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Paris to the Moon
Paris. The name alone conjures images of chestnut-lined boulevards, sidewalk cafes, breathtaking facades around every corner--in short, an exquisite romanticism that has captured the American imagination for as long as there have been Americans.84% (5)
In 1995, Adam Gopnik, his wife, and their infant son left the familiar comforts and hassles of New York City for the urbane glamour of the City of Light. Gopnik is a longtime New Yorker writer, and the magazine has sent its writers to Paris for decades--but his was above all a personal pilgrimage to the place that had for so long been the undisputed capital of everything cultural and beautiful. It was also the opportunity to raise a child who would know what it was to romp in the Luxembourg Gardens, to enjoy a croque monsieur in a Left Bank cafe--a child (and perhaps a father, too) who would have a grasp of that Parisian sense of style we Americans find so elusive.
So, in the grand tradition of the American abroad, Gopnik walked the paths of the Tuileries, enjoyed philosophical discussions at his local bistro, wrote as violet twilight fell on the arrondissements. Of course, as readers of Gopnik's beloved and award-winning "Paris Journals" in The New Yorker know, there was also the matter of raising a child and carrying on with day-to-day, not-so-fabled life. Evenings with French intellectuals preceded middle-of-the-night baby feedings; afternoons were filled with trips to the Musee d'Orsay and pinball games; weekday leftovers were eaten while three-star chefs debated a "culinary crisis."
As Gopnik describes in this funny and tender book, the dual processes of navigating a foreign city and becoming a parent are not completely dissimilar journeys--both hold new routines, new languages, a new set of rules by which everyday life is lived. With singular wit and insight, Gopnik weaves the magical with the mundane in a wholly delightful, often hilarious look at what it was to be an American family man in Paris at the end of the twentieth century. "We went to Paris for a sentimental reeducation-I did anyway-even though the sentiments we were instructed in were not the ones we were expecting to learn, which I believe is why they call it an education."
In 1995 Gopnik was offered the plush assignment of writing the "Paris Journals" for the New Yorker. He spent five years in Paris with his wife, Martha, and son, Luke, writing dispatches now collected here along with previously unpublished journal entries. A self-described "comic-sentimental essayist," Gopnik chose the romance of Paris in its particulars as his subject. Gopnik falls in unabashed love with what he calls Paris's commonplace civilization--the cafes, the little shops, the ancient carousel in the park, and the small, intricate experiences that happen in such settings. But Paris can also be a difficult city to love, particularly its pompous and abstract official culture with its parallel paper universe. The tension between these two sides of Paris and the country's general brooding over the decline of French dominance in the face of globalization (haute couture, cooking, and sex, as well as the economy, are running deficits) form the subtexts for these finely wrought and witty essays. With his emphasis on the micro in the macro, Gopnik describes trying to get a Thanksgiving turkey delivered during a general strike and his struggle to find an apartment during a government scandal over favoritism in housing allocations. The essays alternate between reports of national and local events and accounts of expatriate family life, with an emphasis on "the trinity of late-century bourgeois obsessions: children and cooking and spectator sports, including the spectator sport of shopping." Gopnik describes some truly delicious moments, from the rites of Parisian haute couture, to the "occupation" of a local brasserie in protest of its purchase by a restaurant tycoon, to the birth of his daughter with the aid of a doctor in black jeans and a black silk shirt, open at the front. Gopnik makes terrific use of his status as an observer on the fringes of fashionable society to draw some deft comparisons between Paris and New York ("It is as if all American appliances dreamed of being cars while all French appliances dreamed of being telephones") and do some incisive philosophizing on the nature of both. This is masterful reportage with a winning infusion of intelligence, intimacy, and charm. --Lesley Reed
footprints, all over my back and neck
"Why? Because it feels good, because I'm sick, because there is so much sickness, because I say "Fuck the sickness." Because I had the attention, because I was a loner a lot, because I was different. Because kids beat me up on the way to school, because I was humiliated by nuns, because of Christ and the crucifixion, because of Porky Pig in bondage, force-fed by some sinister creep in a black cape. Because of stories about children hanged by their wrists, burned on the stoves, scalded in tubs, because of "Mutiny in the Bounty," because of cowboys and lndians, because of Houdini, because of my cousin Cliff, because of the forts we built and the things we did inside them. Because of what's inside me, because of my genes, because of my parents, because of doctors and nurses, because they tied me to the crib, so I wouldn't hurt myself, because I had time to think, because I had time to hold my penis, because I had awful stomachaches and holding my penis made it feel better. Because I thought like I was going to die, because it makes me feel invincible, because it makes me feel triumphant, because I'm a Catholic, because I still love Lent and still love my penis and in spite of it all, I have no guilt. Because my parents said "Be what you wanna be", and this is what I wanna be. Because I ' m nothing but a big baby, and I wanna stay that way and I want a mommy forever, even a mean one, 'specially a mean one. Because of all the fairy tale witches, and the wicked stepmother and the stepsisters, and how sexy Cinderella was, smudged with soot, doomed to a life of servitude. Because of Hansel, locked in the witch's cage until he was fat enough to eat. Because of "O", and how desperately I wanted to be her. Because of my dreams, because of the games we played, because I've got an active imagination, because my mother bought me Tinker Toys, because hardware stores give me hard-ons, because of hammers, nails, clothespins, wood, padlocks, pullies, eyeballs, thumbtacks, staple guns, sewing needles, wooden spoons, fishing tackle, chains, metal rulers, rubber tubings, spatulas, rope, twine, "C" clamps, "S" hooks, razor blades, scissors, tweezers, knives, push pins, x s, ping-pong paddles, alligator clips, duct tape, broomsticks, barbecue skewers, bungee cords, sawhorses, soldering irons. Because of tool sheds, because of garages, because of basements, because of dungeons, because of "The Pit and the Pendulum," because of the Tower of London, because of the lnquisition, because of the rap, because of the cross, because of Adam's Family playroom, because of Morticia Adams and her black dress with its octopus legs. Because of motherhood, because of Amazon, because of the goddess, because of the moon, because it's in my nature, because it's against nature. Because it's nasty, because it's fun, because it flies in the face of all that's normal-- whatever that is-- because I'm not normal. Because I used to think I was part of this vast experiment and there was this implant in my penis that made me do these things and allowed them, wherever they were, to monitor my activities. Because I had to take my clothes off and lie inside this giant plastic bag so the doctors could collect my sweat. Because once upon a time I had such a high fever, my parents had to strip me naked and wBaby, don't go away, come here.
Landlocked Blues - Bright Eyes feat. Emmylou Harris If you walk away I'll walk away Just tell me which road you will take I don't want to risk our paths crossing someday So you walk that way, I'll walk this way The future hangs over our heads And it moves with each current event Until it falls all around like a cold steady rain Just stay in when it's looking this way And the moon's laying low in the sky Forcing everything metal to shine And the sidewalk holds diamonds like a jewelry store case They argue walk this way, now walk this way Laura's asleep in my bed As I'm leaving she wakes up and says I dreamed you were carried away on the crest of a wave Baby, don't go away, come here There's kids playing guns in the street One's pointing his tree branch at me So I put my hands up, said Enough is Enough If you walk away, I'll walk away Then he shot me dead I found a liquid cure For my landlocked blues It will pass away, like a slow parade It's leaving, but I don't know how soon And the world's got me dizzy again You'd think after 22 years I'd be used to the spin But it only feels worse when I stay in one place So I'm always pacing around or walking away I'm drinking the ink from my pen And I'm balancing history books up on my head And it all boils down to one quotable phrase: If you love something, give it away A good woman will pick you apart A box full of suggestions for a possible heart And you may be offended, and you may be afraid But don't walk away, don't walk away We made love on the living room floor With the noise in the background from a televised war And in that deafening pleasure I thought I heard someone say If we walk away, they'll walk away But greed is a bottomless pit And all freedom's a joke, we're just taking a piss And the whole world must watch the sad comic display If you're still free, start running away Cos we're coming for you I've grown tired of holding this pose I feel more like a stranger each time I come home So I'm making a deal with the devils of fame Saying "Let me walk away, please" You'll be free, child, once you have died From the shackles of language in measurable time And then we can trade places, play musical graves Tell them walk away, walk away, walk away So I'm up at dawn Putting on my shoes I just want to make a clean escape I'm leaving, but I don't know where to Yeah, I'm leaving, but I don't know where to Olympus OM 10 - Zuiko 50mm f1.8 - Kodak TRI-X @ ISO 800 Scansione da negativo (Epson Perfection 3490)
Food Network star Guy Fieri takes you on a tour of America's most colorful diners, drive-ins, and dives in this tie-in to his enormously popular television show, complete with recipes, photos, and memorabilia.Related topics:
Packed with Guy's iconic personality, Diners, Drive-ins and Dives follows his hot-rod trips around the country, mapping out the best places most of us have never heard of. From digging in at legendary burger joint the Squeeze Inn in Sacramento, California, baking Peanut Pie from Virginia Diner in Wakefield, Virginia, or kicking back with Pete's "Rubbed and Almost Fried" Turkey Sandwich from Panini Pete's in Fairhope, Alabama, Guy showcases the amazing personalities, fascinating stories, and outrageously good food offered by these American treasures.
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