May 23, 1998
New York
My friend Doug is visiting from Los Angeles. He’s been single for as long as I’ve known him and went out recently with a guy who took him to bed and whispered, “Let’s pretend we’re cousins.”
“It’s one thing to act like you’re somebody’s brother or to role-play a father-and-son fantasy, but how do you pretend to be cousins?” Doug asked.
For the rest of the afternoon we came up with possible dialogue, standouts being “Isn’t it funny how our dads look so much alike?” and “How come I call my mother Mom and you call her Aunt Sharon?”
June 6, 1998
Chicago
A joke told to me by the media escort Bill Young:
Q. Did you hear about the Polish lottery?
A. You win $1 a year for a million years.
He then said, “The good thing about French drinking water is you know nobody’s taken a bath in it.”
June 10, 1998
Birmingham, Alabama
I was outside the Atlanta airport having a cigarette when I saw a mentally ill person wander over and search the ashtray for salvageable butts. He hobbled, wearing what looked to be too-tight shoes, and his pockets were bulging, I guessed from all the ashtrays he’d visited before this one. I was seated on a bench and as he stood in front of me, I looked at the tag on his knapsack.
Name: E Dog
Street: My Street
City: My City
State: My State
June 14, 1998
Nashville, Tennessee
While waiting for my flight, I took a seat beside an elderly man and his six-year-old granddaughter. Just before our boarding was announced, the girl climbed into his lap and pounded on his colostomy bag. “Is that your wallet?” she asked in a singsong voice that told me she knew very well what it was.
“Oh, May-June,” the man said wearily, “you know it ain’t my wallet.”
“It’s all filled with poody,” the girl said. “When you go home, will you throw it down the toilet?”
“Prob’ly so,” the man said, no doubt counting the seconds until one of them—it didn’t matter which—got on that plane and flew far, far away.
June 21, 1998
San Francisco
In Los Angeles yesterday I met a former book publicist.
“Why did you quit?” I asked.
She sighed. “I was tired having authors call and say, ‘My shower cap’s too tight.’”
A joke told to me by a media escort, Frank:
Princess Diana and Mother Teresa are in heaven, and the latter isn’t too happy. “It isn’t fair,” she says. “All those years I lived in squalor, devoting myself to the sick and suffering. All she did was attend cocktail parties and model clothes, so how come she has a halo and I don’t?”
Then God says, “That’s not a halo, it’s a steering wheel.”
June 29, 1998
New York
This morning I began my French class at the Alliance Fran?aise on the Upper East Side. There are eight students ranging in age from a woman in her mid-fifties to a boy who looks to be around fifteen. I worried I might be the worst, but that honor goes to an Australian who accepted a phone call during class, braying, “Bonjour! No, it’s me. I’m in French class!”
Our teacher is a beautiful, mournful-looking Parisienne with long brown hair. It’s an intermediate rather than a beginners’ class, so I assumed that everyone, like me, had studied a little before signing up. One of the students is Japanese American, and when the teacher asked her a question in French, she answered in English, “What? Are you asking me what I do? I guess I’m a student, OK?”
June 30, 1998
New York
Don called this afternoon just as I was getting ready to leave. I said I’d phone him tomorrow and he suggested I try at around twelve thirty. “Tell Cristina it’s you, and if I happen to be gassing to somebody, I’ll get off the blower.” I love how old his slang is.
July 1, 1998
New York
Today was my second French class, and I got to play Fabienne in the “Comment trouvez-vous Paris?” dialogue we were asked to memorize. She’s a brooder, Fabienne, and I worked hard to master her inflection, especially her line “Me, this town. I don’t like it. I prefer my Normandy.”
The Australian didn’t show up today, but the Japanese American student was there. When the teacher asked her to play the role of Carmen, she shook her head, saying, “I don’t think so.”
The Brazilian guy hadn’t done his homework either—just didn’t feel like it. The teacher, Cécile, is very shy and blushes easily. It took all she had to say, softly, “The next time, you should come prepared.”
Last night Hugh helped me with my memorized dialogue and this afternoon I started on our next assignment, in which Jean-Claude bitches about the subway.
July 10, 1998
New York
Rosalie transferred to our class last Wednesday because her previous teacher wasn’t challenging enough. She’s clearly the best student, and is always well dressed and quick to help the rest of us out. This as opposed to the Australian, who Rollerbladed to class, arrived late, and then opened the window because she was cold. She didn’t ask—just did it.
July 20, 1998
New York
Class was strange today. We spent ten minutes on the future tense before switching to reflexive verbs. The teacher asked if there were any questions and someone asked where she had learned her Spanish. She told us her husband is Puerto Rican, so she’d picked it up from him. Then someone asked how long she’d lived in Paris. I then asked where she lived before moving to Paris, and when she said Morocco, everyone started in. “Where do your parents live? What does your father do?”
The Brazilian who never does his homework turned on us then, saying, “What you’re doing is very rude.”
Sharon explained that we meant no offense and that Americans are sometimes too open. I added that to us, her life was very exotic, and we were just curious. I mean, really, it’s not like we asked whether she uses a tampon or a pad.
August 3, 1998
La Bagotière