to stapes, tu savoir good parlor.

WARNING: this post contains words in a non-english language and may therefore cause discomfort to monolingoids. this could not be avoided, but we have taken measures to ensure that no words were left unharmed. brought to you by the american embassy of france.

so, as i was finding out that i was accepted to nyu, thomas found out that he will be receiving a fulbright grant for next year to go play in the archives in d.c. last week he received an extremely fancy embossed invitation to a garden party at american embassy in paris. when he showed this fancification to me, i told him to call those motherfuckers with a swiftness to say that he was going to be arriving with a pony. so begins the tale of how the pony crashed the ambassador's garden party...

but first let's back it up a bit to last august, when pony was hiding in a corner of its apartment in seattle watching strangers come and buy all of pony's worldly goods. after the strangers left with the worldy goods, pony set to packing its bags and getting on a plane to paris. when winter came, pony realized that it had brought a total of 4 sweaters with it to paris. when i started teaching at the high school, i also realized that although i had brought with me 7 or 8 pairs of shoes, none of these were not garishly colored sneakers. this means that often, pony was denied entrance through the teacher's door at the high school because it was mistaken for a high school student. what can i say... mohawks, tattoos, raggedy jeans, and garish sneakers do not scream "i am a professional!" nor even "i am a grown-ass adult!"

not surprisingly, the garden party demanded tenue correct : nice dressin' that the pony couldn't muster. while there were plans of me showing up as Cherry Poppet in a borrowed tube dress and lee press-on nails, because i am a flake (c.f. previous posting) i forgot to acquire the necessary accoutrements before the ambassadorial soirée. so my tenue not-so-correct involved 3 different non-matching shades of black, all slathered in white diva cat fur, and bright green sauconys. add mohawk, tattoo, and a cigarette hanging out of my mouth for half the party, and you get why thomas kept giggling and calling me a gavroche (= street urchin boy).

when we got inside, it was crazy gaudy. think mini-versailles for those of you who have been to versailles or seen sofia coppola's marie antoinette. thomas immediately got ushered towards an intellectual elite photo shoot, which meant that i could stick lots of petits fours in my mouth and stick my nose into everything all over the ambassadorial residence. there were things on every wall, with tags that claimed that these things were art, but i refuse to acknowledge a poorly-taken photo of a door with two ribbons entitled "god and country" as art. ditto for a cardboard statue of liberty colored with tempera paint. even if you're the ambassador, and some kindergartener makes you some piece of poo statue of liberty, that does not give you still do not have the power to deem said piece of poo "art". no. no. no.

my other find was 2 photos of Craig Stapleton, The American Ambassador To The Whole Country Of France Where They Speak French, displayed at the entrance for all to see. on the first, there was an inscription:

To Stapes, best wishes.
George W Bush

so. Stapes. Stapes is The American Ambassador To The Whole Country Of France Where They Speak French. i've spent hours online hoping to find that same picture (to no avail), because both georgie porgy and stapes are doing excellent impressions of elmer fudds in expensive suits. it's like stapes is saying "hey thar geroge-o! whatcha dern?" and georgie is saying "wull hay thar stapes, let's go git us sem brewskis in gay parr-ee. duh ya know how to order us sem cold'uns un that frenchie talk?"

good question, georgie. let's hand the mike to stapesy. cos stapesy is a-tappin' a glass with his knife and he's gonna talk us some french!

"boon jour mon-surrs and mas dames. vous etes lays bienvenidos a mon castle pars kway vous etes tres trays smart."

thomas and i were laughing out loud. it was impossible not to, because i've had many many french students who speak better french than The American Ambassador To The Whole Country Of France Where They Speak French, and because all the way to the garden party thomas was doing his excellent impression of american tourists in paris (the whole downtown of paris is currently flooded with anglophones), which always makes me almost piss myself. long story short, stapes can't really talk frenchie talk. and so thomas and i just shoved lots and lots of petits fours in our mouths so as to muffle the sound of our snickering. once we were done, we got the hell out of there.

and so crasheth the poorly-tenued pony the garden party of stapes.