of Montpellier, especially the School of Medicine; you may be startlingly surprised), which means that the population is wildly diverse, often itinerant and occasionally very amusing. They are not, however, frosty like Parisians, nor bellicose like Marseillais, but deeply provençal with a heavy dose of exoticism from the Maghreb.

And then there is the "oh, the wine! oh, the food! oh, the charm of it all!" which is, of course, true, but there are a thousand better ways to read and/or experience those than my simply telling you about them. So, once again I shall keep this relatively short, which gives me a bit of time to hone my uxoriousness (such as it is). Until the next,
Leducdor

" . . . not unless you're trying to be twenty-five."

Joe Gillis: "You're Norma Desmond. You used to be in silent pictures. You used to be big."
Norma: "I *am* big. It's the *pictures* that got small." Sunset Boulevard (1950)

Excuse my absence, but I needed to be down for a few weeks to reestablish myself in my own skin and fully integrate myself into my autumnal mode, which I have neglected shamefully until nearly too late. September was long and lovely here in the south of France and October has been absolutely spectacular. I am back, however, to take up my quill, to regale myself (if no one else) with my slanted observations on a world gone rude. That last phrase has a long history: "*** gone rude". Many subjective centuries ago I discovered an inexpensive line of summer wear that was all labeled, 'Dog Gone Rude", complete with a variety of cartoon illustrations on each article showing a dog in some state/activity of 'rudeness'. The clothes were extremely comfortable, very inexpensive and, at the time, the conceit of the 'dog gone rude' imagery amused me. The clothes have long since disappeared, from both my wardrobe and store shelves, of course, but the phrase has remained active in my vocabulary. I began using it to describe a select few of my male friends who exhibited 'dog gone rude' qualities (which are highly amusing and desirable but "misunderstood" by the world at large). In my jargon, it is a high compliment; no one receives better than that, until and unless the day arrives when StopMyBreath sweeps down out of the sky, rescues me from an impossible situation, wants to have sizzling-hot sex and then disappear so as not to complicate things, i.e. my marriage. That being highly unlikely, I reserve "dog gone rude" and "good dog gone rude" for men I like, respect, and whose friendship I enjoy. As of this date, there are only two: a lawyer in Miami and a dear friend in Avignon (there is a third, but as he teaches at a medieval Jesuit prep school in Ohio [think rum, sodomy & the lash], he has to hide his rudeness, which defeats the point, n'est-ce pas?). Others have come and gone, but these two remain (+1), as faithful in their friendship as they are in their rudeness. "Ya haf to luv 'em," or at least I do.

I have no use for whiners, none. I watched 'The Lord of the Rings' again recently and was struck by how much I instinctively dislike the character of Frodo. I should add that I do not remember disliking him in the book, so perhaps it is just that moppet Elijah Wood that I dislike (or the director's take on Frodo). Always whining, always assuming a superiority he does not possess, and when in trouble, screaming for help from real men (other hobbits, elves, dwarves, sorcerers & humans) because, "oh, woe is me, I'm just too overwhelmed to deal with it and you owe me anyway". What a maroon, as Bugs would say. Quit screaming like a little girl and kill that orc, as I would say. Useless, absolutely useless to everyone on the team, including himself, so that if it wasn't for the ring he would be considered dead baggage to be dumped at the first opportunity. Other than this terrible casting (?) flaw, the extended-version (DVDs) of the three films is breathtaking and seems like a different, better movie.

You may not have noticed, but speaking of Bugs Bunny, I read in the news that Tasmanian devils are on the edge of extinction because of a facial cancer their immune systems can no longer combat. I can only speak for myself, but the "Taz" was always one of my favorite Looney Toons characters, a true 'good dog gone rude' for whom I had immense affection. I hope the real ones survive, it would be yet another shameful mark on our record of stewardship (which is solid black now, anyway) of this planet. Which, of course, brings up Al Gore, Jr. Yeah for him, I say. Oscars, Emmy & now a Nobel Peace prize: the guy is on a roll, I hope he continues. I see that all the pundits and an unsurprisingly influential group of people are pressing him to run again for President; my question is, why? The entire world knows he was robbed in broad daylight in 2000, pouted a bit, but got back on the horse and does what he thinks he needs to do. As my (rude) father used to tell my (very competitive, professional athlete) sister, "pull up your pantyhose and get tough, girl." Gore has now been publicly beatified as few are, so can anyone tell me why he would want to demote himself to president when, as a private (but very public) citizen he can concentrate on that which he wishes to change? He is also one of the very rich, another reason to keep an iota of his personal privacy.The point being, why go back when you can continue to go forward?

Here in the DHOSF, no one has remarked much on either the doomed Tasmanian animals or Al Gore, Jr. Lately it has been the rugby world cup which dominates interest here, along with the usual string of not-so-usual crimes that make "la Une". Sarkozy pisses off Putin (of course, everyone pisses off Putin), "surprisesurprise" the mobile telephone companies are vicious, amoral vampires, a woman kills her 7-yr old daughter by throwing her out of a very high window to prevent her soon-to-be ex-husband from taking her (the child, he managed to rescue another child 9 yrs old) to Morocco, Prince Harry is snapped sniffing vodka in Morocco (a fad among the young, it seems - the alcohol enters the brain directly- what, it isn't quick enough?), etc. Dispiriting, to say the least. I note that the Vatican has rehabilitated the Templars, for God's sake. The Templars! 700 years late, but by my holy triple tiara, the Vatican finally arrives, eh? What with one thing or another, I can only hope Satan has rebuilt a large section of one of his inner circles as a mock-up of Vatican City for those princes of the church so out of touch they concern themselves with rehabilitating a medieval military order, canonizing any miraculous tortilla maker in Latin America and ignoring the last two centuries. Jesus wept.

In the last year, I have been ordained a minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanism, awarded a doctorate in Demonology and Exorcism from Landover Baptist University, checked on the status of my real estate holdings on the Moon, etc., by grace, of course, of the Internet. What a wonderful toy, as even this blog attests, and it amuses me to collect these rare and wonderful orchids of total tomfoolery and far-fetched folly. Just remember, please, it (the Internet) is only us, after all, en masse, and thus gifted with neither omniscience, discernment nor common sense. Call it a group holding fantasy, if you like. I enjoy it immensely but it is not real life and never will be, despite all the virtual reality prophets out there. My mother trusted the Internet, and look what happened to her (see picture in column at left), poor thing, she thought technology was the answer. After all, it had provided diet pills (pure methamphetamine) and "hallelujah!" hysterectomies in the '60s, had it not? However, I must admit that Devi (I must finally admit that Devi, as seen in the photo at left as my "girlfriend", is the same woman pictured as my fourth wife. Yes, she likes different looks from time to time, but her thirst for precious jewels always remains the same) found a wonderful clinic in Switzerland (on the Internet), chose her new look, and voilà the results (at right). I can live with it, it is far from displeasing (a friend in the USA told me "this is exactly how I picture her after hearing her voice"), so I decided, "oh hell, why not?" and went myself. I took my old Hollywood poster of Errol Flynn in "The Adventures of Robin Hood" and said, "Look, I know I am older, and hardly the ideal starting place, but get as close as you can, I will be satisfied." Here is how I came back, but they had to remove my penis to provide enough tissue and blood vessels for the new chin and facial structure. Win some, lose some.

Creeping up on my absolutely favorite holiday, Halloween, I wish everyone jolly rogering, ectoplasmic ecstasy and ghostly good times. If you do not get the joke in that line, you are officially hopeless. Until the next,
Leducdor