It's been a long day since . . . when was that? Oh yes, yesterday.
Serving as Q's secretary for the Tristar deal was not necessarily a bad
idea, and the Tristar gang seemed to go along well with the routine (those
sexists actually ate up the male sec routine), but they seem to have some
funny ideas about product (isn't virtual just like the real thing?) and
profit (after haggling to obtain NIMH funding for so long I always thought
"non-profit" meant next-to-godliness). But things seemed to head
south after their fearless leader (RS) had an inauspicious encounter with
our waitress, in whom he seemed to have a particular interest, leading him
to order some items that were apparently off the menu, but she said these
items were not available, and surprisingly he soured after that, and we
wished them all a cheerful good night. Perhaps I misunderstood the French?
But today was brighter. The sun was vivid, the Mediterranean shone as
in advertisements, and the overall mood of the Fest crowd perked. This
deserves qualification. I had always thought that no group of individuals
could be more neurotic than psychologists, psychiatrists, neuropsychologists.
In fact, during a conference in New Orleans of the International Neuropsychological
Society I concluded that no single group of individuals could appear so
uncomfortable in *any* setting. But I was wrong. The Fest species, according
to initial tallies, can be divided into two groups: (1) those displaying
obvious and intense anxiety, eyes diverted to every novel element in their
visual field, pacing petulantly around circles of those with more impressive
credentials; and (2) those exerting tremendous effort to show that they
are not anxious, with gestures drawn out in time, gazes gradually averted,
movements slowed to give a sense of calm and indifference. There seems
no middle ground here. Perhaps there is a third group, the "self-aware
cynics", and it seems likely that I will have to investigate this further,
because the ennui generated by the other two groups is more stultifying
than the noonday sun.
But I wander in generalizations, and the specifics bear note. Further neuropsychological
investigation reveals that Q has a partial Gerstmann's syndrome: poor writing
(and spelling), right-left disorientation, dyscalclulia (bad with simple
math), and finger agnosia (can't tell which finger is touched when not looking;
although this exam could have been contaminated by a combination of gnocchi
and Chianti). These symptoms occur together with incredible higher order
math abilities (which apparently leads to efficient coding in internet applications),
an awesome spatial sensitivity, and a capacity to read other people's minds.
The famous Neurologist Norman Geschwind described cases like this - but
I didn't expect to find a classic involved in the film industry. It seems
to be adaptive, for Q is now closing on a deal with another (sorry, I had
to sign an affidavit of confidentiality - did I also mention that a feature
of the syndrome is suspiciousness?) Fortune 50 corporation.
I finally encountered J, who got me into this mess in the first place.
Thank god she oriented me to the zeitgeist and several important venues
worthy of investigation. We toured the Croisette, and she alerted me to
important subtleties of the Majestic lounge (including of course, the 'Reserve'
section), the obscenities of the 'new' Hilton casino (who couldn't love
the pavilion of eight-foot tall plaster burlesque queens modulated with
six-foot neon wands... wonder what the symbolism is there?), and the decorum
required on the Carlton Terrace after hours (which apparently does not include
wearing leopard suits; indeed the twin leopard ladies - ostensibly a long-time
Fest Fixture - were gently escorted back to the lobby, which some say is
their natural habitat). J had further solo work to do, but kindly pointed
me to the 'Petit Carlton', which by the time I arrived at the bar, was 12
deep on the surrounding sidewalk.
As an unobtrusive observer, disguised behind a glass of Glen Morangie (doesn't
any bar in Cannes carry the Macallan 18?), I encountered M.J.F.M.M., nominally
the CEO of 'Wildshot' Pictures, of Amsterdam (do the Dutch all have 5 initials?
I'll just call him M). We had a cheerful chat about the effects of films
on the human brain, which seemed to attract the attention of KM, a young
German 'independent' film director (and actress), who is two inches taller
than either of us, and seemed to have *much* longer legs. She seemed particularly
interested in a documentary M was planning in the South Pacific, and when
they started speaking German exclusively, and M began to measure KM's limbs,
to determine whether she might fill a cameo role in his production, I decided
my skills were no longer essential.
But the night, still young, led me back to the Croisette, for further investigation
of the later-evening life forms. A predominance of 50-ish men wearing evening
attire, escorted by 20-ish women with distracting hair coloration (could
there be a distinct species of blondes with more than an inch of dark roots?)
populated the streets. Does this occur in daylight as well? I'll have
to check tomorrow - perhaps I've identified a rare nocturnal subspecies;
I wonder what they eat? Not dismayed by this potential discovery, I sallied
forth into another establishment on the Croisette that appeared teeming
with life. I attempted to camouflage myself again behind a glass of the
Glen Morangie, but was almost immediately apprehended by twins - Maryline
and Michele - who claimed to be from Italy, and involved in covert operations
relevant to the American mission in Sarajevo. When this militant pair suggested
that I join them in a demilitarized zone somewhere East of the Carlton,
I suddenly became aware of the danger this might pose... thanks to my studies
of the evolutionary and organismic biology of animals, I am familiar with
predatory creatures of the night. I barely escaped, to prepare these notes
for you, and hope I will recover sufficient strength to report more tomorrow...
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