Ah, sweet sleep. After surviving last night's encounter with the predatory
Italian twins, Maryline and Michele, I was able to catch a solid six hours.
Awake to the crooning of a Mel Torme imitator, rendered in Franglish,
accompanied on the synthesized accordion, from the banks of the ever-peaceful
rue Meynadier below. And I thought New York had a few unnecessary sound
effects, having habituated to the sound of 5 am delivery trucks on Greenwich
Street, the perpetual car alarms of 110th Street, even the truck drone of the
Clearview Expressway, and the inimitable flight path to La Guardia. Who
could be disturbed now by avant garde Riviera chanteurs?
Resonating to this acoustic motive force, I was driven to a gambole on the
Croisette, which immediately upped the ante in paraniod fantasy-land; the
first apparition was an obvious symbolic transformation of "Maryline and
Michele" - a giant, demented M&M impersonator (melts in your mouth, not in
your hand?), careening, staggering, and blocking my path. While this may
have fooled the camera crews, I've read enough Thomas Pynchon novels to
understand that this was no accident. So these creatures disguise themselves
as candy during the daylight? I cleverly fled to the beach, anticipating
that the M&M would not be able to maintain traction, I was safe at last.
Further reassuring - only a few hundred footsteps further along - a small
grove of Dole Pineapple girls (thank goodness for Festival sponsors) waved
delicately in the breeze. It is now transparent that many life forms
(perhaps five percent of the population?) of the Riviera appear by day as
foodstuffs, edible commodities, potentially threatening or comforting snacks,
depending on your state of mind. Hard to believe that Dustin Hoffman thought
the scene was overly commercialized.
Followup on Q: the big *deal* is palpable. I suggested that she wait for
Bill Gates, but she has other plans, which are now progressing rapidly
(sorry, still bound by the confidentiality agreement, which I signed without
reading). Still somewhat disturbed by the initial exam for finger agnosia,
which confirmed that she has all four symptoms of the Gerstmann syndrome, she
demanded a retest. I agreed, given concerns that the prior investigation
might have been hampered by her ingestion of Chianti, and attempted to
minimize the deficit, since her bodyguard was watching, and I did not care to
have my kneecaps lowered as payment for services rendered. I explained again
that these cognitive peculiarities are accompanied by unique forms of genius.
Examinations of her staff followed. I estimate now that 75 percent of the
film industry has congenital dysplasia (altered development) of the left
inferior parietal lobe, given the problems with spelling, illegible
handwriting, right-left confusion, poor basic math skills (although there
seems to be a preserved capacity for calculating a "daily rate"). The
skills usually mediated by the left hemisphere in these subjects appear to be
more widely distributed. Tomorrow I'll try more of the pure visuospatial
tests.
The constant flow of neuropsychodiagnostic consultations was beginning to
fatigue me. I made plans to escape the fray. The Michelin Guide was an
oasis of sanity - and the restaurant, Moulins de Mougins (dropped in recent
years from three to two stars, but who's counting?), was only 15 minutes
away. Eloping to the hills, there was time for a tour of the Chapel of Notre
Dame de Vie. Rabbits hopped contentedly into the brush, a flock of kites
rushed from the eaves - and from the portico of the Chapel, the sunset
panorama over Mougins seemed so far away from the Croisette. Only the
echoes of dogs, communally barking their residual concerns of the day over
the canyons between the petite chateaux, broke the whisper of the breezes
through the poplars lining cobbled paths. Descending to Moulins de Mougins,
a converted 16th century oil mill, and escorted to lounge by a contentedly
crackling fire, did not break the mood. To abate concerns that my coronary
arteries might be clearing too rapidly from the mean and lean life of the
Festival, I forced myself to ingest the foies gras, lobster, and lamb
specialties that comprised today's Menu Traditional, and a Le Flaive Puligny
Montrachet was clearly indicated to wash down all this health food.
Invigorated, I made the descent back to Cannes, plunging from the sublime to
the ridiculous. Conversation at the Majestic lounge is now dominated by the
Brits, and the Saturday night crowd includes actuaries, accountants, and
assorted servants of the public trust. Not trusting this, and the hour
growing definitely to "after", I used sonar to locate hubs of activity. Yes,
J's warning - that Saturday night is best to leave for the tourists - haunted
me. Despite some reassuring signs (by New York standards), including 6 foot
4 inch transvestites attired in various animal prints, (and incidentally,
with better hair coloring than the species of under-30's accompanying the
over-50's observed last night), and an increased incidence of unique body
piercings, there was also the jarring lilt of Liverpool au pairs ("Woy,
doencha ya know, I did a bit of stud-ying, in thot *Colour Therapy*, thot's
woy I got on this red dress, loik ya do!").
Leave them, the mind whispered, to improve their French in social discourse
with the boys of the neighboring and quiet Cannet, who were overly
intoxicated, but still able to work the conversation to descriptions of
yellow Lamborghini's, which appeared to mark some common ground. Before the
motor oil got too thick, I darted to refuge in a populous cavern nearby. The
smoke was too thick to make out any details, and following the Sortie signs
that promised an escape route, I climbed the stairs to a black curtain, with
silk-screened stars. Pulling it apart revealed a boys' club, far too involved
with each other to notice me. I rapidly concluded that this venue was not
one likely to yield reproductive success on the part of the participants, and
since my goal remains to identify those species that will be perpetuated (my
Darwinian agenda remains clear), I retraced my steps into the cool evening
air, back to the now silent rue Meynadier, back to the arms of Morpheus.
Your faithful analyst,
Dr. Reichard Flickheimer
Suggestions? Comments? Fill out our Feedback Form.