First of all, the drink - well rock my soakin' socks! - exists:
1oz George Dickel Tennessee Whiskey, 3/4 oz Southern Comfort, 1/4 oz lime juice, 1 oz bourbon, 4 oz lemonade, 1/2 oz Pimm's no. 1. This is fit for a writer, no?
As for the movie, must see. Must. See. This one makes it onto my all-time faves list. Douglas is stellar as a pot-smokin' professor/author with major writer's non-block who is strung out while strung along a series of strange happenstance ripe for the printed page.
Downey Jr stars as well. As a sometimes gay publicist. Too good.
First day in Paris: Jet-lagged from the ferries and planes we left behind in Greece, we are out in the rain and, of course, the cheap umbrella we buy in Montmarte folds up into a smile. Fous-toi, Paris.
Rain stops and is replaced by winds strong enough to blow you to the Thames. Yes, the Thames, NOT the Seine. Overexaggeration is key here...As we walk <and walk and walk> our way to Notre Dame - Saints alive, it looks closer on the map, is it a trick? I need another croissant! - Paris says 'Fous-toi' back. A nasty speck of something or other goes whack into Rockstar's eye. Oh, there's a cafe! Rockstar is now alternately rubbing his eye with a knuckle and pulling at his eyelid.
By the time we reach the cathedral, a croissant has been inhaled and Rockstar is blind in his left eye. Photos are quickly taken of the facade and then it's wife leading husband back to the train. Fous-toi, gargoyles.
Second day in Paris, amelioration: Rockstar swears a vestige of that 'something or other' is still at home under his eyelid. Eyeball is a dry marble in his head. But he's a good sport and we carry on, arriving early at the Louvre - there are only 15 or so people ahead of us in line. Should we go see her first? Rockstar shrugs. Ok then, it's our plan of attack. We go in just as it opens, run the gauntlet of signs that lead to her grin and soak in her presence that while so pop-culture cliche-ish is really quite remarkable. From any angle, her eyes follow you. Her eyes say to you, oui, la beaute est en toute chose.
Off the jardins de Touilleres, tower Eiffel looms in the distance. Again, much further away than expected. There it is through the trees! <click> Wait! This is a great angle, the spire looks as if it's growing out of that Edith Wharton-esque townhouse. <click> At its heavy feet, we look up into Eiffel's skeletal belly: elevators filled with tourists and restaurants too expensive to make the standing in line worthwhile. Clouds billow and blow by in constant succession. Women preen and primp and languish on steps and ledges as their amours snap their pictures. Trim gardens radiate in one direction while arabesque lamposts and fountains line up and spill over in another. I want to buy some miniature towers - at least three. Want to share a croissant with me? Cliche. Cliche. Cliche. And, it's off to more museums we go.
Merci, Paris. Perhaps next time we'll actually see you through your glittering 'something or other.'
'You expected to know to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintry light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen. When the cold rains kept on and killed the spring, it was as though a young person had died for no reason.'