Upwardly Mobile Blog

ack in September 2002, when I started blogging with a little company called Blogger, they were a booming, but still fairly small outfit. A few months later, they were bought by Google, and a few months after that, I stopped blogging when I met the Princess in August 2003. Only to return to it with Ban Sidhe in November 2004, mostly as a diary. Boring stuff. Then something happened. January 2005, Ban Sidhe went on the air. Or rather, I suddenly realized YOU were out there, reading this stuff, and I started to write for you. Because I like the challenge of coming up with something interesting everyday. Because I like the attention, the variety, the emulation, the little strategies and victories and disappointments of this little war we wage for the attentions of ten, twenty, fifty, two hundred people... Because it's fun. Because once you start, you can't stop. Because I'm addicted, ok? I don't want to think about stopping. Don't want to think about how far I'd go for a good post. Don't want to think about how much time blogging takes up in my life. Don't want to think about anything but my next post, and the one after that, and what comments I'm going to get from YOU. Yes, I blog for the comments. I want to meet other MetroStoics, and exchange witty, insightful, slightly detached comments and posts about life, the universe and what color socks to wear. I want a comment counter that goes up as fast as the visit counter. Faster! Ok, I blog for the stats. And much as I love you, Blogger, much as we go back a long way, I'm going to leave you. I'm going to get a domain name, a hoster, install WordPress and pay my 60 bucks a year. Because you're keeping my readers from leaving me deep, cogent mots d'esprit. Because I deserve a favicon, damn it! Because I'm worth it.

"You're Still a Hobby..."

I'm a slow thinker. Not dumb, not unoriginal, I've even been known to hatch a few good ideas in my time... But sometimes, you have to hit me with a brick to make me see the obvious. Like the fact that I've been working on nothing but being with my Princess for eighteen months. Or the fact that I was taking a risk on a big, soul-less corporation when I should have been taking one on us. Or better still, the fact that I was selling my soul when I could have been offering my heart. After only minimal applications of the brick, last nite I came to my senses and asked the Princess if she would marry me. On Instant Messenger, because, well, that's our song, you know. I'm happy to report that she said yes. But she warned me that until I was her hubby, I was still just a hobby :D Wise girl...

There's No Good Way To Say This...

... so I didn't ... because men are cowards :

Dancer : whats going on with stephan? Dancer : hes not answering any messages Dancer : we were suppose to see each other on sat and he never called or answered and he still isnt Mathieu : well, he's been pretty depressed lately Mathieu : couldn't get him out of his flat on sunday Mathieu : which medium you using? Mathieu : IM, phone, SMS, email? Dancer : all, everything! Dancer : i tries msn, sms, phone, internet... Mathieu : hummm Mathieu : give him a few days, then Mathieu : he must know you're trying to reach him, but he's really down Dancer : i guess Mathieu : have you heard of the Cave Theory of male mgt? Dancer : no Mathieu : it states that men need to retreat to a little cave and be left alone with no talking or verbalizing for a while, every so often Dancer : oh yeah, hearde of that Mathieu : this is linked to actual scientific evidence of a difference in the way our brains function Dancer : i read that Mathieu : female brains activate both the emotional centers of the reptilian brain AND the higher, linguistic functions of the cortex when they deal with emotions Mathieu : male brains only the reptilian part Mathieu : hence they are less inclined to analyze or talk about their emotions than women Mathieu : he's been hurt badly, he needs to live with his reptilian brain for a while Mathieu : do male bonding stuff like sports, drinking... Dancer : its def not still about C, but he needs to get out, its not gonna do any good. but ill leave him alone, ill stop trying to reach him Mathieu : at least a couple days, yes Mathieu : he knows you were trying to reach him Mathieu : I'm sure he'll call you when he comes out of the cave

The deception works only because Dancer, altho she expresses an interest in Stephan and his well-being, has still not bookmarked his blog, and thus has no way to know what he did this weekend. I'd be even more surprised if she read this. Should I turn out to be wrong, Dancer, know that he should be calling you soon. UPDATE : Dancer has read his blog, and this post. I understand they've talked, but Stephan isn't out of the cave yet... and the only heart-to-heart he's going to have is with his blog. Not fair, certainly, but those are the breaks.

Near Sighted

Blogging is a near-sighted illusion of celebrity. Walking in the streets of Paris, I'm constantly surprised that no-one comes up to me to ask if I'm Mathieu from that blog. Worse, I'm expecting them to ask me if the Count actually exists, or how to pronounce Ban Sidhe or Syvwlch without any need to verify my identity. Since I've recently taken steps to correct my optical near-sightedness, and the blurry faces of strangers are suddenly sharply detailed individuals, I'm now acutely aware of any glances, stares, and frank appraisals that come my way. Seeing as Chaton lives in the gay quarter of Paris, this isn't limited to women, either. Bref, I'm wallowing in egocentricity. Better that than self-pity. Cut to discussion of Bouffon's literally underground film with his number one fan, drinking Singha beer over glass noodle soup at the Mai Thai, served by a genuine Katoi, listening to the soothing liquid sounds of Thai babble from the kitchen... We were speaking in our usual hash of French and East-Coast English of the plans for a visit in Thailand around May and I was trying not to be too obvious stealing glances at a pretty, older brunette one table over, volleying a NYC accent across the table with a (slightly) older woman. Which latter woman suddenly struck up a conversation with us. Busted. Mother visiting daughter and grandkids who live in France, it turned out, and daughter married to a Frenchman and working nearby in a model agency. A wealth of conversational options opened up between recommending our international high school (which she knew of and approved) and name dropping around Greg's brief modeling career (she didn't look impressed at all), and dryed up just as quickly. We wished them a pleasant afternoon, and left the building. Ten steps down the sidewalk it strikes me. I bet she blogs! I bet she knows Coquette or somesuch... and we didn't ask. Flashback to last face-to-face with Step... Yes, definitely need some personal cards with our blog addresses on them. Because I can just see myself handing one over and asking : "Do you Blog?" And someday, somewhere, somebody exclaiming, holding the little bit of stiff paper in both hands : "Oh, you're THAT Mathieu!"

Em(ask)ulation

brrrrring ... brrrrring ... brrrClick! (heartbeat) "Why hello, Mathieu!" "Hi, Mephisto..." "... so, er, haya these days?" "Hum, well, Meph, that's why I called..." "Yessss?" "... ya know dat job I was so proud to have found widdout yer 'help', at the Old Man's US ops?" "Yeees, I was sooo happy for you!" "Yeah, thx, Meph... Listen, I'm back on that "Job" thing you and the Old Man have going." "Oh? Well, you know we'd luuuuuuv to have you in this operation." "Yes, you've made it clear you love to poach from yer ex-employer's flock." "Now, now, Mathieu, that may be true, but you have ... skills that go unused in that place. We'd have a use for them here, Believe Me." "Here's my price : a green card, office in NYC or nearby NJ, and no working with the Count." "Done, I'll have my legions of undead lawyers draft something and kick off the red tape. When can you start?" "Yesterday." "Hum... Let's say 1st of May. La Fête du Travail, eh?" "Whatever, Meph. I'll be expecting your draft." "Keep your phone on, ducky Mine."

Emulation

Mathieu : Loved your comment on MetroStoicism... Mathieu : "Blogging is the opium of the bourgoisie!", Step is gonna love it! Le Serpent : he'll be so pissed off for not coming up with it Mathieu : LOL Mathieu : yes, that too Mathieu : but he sublimates that anger so well Mathieu : look at us, now Mathieu : all this emulation between us is creating some mean posting Le Serpent : well he creates emulation, I guess.... but is he up to the challenge? Mathieu : of course, in my pose as the star-crossed lover and tragic hero Mathieu : I'm hard to beat, these days Mathieu : plus I'm ahead in the html wars Le Serpent : yeah man Le Serpent : you just turned Santa Barbara on our asses Mathieu : LOL Le Serpent : that's hard to beat. seeing only women blog. Mathieu : and gays... Mathieu : don't forget the gays Le Serpent : and metrosexual losers Mathieu : LOL Mathieu : ayeeee, a hit, a palpable hit Le Serpent : look at the bright side, who would of thought the orange sweater clad booboo could one day be hit by a scud with "metrosexual" on it?

Slightly Used

Saturday dawned sunny and warm again, and I was all set to load up the iPod with some music, and mope in a park pretending to read a book, when Chaton suggested we drive to the Normandy coast to soak up the rays on the pebble beaches at the feet of the famous cliffs of Etretat. Sun played hide and seek on the road, but burst over the Normandy bridge to fill the humming Lexus with golden warmth thru the open sunroof and stuck with us the last few miles to shine upon the beaches. We shot pictures of each other, of the sea, the sun, the cliffs, drank latte and hot chocolate when the wind blew in and made phone calls. I have so many friends to call about the apocalypse. To laugh and lie and wear a red shirt so the troups can't see me bleed and oh, I'm sure I'll find something and it's only a temporary setback and we just need to wait and be patient and sure we're patient, the Princess and I, when all I want to do is scream at the gulls in the sky that I have had my fill of waiting, that I want to kill someone in HR. I'm lost at sea. Ok, wine and cheese party, and let's invite the Kat, she always has great Rieslings, and oh, can I call you back? I need to call the Count and see if he's in the market for a slightly used soul. Cheap. One (1) Green Card.

What a Difference a Day Makes...

Yesterday, the sun was shining on Paris and Step was skipping class to walk around Paris with me. We had plans, and the patience to wait them for them to bear fruit. Not that we happy about the situation, or free from boredom, but there was a sense that we were going where we wanted to be, no matter how slowly. Soon, we were going to break out onto a new plateau of happiness and fulfilment for a price slightly less than our souls. What better deal than that? We visited a photography museum, and the fact that I wasn't a photographer didn't rankle, because I had something in return for selling out my artistic side. A career. A Princess. Had time to grab pictures of cute asian boys for Greg because there's little I can do from here to make him happy where he is. Had time to admire the tatoo on a Yakuza portrait, and call up Chaton to see if he'd join us before the exhibits closed for the day, and off we were to another museum, to see psykedelic posters from LA&SF. Frankly, we were a little tired by then, but it was a good feeling... They had videos playing, and it was a little like bumming at home, but with less guilt, and no b33r. Not that we didn't feel the lack of direction and purpose in our lives, made plain in the long hours, and days, we'd spent together lately, on-line or off. We decided to go for a last drink before we split up, and the sky was a deep, serene blue. No thunder, no boiling clouds, no rain of blood or tears. No sign of the Apocalypse.

PS :

Ashes in My Mouth

I have lost my job in the US, before I even started it, and lost my chance to be with my Princess in the foreseeable future. Words fail me, and those already uttered are like ashes in my mouth, coming back to haunt me. Excuse me while I go do something stupid.

The Ascetics of Metropolitan Stoicism

MetroStoics practice the ancient arts of the Askesis via blogging. As in buddhism, these spiritual exercises kept the Ancients free of pain and suffering by teaching them not to be ruled by emotions or desire. MetroStoics blog to be free of pain. To be free of pain, one must be free of desire. MetroStoics do not desire hits or links, but only to practice the Askesis within the bLogos, the animating principle of the Blogosphere. The MetroStoic Askesis include Socratic dialogue via commenting, regular contemplation of philosophical questions such as the nature of jobs and boredom, attention to the present moment in the search for posting material, daily reflections on the problems and solutions of life. The aim of MetroStoics is not to extinguish emotions, but to live in accordance with the four cardinal virtues of Wit, Fearless Self-Exposure, Openmindedness, and Restraint, so as not to be ruled by emotions. MetroStoics believe that all bloggers are manifestations of the bLogos, and that external differences such as TTLB rank, number of hits or links, or slickness of template are of no importance in the relationships between bloggers. Only witty and fearless self-exposure, and openminded and restrained commenting, are of importance between MetroStoics, and with the remainder of the bLogos. Poor sods. Who wants 5,000 hits a day, anyway?

Metropolitan Stoicism or Living Out of a Digital Barrel

I'm ready to go. I've turned in the company car, I've turned in the keys to my appartment, I'm living out of a suitcase, sleeping on the floor of Chaton's place, and I'm slowly divesting myself of all the useless trappings of modern life that weigh us down. I'm ready for rebirth in the land of the free and the home of the brave... and bored out of my skull. I spend my days either connected to chat and blog, or going from one connected place to another by subway, listening to MP3s of American radio shows on my trusty iPod. Metropolitan Stoicism is born. All you need is a place to sleep, an iPod, and some way to blog about it. And when the next great conqueror comes to you in your digital barrel, looking for wisdom and the One True Way to happiness and fulfilment... just ask him to step aside, he's in the way of your WiFi beams.

I Know What You Did Last Night

Chaton, Yours Truly, and Step...

Step has a good recap of last nite's activities, and Chaton has finally blogged about his blog and about himself. This makes him a REAL blogger in my book. None of this political, philosophical bullcrap here. I'm going to play hooky with Step and go visit the Centre National de la Photographie. See y'all later. UPDATE : I went to Step's pad and we spent the rest of the afternoon swigging b33r while redoing the template of his blog. As you've probably noticed, that has spurred me to finally fix some glaring issues with my own. No museum, just ordered pizza, invited Chaton, and had another evening that proved our total lack of social life and the utter boredom of our lives... We split up at 10pm, feeling like we'd stayed up until 2am. :P

Down for the Count...

The Count would fly in from NYC for a week at a time and stay on East Coast Time. We'd work after nightfall in his suites, always in the best Parisian hotels, and around one or two AM, he'd call down for the limo, and we'd go eat fashionably overdesigned dinners in restaurants you couldn't see from the street, filled with cokefiend-thin models and older men in pitchblack shades and pimp threads. After intricate desserts, I'd ride the limo back to suburbia while the Count worked deeper into the night. Over the next six months, I watched the Count mesmerize CEOs, politicians and accountants with his aura of old New York investement banker money, stratospheric name dropping and a nitroglycerine temper that toed the line into contempt but somehow always stayed just this side of simple impatience for the opportunities awasting. They promised him millions, they offered to work for free, they went on national television to pledge their eternal souls to him and his vision. He, in turn, promised them incredible earning ratios, on-the-ground-floor investment opportunities, solutions to societal issues costing billions upon billions and more importantly, votes. All based on the spreadsheets I made for him in the deep of the night. He promised me shares of the company, four times my current salary, a green card, a corner office in Manhattan, the kingdoms of the earth. It all came crashing down eventually, and the Count has moved on to the next great con, still living in style waiting for the Big One, the break into billionairehood. We stood in his unpaid suite, window open upon the Place de la Concorde slick with rain and empty of any traffic, before he flapped his cape to fly back into the night.

The Count...

I could have flown out that window with him, become like him, living in a parallel world of power, money, lies and solitude, and started my own search for someone to bring to the Dark Side... but he left empty-handed, bloated with misery and without the true sustenance of any vampire : their victim's desire to be like them, that reflection in the other's eyes that mirrors refuse them. Because they can't stand the sight of themselves.

Contact...

Looooong day, boring post. Got up at seven, drove up to Paris, had just enough time to have two pairs of glasses made before a meeting with my french soon-to-be-ex-boss, and followed with a night of roleplaying at Chaton's, and a nitecap of three white russians at the Lizard Lounge just downstairs... around 1am. Where Alexis proceeded to tell me, over a diet coke, of her ambitions in the space programs.

Contact

She makes me think of the heroine in a Carl Sagan or Arthur C. Clarke novel, geeky, smart, and focused yet ready to have fun... She's currently in France to study dancing for the humanities portion of her degree, because she's ahead of the academic requirements for an aerospace engineering sheepskin. Hangs out with Robyn, the Harp player in the gang, and talks with her hands and eyerolls a lot, while turning down alcohol because of heredity. Laughs like a fifteen year old prom queen :D There's no attraction for me there, but her enthusiasm for manned planetary exploration and engineering subjects strikes a chord with the geek in me, and I wish her much luck getting onto a NASA program and taking mankind to the Stars, or at least the Planets. Anywhere away from this tired, dirty, doomed old basket where we're still keeping all our eggs. May her life outstrip the best the Old Masters ever wrote. For all our sakes.

Mom IS Blogging...

... in French, at La Dépêche des Cordeliers. Feel free to comment in English, but the first one who's mean to my Mommy, I'm hunting you down :D On another note, I'm driving up to Paris today, so it's going to be another looooong day for you long-suffering readers out there... See y'all tonite!

Walk Down Memory Lane's Sidewalk...

When I was a few years old, and my brother a brand new threat to my hegemony, summer visits to Grandmère d'Albi were always a treat, because of the bevy of older ladies ready to lavish affection and treats on me. Diana was one of those, about a decade younger than GrandMother, and mother of one of Mom's childhood friends. She would bicycle down to our big house where she'd rented a room with her husband decades ago, early in the morning, and bring the croissants, brioches and pains au chocolat without which French petits déjeuners are just slices of bread dipped in café au lait. She was always joyful, smiling and kind, very sharply dressed, blond and too beautiful to be pretty. A kind of fairy godmother of summer breakfasts with a smoky contralto laugh and an attention to what you liked, wanted, or cared about. What kid could fail to love her? Today was her 88th birthday, and her mind and body are still sharp. Both she and I were happy that I could attend the lunch-party along with my parents before leaving the country.

I don't remember when I learned that she had been a working girl. Perhaps I've always known it, and that one of the things about my grandparents that my mother is most proud of, is their acceptance of Diana, her husband (an honest working man I remember as a hulking bear, with a laugh like a rockslide) and their little daughter. From all accounts, Diana was a loving, nurturing mother, and my grandmother trusted her with her own daughter, and has treated her as a valuable friend up to this day. She hung up the stilleto heels years later when French law outlawed the trade and continuing meant a prison term and losing her daughter. Because, you see, she'd already lost her firstborn in the divorce from her first, wife-beating husband. The divorce that had stranded her in Paris without a job just after the war... too beautiful to be pretty. Perhaps it takes a fallen angel to fully appreciate how precious basic human love and kindness is, and the best of them shed that surprised, joyous yet calm strength like heat from a chimneyfire on a sweet October evening. I'm priviledged to have had grandparents who judged her by her worth, and to have a mother who grew up, in part, basking in that glow. I'm priviledged to have felt it myself, those long gone summer mornings sitting at the kitchen table amidst the babble of adult voices, munching on a croissant while the Angel spoke to me, to ME! and no one else.

M&M Story...

Now that the Princess and I are safely out of Paraguay, I can admit to a massive case of contraband... We did not declare the kilos of M&Ms that we were bringing into the country for the wedding. One whole suitcaseful lugged around by Yours Truly as carry-on cuz those things are delicated little phuckers.

Contraband M&Ms...

We brought white, orange and yellow M&Ms plus some specially printed yellow ones, with the names of the bride and groom. Because you can buy any colour you want, or pre-printed stuff for any occasion, and have them print anything you like on them.

Well, not ANYTHING you want...

That's a lot of chocolate... Enough for a quarter cup per guest, or 75 cups of the stuff...plus a safety margin. Because, again, these things chip like glass on impact, including against each other. So when you pour and mix them, you have to be very delicate...

Pouring M&Ms...

We mixed the various colours in precise ratios, sorted out the chipped and broken ones, but didn't actually eat that many because the chocolate smell got pretty intense in the room...

Mixing the M&Ms...

We had to do it in two batches, cuz there were no bowls big enough for the entire lot in the Princess Family Palace. The Queen Mother folded the little boxes, the Princess mixed the colours, and I courageously took it upon myself to take pictures, disregarding any danger to life or limb. But we hit a snag. We didn't have enough to fill 300 boxes, so we needed filler material.

Buying the Tulle...

Quick trip to the market to buy some 20 feet of white Tulle cloth (from little French town Tulle), and add to the chore the task of cutting 300 little rectangles of the stuff, and folding it prettily into the boxes before pouring a quarter cup into each box, and sealing it with a monogrammed sticker.

The Finished Product...

It was worth it, tho, as the little boxes were a hit, both as decoration on the tables, and as a party favour to bring back to the kids or grandkids... Another Bright Idea from the Princess!

JUSTice for All... and the Pursuit of Happiness

I like visiting my parents, I really do. I JUST can't stay very long cuz they work me like a ploughhorse. Yesterday was mom's turn, and she hogged me all day. Dad was not too happy about that, but he was JUST outranked. So after a visit to cousin #803.32-C in the hospital (he's JUST about to have triplets, long story), we went shopping. In, like, 8 different gardening and hardware stores to find JUST the right pots for the climbing clematites, and JUST the right dirt, and JUST the right sand & gravel, oh, and, JUST the right hardware to put up the hammock... wait, turn around, we JUST missed JUST the store I wanted to go to! I JUST barely managed to sneak in a quick side-trip to a bed&matress store, to make sure that the man who'd tried to sell us a $17,000 swedish matress in NJ was, indeed, JUST as full of horse manure as his wares were full of horse hair. The French still sleep on articulated lat-frame beds with JUST a thin matress over the lats, the whole thing nice and hard ... all this for JUST a fraction of the price. JUST as I'd told him. Drove Mom JUST in time to install Dad's new hammock. He's forgiven me for spending all that time with Mom, and will JUST have me do his list today...

The Sleeper Must Awaken...

Doesn't he JUST look adorable?

B-sides... Pun Intended.

Guess Who got To Do All That Lacing? Swing It, Sister! Thank God for Colour TV :D Bleu Blanc Rouge, Now That's 'La France'! Red, Blue and White... Isn't That Russia?

Ok, so perhaps I am a little obsessed with B(ack)-sides... but duncha just love the colours?

Gifts, GISBEs and Goatees...

Well, this morning I woke up, and instead of driving the car to the dealer and handing it in, and spending the weekend in Paris with Step and Chaton, I was suddenly overcome with the deep angst of the migratory bird in forced rest... I felt trapped, the walls were closing in, and all the little things coagulated into a vast mass of insurmountable blah. Nothing for it, time to run. Hit the Road, Jack. Hopped in the car and drove seven hours to Albi. Guess you won't get a post on French sleeper trains afterall :) Felt immensely better, called friends, family, associates and the Princess about eight times (counting dropped calls), took in the sight of Spring erupting all over France, and got to the Parent's Place in plenty of time for some DIY with Dad, and sharpening Mom's garden shears... What will they do without me? :) Handed out their presents from Paraguay, namely :

Dad in a Sling...

A handmade string hammock for Dad... No, he didn't mistake it for a poncho, but we need to buy some hardware to put it up. Update tomorrow. Note his new goatee, which looks really good on him. If it doesn't, trust me, the pic must be bad.

Mom's New Badge of Appreciation...

A gold bracelet for Mom... Idea, much insistence, and solid bargaining to secure item, from the Princess... and she accuses ME of being a chupa medias with the Queen Mother. Humph. Anyhow Mom loved it, and Princess won major brownie points, and I think some of them splashed onto me by association, so what the hay.

Yeah, Right :)

By a twist of fate of no significance whatever, my GISBE package was waiting for me, and I have a new CDfull of MP3s loaded on the Shuffle and a texan Tshirt from Crystal at All Geniuses Are Crazy. The second Mad Genius to grace this humble blog with a touch of their holy madness... eh, James? Crystal obviously has a sick sense of humour sending such a T to a liberal from France fighting extra kilos... I enjoyed the dig in the ribs (texas ribs, get it? ... on second thought, forget I said that) so much that I added her to the blogroll. I'm poggo-dancing in the kitchen listening to Death From Above and the dog is SERIOUSLY worried about me. It likes me better when I'm humming to Incognito and Tribe Called Quest, well, tough, doggie. It's about time I listened to some saturated guitars and screeching voices again. Woof woof to you too :) BTW, Tania has received the package I sent for GISBE as well :

Für Greg...

Greg's been complaining about the lack of hot Latino guys in this blog...

Best I can do, real Brazilian forestry manual labor hamming it up when I whipped out the camera thinking of you, dear Bro. I know the shot's not great, but it was clear they would have welcomed you with open arms on the back of that truck...

Slummin'

One nite wasn't enough... We almost did it again tonite. Drove back from Beauvais with the check for my deposit safe in my pocket to find Chaton and Step in a pub down the street.

Being a good geek, I whipped out the camera, and then proceeded to check my mail and the blog with the laptop while drinking a beer. Step snagged that picture of Yours Truly, the Rue du Bourg Tibourg, and Chaton. We then walked to Les Halles to see SAW on wide screen and stumbled out a little dazed and in shock. What an ending :) Speaking of which, went back to Chaton's for some blogging, and a wash of dark clothing. I think the does had a safe nite tonite. Now I'm off to lalaland while the surf-on-sand soothing sounds of the washing machine continue to bleed thru the walls.

Blogging la Boda...

Ok, so I haven't exactly been feeling inspired about the wedding. It's taken me a while to admit it, but there, I said it.

Oh, I have lots of pretty pictures, and I could describe the lovely (short) oecumenical ceremony in which the pastor and the priest failed to trip each other or hog the lines, or gloss on the murals of the church, but why bother?

You weren't there, you don't know these people, and frankly, even if le tout-Asuncìon was there, CNN, Fox, and MTV failed to cover the event. The world's loss, and I'm sure Hunter S Thompson woulda found the fault lines to clive this diamond in the rough into the Star of Africa and enough small change for a thousand fiancée solitaires, but there it is, I'm not he.

I could tell you about the civil ceremony, with a dozen witnesses to sign the paperwork, all dressed in pastel, breezy dresses and looking like they'd just stepped out of a particularly well-cast eighties soap opera heavy on the cute blonds and dusky brunettes. My efforts at capturing on electrons the effects of so many colors were met with incomprehension and suspicions of liking "butt pictures".

Yes, I can be the misunderstood artist now. Because I may not be Hunter S Thompson, but at least I can take a few decent pictures now and then, even if that's no excuse for the generaly worsening quality of the writing lately...

And besides, the best pictures from that evening weren't even taken by Yours Truly. The Kiss, above, was shot by the Queen Mother, while the Official Picture, below, was taken, well, by the Official Photographer. The one who's pictures will end up in the social pages of the Main Daily Newspaper, with, even in Paraguay, slightly more readership than this blog...

At least, the Princess looked positively STUNNING in her red dress, I managed to look a bit less like a waltzing bear refusing to waltz, and just before the live band opened up at 130 dB to force me from the room, we did dance for 25 seconds. Hummmm... Perhaps I'm NOT completely over my failed attempt at marriage, am I? The strange thing is, the Princess still loves me even if I was an ass that evening, and I'm just a lucky man to have her :) In a red dress or anything else. I love you, Tigercub.