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Postcards from Paris


Contact Loulou de la Paumardiere

Summer's here, darlings, and although President Bush was in Paris on Friday June 13 and the Eiffel Tower fell over on its side and the entire city burned to the ground, the usual events of the season are well under way. After Sylvester Stallone, Sharon Stone, Madonna and Bruce Willis, the greatest of all artists, Kylie Minogue, recently received a French knighthood from a grateful nation (http://www.news.com.au/dailytelegraph/story/0,22049,23652420-5013438,00.html (there is talk of a Nobel prize in 2009), the ceremony coinciding with the annual anti-leptospirosis parade in Paris-leptospirosis being the disease carried by our eight million Parisian rats-and with the highly decorative pile of dead rats and mice some supermarket employees made on the pavement outside their store in protest against the city's losing battle against the lethal bacteria caddies http://news.scotsman.com/latestnews/Rats-love-Paris-in-the.4044192.jp. France also lost at the French Open (where I wore a darling little short-sleeved khaki safari dress with epaulettes, gold and tortoise shell bracelets and rings, a coffee-coloured crocodile belt and matching Christian Louboutin shoes whose red soles provided the only dash of colour). But we won at the Cannes film festival, where jury president Sean Penn ("I hope that {Barack Obama} will understand the degree of disillusionment that will happen if he doesn't become a greater man than he will ever be.") made George W. Bush sound like Pico della Mirandola. And the nation collectively celebrated the passing of designer Yves Saint Laurent. On Tuesday June 10, 2008, I went to a black-tie dinner given in the Louvre by a 61-year-old Texas socialite named Becca Cason Thrash, who ferried over a a slough of slack-jawed yokels known as American Friends of the Louvre, which Ms. Thrash helpfully described as "the preeminent art museum." I had on a black and gold Christian Lacroix dress with Lesage embroidery depicting my eighth husband's first death for insurance purposes. Ms. Thrash wore a beaded Naeem Khan, but Naeem kept climbing down off her head saying it made him dizzy to crouch like that up there and that the beads tickled his face. And finally we're celebrating the renewal of our membership on the U.N. Human Rights Council, to which we were re-elected on May 21, 2008, "having actively campaigned for a demanding concept of human rights." It was immediately pointed out by the usual naysayers that "Human Rights" and "France"-the same country that recently complemented its use of bills of attainder with a new law extending prison terms, without trial, based solely on the prisoner's looks, (maximum time in Guantanamo for untried suspects without access to a lawyer: five years; average time in custody in one of the rat-infested holding cells located beneath Notre Dame cathedral and the main court house without access to a lawyer: four years); routinely uses torture (still in first place in Europe); forced confessions (as in the surrealistic Pichard-Golse-Maury report); and strips a human rights troublemaker of his basic human rights (Paris Court of Appeal decision November 30, 2006 suspending his right to gather evidence or even to speak to the police), and as Nicolas' personal lawyer, Michele Cahen, called the individual in question (August I7, 2006 written summation and oral argument presented on October 25, 2006 to the Paris Court of Appeal , 24th Chamber , Section C ( R.G./Docket number: OS/22120 Dossier No. 20051029) " a person with no morals whatsoever," he must have deserved it is all I can say-is the most unfortunate and unintentionally hilarious pairing of words since U.S. Supreme Court Chief Justice Warren Burger described sodomy as "an heinous crime."

As it's summer now, the children are here and at La Paumardiere for a few days. My fourteen year-old, Arnault-Ignace, has been begging me for a very specific guitar so he can play like American whiz kids and make music like his musical heroes all of whose names-e.g., Dimebag Darrel, Rusty Aids-Tainted Needle, Fifty Cent-seem to be drug-inspired and I said "My goodness, darling, we're already having your face tattooed for your birthday, and for Christmas you got that stockpile for your shooting spree this coming September." But I know he's serious about music because he has a rock group called Funeral of Death and they've even written a song ("In the seething gothness, you came to me/Together we lured this kid who wore corduroys in geometry/Away from the mall and then we took his cell phone and his lunch money/and we bought all this like Nazi perophrenalia from that guy.") and when he showed me that one owner described the guitar as "really urethral sounding," (http://www.guitarcenter.com/Gibson-Custom-Shop-EDS-1275-Double-Neck-Electric-Guitar-517600-i1149514.gc) I bought it immediately.

My daughter Marie-Caroline, back from convent school in the Pyrenees, had made a needlepoint prayer for me, and I looked at it and said "Oh thank you so much darling, you should be ashamed at how amateurish it sounds."

And she said "But maman, God doesn't look at the form, only the content."

And I slapped her and said "Honestly, Marie-Caroline, what have the Ursulines been teaching you? Why do you think the prayers of rich, well-educated people always get heard and answered immediately? Continue praying prayers like that, Marie-Caroline, and you'll go straight to Hell.

And she said Maman, where is Hell?

And I said Hell, darling, is not a place. Hell is the absence of axiomatic Nash bargaining solutions, and you don't ever want to go there. Believe me, I've been."

I sprained my right wrist and wore a sling for a week in June, and couldn't do a thing except correspond with the outside world via telephone and email, but Carla Bruni-Sarkozy stayed in touch several times a day even though her new Blackberry Bold still had some bugs in it and I was getting messages signed "Lot of love, big ki , Carla." Say what you will about my BGF, Carla shares everything with me. A message sent from Belle Ile: "Poor Loulou, we mi  ed  you   water kiing.  Becau  e of that   illy   ling there are  o many thing   you can't  do, you can't   ki or  ew or make your elf  ome  nice  u hi  or even ma  turbate, at lea  t not very fa  t, and I know that I would be  o   ad if I couldn't and even if it didn't feel  o  crumptious,  ex and   u hi are what  keep  me   lim! And a my hu band i a gay a a dai y, ometime I'm ju t timulating my elf and uddenly, what' thi ? he' there again, the big black man with no clothe on who live on the ceiling right above my bed and watche me, and hi pen i huge, it' a Mei ter tucke and he' writing omething down, and I ay who are you?

And he ay my name is noop Dogg.

And I ay how did you get in ide here with all the ecurity around the Ely ee Pre idential palace?

And he an wer hut up, you ivory- kinned he-devil!

And I ay plea e, plea e don't ay you want to put handcuff on my wri t and give me a panking and trangle me with my carf!

And noop Dogg ay : Ye ! I'm going to lap you're a with my mon ter nake!

And I ay plea e, plea e, top u ing ob cenitie !

And he ay , turn over on your tomach, you lut.

And I ay what are you aying?

And noop Dogg ay it' ju t my peni .

And I ay ye , but it' my heinou ! And I ay plea e, plea e don't tell me I mu t fir t uck anything pul ating!

And he ay Ye ! you mu t uck and uck unle I ay top!

And I ay Okay, and then I keep rubbing my  clitori   going round and round timulating my elf harder, fa t, then low, then ast again, and uddenly, my head  i pinning   and it make  me feel o   exy and  en ual and  illy and I ju t don't know whether to cream or ing or do both at the ame time and I hiver and hake all over and my toe  hrivel up and curl like ea hell  and he goe away.

"Oh Loulou," said Carla when I saw her the following day, "the Blackberry isn't the only thing not working. Nicolas' popularity ratings are sinking daily and his desire to avoid negativity of any kind has become almost unhealthy. This morning at dawn, he had all of the oscillating fans in the presidential palace taken out into the courtyard and shot.

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© 2008 Louise de la Paumardiere

 

 

 

 

About LOUISE DE LA PAUMARDIERE It would be difficult to imagine anyone more purely French or a better embodiment of France and French values than polyglamorous Louise de la Paumardiere. Loulou's paternal great grandfather Andre Le Troquer, unfairly removed from office as President of the French Senate in 1958 for having run a pedophile network, and her maternal grandfather General Paul Ausseresses, unfairly stripped of his rank and thrown out of the Legion d'Honneur because of his role as a torturer in the Franco-Algerian war, are but two of her many famous ancestors. Author of From Foreign to French: 100 Makeovers in Stories and Pictures (New York and London: PLB Books, 2006), multi-talented and multilingual Loulou de la Paumardiere first came to public attention when several of the high-profile Paris-based foreign women on whom she performed makeovers committed suicide. Her family operates the majority of the uniquely French institutions known as Centres d'aide par le travail, or CATS, factories in which handicapped French citizens are employed at less than minimum wage because, as Loulou puts it with her typical Cartesian clarity, "they are handicapped." Her ancestral home, Château de la Paumardiere in Boilly-sur-Gui, an hour from Paris in Normandy, has hosted every head of state since Louis XIV and was a favorite haunt of Lully the Sodomite. She continues that great tradition of French hospitality on weekends in Boilly and during the week at her luxurious mansion at 60, rue de Varenne in Paris.