Hmmm . . . the writing is becoming more difficult now, as I merge more
closely into the experience that is Cannes '96. Not that the films are so
compelling, but as I find an ecological niche whereby the most interesting
species can be observed, the written word seems more difficult to produce.
Of course, this may be explained simply by sleep deprivation and toxicity
from the Glen Morangie.
The day started innocently enough. Q has obtained her objective. The deal
is done, at least in spirit, and only a few contracts remain to be signed.
But these factors are incidental to what is a *new scientific discovery*.
Previously, it was suggested that Q had a unique neurologic condition -
Gerstmann's syndrome - which has been hypothesized to result from the effects
of testosterone during intra-uterine development. It is now clear that
cutting a major Hollywood deal can have the effect, possibly transient, of
increasing susceptibility to testosterone in those individuals who have this
predisposition. This may have been uncommon in females previously, but I
believe we now have a well documented case, which could foster an entire new
avenue of research. The evidence is clear. Q, calling at 09:38 was
positively assertive, aggressive, demanding in a way that seemed somewhat
uncharacteristic, and could help explain how an entire new class of women is
emerging to rule the world. Men no longer have the exclusive rights to
testosterone.
But explicating this syndrome will require more detailed scientific
treatises. After the awakening by Q, I was fortunately able to sleep a bit
more, to prepare for the daily mission. These were not overly daunting at
first, as I accompanied colleagues to the Colombe D'Or, an exquisite retreat
with views of the old walled settlement of St. Paul de Vence, and an
exquisite lunchtime repast. The "appetizer" alone, comprising 24 unique
dishes, is ample to stave the hunger of armies, and perhaps this is the
intent. I could not resist sampling yet another dose of foie gras, feeling
that I may yet sustain adequate blood flow in at least one free coronary
artery, a condition that will surely be corrected by the end of the next
week.
The mid-day carbohydrate loading did not deter me, however, from important
expeditions. I began this investigation with little hope, given that Cannes,
starting at about 14:00, was shrouded in a depressing drizzle, that
threatened to dampen the spirits of the most enthusiastic and wide-eyed
denizens of the Croisette. A brief pit-stop at the Martinez did not provide
reassurance, and I was almost convinced that the major nocturnal species had
emigrated; after all - rain, Sunday night, lack of major American funding -
all these factors might easily lead to a Cote d'Azur Major Depressive
Episode. Wandering further, however, and seeking refuge in the Casting Bar
(or is it a 'Club'; my limited knowledge suggested that 'casting' was the
principal modifier of 'couch', but I am still naive), I encountered a pair of
female executives.
Bound by yet another confidentiailty agreement (I am becoming suspicious that
paranoia increases closer to the top), I can only say that they are employed
in a major film production/distribution conglomerate. Overworked, they
nevertheless found my mission compelling enough to escort me to the company
yacht, where comforting libations were provided by a skilled crew. While
pleasant enough, this seemed overly familiar, and given my mission, to
discover new species, I pressed on into the after-hours.
As Yogi Berra once said, it was deja vu all over again, as I revisited the
Casting (club, bar, whatever). But now the blinds were drawn, the entrance
guarded, and perhaps only my earlier generous gratuity earned me access to
what had transformed into a club 'Prive'. And the scene inside had changed.
Standing innocuously, as is my habit, at the bar, I was surprised by a dark,
angry man, waving me away. I wondered whether I may have committed some faux
pas, perhaps ordering the wrong cocktail for the hour, or wearing the wrong
clothes, but it became clear within seconds that I was simply standing too
close to an exotic female, ostensibly the recent prize of this ruffian's
quest for the night. Realizing that again, I was in danger, I sought refuge
at a nearby table, explaining in hushed tones to the occupants that death
threats had been levied against me for occupying the wrong square meter of
Cannes turf.
And I am happy to report that not all nocturnal species of Cannes are so
forbidding, or dominated by these primitive territorial instincts, for I was
welcomed and comforted by this grouping of amiable Cannes Casino Girls, as
they describe themselves. Amanda, Sandra, Helen, Betty, and Patricia - one
French, the others imported from England - who were willing to protect me
from the savages, and indeed escorted me to "Opera", a relaxing oasis of
Techno-music, and dancing, with high-intensity strobes tuned to the
fundamental frequency of the human hippocampus, or in other words, designed
to elicit seizures in those who are vulnerable . . . And although I recall
little after this (perhaps the hippocampal stimulation erased some
memories?), I indeed managed to return safely to deliver these notes to you.
Your faithful correspondent,
Dr. Reichard Flickheimer
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