Saturday, May 9: Marti baking up a storm in her parents’ kitchen.


Get in the kitchen and rattle them pots and pans! It all began back on Sunday, April 26. Marti and her British Telecom co-worker Carolina, a Spanish native who went to college at the University of Virginia, had decided to spotlight American baked desserts during BT’s Semaine du Talent. It goes without saying that I supported this project. For the event, held during lunch in the BT cafeteria the following day, Marti baked pineapple upside down cake, a pumpkin pie and sour cream coffee cake. Carolina did an angel food cake and pecan pie. Their theme was American Desserts: More Than Just Brownies. It was a huge success. Best of all, I got to sample everything!


Marti would be reprising that pineapple upside down cake during her upcoming trip to the States to check in on her parents, but first we had the usual calendar full of activities here in Paris. On April 30 we went to see the Derek Trucks Band at the Alhambra Musical Hall.

This was one of those long-awaited, sold-out gigs. It drew fans from all over Europe and even a number from the States.

We were joined by our friends Oddleif from Norway and his tour buddy Karl from Hamburg.

Derek Trucks and bassman Todd Smallie. I first saw Derek play ten years ago with Phil Lesh & Friends. He just gets better and better.

We ran into a bunch of the Paris Krew at the show: Jean-Yves, Christophe, Stephane, Marc, Gilles and a few others. After a brief post-concert schmooze with DTB keyboard-flute payer Kofi Burbridge, we went with Karl, Oddleif and our bud Daniel to late dinner at the Maldoror.

Stylin’ at our favorite anarchists’ café.

No credit cards here. Joel, our host, tallies up the bill. As we departed, he gave me the fist-in-the-air power salute – ever the unreconstructed Sixties radical. I love him.


During their stay with us, I mentioned to Karl and Oddleif that Marti and I had recently watched Pupi Avati’s 1990 biopic Bix on TV. Born in 1903, Bix Biederbecke was a white Midwestern kid from a well-off background who ran away to play cornet in bands that his disapproving family considered lowbrow and trashy. Worse, he was a raging alcoholic in the midst of the Prohibition era.

Either from cheap, bad hootch or due to chronic bad health exacerbated by his heavy drinking -- the theories vary -- this brilliant musician died at age 28. Like the bluesman Robert Johnson, he left a handful of crude recordings as his only legacy.

I’d been aware of him for a long time. When I was a teenager in the late 1950s, one of the first long-play albums I bought was Eddie Condon’s tribute to Bix on Columbia Records. After seeing the film, I jumped on the ‘Net and found a CD release of that recording. When my order arrived it was like welcoming back an old friend.

Before Oddleif left Paris his return to Norway, he loaned me his just-read copy of John Szwed’s marvelous Miles Davis biography So What.

Years ago I’d read Miles’ own account, Miles – The Autobiography, which was compelling in its own right. Now I devoured Szwed’s book.

I guess I mentioned the Miles bio on Facebook because soon I was given a tip from my friend Nikki Matheson. She said that when I finished So What, I should read Duke Ellington’s 1973 autobiography.

A few keystrokes later, a used hardcover copy of Music Is My Mistress -- long out of print -- was winging its way to me from an Amazon subcontractor. As I write this, I’m nearing the end of Duke’s elegant memoir. Thanks, Nik!


On May 5 Marti flew to the States for one of her periodic solo visits to see her folks, who live in Charlottesville VA. Here is her report on the trip . . .

My parents, Nan and John Gregg, in front of their home. I spent a week with them around Mother’s Day. I thought I’d get some rest and relaxation but they kept me busy!

The colors of their azalea bushes were so intense that they looked like they had been Photoshopped. I promise you, the colors in this photo are un-retouched.

Our dear friend Jody from NYC, visiting several friends in Charlottesville that week, joined my mother and me for a visit to the Clinique counter of the local department store. This is a time-honored ritual for me. With a zillion French brands to choose from, I’m afraid to use anything but Clinique (which seems to be working). Kelly, my longtime Clinique counselor, did make-up demos on Jody and me.

Our friends Dona and Bruce Wylie hosted my folks and me for a delicious dinner that evening.

In honor of my deceased sister Barbara, who was an enthusiastic student of ancient Greek at Mary Washington University, my parents sponsor an annual Greek studies award there. In the picture are my mom, this year’s winner Susan Drummond and her mother.

Barb’s beloved Greek teacher Diane Hatch is now retired but still participates in the Classical Studies graduate reception and awards ceremony.

On the way home from Mary Washington, I treated my parents to an early Mother’s Day celebration at the Bavarian Chef. All of us have been fans of German food since we were stationed with the US Army in Deutschland during my childhood.

The return of my pineapple upside-down cake, this time for my BFF Gina’s visit.

The finished product – yum! Too bad I couldn’t bring some home to Paris.

I was delighted that my gal pal Gina drove down from Silver Spring MD to spend a day with me.

That evening my parents and I visited the lovely Ivy Creek Farm for a charity benefit for childhood cancer research at the University of Virginia Hospital.

The vineyards on the Ivy Creek grounds supply the Prince Michel Winery, a few miles away.

Posing on the grounds at Ivy Creek.

We attended the Mother’s Day service at the Church of Our Saviour. This is actually its tiny old chapel, more picturesque than the church itself.

The main event on Mother’s Day was cheering for the UVA Cavaliers in the opening round of the NCAA lacrosse championship tournament. The “Wahoos” beat Villanova 18 – 6. The weather was perfect and I enjoyed watching lacrosse with my folks for the first time in years.

On Monday, May 11 I left my parents’ home to head back to Paris, wearing a corsage of tiny pink roses from their garden. Most of the Greggs are big gardeners but I just keep a tiny olive tree and geraniums on the balcony and a planter of herbs for cooking outside our kitchen window.

I’m grateful to have both parents still in my life and to have enjoyed such a happy visit with them. I look forward to the next one.


While the cat’s away. . . The morning after Marti departed for the US, I hopped a high-speed train to Amsterdam. My visit wasn’t all coffeeshops and Red Lights, however.

I was jonesin’ for, of all things, some live Classical music. It’s a little-known fact that, when I’m not listening to the Howard Stern Show on the Internet, my tastes gravitate to the live iTunes Radio stream from WQXR-FM, the Classical music station of The New York Times. So I headed that afternoon for Amsterdam’s reknowned Concertgebouw concert hall.

The occasion was a free lunchtime concert. I was surprised to find the beautiful old hall completely filled, but the reason soon became evident.

This was no ordinary free midday concert. The highly acclaimed young Chinese pianist Lang Lang -- who was inspired to play at age two after seeing Tom tickle the ivories in a Tom & Jerry cartoon -- was participating in an open rehearsal with the Concertgebouw Orchestra, directed by Daniel Harding. They ran through a complete reading of Chopin’s Piano Concerto in F, Op. 21, consulted, then repeated the second movement. What a wonderful treat!


Back in Paris, I was invited one morning to a press screening of a film called Violent Days, directed by a woman named Lucile Chaufour.

It was a raw, black and white Indie look at a bizarre little subculture: French rockers and their fans who are frozen in the mythic moment of 1950s American rockabilly. Marti and I have encountered this phenomenon on numerous occasions since we moved here in 1991. Outside of a brief rockabilly revival in the DC area in the late ‘70s, early ‘80s, I hadn’t seen so many greaser wannabes than the ones here in France. The fans and bands here idolize the most obscure American rockabilly performers and tunes they can find. Trust me, I was there in the original rockabilly era. It never was as huge as these folks think it was.

The plot of Violent Days centers around a pair of couples who drive up to Le Havre from Paris to attend a rockabilly show in a tacky little municipal hall. As in too many low-budget French movies, there are endless shots of the actors crammed into tiny cars, achingly long sequences of the moving landscape out the car window. It felt like real time and the trip to Le Havre was taking twelve hours. The heroine gets so bored by it all that on the way home she jumps out of the car somewhere along the Normandy coast and heads for the ocean. Roll credits.


Soon after Marti returned home from the States we hit the scene again. On Saturday, May 16 we went to dinner at La Rotisserie d’En Face with visiting friends from Germany and the States.

Marti with Christian and Christine from Munich.

With Susan and Debbie, from the Washington DC area.

After a long, delicious dinner the six of us walked a block to the Café Laurent, our default jazz bar, where guitarist Serge Merlaud was sitting in with the Christian Brenner Trio. We’re friends with Christian and we’d met Serge last summer at a gig here. It was a great evening, spent in delightful company.


Marti and Jean-Yves in the deep suburbs.

At the Derek Trucks show our longtime friend Jean-Yves kindly offered us a lift to East BF to see the legendary ‘70s band Cactus in concert.

Drummer Carmine Appice, the sole remaining member of the original band, greeted the enthusiastic crowd at the start of the show.

Carmine still hits hard and heavy. I first saw him in Vanilla Fudge, on a bill with the Young Rascals in 1968. I also caught an early ‘70s Cactus gig in Port Chester NY, where they shared the stage with Ten Years After.

On this evening we were the guests of Cactus’ remarkable lead singer Jimmy Kunes, who sat in with Jon Paris’ trio last December at Marti’s birthday extravaganza in NYC. We had spoken briefly that night and he told us that he’d be coming to Paris. So we exchanged e-mails, kept in touch and he generously hooked us up with tickets and passes.

Jimmy Kunes brings it. He has an amazing voice and stage presence. It was a great evening of loud kickass old-school rock and blues. The place was packed. And stiflingly hot, as only a French club can be. Air conditioning? What is this air conditioning of which you speak? Fuck it. We were down. Carmine banged out a textbook Classic Rock Era drum solo – as only he can – then gave one of his sticks to a little kid at the rail. Nice.


Last weekend Marti and I celebrated our 28th wedding anniversary. Time sure flies when you’re rockin’ hard.

Model husband that I am, I bought my bride a bouquet at our neighborhood florist in rue Lecourbe.

We made reservations for dinner at Marie-Edith, a local bistro we’d been meaning to try.

It was Saturday, the place was full. Only one table of tourists, as far as we could tell. The ambience was lovely, the Champagne was sparkly and the food was delectable.

After dinner we jumped into a taxi at the Place Cambronne and rode down to the Café Laurent for digestifs and Christian at the 88s.

Trumpeter-vocalist Larry Browne was featured that night. In the last set a young Dutch woman named Marika, with whom we’d been sharing a table, got up to sing “Autumn Leaves.” Great voice and phrasing. Turns out she’s an opera singer in real life.

It was a super celebration. I’m a lucky guy.

As an anniversary gift, I gave my bride a necklace by a Dutch designer we both admire: Frans van Berkel. His creations are beautiful, clean and elegant. Fits Marti to a tee.

Marti knows the way to my heart. She gave me tickets to see The Pretenders next month at the Elysée Montmartre. I love Chrissie Hynde and the band’s most recent album Break Up The Concrete is a killer. Maybe she’ll encore with “Smelly Cat.”




The other day I was in Montparnasse and stumbled across the little-known Musée Antoine Bourdelle, which honors the work of one of the 20th Century’s seminal monumental sculptors.

Bourdelle was instrumental in the establishment of La Ruche, another 15th arrondissement landmark. Known as “The Beehive” because of its octagonal structure, this edifice had been featured in the Exposition Universelle of 1889, but was repurposed afterward as a studio complex that eventually welcomed the likes of Amedeo Modigliani, Fernand Léger, Constantin Brancusi and Marc Chagall. It’s still in operation today and you can glimpse it through the locked iron gates at 2, Passage Danzig.

I love the rich cultural history and hidden treasures to be found right here in our own ‘hood.

Vincent Van Gogh, On the Outskirts of Paris (1887).


Marti and I traveled to Amsterdam on Friday, April 10 to catch a couple of Bob Dylan concerts. Zimmie had played Paris earlier in the week, but his gigs were at the Palais des Congrès, a soulless venue I try to avoid. Besides, I’m always looking for an excuse to visit the ‘Dam.

Marti, who started a Facebook group entitled Friends Of The Eiffel Tower, flies the colors – right down to her luggage tag.

After checking into our hotel off Dam Square, we cabbed down to the Leidseplein to hook up with our longtime pal Michel. We hung out at the Rokerij for a while, then headed for the Bob show at Heineken Music Hall. Marti and Michel went into the arena early, while I stayed at the bar across the plaza to quaff an Absolut on the rocks and rendezvous with our Amsterdam bud Jimmy Mack.

Dylan and his band were in fine form both nights, although I thought that there were a few too many plodding tunes on Night One.

We four situated ourselves back by the soundboard, where Marti and I could dance to uptempo songs like “Leopardskin Pillbox Hat” and “Maggie’s Farm.”

Jimmy Mack at the Bulldog on the Leidseplein, after the first show.

Michel and Marti. Note Michel’s smile, which soon disappeared after we took him next door to the Pancake Corner. The joint was frenetic, replete with boisterous partying dudes and blaring ‘80s music. Not Michel’s idea of a place to enjoy late dinner. My bride and I, whose musical tastes are a bit less parochial than Michel’s, were actually digging the cheesy hits and goofy ambiance. What the fuck, it’s Amsterdam at 2 a.m.

The weekend flew by. Early Sunday afternoon – Easter – Marti and I rolled up to the beautifully-restored Grand Café Restaurant ‘1e Klas,’ located on Platform 2B at Central Station.

While we waited for our train, we relaxed in easy chairs with cocktails and took turns playing with the camera on my new Crackberry.

Easter 2009. The Bunny and his associate distribute treats on the Thalys platform.

April 12 also marked the 18th anniversary of our move to Paris. Upon returning to our adopted hometown Marti and I celebrated with a great meal at Le Suffren, conveniently located near a certain favorite Tower.


Last week our friends Pat Martino and Kirk Yano came to town. Pat, the reknowned jazz guitarist, was returning to his roots, leading an organ trio in a concert at New Morning. Before the show, we visited Pat in the dressing room, where Kirk – his sound engineer and tour director – was making final adjustments to the customized Pat Martino Signature Gibson.

MC Marti introduces Tony Monaco on the Hammond B3, Louis Tsamous on drums and le légendaire Pat Martino à la guitare.

Tony and Pat.

Marti supervises Kirk.

View from the sound cage.

It was a marvelous night. Pat’s playing was impeccable, comme d’ hab’. Afterward Kirk, Tony, Marti and I went to the Julien for a late hang.


Easter Sunday in Steamboat Springs: our dear friends the Kisers (newly transplanted in Colorado) reported in.

Greek Orthodox Easter in Paris, a week later. Marti and I arrived early at Saint Stephen Cathedral for the beautiful Saturday night Resurrection Service.

The church is darkened in anticipation of the Resurrection -- the central event of the liturgical year -- commemorated here by the bishop bearing a single candle. Gradually the light is passed to the congregants, triumphally illuminating the cathedral. It’s a seminal visual from my early childhood.

Following the service Marti and I cabbed over to the Apollon restaurant in the 7th arrondissement, which offers a traditional fast-breaking late night Easter meal. This commences with an egg-cracking ritual, symbolizing Christ breaking from the Tomb. The person whose egg remains unbroken the longest (in our case, Marti) looks forward to good luck for the rest of the year.

Next up: Magheritsa, a soup based on lamb broth from gizzards and other non-scheduled parts of the animal. It’s an acquired taste, to be sure. Surprisingly, Marti downed most of hers this year!

Succulent, falling-off-the-bone roast lamb shoulder is the main event. Accompanied by roast veggies and salad.

Tsoureki Paschalino (Greek Easter bread). Awesome when toasted the next morning.

Our favourite Greek red.

We had been blessed with April showers in both Amsterdam and Paris. On Greek Easter it drizzled off and on throughout the evening.

It helps to live in a town that looks gorgeous in the rain.

Gustave Caillebotte, Paris, A Rainy Day (1876-1877).

IN AND OUT OF THE 'HOOD

I love this town. Marti and I are approaching the 18th anniversary of our move to Paris. Except for the first seven weeks in a hotel, we’ve lived all of our years of voluntary exile in the same apartment at 85 rue Blomet.

Our one-way street on the Left Bank boasts a rich cultural history. In 1921 Catalan artist Joan Miró encountered the Rue Blomet Group -- André Masson, Max Jacob, Antonin Artaud, Tristan Tzara and others. These Surrealists and Dada poets proved to be a profound influence on him. Today children play in the Square Blomet on the site of Miró’s former studio at 45 rue Blomet. His sculpture Oiseau Lunaire (Moonbird) is the centerpiece of the little park.

Joan Miró by Man Ray (1933).

42 Rue Blomet, Joan Miró (1977).

At 33 rue Blomet a music hall called the Bal Colonial -- commonly known as the Bal Nègre -- opened in 1928. Early patrons were predominantly soldiers from the French West Indies and French West Africa who had served in World War I, but soon the venue became the hot spot for hip Parisian clubbers of all hues to hear jazz bands and dance to trendy syncopated rhythms.

One of the scenemakers of that era was the noted Harlem painter Palmer Hayden, who arrived in Paris in 1927. Backed by a wealthy art patron, Hayden studied here for five years. His prolific output captured the vibrant resonances of Jazz Age Parisian society.

Bal Jeunesse, Palmer Hayden (c. 1927).

Rue Blomet is “sandwiched” parallel to two major thoroughfares – both based on routes of ancient Roman roads leading out from the city center. One is our favorite rue marchand (shopping street), rue Lecourbe. In the space of just a few blocks Marti and I can find nearly all the resources we need to happily sustain our life. Butchers. Bakers. Fruit and veggie sellers. Fishmongers. Newsstands. Dry cleaners. Cobblers. Opticians. Even our doctors’ offices are within a ten- or fifteen-minute walk. Our ‘hood is truly a village within the city.

The other main drag, with our closest Métro station and a host of clothing and shoe stores, is rue de Vaugirard, shown here in a period postcard.


As bountiful as our neighborhood is, every once in a while we venture out to find exotic resources. Recently our cheffing gal pal Katy Jane phoned from San Francisco with an ingredient request.

KJ and her husband Nico cook in the kitchen of the innovative chef Daniel Patterson’s Coi.

Katy Jane needed a quick fill-in supply of vadouvan, a Frenchified version of an Indian Masala spice mix, which commonly contains onion, garlic, mustard seeds, cumin seeds, fenugreek seeds, curry leaves, black lentils, turmeric, salt and Castor oil. At Coi it’s used to season a vinaigrette.

I was headed out the next day to obtain a few ethnic cooking ingredients myself, so I started my shopping at Hediard, the gourmet mecca at Place de la Madeleine. I bought a couple of jars of vadouvan for Katy Jane (and one for me), then mailed KJ’s package that morning.

Next stop on my shopping tour was rue du Chateau d’Eau in the Tenth arrondissement.

At the Globus Eastern European food shop I stocked up on Hungarian pickled cabbage-stuffed peppers, envelope soup, Egri Bikavér ("Bull's Blood of Eger") wine, bread, smoked sausage and a poppyseed dessert roll.

Then I walked around the corner to the Passage Brady . . .

. . . an arcade that features a number of Indian, Pakistani and Bangladeshi restaurants.

I acquired a basketful of Indian goodies (nan, palak paneer, basmati rice, okra, baby eggplants, etc.) and asked the clerk about vadouvan. He showed me a huge one kilo bag, priced a lot lower than the stuff from Hediard.

I love the fact that here in Foodie City I can find almost anything I need to dabble in ethnic cooking projects.


On Saturday afternoon March 14 Marti and I went to the Place de la Concorde to visit the Jeu de Paume gallery.

On exhibit were Robert Frank’s remarkable photographs from The Americans (1959) and his Paris series from the early 1950s. I’ve been a fan of his work for decades (see cover of Exile On Main Street). I always love traveling into his black and white world.

America.

Paris.

After the museum visit Marti and I strolled into the Eighth arrondissement. En route we window-shopped at the oh-so-chic boutique Colette, which was promoting 7 For All Mankind jeans.

In the avenue Matignon we dropped in at the Galerie Daniel Malingue to see an exhibition of paintings by Fernand Léger.

Next door at the Galerie Pierre Lévy we saw lovely canvases by Armand Guillaumin, Camille Pissaro, Paul Serusier and a personal favorite of mine, Georges Lacombe. (His Ages Of Life from 1892 is pictured here.)

Marti and I grabbed a snack later at a brasserie, then made our way to New Morning, where our friend Elliott Murphy was celebrating his 60th birthday with a marathon show. We had a fab time, enjoyed Elliott’s marvelous songs. Sitting in were friends and family (Elliott’s son Gaspard, a guitarslinger extraordinaire). Olivier Durand, Murphy’s longtime lead guitarist, shredded all night long. We said hi to Elliott afterward and gave him a book of Robert Frank’s Paris pictures for his birthday.

Late-night after show dinner nearby at the impossibly beautiful Art Nouveau restaurant Julien.


Last Monday I went solo to see Vic Chesnutt and Elf Power at the Café de la Danse. Elf Power opened with a strong set, then joined Vic to perform the songs from the excellent Dark Developments album. Vic was in great voice, more powerful than I’ve ever heard him and I’ve been hitting his concerts since the late ‘90s. The Dark Developments material was great, as were the encores of “Independence Day” and “Sewing Machine.”

Had a fun hang with Vic and Elf Power after the gig. Vic was trippin' on the fact that they had done "Everybody Hurts" at the R.E.M. tribute at Carnegie Hall the week before. (Pictured: Elf Power bassman Derek Almstead and Vic at Carnegie Hall.) Vic thought he had sucked at that show! We shot the shit about Bob Dylan, Zimmie’s former bandmate David Mansfield (who had played at the R.E.M. tribute) and our friends in Widespread Panic. JoJo is going back to school and doing his dissertation on Vic's music . . . Todd called Vic recently to ask him to contribute a song to a kids album he's doing.

Elf Power’s Laura Carter told me how she’d first met Vic while she was working at an Athens, GA coffee shop. Vic would roll in with his guitar in hand and entertain the patrons. She was happy on this Monday night that her combustible quest had been successful.

Laura’s “laminate.”


Marti took last Friday and today as vacation days. We kicked off her four day weekend with a trip to see the Sonia Rykiel exhibition at the Musée des Arts Décoratifs.

The museum mounted this retrospective of the couturière’s work late last year to commemorate the 40th anniversary of the Sonia Rykiel fashion house. She’s one of my bride’s favorite designers. Nearly twenty years ago, on our first visit to Paris, I bought Marti a velour, rhinestone-studded SR party dress. One Christmas after we moved here, I was given a ticket to a Sonia Rykiel warehouse sale in the ‘burbs. I scored six or seven items to give Marti that year.

The exhibition included clothes, fashion photographs and fashion show videos. There were also tribute creations -- inspired by the Sonia Rykiel style -- from fellow designers such as Karl Lagerfeld, Christian Lacroix and Roberto Cavalli.

Many of the outstanding fashion photographs in this show were by Dominique Isserman, shown here in 1985 with her friend Leonard Cohen.


We had lunch that afternoon at Deda, a beautiful new Georgian restaurant at Les Halles. I discovered this place a few weeks ago with my pal Michel.

The cuisine here is highly refined, incorporating surprising ingredients such as walnuts and pomegranate seeds. The restaurant has its own tone, a traditional beehive-shaped bread oven. The bread, called lavachi, is worth the trip alone. Deda is a winner.


One last word about the tragic passing of actress Natasha Richardson. In 1993 Marti and I were privileged to see her legendary Broadway performance alongside future husband Liam Neeson in Eugene O’Neill’s Anna Christie. We were both knocked out by the awesome talent exhibited on that stage. The Roundabout Theater production won Tony, Outer Critics Circle and Drama Desk Awards for Best Revival.

It was a marvelous night of classic drama for us, a couple who met years earlier while working at The Commonwealth Stage, a regional theater in Massachusetts.

Our thoughts and prayers are with Natasha and her grieving family.

"Patchwork" is a song Nikki Matheson and I cowrote many years ago. I gave Nikki a set of lyrics and she transformed them into this tune, which she is currently re-recording in Vermont. Enjoy.

The whole world is watching today as Barack Obama takes the oath of office of President of the United States. Marti and I are glued to the flat screen. Obama is facing a daunting challenge, exacerbated by the spectacular and abject failure of his predecessor.

On this blog eight years ago to the day I lamented the Inauguration of the United States' first President appointed illegitimately by a partisan Supreme Kangaroo Court. I warned of Bush's incompetence and his intention to carry out major reversals of the progressive social achievements of the civil rights and women's movements.

I didn't know the half of it.

What a titanic disaster he turned out to be. Arrogance. Ignorance. Inaccountability. Dereliction of duty on 9/11. Warmongering. Torture. Shredding of the Constitution. Katrina. The worst economic crisis since the Great Depression. Bush owns them all. Don't let the door hit you on the way out, jerkoff. The next time we'd like to see you is on trial for war crimes.

No "Nixon opened China"-style rewrite of history will patch Bush's legacy: he's going down as America's Worst President. As that great poet Robert Hunter wrote, He's gone / and nothin's gonna bring him back.


Today marks a truly remarkable moment for Americans. At 64 I'm old enough to remember the shock of confronting overt racial segregration for the first time. I was born and grew up in Massachusetts. Nearly fifty years ago my dad took our family to Washington, DC -- where I caught a glimpse of the newly-nominated John F. Kennedy on the steps of the U.S. Capitol. (We had hope then too.)

On that trip we visited a family friend in North Carolina who pointed out proudly that the Negro truckdrivers who stopped at his roadside café willingly went around the back of the building to obtain their takeaway meals, so as not to disturb his white customers. I was appalled. What a long, strange trip it's been from then to now.

It's time to roll up our sleeves and dig ourselves out of the horrible mess Bush created. Thank goodness we have a brilliant energetic young President to lead the way.


Here's what else has been going on with us. . .

Our longtime pal Jody visited last week from New York City. She and her squeeze Emmett had graciously hosted us on the Manhattan legs of our recently-completed Eurotrash Holidaze Tour.

On Friday, January 16 Jody came by for tea with Marti and me, then she and I hit the streets as my bride finished the workday on her laptop at home.

Jody and I had every intention of doing something cultural like taking in a museum, but we wound up simply enjoying a long lunch at the tiny -- hence the name -- Petit Vatel, cruising the Grande Epicerie, window shopping the January sales all along the Left Bank, hanging out in cafés, schmoozing. It was a fun, relaxing hang.

Later that afternoon Marti became free and we rendezvoused at the Agnès B. boutique in the rue d'Assas.

Our friend Ileana is the store manager. Marti had brought a copy of Ily's book to be signed for Jody. I left Jody in Marti's capable hands and the two of them spent the rest of the afternoon together.

I reunited with Jody, Marti and Jody's charming friend Antoinette for dinner at Au Sud de Nulle Part, one of our favorite bistros.

Jody and I ordered magret de canard with epinards et pommes Dauphinoise . . .

. . . Antoinette enjoyed sea bass accompanied by ratatouille . . .

. . . and Marti had a steak garnished with pleurotte and shitake mushrooms. We all downed tasty first courses, delectable desserts and drank a robust 2000 Hautes-Côtes de Beaune.

Afterward we strolled toward the Buci Market, stopping for a moment at an historical site: the first hotel where Jody stayed in Paris, um, a couple of decades ago.

We capped off the evening with digestifs at the Café Laurent, the bar where everybody knows our name . . .

. . . and where the sublime Christian Brenner presides at the piano every weekend.

We always hang with Jody and Emmett in Maximum City. It was a special treat to spend some q-time with her here in our hometown.


The previous weekend Marti and I had traveled to Amsterdam to celebrate my 64th birthday.

Enchanting snowscapes in France, Belgium and the Netherlands during our train ride were an unexpected surprise.

We checked into the Leidse Square Hotel, then made our appointed rounds.

At the 420 Café, the coffeeshop that serves as John Sinclair's home base, we joined a group of folks that included Thumper, Jeff from Baltimore and London chanteuse Carole Beausaint Denis. I asked John if he was recording an episode of his Radio Free Amsterdam podcast that evening. With a twinkle in his eye he replied that he hadn't planned to, but we could . . .

Soon we were off: smokin', jokin' and talkin' on the radio! In between selections from John's bottomless bag of deep roots music (and under the giant glowing spleef), we jawed about a host of stuff, from Carole's music to our impromptu review of the film Cadillac Records. Marti and I had just watched it on my laptop on the train.


The next day -- Sunday, January 11 -- was my birthday. We headed out from the hotel toward the Van Gogh Museum, slightly sidetracked enroute by the January sales.

Shades of Hans Brinker. Skaters drew us into Vondel Park for a bit of people watching.

Sunday in the park with a tubesteak.

One kid was learning to chair-skate.

Where have all our lost mates gone?

Amsterdam in winter.

Finally Marti and I made it to the museum.

We saw a delightful exhibition entitled 125 Favorites -- Acquired with the support of the Rembrandt Association, which was commemorating -- you guessed it -- 125 years of providing art to Holland's museums. A highlight was Johannes Vermeer's Love Letter, 1669-70.

One of our favorite Parisian painters: Gustave Caillebotte, View From A Balcony, 1880.

Edouard Manet, The Jetty of Boulogne-sur-Mer, 1868. A rare seascape from the reknowned Impressionist.


Later that afternoon we hooked up with our singer-songwriter friend John Lester at the Café van Leeuwen, a bar near his home.

We had a groovy time with John, checking out the Sunday afternoon jazz jammers who play here every week.

On our way back to the hotel to change for dinner, we dropped by John's home for a quick visit with Lisa, their boys Kai and Aaron (on the move). It turned out that they too had enjoyed the skatefest in Vondel Park earlier in the day.


My B-day dinner took place around a Teppan Yaki table at the Tokyo Café.

Bibbed up and ready to rock: me, Jimmy Mack and Marti.

I was happy that our good bud Jim was able to join us for this evening of dinner theater. At the last minute his bride Caroline had to cancel due to the onset of a winter cold. (We'll see her in April when we return for the Bob Dylan concerts at Heineken Music Hall.)

Yikes. How do you say Call the Fire Department! in Japanese?

I share my birth date with an Italian dude named Nino, who was dining at our table with his three sons.

Perfectly positioned, as always. My tablemates to the right all evening were the lovely Mei and Cookie. (What can I say? The girls love me.)

After dinner Jimmy, Marti and I went to the Dampkring coffeeshop for digestifs. Then James left to catch a tram to Central Station. Marti and I walked down to The Waterhole on the Leidseplein to catch Carole Denis' set.

Carole was happy to see Marti and me, made us feel welcome, introduced us around. We dug her soulful singing -- the icing on my birthday cake!


Monday was another sunny and cold Amsterdam morning. Marti and I packed, had breakfast, checked out and hit the straats to kill a few hours before our late afternoon train.

Our afternoon brought a healthy mix of sightseeing . . .

. . . cultural exchange . . .

. . . and shopping, first at the American grocery (Quaker grits, Hellmann's Light mayo, New England clam chowder) . . .

. . . then at Lush, my exclusive source for handmade olive oil soap. (I'm such a metrosexual.)

Marti paid a visit to her BT colleague and friend Merel . . .

. . . while I made new friends at the Dampkring.

Will you still be sending me a valentine / Birthday greetings, bottle of wine?

As the afternoon wound down, Marti and I went back to the Leidseplein, engaged a taxi, picked up our bags at the hotel and waited for our train in the elegant 19th Century Grand Café in Central Station.

Homeward bound. The fact that we had been able to connect with so many of our Amsterdam homies had helped make it an especially memorable birthday weekend.

Winter, spring, summer or fall / All you have to do is call / And I'll be there / You've got a friend -- Carole King, 1971.

Marti and I flew l'Avion from Paris, landing at Newark in the late afternoon of Thursday December 18, about to kick off our 2008 Eurotrash Holidaze Tour. After months of trip and party planning we were excited about reuniting with our New York Krew: Jody and Emmett, Runaway Bry, Deb and Ted, Glitter Boy, Kirk, Jon, Amy and others. Because I'd be hosting Martipalooza -- a big belated milestone birthday party for my bride a couple of nights later -- we were also looking forward to seeing a host of other U.S. pals who would be traveling to New York from all around the country to celebrate with us.


As we've done for more than twenty years, Marti and I would be staying just two blocks off Times Square . . .

. . . at the home of our dear friends Jody and Emmett. The four-story brownstone has been in Jody's family since the turn of the last century. We always occupy the parlor floor VIP Suite.

We stowed our bags, visited briefly with our hosts, then cabbed to the Upper West Side to see our buds Deb and Ted. They had graciously received a number of mail order packages on our behalf. We needed to collect them quickly, as a couple were meant as Christmas gifts for guests coming to Marti's party.

After a relaxing hang with Deb and Ted, we hailed a cab to take us across Central Park to Pig Heaven, the Yorkville restaurant which would be the site of Martipalooza..

We had dinner and tacked down the final details for the Saturday night soirée with Nancy Lee, the beautiful namesake of this landmark Chinese bar/resto at E. 80th Street and Second Avenue. Marti and I were relieved to find that everything was in order for the party. Our guests would be taking over two rooms of the restaurant; we chose a table in the middle of the floor plan where we'd have eye contact with all our peeps.


Snow had been predicted for the next day, Friday. We hit the ground running with a quick visit to Amy's Bread, a Hell's Kitchen mainstay around the corner from our digs. The order for Marti's birthday cake was in good shape. Amy's would be messengering it to Nancy Lee's on Saturday afternoon.

Now it was time for breakfast at our favorite New York coffeeshop, the Galaxy at W. 46th and Ninth Avenue. The cold morning called for oatmeal. Deelish. Didn't want to fill up: I had surprise lunch plans for Marti later that day.

Friday was our big NYC shopping day. First destination was Barney's. Following a pair of debacles in the Men's department (my Armani sportcoat that didn't survive a trip to the dry cleaner and a botched customer service performance surrounding its successor), Marti had negotiated a sizable credit and a one-day 20% discount on anything in the store. I decided that she should reap the rewards. I couldn't fit anything more in my closet.

While we were still in sixth floor Men's, I heard a familiar voice speaking with a salesperson. I turned to see Gary Dell'Abate, longtime producer of the Howard Stern show on Sirius satellite radio, trying on a sportcoat. "Looks good, Gary," I said. He laughed and complained that he can never find anything to fit him anymore. I explained that I was a loyal daily listener to the show via Internet in the comfort of my Paris living room. We chatted briefly, then continued on our respective shopping missions.

Marti and I hit several designer departments on a number of floors until she selected a lovely Jill Sander winter coat that had started life at nearly $3000, but was now marked down below a grand. It looked marvelous on her. After the credit and the discount were applied, I wound up shelling out a whopping $38 on her 2008 Christmas gift. I haven't got away that cheaply in decades!

Marti wore the new coat right away. She decided to donate her previous coat to a New York charity. It was beginning to snow. I was delighted. We strolled over to Bloomingdale's, finished our Christmas shopping there, then headed on to lunch.

Our surprise destination (for Marti) was the legendary Le Cirque restaurant. What made this lunch all the more special was the warm company of our friends Trish and Ben, who had flown in from Austin, Texas for the Marti festivities, and our Maximum City hosts Jody and Emmett. Lunch in the Le Cirque Café was laid back and elegant -- and of course, delectable. Martipalooza Weekend was well underway!

Jody and Emmett came along with us afterward as the Shopping Quest resumed. By now the weather was getting real sloppy. Nearly everything that could was falling from the sky. I was digging it to death. I love winter weather.

The in-kitchen bickering Romagnolis: among my favorite TV chefs from the 1970s & '80s.

I flashed on a huge blizzard back when we lived in DC in the '80s. All day as the snow piled up, Marti and I had watched cooking show after cooking show on Public TV. After a chef came on cooking rabbit stew I rose from the sofa in a frenzy of cabin fever overlayed with a rabbit jones.

"Let's go up to 18th Street," I cried, "We can see if any of the restaurants are open." We trudged through the snow and like a beacon from a lighthouse a yellow glow emanated from La Fourchette, a longtime Adams-Morgan standby. What's more, the Frenchies had Bunny à la Sauce Moutarde on the menu! Deep snow and slow-cooked rabbit -- does life get any better than that?

After the Le Cirque lunch we taxied down to snowy Herald Square, spent one second looking at Macy's windows, then entered the giant department store. I was looking for a deal on a new raincoat. The Smithsonian had been e-mailing me about acquiring my old Generra raincoat (purchased in Georgetown ca. 1983, high style, bad fit). I figured after 25 years it was time to upgrade. I zeroed in on a great deal on a Joseph Abboud Sinatra-belted coat. Nasty weather? Bring it on, New York!

Next stop was Steve Madden shoes, around the corner on W. 34th Street. As we entered the store, clerks were handing out scratch-off discount cards. I scored 25% off on a pair of faux snakeskin slip-ons. Marti and I had considered one or two more destinations that afternoon, but the streets were becoming nearly impassable for pedestrians, so we called it and headed back to W. 46th.


That evening we went down to the East Village . . .

. . . to catch a gig by Staten Island's reknowned Budos Band. This was planned to be a sort of Martipalooza pre-party, but already some of our guests' flights were being delayed by the storm.

Another surprise was in store for Marti. Marie and Kevin, our longtime pals from Belfast (now residing in Portland Oregon), sashayed into the Mercury Lounge and caught my baby completely unaware. Marti was thrilled. She and Marie hunkered down at a table and immediately started catching each other up. Kevin and I did pretty much the same at the bar. It was so great to see these folks again. We all met the first summer Marti and I lived in Paris, 1991.

Our pal Ben, who earlier in the evening had been to see South Pacific at Lincoln Center with his bride Trish, deposited his better half at their hotel and came down to join us for the Budos Band, who rocked out old-school R&B instrumental-style.

Joe, brother of Mike of Des and Mike, our Paris-cum-Los Angeles homies, tips one with Marie and Kevin. (Desirée and Mike were also in da house but clearly dodging the paparazzi that night.)

After the show a bunch of us went to late dinner nearby at Katz's Deli. The food was good, I thought, and the ambience was pretty loose and nutty, but this place is hardly the outstanding delicatessen that my Gov't Mule listserv correspondents make it out to be. The NYC Mule Krew goes absolutely apeshit over this joint. I've been to more than a few Manhattan delis that leave this one -- a kind of pretentious dive deli -- in the dust.


By Saturday morning of Martipalooza Day the bad weather had abated. Just about all our guests had made it into town by then.

That afternoon Marti went to the exclusive Minardi Salon on the Upper East Side for a blow out and a manicure. The Minardi team loved her French "do" with the fuschia and pink extensions, her signature look. I logged in some time at a neighborhood coffee shop/cyber café, checking my e-mail for updates from our invitées.

In the early evening we made our way over to Nancy's, stopping enroute to shop at the Hungarian Meat Market. After bringing home goodies from the central market in Budapest in May, I had tried to restock in Paris but hadn't been able to locate the ingredients. Turns out that back in the day the section of Yorkville where Nancy's Pig Heaven is located was New York's Hungarian neighborhood. This grocery-deli is the last vestige of that scene -- and it's on the same block as Nancy's!


Welcome to Pig Heaven.

The Queen of Saturday Night. She's flanked by her subjects: my cousin Nick (at left) and our pal Kevin.

A table by the band, please. Left to right are Jody, Gina, Aaron, Nate and Trish. Sam da Man, always in demand, was eluding the paparazzi that evening.

Our longtime pals. We vacationed with Gina & Da Boyz in Spain last August.

Marti's Maryland-DC homies Felecia and Pat. Longtime gal pals and former coworkers, they had trained up the night before, were staying at a swanky apartment at W. 42nd Street and Ninth Avenue. We had popped in on them enroute to the Mercury Lounge, but they refused to come along with us. The gravitational pull of their digs -- which featured breathtaking corner views of Manhattan, the Hudson River and the Garden State -- was too strong.

The Las Vegas contingent. Suzi is a real estate magnate and Mike is a former showgirl. They showered Marti with loving hospitality during her business trip to Sin City last June.

Ben and Jody. (Don't they make ice cream for hippies?)

Me and Trish. We had a super time with her and Ben when they visited Paris last August.

Trevor with Liz, the coolest mom around. It was a special treat to spend the evening with the spawn of some of our dearest friends.

Rosemary and Devon. (Must not say "Rosemary's baby" . . . must not say "Rosemary's baby" . . .)

Gal pals Rosemary and Katie.

Whoa . . . everybody in this room is in 3-D!

Ted was my oldest friend at the party, in every sense of the word. He's my age and still hitting on young women, in this case our host Nancy. Where the hell was his wife Deb?

Nancy's regulars: the inimitable Jon Paris on badass guitar, harmonica and deep blues vocals, Madame de Booming Bass Amy Madden and timekeeper extraordinaire Kirk Driscoll on drums. They rocked the house all night long, welcomed numerous guest musicians to the bandstand and kept everyone groovin'.

Here's some archival footage of Jon and Amy in action . . .



Our friend K. LaMonté kicked down soulful versions of "Silent Night" and "Jingle Bells." "Finally," Marti exclaimed, "a rocked-out 'Jingle Bells' I can dance to!" The B-Day girl tore up the dance floor.

Mike, Marc and Susabella let the spirit move them.

Google the word "surprise" and Kevin's picture comes up. He bowled Marti over by singing her favorite Leonard Cohen song, "Ain't No Cure For Love." I was standing right behind Ms. Marti and I had to catch her before she fainted!

Liz presents a gift from her sister Susan to Marti. It's a lovely painting Susan made depicting the balconies surrounding our Paris apartment. I was getting homesick already!

Marc Black, our dear amigo whose friendship dates back to my hazy mid-70s Woodstock period, generously serenaded Marti with "The Christmas Song (Chestnuts Roasting On An Open Fire)," a tender ballad he'd learned for his bride Sue. Then he namechecked Marti and me in "Sittin' On Top Of The World" ("My friend Phil is sittin' on top of the world / 'cause he's got such a hot-lookin' girl").

Marc is such a talented cat. A truly original songwriter. A superb guitar player. A great friend. All that and he drinks coffee . . .



Marc's version of "Gloria" got the entire joint up and dancin'. It was a joy to behold.

During "Gloria" Nancy ran to the drumkit and started to throw down.

This jam was right up Marc's alley -- he organizes tuned water glass sessions in coffee shops, for goodness' sake.




Our pal Nate. He's sixteen now and totally unflustered.

Trish attains VIP status. "I'm with the drummer."

Alan Merrill, our favorite Glitter Boy, took the stage and rocked hard. He sang an array of crowd-pleasers: R&B classics, rockers, pop hits . . . and of course, The Anthem: "I Love Rock 'N Roll." He wrote it in London in 1975. Royalties from cover versions by the likes of Joan Jett and Britney Spears been berry berry good to Alan.

As soon as Marti heard the big intro chords to "I Love Rock 'N Roll," she weaseled her way up to the stage.

She wasn't about to miss the opportunity . . .

. . . to reprise her gang vocalist role on Alan's 2000 recording of the song.

Here's Alan's original 1975 version of "I Love Rock 'N Roll" with his prototypical boy band, The Arrows:




Mike and Nancy. Who doesn't love Rock 'N Roll?

Even I received a gift that night. Mike brought me a souvenir teeshirt made by our mutual friends Jan and Greg in Virginia (a newly Blue State).

Alan sang one of my favorites of his recordings, a killer version of The Left Banke's "Walk Away Renee."




Kirk Yano is a one-man party. He smokes on guitar. In the studio he'll transform your track into a sonic jumping bean that pops out of the speakers. And he's always the coolest dude in the room. Marti and I love him to death. We're so happy he was riding shotgun on December 20.

Kirk is très débonnaire aussi. That's the delectable Rose he's zooming in on.

Toward the end of the night -- always her time to shine -- Jamie The Bartender delighted the crowd with a soul-drenched version of "Be My Baby." Okay, Jamie. No problem.

For more great images, check out www.robinlangsdorf.com/Marti to view Robin Langsdorf's excellent slide show of the party. Thanks again, Robin!


Miraculously, Marti and I woke on Sunday morning -- after only a couple of hours' sleep -- and went to church at the Greek Orthodox Cathedral of the Holy Trinity on E. 74th Street. I had always wanted to visit the Mother Ship of my Faith.

After the Divine Liturgy, we were graced with nearly an hour of New York Theater: the Sunday School kids' annual Christmas Pageant.

While shepherds watched . . . for their cue.

No cheesy foamcore costumes for these Maximum City thespians; the angels had feathers in their wings.

The Grand Finale. The little cherubs got into a bit of an angelic traffic jam at the altar, but their herders nudged them into position in time for the money shot.


After church Marti and I cabbed up to Harlem, to meet a few of our hardcore pals for the Official Martipalooza Soul Food Brunch. Amy Ruth's -- a hands-down winner -- was our friend Teri's recommendation.

Clockwise: Ben, Trish, Jody, Emmett, Felecia, Maria, Charles, Pat, Marti, me, Teri and Jerry.

Cholesterol pushers: Harlem residents Teri and Jerry.

Is Trish putting grits on those waffles? Jody is either appalled . . . or thinks it's a nifty idea.

That's me. Chicken livers, mac 'n cheese, collard greens. And no, I'm not sharing.

Mmmmm. Chicken looks damn good.

Marti enjoys a lifetime supply of pork chops. (Back on W. 46th Street Ricky the Hyperkinetic Chihuahua is salivating but does not yet know why.) Oh, her sides are cheesy grits and fried okra. Gotta love this gal.


You would think that after such a huge brunch we wouldn't be able to eat again for a week.

You would be wrong.

Gathering that evening at Five Napkin Burger in Hell's Kitchen: Jim, Emmett, Nikki, Marti, Jody and me. Emmett and Nikki had us roaring at their pigeon Italian-actual Italian mock argument. Emmett would kick out some totally fake Italian, like "Tuto ma puto ni soma prosciutto!" (With exaggerated hand choreography, of course.) Then Nikki would heatedly retort: "Non conoscete di che cosa l'inferno voi sta parlando!" And on. And on. We were in stitches.

The burgers were awesome as well.

Special thanks to Liz Janega and Ben Marroquin for contributing images to this section.

On Monday morning December 22 our 2008 Eurotrash Holidaze Tour pulled up stakes and rolled South.


Marti and I had breakfast at the Galaxy, ordered deli sandwiches to bring on the train ride to Washington DC.

With all our luggage (even after leaving some things behind at W. 46th), we always enlist the services of a porter at Penn Station. The guy loads out from the taxi, parks Marti and me in a special waiting area, apprises us of the on-time situation, takes the bags and us to the train early so we have our choice of seats, loads in the bags and wishes us a Happy Holiday. Believe me, this is the best twenty bucks you can spend on a train journey. Business class, airport lounges, porters, bellmen, car services and taxis: my solutions to reducing the wear, tear and stress of travel.

Marti and I spent a quiet evening at the Henley Park on Massachusetts Avenue. Dined in the hotel café. With access to wifi at last, I downloaded four episodes of All My Children to my laptop. Hey, man does not live by high culture alone.


The next day my bride and I decided to detox a bit. For breakfast we had street vendor half-smokes, smothered in chili sauce, near the car rental office. For those readers unfamiliar with this gourmet delicacy, here's Wikipedia's defintion: A half-smoke is a type of sausage found in the United States capitol of Washington, D.C., and the surrounding region. A half-smoke is slightly larger than than a regular hot dog, spicier and with more coarsely ground meat . . .
A half-smoke is commonly made of beef, pork or a combination of the two, and is served on a hot dog bun . . . The etymology of "half-smoke" is unclear as the sausage is not always smoked. One possible explanation is that many places cut the sausage in half when grilling, or that many half-smokes are 50/50 beef and pork (though 100% beef half-smokes are common).

After our health food breakfast we collected a Chrysler 300 with a huge trunk, tooled back to the Henley Park and had the bellman load in baggage. Marti and I pulled out of the circular driveway, bound for Hooterville (Charlottesville, Virginia).

We of course encountered Hell Traffic on Route 66 in Northern Virginia, even though it was the middle of the day and most of the DC-area had already headed for zee hills on the Christmas break. May I just say again how happy I am to 1) not own a car, and 2) not be driving daily in this market any longer. By the time we got to Gainesville my bride and I were hungry again. We stopped for late lunch at Saigon Crêpes, a delightful new restaurant in a nondescript strip shopping center. The young Vietnamese-American waitperson was lovely. A student at the University of Virginia, she was very excited when we explained that we were traveling from our home in Paris. She plans to look us up here next summer.
Oh yeah, the pho (Vietnamese noodle soup) was delicious -- and comforting on a cold December afternoon.

We checked into the Doubletree Hotel . . .

. . . then drove over to Marti's parents' home, which had been decorated beautifully for Christmas. We spent a pleasant evening with Nan and John, as well as Marti's brother John and his wife Nanci.


Marti and I had promised to cook Christmas Eve dinner, so the next morning after breakfast at Nan and John's, Nanci and John(x2) and my bride and I assaulted the local Whole Foods supermarket for the fixin's.

On the menu: a simple mesclun salad with olive tomatoes and artichokes . . .

. . . followed by my late mom's Christmas Eve standby shrimp Creole with white rice. Charlottesville friend Pat Shutts' Christmas cookies made a delicious dessert.

That evening Marti and I attended the Orthros and Divine Liturgy of Saint John Chrysostom at the Holy Transfiguration Greek Orthodox Church. Following the service we spoke briefly with Father Michael. I had e-mailed him weeks earlier regarding the time of the Christmas Eve service. Marti's parents had generously allowed us to move dinner to the late afternoon so we could go.

Marti was churched twice that evening. After the Greek Orthodox service, she attended the evening music and hymn singing and Holy Eucharist Liturgy at the Episcopal Chuch Of Our Saviour with her family. I went back to the hotel, wrapped gifts and watched a George Carlin HBO special from 1978.


Christmas morning at the Greggs'. This is the only place I know where people over 50 still dig into stockings from Santa Claus. In many ways Hooterville has always been a trip to a parallel universe for me.

Santa sez: No more Right Wing screeds!

We brought German stollen from Paris, a nod to the Greggs' service in Cold War West Germany way back when.

My favorite elf delivers presents from under the tree.

Something struck Nanci and John Boy as real funny.

Nan gets the joke as John digs into the giftwrap with visions of yet another military history book dancing in his head.

Okay, we've done brekkie, the stockings, the gifts under the tree. The already-prepared catered turkey is still gonna take hours to thaw & recook. What do we do now? Thankfully, Marti's parents gave me the DVD set of Bernardo Bertolucci's five-hour Director's Cut 1900, a favorite film of mine from 1977.

From 1900: Robert De Niro and Gérard Depardieu visit a prostitute. Whatever pants Gérard had been wearing before this scene never fit him again in this lifetime. My brother-in-law's comment: "Hey, did this movie get a rating?"


December 26. Dawn over the Doubletree.

I spent the day after Christmas packing three boxes full of gifts and other accumulated items to be shipped home to Paris by uniformed government workers at considerable expense. My catchwords for next Christmas: Scarves. Jewelry. DVDs. An ounce of weed. Anything that won't add measurable weight or bulk to our already-formidable baggage. By the time I rendezvoused for lunch with Marti and the other discount shoppers at Cheeseburger In Paradise, I was more than ready for a huge Top Shelf Margarita (Patrón Silver Tequila, Cointreau and Grand Marnier).

We love the family album restaurant shot. Somebody should hold an annual Waitstaff Photography Festival, don'tcha think? The grand prize could be a framed portrait of the waitperson taken by someone at the table.


Here we are again the next morning. At IHOP. At seven a.m., Allah be praised. After our Happy Hooterville Christmas my bride and I were rollin' again . . . back to DC.

Soon after we arrived back in the Nation's Cap and checked again into the Henley Park, Marti hosted her customary Gal Pals Lunch -- at Ben's Chili Bowl on U Street, NW. That's Cathy, Gina and Pat with Marti and her new boyfriend.

While Marti and her Krew were downing chili half smokes at Ben's, I went to visit our friends Val and Jacques at Idle Time. That's a delightful drawing of their shop by Mary Melcher, whom we met later that afternoon.

Marti joined us after her luncheon. Val was camping it up behind the register. These two freaks certainly appear happy for peeps who are selling a product that fewer and fewer Americans use anymore.

The Pope of 18th and Columbia Road surveys his turf. Adams Morgan is our old DC 'hood. Jacques has been experiencing health problems this past year; Marti and I were heartened to see him looking so well. Bonne santé, mon frère. Et bonne continuation.