Darling,
I've had the loveliest long vodka morning with Andrea since before the sun came up; actually, it's not ever as if I noticed it going down. It's been the most- being with Andrea and not sitting my corona no. 3 on anything flat so as to type a story to the Post in the longest of times. Laughing and lounging, the two things I love best are in abundance whenever he's got me in rapt attention.
France was spellbinding, but Spain seems reverentially sunny and soft day after day. As if I could go on forever.
I find him hot to my cool.
ciao
-Jacqueline
Saturday, April 9, 2011
SPAIN FRANCE SPAIN
HOLIDAY FROM MYSELF
Leading to my upcoming July in Pamplona, I surrendered myself respite from anticipation and joined a dinner of men. One had the delusion I was his when I opened my Kelly bag. He reached over and took my hand and said, "Here, let me." Amazing my chin held up the way it did. In silence, he began to unbutton first my right glove, then my left and proceeded to unglove me!
Never in my life has a man looked so fearless at the prospect of dismantling my wit; leaning into me, only to place them (my wit and gloves) in my Kelly bag and snap it closed. Loud in their exit, I was speechless in his moment.
That snap might well have been the shot heard round the world, as the entire dining room of people went quiet and turned round to stare at me! Darling, on cue, I was toast to his buttered knife. It was killing.
Of course I'm just wild about manners and he was the tops. Perfectly beyond casual limits. Every word after my ungloving, I stumbled; but being so charming and all, he played me without notice.
Two martinis (extra dry) later, he whispered in my ear that we were taking the train to Madrid. I smiled. He picked up the check and took my hand. I lost my heels as we ran to the train. As you can imagine darling, I never even noticed Madrid.
-Jacqueline
Postcript:
Of course Andrea hasn't a clue, but then I'm the one keeping clues.
BLACK BIRD
Andrea wired an URGENT cablegram:
JACQUELINE:
STOP MOMENTARILY TO TAKE MY CALL THIS EVENING.
FRANK’S WEARING YOUR GLOVES.
HARRY'S SUSPECT.
DON'T JUMP FROM YOUR CASA OFF ROCKY RIDGE.
-ANDREA
Darling, having only arrived back in Cuenca this morning, I hadn't the chance to climb to the top of the stairs till after I'd finished Andrea's cable. So by the time I opened my door I was fraught full of spooks from his dramatic tone, that when a black bird flew past my head I ducked for cover and spotted an envelope of white on the floor that wasn't addressed to any one particular; and assumed it quite my right to open, finding it in my room and all. It held only a small slip of paper like the kind found in Chinese cookies. It read:
Something you lost will soon turn up.
First of all, Frank's not wearing my gloves. They’re in my Kelly bag with the pearl handle gun tied in red ribbon from the antenna of Andrea's Aston Martin. What gloves Frank is sporting, I haven't a clue. But not mine.
And the only thing Harry's suspect of is his raucous covet of a queen's crown.
It's rather presumptuous to think I'd not jump from the casa, other than a different way more splendid than the first.
Darling, it's thrilling having found a black bird in my room, you know. It's an ominous premonition of favored luck, I'm sure.
Not but a moment after I'd rang for a drink from room service did Andrea dial me up in hushed tones that he’s catching the midnight train and will arrive in the a.m. to discuss our next scene as we're expected to appear before Inspector Clouseau in Paris, France on Friday the 13th.
Andrea is just mad for salty capers with twisting plots, you know.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
Hasta mañana-
-Jacqueline
OVER THE MOON
Andrea arrived looking bright as the morning he brought with him. It was as if a million long nights hadn’t passed that we weren’t together. I'm over the moon and delirious with him by my side.
No, we haven't discussed Inspector Clouseau, but I've arranged a time in the afternoon for him to watch me try on several perfect outfits to determine which I shall wear when we arrive at the police station in France. There seem far too many choices.
-Jacqueline
LT. JOHN KIRK
Andrea promised we'd be back in Spain before nightfall so I let him persuade me that I looked best in Valentino, that I myself think doesn’t say enough about me. But, it wasn't about me, truly darling. I suspected that Andrea wanted to steal the show, so I let it rest. You know how he is about his movie scripts and all.
Inspector Clouseau went beyond his self, as his grin spread miles past his face in the biggest of smiles when I entered his office and reached out to let him take my hand in hello. Many impressed raves over my stunning attire later, he fumbled through a disarray of documents littering his desk to the floor and followed his way to a file cabinet where he pulled from a drawer a pair of my earnest heels.
He asked if the shoes fit me, and of course I said, "Yes". He replied that he'd rang a shoe smith who was coming straight over to fix one of the sole’s broken heels, then held his hand to his heart and proclaimed with a mischievous grimace that he was quite intrigued with dismantled souls.
I assured him he needn't bother, as soles weren’t made to last forever and if I wanted heels same as in his hand, I’d ring Jimmy Choo. He said it was a delight for him, the prospect of cobbling me back together.
A man is at his worst when he plans on saving my soul. Being the Inspector and all, I played along and accompanied his lines.
Moments after having relented to his soul fixation of me, the most brilliant of men walked through the Inspector's door. I was to find treasures in the intriguing Lt. John Kirk over the next several days. Beginning with the fact that I don't believe he's of French decent but from the highlands of Scotland. His constant devotion to the Inspector was never suspect as he seemed such the braveheart! He's quite debonair, what with the way he holds himself from the crowd, with eyes void of suspicion and a quiet smile atop an alluring sort of gait. He's fresh from the start. Rather front and center, but outback.
He seemed destined to help build my triumphant story and didn't mind a bit that he's not the star because he appeared content he was becoming my main character. As if there’s a difference.
The lieutenant will have to compete for the starring role in the remake of Steve McQueen’s Getaway, as Andrea wants that part more than ever.
Ciao
-Jacqueline
THE LOVELIEST
Oh, darling, Andrea and I met the loveliest young girl. She's a photojournalist named R. Kate covering dramatically romantic scenes in the avenues of Paris and is the sister of Lt. John Kirk.
During an afternoon of scouting uncovered drama with the Inspector playing leader, the dashing lieutenant maneuvered our little group to his sister’s loft on the Boulevard Saint-Germain, south of the Seine, where she welcomes fishermen as gracefully as the titled.
She's magnetic, really. That she shoots the perfect picture at narrow range in wide ease is just the beginning of her assuming character. And the way she wears her jeans loose round her thighs illustrates a spirit primed to cover noon stories, and even more so on balmy nights.
She's not at all a bore telling you how she really is when one asks her, but always replies she's nothing less than swell. I love her spirit full of optimism and bounce. R. Kate's the type who if she smells smoke brings out marshmallows arranged on a tray to roast!
She's Paris's most famous open secret! And what with all the recent revival of French espionage that seems to have no conclusion, it was more than refreshing to find a girl who represents that oxymoron best.
She looks practically royal in her subjective opinions so that she seems her own institution.
A spectacular girl.
Lt. John Kirk told me he employs a small army of men to follow his sister when she's covering opposition scenes in quaint quarters of Paris, as he can’t ever be too certain that her ballerina flats will pirouette her out of a jam. It’s sub rosa, as he suspects she'd most likely run to one in a million French lovers in the country were she to find a brigade of men dressed for war close behind because she’s monogamous in her love affairs, you know.
He’s all about gallant family obsessions.
R. Kate’s in search of a positively neutral destination without the possibility of a fine mess to stumble into, as we've become the fastest of friends and want nothing more than to talk endlessly all about ourselves!
-Jacqueline
Postscript:
Her eyes are as big as moon pies and as bright as banana flavored ones.
BRIGHT PEOPLE
Darling, Andrea wasn’t able to keep his promise of returning to Spain in one day, as we were asked by Inspector Clouseau to stay over for further questioning, which by the way, he frankly dismisses as answers not true that are subliminally false for confusion unless constructed otherwise, so his request wasn't imperative, but disarmingly macramé none the less.
Most inviting of all was that we'd found ourselves enthralled with Lt. John Kirk's band of sisters.
He encouraged we spend a long weekend at their grand family estate in the country before we travel to Pamplona to see the running of the bulls. We met up with R. Kate and two more quite not like her. Alex M. is the oldest of the girls and no doubt a masquerading duchess, as she presented herself amused with our zany laughter, but not much. And she's rather intellectual, as you’d expect, but doesn’t share much of herself, as she prefers to paint her tomorrows endlessly today. The youngest is Rory, a true grit sort of girl, who has an eternal list of unknown friends in never ending supply and who were forever part of the revolving scenery, more so than the scads of servants who scurried to provide our requested whims.
It was a brilliant weekend of sporting events what with riding Rory's many thoroughbreds she keeps warm in the stables with her own imposed sunshine and games of tennis in between long swims in the shortest of pools, which caused no termination in a trail of swimmers requiring first aid after they'd bump their heads on one end then the other.
Their mum is just wild for bull runs, but the siblings say she's been stampeded too many times through the years, so that they feel most protective of her and insist she stay in France where she plays Joan of Arc in the fields behind their estate, which she does best when left to her own devices.
However, she doesn’t appear trampled and fell gracefully into my stories without requiring a rehearsal of information I dread sharing with unknown characters. She applauded the backdrops of my adventures, which are nothing more than tossed chapters of my unfolding drama that keep the Inspector’s brows high in suspicion of me!
Their father's been dead for years and no one seems to recall his story, but Rory told Andrea in secret amongst her many scandalous friends that her father had been a bad artist who went mad from the fumes. Their mother forbids the mention of his name as she becomes extra un-ordinarily excited with fond memories of turpentine so that she can't stop a sentence without becoming overwrought with eccentric joy in the memory of her late husband's death.
Oh darling, I'm more than excited to join this cadre of bright people at the running of the bulls in Pamplona.
ciao
-Jacqueline
Postscript: I wired the Inspector he will find me in Spain should he wish to submit to more of my eternally varied stories.
Leading to my upcoming July in Pamplona, I surrendered myself respite from anticipation and joined a dinner of men. One had the delusion I was his when I opened my Kelly bag. He reached over and took my hand and said, "Here, let me." Amazing my chin held up the way it did. In silence, he began to unbutton first my right glove, then my left and proceeded to unglove me!
Never in my life has a man looked so fearless at the prospect of dismantling my wit; leaning into me, only to place them (my wit and gloves) in my Kelly bag and snap it closed. Loud in their exit, I was speechless in his moment.
That snap might well have been the shot heard round the world, as the entire dining room of people went quiet and turned round to stare at me! Darling, on cue, I was toast to his buttered knife. It was killing.
Of course I'm just wild about manners and he was the tops. Perfectly beyond casual limits. Every word after my ungloving, I stumbled; but being so charming and all, he played me without notice.
Two martinis (extra dry) later, he whispered in my ear that we were taking the train to Madrid. I smiled. He picked up the check and took my hand. I lost my heels as we ran to the train. As you can imagine darling, I never even noticed Madrid.
-Jacqueline
Postcript:
Of course Andrea hasn't a clue, but then I'm the one keeping clues.
BLACK BIRD
Andrea wired an URGENT cablegram:
JACQUELINE:
STOP MOMENTARILY TO TAKE MY CALL THIS EVENING.
FRANK’S WEARING YOUR GLOVES.
HARRY'S SUSPECT.
DON'T JUMP FROM YOUR CASA OFF ROCKY RIDGE.
-ANDREA
Darling, having only arrived back in Cuenca this morning, I hadn't the chance to climb to the top of the stairs till after I'd finished Andrea's cable. So by the time I opened my door I was fraught full of spooks from his dramatic tone, that when a black bird flew past my head I ducked for cover and spotted an envelope of white on the floor that wasn't addressed to any one particular; and assumed it quite my right to open, finding it in my room and all. It held only a small slip of paper like the kind found in Chinese cookies. It read:
Something you lost will soon turn up.
First of all, Frank's not wearing my gloves. They’re in my Kelly bag with the pearl handle gun tied in red ribbon from the antenna of Andrea's Aston Martin. What gloves Frank is sporting, I haven't a clue. But not mine.
And the only thing Harry's suspect of is his raucous covet of a queen's crown.
It's rather presumptuous to think I'd not jump from the casa, other than a different way more splendid than the first.
Darling, it's thrilling having found a black bird in my room, you know. It's an ominous premonition of favored luck, I'm sure.
Not but a moment after I'd rang for a drink from room service did Andrea dial me up in hushed tones that he’s catching the midnight train and will arrive in the a.m. to discuss our next scene as we're expected to appear before Inspector Clouseau in Paris, France on Friday the 13th.
Andrea is just mad for salty capers with twisting plots, you know.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
Hasta mañana-
-Jacqueline
OVER THE MOON
Andrea arrived looking bright as the morning he brought with him. It was as if a million long nights hadn’t passed that we weren’t together. I'm over the moon and delirious with him by my side.
No, we haven't discussed Inspector Clouseau, but I've arranged a time in the afternoon for him to watch me try on several perfect outfits to determine which I shall wear when we arrive at the police station in France. There seem far too many choices.
-Jacqueline
LT. JOHN KIRK
Andrea promised we'd be back in Spain before nightfall so I let him persuade me that I looked best in Valentino, that I myself think doesn’t say enough about me. But, it wasn't about me, truly darling. I suspected that Andrea wanted to steal the show, so I let it rest. You know how he is about his movie scripts and all.
Inspector Clouseau went beyond his self, as his grin spread miles past his face in the biggest of smiles when I entered his office and reached out to let him take my hand in hello. Many impressed raves over my stunning attire later, he fumbled through a disarray of documents littering his desk to the floor and followed his way to a file cabinet where he pulled from a drawer a pair of my earnest heels.
He asked if the shoes fit me, and of course I said, "Yes". He replied that he'd rang a shoe smith who was coming straight over to fix one of the sole’s broken heels, then held his hand to his heart and proclaimed with a mischievous grimace that he was quite intrigued with dismantled souls.
I assured him he needn't bother, as soles weren’t made to last forever and if I wanted heels same as in his hand, I’d ring Jimmy Choo. He said it was a delight for him, the prospect of cobbling me back together.
A man is at his worst when he plans on saving my soul. Being the Inspector and all, I played along and accompanied his lines.
Moments after having relented to his soul fixation of me, the most brilliant of men walked through the Inspector's door. I was to find treasures in the intriguing Lt. John Kirk over the next several days. Beginning with the fact that I don't believe he's of French decent but from the highlands of Scotland. His constant devotion to the Inspector was never suspect as he seemed such the braveheart! He's quite debonair, what with the way he holds himself from the crowd, with eyes void of suspicion and a quiet smile atop an alluring sort of gait. He's fresh from the start. Rather front and center, but outback.
He seemed destined to help build my triumphant story and didn't mind a bit that he's not the star because he appeared content he was becoming my main character. As if there’s a difference.
The lieutenant will have to compete for the starring role in the remake of Steve McQueen’s Getaway, as Andrea wants that part more than ever.
Ciao
-Jacqueline
THE LOVELIEST
Oh, darling, Andrea and I met the loveliest young girl. She's a photojournalist named R. Kate covering dramatically romantic scenes in the avenues of Paris and is the sister of Lt. John Kirk.
During an afternoon of scouting uncovered drama with the Inspector playing leader, the dashing lieutenant maneuvered our little group to his sister’s loft on the Boulevard Saint-Germain, south of the Seine, where she welcomes fishermen as gracefully as the titled.
She's magnetic, really. That she shoots the perfect picture at narrow range in wide ease is just the beginning of her assuming character. And the way she wears her jeans loose round her thighs illustrates a spirit primed to cover noon stories, and even more so on balmy nights.
She's not at all a bore telling you how she really is when one asks her, but always replies she's nothing less than swell. I love her spirit full of optimism and bounce. R. Kate's the type who if she smells smoke brings out marshmallows arranged on a tray to roast!
She's Paris's most famous open secret! And what with all the recent revival of French espionage that seems to have no conclusion, it was more than refreshing to find a girl who represents that oxymoron best.
She looks practically royal in her subjective opinions so that she seems her own institution.
A spectacular girl.
Lt. John Kirk told me he employs a small army of men to follow his sister when she's covering opposition scenes in quaint quarters of Paris, as he can’t ever be too certain that her ballerina flats will pirouette her out of a jam. It’s sub rosa, as he suspects she'd most likely run to one in a million French lovers in the country were she to find a brigade of men dressed for war close behind because she’s monogamous in her love affairs, you know.
He’s all about gallant family obsessions.
R. Kate’s in search of a positively neutral destination without the possibility of a fine mess to stumble into, as we've become the fastest of friends and want nothing more than to talk endlessly all about ourselves!
-Jacqueline
Postscript:
Her eyes are as big as moon pies and as bright as banana flavored ones.
BRIGHT PEOPLE
Darling, Andrea wasn’t able to keep his promise of returning to Spain in one day, as we were asked by Inspector Clouseau to stay over for further questioning, which by the way, he frankly dismisses as answers not true that are subliminally false for confusion unless constructed otherwise, so his request wasn't imperative, but disarmingly macramé none the less.
Most inviting of all was that we'd found ourselves enthralled with Lt. John Kirk's band of sisters.
He encouraged we spend a long weekend at their grand family estate in the country before we travel to Pamplona to see the running of the bulls. We met up with R. Kate and two more quite not like her. Alex M. is the oldest of the girls and no doubt a masquerading duchess, as she presented herself amused with our zany laughter, but not much. And she's rather intellectual, as you’d expect, but doesn’t share much of herself, as she prefers to paint her tomorrows endlessly today. The youngest is Rory, a true grit sort of girl, who has an eternal list of unknown friends in never ending supply and who were forever part of the revolving scenery, more so than the scads of servants who scurried to provide our requested whims.
It was a brilliant weekend of sporting events what with riding Rory's many thoroughbreds she keeps warm in the stables with her own imposed sunshine and games of tennis in between long swims in the shortest of pools, which caused no termination in a trail of swimmers requiring first aid after they'd bump their heads on one end then the other.
Their mum is just wild for bull runs, but the siblings say she's been stampeded too many times through the years, so that they feel most protective of her and insist she stay in France where she plays Joan of Arc in the fields behind their estate, which she does best when left to her own devices.
However, she doesn’t appear trampled and fell gracefully into my stories without requiring a rehearsal of information I dread sharing with unknown characters. She applauded the backdrops of my adventures, which are nothing more than tossed chapters of my unfolding drama that keep the Inspector’s brows high in suspicion of me!
Their father's been dead for years and no one seems to recall his story, but Rory told Andrea in secret amongst her many scandalous friends that her father had been a bad artist who went mad from the fumes. Their mother forbids the mention of his name as she becomes extra un-ordinarily excited with fond memories of turpentine so that she can't stop a sentence without becoming overwrought with eccentric joy in the memory of her late husband's death.
Oh darling, I'm more than excited to join this cadre of bright people at the running of the bulls in Pamplona.
ciao
-Jacqueline
Postscript: I wired the Inspector he will find me in Spain should he wish to submit to more of my eternally varied stories.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
BRIGHT PEOPLE
Yes, darling, we lyrically tore away Andrea's promise of returning to Spain in one day, as we were asked by Inspector Clouseau to stay over for further questioning, which by the way, he frankly dismisses as answers not true that are subliminally false for confusion unless constructed otherwise, so his request wasn't imperative, but disarmingly confusing none the less.
Most inviting of all was that we'd found ourselves enthralled with Lt. John Kirk's band of sisters.
He encouraged we spend a long weekend on their grand estate in the country where we met up with R. Kate and two more quite not like her. Alex M. was the oldest of the girls and reserved with a manner that bespoke old royal in the way she presented herself amused not much with our zany laughter and she's rather intellectual, in a hard quiet kind of way. The youngest of them was Rory who had an eternal list of unknown friends in never ending supply and who were forever part of the revolving scenery more so than the scads of servants who scurried to provide our every request and whim.
It was the most pleasurable weekend of sporting events what with riding on Rory's many thoroughbreds she keeps warm in the stables with her own imposed sunshine and games of tennis in between long swims in the shortest of pools, which caused no termination in a trail of swimmers requiring first aid after they'd bump their heads on one end then the other.
Their mother was quite distinguished, as she seems to have effortlessly supervised the upbringing of good sports with manners this side of paradise and the other side as well. A delightful bunch the siblings were and we've invited them all to meet us in Pamplona July 7 for the running of bulls.
Their mum is just wild for bull runs, but the siblings say she's been stampeded too many times through the years, so that they feel most protective of her and insist she stay in France where she plays Joan of Arc in the field behind their estate, which she does best when left to her own devices. Their father's been dead for years and no one seems able to recall his story, but Rory told Andrea in secret amongst her many scandolous friends that her father had once been a bad oil artist who went madly insane from paint fumes and that their mother forbids the mention of his name as she becomes extra unordinarily over excited with fond memories of turpentine so that she can't complete a sentence what with becoming overwrought with eccentric joy at the memory of her late husband's death.
Oh darling, I'm more than excited to have this lovely cadre of bright PEOPLE to entertain this summer in Spain.
ciao
-Jacqueline
Most inviting of all was that we'd found ourselves enthralled with Lt. John Kirk's band of sisters.
He encouraged we spend a long weekend on their grand estate in the country where we met up with R. Kate and two more quite not like her. Alex M. was the oldest of the girls and reserved with a manner that bespoke old royal in the way she presented herself amused not much with our zany laughter and she's rather intellectual, in a hard quiet kind of way. The youngest of them was Rory who had an eternal list of unknown friends in never ending supply and who were forever part of the revolving scenery more so than the scads of servants who scurried to provide our every request and whim.
It was the most pleasurable weekend of sporting events what with riding on Rory's many thoroughbreds she keeps warm in the stables with her own imposed sunshine and games of tennis in between long swims in the shortest of pools, which caused no termination in a trail of swimmers requiring first aid after they'd bump their heads on one end then the other.
Their mother was quite distinguished, as she seems to have effortlessly supervised the upbringing of good sports with manners this side of paradise and the other side as well. A delightful bunch the siblings were and we've invited them all to meet us in Pamplona July 7 for the running of bulls.
Their mum is just wild for bull runs, but the siblings say she's been stampeded too many times through the years, so that they feel most protective of her and insist she stay in France where she plays Joan of Arc in the field behind their estate, which she does best when left to her own devices. Their father's been dead for years and no one seems able to recall his story, but Rory told Andrea in secret amongst her many scandolous friends that her father had once been a bad oil artist who went madly insane from paint fumes and that their mother forbids the mention of his name as she becomes extra unordinarily over excited with fond memories of turpentine so that she can't complete a sentence what with becoming overwrought with eccentric joy at the memory of her late husband's death.
Oh darling, I'm more than excited to have this lovely cadre of bright PEOPLE to entertain this summer in Spain.
ciao
-Jacqueline
THE LOVELIEST
Oh, darling, Andrea and I met the loveliest young girl. She's a photographer named R. Kate covering dramatically romantic scenes in the avenues of Paris and is the sister of Lt. John Kirk. The dashing leutinent took us by her loft on the Boulevard Saint-Germain south of the Seine on one of our afternoons scouting uncovered drama in the company of the inspector as he played leader.
She's magnetic, really. That she shoots the perfect picture at narrow range in assured ease is just the beginning of her assuming character. And the way she wears her jeans loose round her thighs illustrates a spirit primed to cover hot stories, and even more so on balmy nights.
She's not at all a bore telling you how she really is when one asks her, but always replies she's nothing less than swell. I love her spirit full of optimism and bounce. R. Kate's the type who smells smoke and brings out marshmallows arranged on a tray to roast!
She's Paris's most famous open secret! And what with all the recent revival of French espionage that seems to have no conclusion, it was more than refreshing to find a girl who represents that oxymoron best.
Lt. John Kirk told me that he employs a small army of men to follow her when she's covering opposition scenes in quaint quarters of Paris, as he's never too certain that the ballerina flats she wears could pick her up quick enough and out of a jam. It's his secret because he suspects she'd most likely run to one in a million French lovers in the country were she to know a brigade of men dressed for war were too close behind her.
She practically looks triumphant in her objective opinions so that she seems her own institution.
A truly spectacular grand girl.
She's in search of a positively neutral destination without the possibility of a fine mess we might stumble upon, as we've become the fastest of friends and don't want to bother ourselves with stories for print, but rather talk endlessly all about us!
-Jacqueline
Postscript:
Her eyes are as big as moonpies and as bright as the banana flavored ones.
LT. JOHN KIRK
Andrea promised we'd be back in Spain befoer nightfall so I let him persuade me that I looked best in a Valentino gray suit I myself think I've worn too many times.
But, it wasn't about me, as hard as that might be for you to digest, but truly darling, I suspected taht Andrea wanted to steal the show, so I let it rest.
You know how he is about his scripts and all.
Inspector Clouseau was way beyond fantastically charming as his grin went miles past his face in the biggest of smiles when he saw me enter his office and reach out to let him take my hand in hello.
Many impressed raves over my stunning attire later, he fumbled for what seemed a good twenty minutes through a disarray of documents littering his desk and finally made his way to a file cabinet where he pulled from a drawer that crumpled penis song and my broken heels I'd tossed in the trash.
He asked me if teh shoes were mine, and of course I told the truth and said, "Yes". He replied that he'd rang a shoesmith who was coming straight over to fix one of the soul's broken heels.
I assured him he needn't bother, as I'd find the time to go shopping should I want a pair same as the ones in his hand. He said it was a delight for him, the pleasure of doing for ME. Truly, darling, it took all I had in me not to protest as he achingly seemed desperate to please me, which I find dreadfully pathetic when a man plans his life round me. So, I played along and accompanied his scheme.
Moments after having relented to his shoe fixtation, the most brilliant of men among others walked through the inspector's door. I was to learn scads of intiguing things of Lt. John Kirk over the next several days. Beginning with the fact that I don't belive that he's of French decent but from the highlands of Scotland. As his contstant devotion to the inspector was never suspect as he seemed such the braveheart! He's quite debonair, what with the way he holds himself from the crowd, with eyes void of suspicion and a quiet smile atop an alluring sort of gait. He's fresh from the start. Not your average chap. He never called me Jacqeline but began every phrase with, "Now Jack..."
I like him so very much and admire his style. A man quite his own. It's as if he wanted to help build my own story and didn't mind a bit that he's not the star because he seemed quite certain he was becoming my main character. Is there a difference?
He'll have to compete with Andrea who wants more than ever to play Steve McQueen's staring role in the Getaway.
Hasta mañana-
-Jacqueline
But, it wasn't about me, as hard as that might be for you to digest, but truly darling, I suspected taht Andrea wanted to steal the show, so I let it rest.
You know how he is about his scripts and all.
Inspector Clouseau was way beyond fantastically charming as his grin went miles past his face in the biggest of smiles when he saw me enter his office and reach out to let him take my hand in hello.
Many impressed raves over my stunning attire later, he fumbled for what seemed a good twenty minutes through a disarray of documents littering his desk and finally made his way to a file cabinet where he pulled from a drawer that crumpled penis song and my broken heels I'd tossed in the trash.
He asked me if teh shoes were mine, and of course I told the truth and said, "Yes". He replied that he'd rang a shoesmith who was coming straight over to fix one of the soul's broken heels.
I assured him he needn't bother, as I'd find the time to go shopping should I want a pair same as the ones in his hand. He said it was a delight for him, the pleasure of doing for ME. Truly, darling, it took all I had in me not to protest as he achingly seemed desperate to please me, which I find dreadfully pathetic when a man plans his life round me. So, I played along and accompanied his scheme.
Moments after having relented to his shoe fixtation, the most brilliant of men among others walked through the inspector's door. I was to learn scads of intiguing things of Lt. John Kirk over the next several days. Beginning with the fact that I don't belive that he's of French decent but from the highlands of Scotland. As his contstant devotion to the inspector was never suspect as he seemed such the braveheart! He's quite debonair, what with the way he holds himself from the crowd, with eyes void of suspicion and a quiet smile atop an alluring sort of gait. He's fresh from the start. Not your average chap. He never called me Jacqeline but began every phrase with, "Now Jack..."
I like him so very much and admire his style. A man quite his own. It's as if he wanted to help build my own story and didn't mind a bit that he's not the star because he seemed quite certain he was becoming my main character. Is there a difference?
He'll have to compete with Andrea who wants more than ever to play Steve McQueen's staring role in the Getaway.
Hasta mañana-
-Jacqueline
OVER THE MOON
Darling, you know how I'm wild about Harry, but he's no help at all, as last I saw him was the back of his herringbone sport jacket flapping goodbye as her and Antony scootered off before I had the chance to question their nonsense.
None of it mattered though, as Andrea arrived looking dashing and it was as if a million ling nights of being separated had never passed us by. I'm over the moon and delerious with him by my side.
No, we haven't discussed a thing about Inspector Clouseau, but I've arranged some time in the afternoon for him to watch me try on several perfect outfits to determine what I shall wear when we arrive at the station in France. There seem far too many choices.
None of it mattered though, as Andrea arrived looking dashing and it was as if a million ling nights of being separated had never passed us by. I'm over the moon and delerious with him by my side.
No, we haven't discussed a thing about Inspector Clouseau, but I've arranged some time in the afternoon for him to watch me try on several perfect outfits to determine what I shall wear when we arrive at the station in France. There seem far too many choices.
BLACK BIRD
Andrea's sent an URGENT cablegram stating:
JACQUELINE:
MUST STOP MOMENTARILY TO TAKE MY EVENING CALL.
ANTONY SPOTTED SCOOTERING TOWARD SPAIN.
FRANK IS WEARING YOUR GLOVES.
HARRY'S SUSPECT.
DON'T JUMP FROM YOUR CASA OFF ROCKY RIDGE.
-ANDREA
Darling, I hadn't the chance to make it to the top of the stairs till after I'd finished Andrea's cable and by the time I opened my door I was fraught with the spooks from his dramatic tone so that when a black bird flew past my head I ducked for cover and spotted an envelope of white on the floor that wasn't addressed to any one particular and figured it quite all right to open, seeing it in my room and all. It was empty other than a small slip of paper like the kind found in Chinese cookies. It read:
Something you lost will soon turn up.
First of all, Frank's not wearing my gloves as remember, I'd found them in my Kelly bag with the pearl handled gun that had the penis song tied round it with the ribbon I'd untied from Andrea's Aston Martin before I'd gone shopping for eight pairs of sandals.
What gloves Frank is sporting, I haven't a clue. But not mine.
And, anyhow darling, you know I've hundreds of pairs. I just never told anyone ALL the clues I've been collecting for this on going masquerade of everyone's intriguing stories. Incidental or not.
And the only thing Harry's suspect of is his raucuos covet of a queen's crown.
Most certainly I jump from the casa each afternoon after having spent a morning in all it's glory once I'm prepared to make an entrance or a grand arrival. It's proposterous to think I'd do it in another manner, other than a different way more splendid than the first.
Darling, it's thrilling having found a bird in my room. It's an ominous premonition of favored luck, I'm sure.
Thank the saints that Betsy's still on top of my luggage as I can't imagine her deeply sweated browed face having to pack and unpack, pack, unpack, and pack every three days. She seems more responsible with her feet on the ground.
It seems as if I get no rest.
Now I suppose Harry will be all about the city once Antony drops by with my green scooter. Which I'm never driving again darling, as even parred down as I am in couture outfits to choose, not a one of them looks as desvestatingly gorgeous as they do on me in a Martin driven by Andrea.
The moment after I'd rang room service, myself, for a drink from downstairs and situated into a view from my veranda did Andre dial me up in whispered tones telling me to hush as he's taking the midnight train and will be here in the a.m. to discuss our next scene as we're expected to appear before Inspector Clouseau in Paris, France on Friday the 13th.
Andrea is just mad for capers with twisting plots, you know.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to be free
Blackbird fly, blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night
Blackbird fly, blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
Ciao
-Jacqueline
JACQUELINE:
MUST STOP MOMENTARILY TO TAKE MY EVENING CALL.
ANTONY SPOTTED SCOOTERING TOWARD SPAIN.
FRANK IS WEARING YOUR GLOVES.
HARRY'S SUSPECT.
DON'T JUMP FROM YOUR CASA OFF ROCKY RIDGE.
-ANDREA
Darling, I hadn't the chance to make it to the top of the stairs till after I'd finished Andrea's cable and by the time I opened my door I was fraught with the spooks from his dramatic tone so that when a black bird flew past my head I ducked for cover and spotted an envelope of white on the floor that wasn't addressed to any one particular and figured it quite all right to open, seeing it in my room and all. It was empty other than a small slip of paper like the kind found in Chinese cookies. It read:
Something you lost will soon turn up.
First of all, Frank's not wearing my gloves as remember, I'd found them in my Kelly bag with the pearl handled gun that had the penis song tied round it with the ribbon I'd untied from Andrea's Aston Martin before I'd gone shopping for eight pairs of sandals.
What gloves Frank is sporting, I haven't a clue. But not mine.
And, anyhow darling, you know I've hundreds of pairs. I just never told anyone ALL the clues I've been collecting for this on going masquerade of everyone's intriguing stories. Incidental or not.
And the only thing Harry's suspect of is his raucuos covet of a queen's crown.
Most certainly I jump from the casa each afternoon after having spent a morning in all it's glory once I'm prepared to make an entrance or a grand arrival. It's proposterous to think I'd do it in another manner, other than a different way more splendid than the first.
Darling, it's thrilling having found a bird in my room. It's an ominous premonition of favored luck, I'm sure.
Thank the saints that Betsy's still on top of my luggage as I can't imagine her deeply sweated browed face having to pack and unpack, pack, unpack, and pack every three days. She seems more responsible with her feet on the ground.
It seems as if I get no rest.
Now I suppose Harry will be all about the city once Antony drops by with my green scooter. Which I'm never driving again darling, as even parred down as I am in couture outfits to choose, not a one of them looks as desvestatingly gorgeous as they do on me in a Martin driven by Andrea.
The moment after I'd rang room service, myself, for a drink from downstairs and situated into a view from my veranda did Andre dial me up in whispered tones telling me to hush as he's taking the midnight train and will be here in the a.m. to discuss our next scene as we're expected to appear before Inspector Clouseau in Paris, France on Friday the 13th.
Andrea is just mad for capers with twisting plots, you know.
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these sunken eyes and learn to see
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to be free
Blackbird fly, blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night
Blackbird fly, blackbird fly
Into the light of the dark black night
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
Take these broken wings and learn to fly
All your life
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
You were only waiting for this moment to arise
Ciao
-Jacqueline
Friday, February 11, 2011
MAD WITH LUST
I'm mad, mad, simply mad with lust, darling.
Oh, you'll never believe , but Mr. Rueda, the artist with the big brown eyes, hadn't eyes for me, but for Harry! Good Lord, darling, never am I ceased to be amazed at the bounty of men I attract for Harry.
Mr. Rueda's friend, Mr. Paul Brandier, had the delusion I was his when I opened my Kelly bag to place my gloves inside. He reached over and took my hand and said, "Here, let me." Amazing my chin held up the way it did, as I went speechless, which you know is simply not ME, as I always have something to say. Of course, I didn't know what to say, let alone to think just what he meant. Let him what?
He then began, in silence, to unbutton first my right glove, then my left and proceeded to unglove ME!
Well, I most certainly had never. Never in my life has a man looked so fearless at at the prospect of dismantling my wit; leaning into and toward me only to place them (my wit and gloves) in my Kelly bag and snap it closed. Just snap. Like that. I was astounded in his moment.
That snap might well have been the shot heard round the world, as the entire dining room of people went quiet and turned round to stare at ME. Oh my gawd, darling, I knew right then and there I was crisp toast to his buttered knife. It was killing.
Of course I'm just wild about manners and Paul's the tops. He was perfectly beyond casual limits. Every word after my ungloving, I stumbled, but Paul being so charming and all, handled me as if he hadn't noticed my stammering a bit. Two martinis (extra dry) later he whispered in my ear that we were taking the train to Madrid.
I smiled.
He picked up the check.
He took my hand.
I lost my heels, and we ran to the train.
As you can imagine darling, I never even noticed Madrid.
-Jacqueline
Postcript:
Andrea, of course hasn't a clue, but then I'm the one keeping clues.
Oh, you'll never believe , but Mr. Rueda, the artist with the big brown eyes, hadn't eyes for me, but for Harry! Good Lord, darling, never am I ceased to be amazed at the bounty of men I attract for Harry.
Mr. Rueda's friend, Mr. Paul Brandier, had the delusion I was his when I opened my Kelly bag to place my gloves inside. He reached over and took my hand and said, "Here, let me." Amazing my chin held up the way it did, as I went speechless, which you know is simply not ME, as I always have something to say. Of course, I didn't know what to say, let alone to think just what he meant. Let him what?
He then began, in silence, to unbutton first my right glove, then my left and proceeded to unglove ME!
Well, I most certainly had never. Never in my life has a man looked so fearless at at the prospect of dismantling my wit; leaning into and toward me only to place them (my wit and gloves) in my Kelly bag and snap it closed. Just snap. Like that. I was astounded in his moment.
That snap might well have been the shot heard round the world, as the entire dining room of people went quiet and turned round to stare at ME. Oh my gawd, darling, I knew right then and there I was crisp toast to his buttered knife. It was killing.
Of course I'm just wild about manners and Paul's the tops. He was perfectly beyond casual limits. Every word after my ungloving, I stumbled, but Paul being so charming and all, handled me as if he hadn't noticed my stammering a bit. Two martinis (extra dry) later he whispered in my ear that we were taking the train to Madrid.
I smiled.
He picked up the check.
He took my hand.
I lost my heels, and we ran to the train.
As you can imagine darling, I never even noticed Madrid.
-Jacqueline
Postcript:
Andrea, of course hasn't a clue, but then I'm the one keeping clues.
CUENCA SPAIN
Harry and I just had to stop the ship to get off for a good while before we could travel further, but I'll save that story to tell if I ever happen upon a long day. Anyhow, the ship was fraught with and weighed down by Americanos, but we're now brilliantly situated in Spain.
You must know, darling, that even though I do so love the Rockefellers, Vanderbilts and the like, I simply could not bear another moment in the states.
The Post rang for an article in Cuenca (KWEN-ka) and, darling, mountains with trees could not have stopped Harry and I from being the first to ship out. I do nothing beyond pinch myself in elation. Well, I sing it as well:
I'm on top of the world looking down on creation and the only explanation I can find, is the love that I found ever since you've been around, it's almost put me on top of the world.
You simply would adore where we are staying in Cuenca. I'm ensconed in a hanging house. That's right, darling, not only am I walking on water, but I'm hanging above it from a rocky ridge! Majestic.
The sleep is big and luxurious. Intoxicating.
I do nothing more than read the local papers in bed with coffee and let the white crepe curtains billow just so and flutter all about me each morning. Delicious.
And the sun, oh darling, the sun is brilliant. Magnificient!
The egg's yolk- the brightest you've ever seen.
I simply cannot hesitate from reviewing myself in this splendor long enough to answer my bedside telephone. It's flashing red, but I've no doubt the messages for me at the front desk all can wait.
This moment is no further than ME. This moment I want to savor past forever. Toledo's just a 1/2 hour train ride away so I needn't worry about this and that or the time of day.
Queen Sophia left the most considerate cablegram for me to receive upon my arrival last night. Her and King Juan Carlos are busy inaugarating the new AVE trains that link Madrid to Valencia on the Mediterranean coast so we will have to wait till early next week to meet; which endlessly delights me as I'm anxious to make my entrance in the town's square and travel a good story from the PEOPLE.
I came upon a local little group mingling about the flower market and was told that Cuenca was a fortress founded by the Moors centuries ago. The house we're staying in is called a Casa Colgadas "Hanging House". Isn't it enchanting, darling?
This evening I've been invited to the Museo de Arte Abstracto Espanol, which is the center of the town's big art scene. The great artist Fernando Zobel use to live in the casa which now is the museum. It seems that no matter how I turn I find myself in ART! Even former posadas and convents are museums to Spanish art. Odd, isn't it, as I'm not that inclined to art, so it leaves me to wonder if art's not following me? Rather than life following art, because that is just so not ME.
On Good Friday they have a procession known as LaTurba in remembrance of Jesus's journey on the road to Calvery; a statue of Christ is carried through the streets while the people bang loudly on drums and shout at the figure. Rather similar to my Friday's, if not my entire predicament, in Oklahoma, you know.
Darling, they've wild boars on the avenues. Last night Harry and I dined at Parador de San Pablo where we enjoyed an eleven course meal such as oyster, bacalao, lamb and what seemed hundreds of delicacies served with baguettes sliced thinner than an onion's skin.
Afterward, we were walking through the narrow avenues when we heard screaming up ahead and saw a woman loose from her crowd running toward us shouting, "Boar, boar, wild boar!" Well, she took a turn to the lane off the right, but the boar did not! I assume the boar aren't accustomed to turns, as more likely than not they're related to bulls in all of Spain. The streets had been quiet as there was no planned festival for a running, but never the less, the boar was charging straight toward us. I'm not certain if it had anything to do with the red silk Hermes scarf printed with golden matadors on its fringe that I had elegantly tied round my neck. There seemed nothing available to stop him in his direction toward ME.
Thank God for the kindest of man, Mr. Rueda, who upon seeing my distress instantly jumped from his good crowd to sweep me right up a flight of stairs and fling me to the entrance of a grand church in procession of communion. So that we landed entwined with the Lord and on our knees. Within seconds, he looked at me with big brown eyes full of amusement and together we fell into uncontrolable laughter which startled the parishoners who looked on us with cold disapproval. Harry, distraught with worry had rushed and tripped into our scene, but I couldn't assure him my sanity for all my laughter.
The funniest thing was, it simply wasn't that funny.
Eventually, we three got up and brushed ourselves out and Mr. Rueda introduced himself to us as an artist. PLEASE, is everyone an artist? Is everything art? Fergawdsakes, I've had just about all the art a spring hat can take in a hard wind.
I suspect next someone will tell me that Hemingway conceived Lady Brett right here on these avenues.
All in all, I think I handled the circumstance like a good sport and told Mr. Rueda where we were staying, as he asked if he could telephone me later to make certain my faith after having fallen during grace.
Well, darling, he already had left me a cablegram at the front desk by the time I entered the lobby of our casa. I read it on my way up the stairs:
Lady Jacqueline-
Grateful for your landing in grace.
Be so kind as to meet my friend, Paul Brandier, and self this evening for a drink at Manolo de la Osa at 9p, please.
And must bring Harry.
-Mr. Rueda
Really darling, I'm in my Portebello linen covered feather bed, white of course, and all that I truly want is to stay in its pillows while the fresh breeze brushes
me into a siesta so as to postpone all things to consider.
-Jackie
You must know, darling, that even though I do so love the Rockefellers, Vanderbilts and the like, I simply could not bear another moment in the states.
The Post rang for an article in Cuenca (KWEN-ka) and, darling, mountains with trees could not have stopped Harry and I from being the first to ship out. I do nothing beyond pinch myself in elation. Well, I sing it as well:
I'm on top of the world looking down on creation and the only explanation I can find, is the love that I found ever since you've been around, it's almost put me on top of the world.
You simply would adore where we are staying in Cuenca. I'm ensconed in a hanging house. That's right, darling, not only am I walking on water, but I'm hanging above it from a rocky ridge! Majestic.
The sleep is big and luxurious. Intoxicating.
I do nothing more than read the local papers in bed with coffee and let the white crepe curtains billow just so and flutter all about me each morning. Delicious.
And the sun, oh darling, the sun is brilliant. Magnificient!
The egg's yolk- the brightest you've ever seen.
I simply cannot hesitate from reviewing myself in this splendor long enough to answer my bedside telephone. It's flashing red, but I've no doubt the messages for me at the front desk all can wait.
This moment is no further than ME. This moment I want to savor past forever. Toledo's just a 1/2 hour train ride away so I needn't worry about this and that or the time of day.
Queen Sophia left the most considerate cablegram for me to receive upon my arrival last night. Her and King Juan Carlos are busy inaugarating the new AVE trains that link Madrid to Valencia on the Mediterranean coast so we will have to wait till early next week to meet; which endlessly delights me as I'm anxious to make my entrance in the town's square and travel a good story from the PEOPLE.
I came upon a local little group mingling about the flower market and was told that Cuenca was a fortress founded by the Moors centuries ago. The house we're staying in is called a Casa Colgadas "Hanging House". Isn't it enchanting, darling?
This evening I've been invited to the Museo de Arte Abstracto Espanol, which is the center of the town's big art scene. The great artist Fernando Zobel use to live in the casa which now is the museum. It seems that no matter how I turn I find myself in ART! Even former posadas and convents are museums to Spanish art. Odd, isn't it, as I'm not that inclined to art, so it leaves me to wonder if art's not following me? Rather than life following art, because that is just so not ME.
On Good Friday they have a procession known as LaTurba in remembrance of Jesus's journey on the road to Calvery; a statue of Christ is carried through the streets while the people bang loudly on drums and shout at the figure. Rather similar to my Friday's, if not my entire predicament, in Oklahoma, you know.
Darling, they've wild boars on the avenues. Last night Harry and I dined at Parador de San Pablo where we enjoyed an eleven course meal such as oyster, bacalao, lamb and what seemed hundreds of delicacies served with baguettes sliced thinner than an onion's skin.
Afterward, we were walking through the narrow avenues when we heard screaming up ahead and saw a woman loose from her crowd running toward us shouting, "Boar, boar, wild boar!" Well, she took a turn to the lane off the right, but the boar did not! I assume the boar aren't accustomed to turns, as more likely than not they're related to bulls in all of Spain. The streets had been quiet as there was no planned festival for a running, but never the less, the boar was charging straight toward us. I'm not certain if it had anything to do with the red silk Hermes scarf printed with golden matadors on its fringe that I had elegantly tied round my neck. There seemed nothing available to stop him in his direction toward ME.
Thank God for the kindest of man, Mr. Rueda, who upon seeing my distress instantly jumped from his good crowd to sweep me right up a flight of stairs and fling me to the entrance of a grand church in procession of communion. So that we landed entwined with the Lord and on our knees. Within seconds, he looked at me with big brown eyes full of amusement and together we fell into uncontrolable laughter which startled the parishoners who looked on us with cold disapproval. Harry, distraught with worry had rushed and tripped into our scene, but I couldn't assure him my sanity for all my laughter.
The funniest thing was, it simply wasn't that funny.
Eventually, we three got up and brushed ourselves out and Mr. Rueda introduced himself to us as an artist. PLEASE, is everyone an artist? Is everything art? Fergawdsakes, I've had just about all the art a spring hat can take in a hard wind.
I suspect next someone will tell me that Hemingway conceived Lady Brett right here on these avenues.
All in all, I think I handled the circumstance like a good sport and told Mr. Rueda where we were staying, as he asked if he could telephone me later to make certain my faith after having fallen during grace.
Well, darling, he already had left me a cablegram at the front desk by the time I entered the lobby of our casa. I read it on my way up the stairs:
Lady Jacqueline-
Grateful for your landing in grace.
Be so kind as to meet my friend, Paul Brandier, and self this evening for a drink at Manolo de la Osa at 9p, please.
And must bring Harry.
-Mr. Rueda
Really darling, I'm in my Portebello linen covered feather bed, white of course, and all that I truly want is to stay in its pillows while the fresh breeze brushes
me into a siesta so as to postpone all things to consider.
-Jackie
GOODBYE AMERICA & MR. DENIRO
Did you know darling, that the DeNiros own all kinds of N.Y. real estate? Yes, the Hollywood Robert DeNiro himself. Seems the family's been buying up land for generations. Anyhow, I know he found me more than fascinating last night at the Metropolitan Opera where we both were attending Puccini's La Boheme. Of course I looked nothing less than radiant in my Calvin Klein white cashmere long gown and my 62" single string of pearls.
Anyhow, Mr. DeNiro just could not stop himself from falling all over me to tell me of his cause, which I don't think I comprehended, as I only could gather from his conversation nothing but all about himself. Really, darling, he's quite the bore and is a land owner and movie star. Someone I could never bring home.
After the Opera I reluctuntly allowed him to escort me to the new hot spot, The Ace Hotel with its ever changing crowd, as it was Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week, though you wouldn't have known it to look at the guests as everyone was dressed in motorcylcle ensembles. Loads of black leather!
Which of course only made my entrance as Lady Jacqueline all the more grand. As I look smashing in all white! And with a back drop of black, well, I was a diamond in the rough.
Oh darling, then I nearly ran to the nearest ship. After stopping to grab Harry and have him load my corona no.3 and all 42 pieces of LV luggage on board.
Yes, darling, our ship's out to shore. I'll soon be home.
truly,
-Jacqueline
Anyhow, Mr. DeNiro just could not stop himself from falling all over me to tell me of his cause, which I don't think I comprehended, as I only could gather from his conversation nothing but all about himself. Really, darling, he's quite the bore and is a land owner and movie star. Someone I could never bring home.
After the Opera I reluctuntly allowed him to escort me to the new hot spot, The Ace Hotel with its ever changing crowd, as it was Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week, though you wouldn't have known it to look at the guests as everyone was dressed in motorcylcle ensembles. Loads of black leather!
Which of course only made my entrance as Lady Jacqueline all the more grand. As I look smashing in all white! And with a back drop of black, well, I was a diamond in the rough.
Oh darling, then I nearly ran to the nearest ship. After stopping to grab Harry and have him load my corona no.3 and all 42 pieces of LV luggage on board.
Yes, darling, our ship's out to shore. I'll soon be home.
truly,
-Jacqueline
HUNTER
Darling, I forgot to tell you of this man in Oklahoma whom I worked with in trying to save the Indians. His name was Mr. Rick W. Bisher and his passcode to everything was HUNTER and I probably needn't say more as the name says it all does it not?
He kept a giant fish tank in his office that simply stunk and had masses of women to help him fight his battles. One was named Joan (she fed the fish) and she was an only child whose mother couldn't understand the burden Joan carried in having two children rather than one. Helena,(whose sister is a stripper)scanned Mr. Bisher's documents all the while trying to repair her marriage by giving her husband a second chance and Jean who's part Indian became a grandmother much sooner than she found socially acceptable, but adored the new baby and Sydney (perhaps from Australia), who I never did figure out what she and Jean did, but Sydney's married to a man in the American military and seemed quite proud of her husband's stunning looks in uniform, though I'm quite sure her name really was Sheldie.
Anyhow darling, there were even more women down the hall, too many to name, but they all were in service fo the great HUNTER. Of course, I ran into problems, as I just didn't seem to fit, as their stories were so solid and mine, well you know me, they simply could not understand how my story was so varied and hard to pin down.
Personally, I was just thankful Joan showed everyday to feed the fish as there was no way in hell I was taking on that thankless job.
Mr. Bisher, being a trial lawyer, I found rather odd, as he seemed to lack the skill of one on one communication. I had the damndest time ever understanding him. Because he was so awful at speaking he insisted I emailed him my every thought. So he could decipher me on his own, I suppose. Darling, you know how truly tragic emailing can be, as things get lost in translation. So, I'm not certain he ever got ME.
Anyhow, that's how I came to find his passcode, as all his communication is
TOP SECRET.
And, I felt fortunate to meet this extremely wise Indian woman who'd married a German and dispensed all kinds of good solid advice everytime I found myself in a spot. Such things as:
"You gotta be shittin me?"
"Well, that ain't right."
"He ain't right, Jacqueline."
She had such the good sense about her ability to see right from wrong from my perspective that I wanted to bring her home.
But, as I told you earlier, darling, it wasn't the Indians who needed saving, as I found them splendid and sharp as a tack with great entreupenership abilities; certainly much more fascinating than apprenticaces on Mr. Trump's television show.
I just never could quite figure who HUNTER was under his passcode. I hope he's nothing with the CIA, as that little entaglement with Andrea and the Penis Song nearly put me in hospital. Even though I'm bloody intrigued to see what's the latest with Andrea in Spain.
-Jacqueline
He kept a giant fish tank in his office that simply stunk and had masses of women to help him fight his battles. One was named Joan (she fed the fish) and she was an only child whose mother couldn't understand the burden Joan carried in having two children rather than one. Helena,(whose sister is a stripper)scanned Mr. Bisher's documents all the while trying to repair her marriage by giving her husband a second chance and Jean who's part Indian became a grandmother much sooner than she found socially acceptable, but adored the new baby and Sydney (perhaps from Australia), who I never did figure out what she and Jean did, but Sydney's married to a man in the American military and seemed quite proud of her husband's stunning looks in uniform, though I'm quite sure her name really was Sheldie.
Anyhow darling, there were even more women down the hall, too many to name, but they all were in service fo the great HUNTER. Of course, I ran into problems, as I just didn't seem to fit, as their stories were so solid and mine, well you know me, they simply could not understand how my story was so varied and hard to pin down.
Personally, I was just thankful Joan showed everyday to feed the fish as there was no way in hell I was taking on that thankless job.
Mr. Bisher, being a trial lawyer, I found rather odd, as he seemed to lack the skill of one on one communication. I had the damndest time ever understanding him. Because he was so awful at speaking he insisted I emailed him my every thought. So he could decipher me on his own, I suppose. Darling, you know how truly tragic emailing can be, as things get lost in translation. So, I'm not certain he ever got ME.
Anyhow, that's how I came to find his passcode, as all his communication is
TOP SECRET.
And, I felt fortunate to meet this extremely wise Indian woman who'd married a German and dispensed all kinds of good solid advice everytime I found myself in a spot. Such things as:
"You gotta be shittin me?"
"Well, that ain't right."
"He ain't right, Jacqueline."
She had such the good sense about her ability to see right from wrong from my perspective that I wanted to bring her home.
But, as I told you earlier, darling, it wasn't the Indians who needed saving, as I found them splendid and sharp as a tack with great entreupenership abilities; certainly much more fascinating than apprenticaces on Mr. Trump's television show.
I just never could quite figure who HUNTER was under his passcode. I hope he's nothing with the CIA, as that little entaglement with Andrea and the Penis Song nearly put me in hospital. Even though I'm bloody intrigued to see what's the latest with Andrea in Spain.
-Jacqueline
SOCRATES SAW MADNESS
I'm simply flush with so many thoughts to share, with you, darling:
Last night Harry and I were been invited to join the companionship of the Rockefellers on their big ship docked to the harbor and I met the most interesting man who is an author and goes by the name V.S. Ramachandran. During our conversation of a million and one topics he told me that Socrates saw madness as a gift that provides knowledge or inspiration. Of course, I was nothing but absorbed with the subject as I'm mad for inspiration and knowldedge. Socrates found that in madness, greatness is found. And that was that for ME.
Mr. Ramachandran then went on to unfold his own ideas of which I found myself loathing. He believes the colour-matching of clothes and accessories is linked to the experiences of our ancestors when they spotted a lion in the undergrowth by realizing that the yellow patches in between the leaves are parts of a single dangerous object. I know, darling, just dreadful, his analization of fashion like that. I couldn't but keep from looking toward Harry to rescue me.
Can you imagine how quickly he lost me in trying to explain to ME that my fashion sense is indebted to lions in the underbrush that my ancestors found between leaves?
Well, darling, it just goes to show you that anyone can say anthing no matter how many years they spend researching their book of ideas, but you'd be the fool to believe all their rubbish.
However brilliant you might not be, according to him, mad people are not damaged in their thinking but rather grand in their illusion of arrogance and that in itself provides opportunities to see beyond the normal dull of things to create visions of grandeur that would not, could not, exisit unless you were insane. It were as if I was in a hall of beautiful mirrors letting him go on talking about ME that way.
I myself brought to the conversation that most neurosis people carry are much heavier than my 42 pieces of LV luggage will ever be, as their baggage seems burdened with anxiety and mine are filled with designer clothes! Oh, darling, you should have seen the way his eyes fixed on mine after he'd listened to my grand ideas. So, of course, I had no choice but to go on and share with him ideas I've been pondering of late:
In this civilized world it seems to me that the myths of Greek Gods, those fearless fascinating heros who faced frightful monsters in epic battles, are much more in line with my way of thinking. Certainly you have to go no further than your childhood books of Mythology to see the beautiful creations they wore all the while fighting the evil in the world. They understood, quite like ME, that no matter the circumstance you might find yourself, the foremost important rule is to always look your best.
Well, look no further than my own personal hero, St. Joan of Arc. She most certainly showed fashion sense before her time, and she did it all the while on a battlefield to win back her beloved France. She not only was up against mighty England, but did it in the style of a man. Of course she was left no alternative back then because women were not allowed swords with their dresses. It made no fashion sense.
Joan was unequal in her fashion acumen as she instinctively knew how to belt her pants so they hung just so to show how lovely her boots matched her sword and sheild. Well darling, dear France owes their independence to Joan's understanding and appreciation of fashion on the battlefield. No doubt.
Tragically, Ms. O. still wears her belt unfashionably high which is the very reason the Americans look so damn obnoxious in their weight. It's fooling no one across certain borders. It's a sad case of The Emperor's New Clothes.
They'll simply never get unemployment solved so long as the masses assume their waist line begins right under their breasts. It's completely inappropriate but explains so much of their ignorance in over indulgence. Rather than eat properly, they simply demand Jesus Chicken on Sundays as their God given right and then lounge round and complain how the government's simply not treating them right.
What a complacent PEOPLE. There will be no revolution here other than the odd Mexican Raid, Chicken Fight or Tea Party. Your choice. Supersize, you say? Why stop there? We'll double supersize your choice; get in line.
And darling, do tell; who in their right mind would join a tea party with people who buy containers with labels that say "No Fat"? Which reminds me, please run with me to the Viadox dairy in the south of France just as soon as I'm home. I'm ravished for true heavy cream in my cup.
The irony in America stands straight up, as they eat all these gawd awful things that are wretched in taste and contain no fat, yet they are the fattest of all. Well, perhaps the irony doesn't stand straight up, but is pushing a shopping cart in their local market.
And their banks haven't any money and the people have no money and the only thing I can figure is that no matter how many people Ms. O. instructs how to grow a garden of one's own, they will forever demand Chick-fil-A at all hours so long as she continues to be on the front pages of W with her waist accented under her breast in an attempt to hide her ever increasing waist line.
I kid you not darling, these Americans have been fooled into losing all common sense and if the fashion industry over here doesn't right this wrong, I see nothing in their future other than more gluttony of which speaks despair.
Yes, I know our little Euro is having its own crisis, but that's just temporary, as we're certain to find a good hero soon enough who shall lead our country back to financial stability, which isn't that bad, as we haven't lost our fashionable comportment, you know; and well, need I say more? As I know you so agree. It's how we look when we're down that says so much about how truly spectacular we must look when we're up!
And with William now marrying Cate Middleton, we've so much to look forward to, as there will be so many new designs being created for the wedding that hearts will be lifted and joy restored. The monarchy shall not die with Lizbeth, what with Charles off pandering himself to the commonors and the like. There's hope in the air, darling.
Cate's told me herself that she's selecting hats for the upcoming season from designers all over Europe, which of course will create jobs for the millners and most importantly, she's ordering gloves to match! Everything will be fine, darling. I promise.
Ciao
Jacqueline
Last night Harry and I were been invited to join the companionship of the Rockefellers on their big ship docked to the harbor and I met the most interesting man who is an author and goes by the name V.S. Ramachandran. During our conversation of a million and one topics he told me that Socrates saw madness as a gift that provides knowledge or inspiration. Of course, I was nothing but absorbed with the subject as I'm mad for inspiration and knowldedge. Socrates found that in madness, greatness is found. And that was that for ME.
Mr. Ramachandran then went on to unfold his own ideas of which I found myself loathing. He believes the colour-matching of clothes and accessories is linked to the experiences of our ancestors when they spotted a lion in the undergrowth by realizing that the yellow patches in between the leaves are parts of a single dangerous object. I know, darling, just dreadful, his analization of fashion like that. I couldn't but keep from looking toward Harry to rescue me.
Can you imagine how quickly he lost me in trying to explain to ME that my fashion sense is indebted to lions in the underbrush that my ancestors found between leaves?
Well, darling, it just goes to show you that anyone can say anthing no matter how many years they spend researching their book of ideas, but you'd be the fool to believe all their rubbish.
However brilliant you might not be, according to him, mad people are not damaged in their thinking but rather grand in their illusion of arrogance and that in itself provides opportunities to see beyond the normal dull of things to create visions of grandeur that would not, could not, exisit unless you were insane. It were as if I was in a hall of beautiful mirrors letting him go on talking about ME that way.
I myself brought to the conversation that most neurosis people carry are much heavier than my 42 pieces of LV luggage will ever be, as their baggage seems burdened with anxiety and mine are filled with designer clothes! Oh, darling, you should have seen the way his eyes fixed on mine after he'd listened to my grand ideas. So, of course, I had no choice but to go on and share with him ideas I've been pondering of late:
In this civilized world it seems to me that the myths of Greek Gods, those fearless fascinating heros who faced frightful monsters in epic battles, are much more in line with my way of thinking. Certainly you have to go no further than your childhood books of Mythology to see the beautiful creations they wore all the while fighting the evil in the world. They understood, quite like ME, that no matter the circumstance you might find yourself, the foremost important rule is to always look your best.
Well, look no further than my own personal hero, St. Joan of Arc. She most certainly showed fashion sense before her time, and she did it all the while on a battlefield to win back her beloved France. She not only was up against mighty England, but did it in the style of a man. Of course she was left no alternative back then because women were not allowed swords with their dresses. It made no fashion sense.
Joan was unequal in her fashion acumen as she instinctively knew how to belt her pants so they hung just so to show how lovely her boots matched her sword and sheild. Well darling, dear France owes their independence to Joan's understanding and appreciation of fashion on the battlefield. No doubt.
Tragically, Ms. O. still wears her belt unfashionably high which is the very reason the Americans look so damn obnoxious in their weight. It's fooling no one across certain borders. It's a sad case of The Emperor's New Clothes.
They'll simply never get unemployment solved so long as the masses assume their waist line begins right under their breasts. It's completely inappropriate but explains so much of their ignorance in over indulgence. Rather than eat properly, they simply demand Jesus Chicken on Sundays as their God given right and then lounge round and complain how the government's simply not treating them right.
What a complacent PEOPLE. There will be no revolution here other than the odd Mexican Raid, Chicken Fight or Tea Party. Your choice. Supersize, you say? Why stop there? We'll double supersize your choice; get in line.
And darling, do tell; who in their right mind would join a tea party with people who buy containers with labels that say "No Fat"? Which reminds me, please run with me to the Viadox dairy in the south of France just as soon as I'm home. I'm ravished for true heavy cream in my cup.
The irony in America stands straight up, as they eat all these gawd awful things that are wretched in taste and contain no fat, yet they are the fattest of all. Well, perhaps the irony doesn't stand straight up, but is pushing a shopping cart in their local market.
And their banks haven't any money and the people have no money and the only thing I can figure is that no matter how many people Ms. O. instructs how to grow a garden of one's own, they will forever demand Chick-fil-A at all hours so long as she continues to be on the front pages of W with her waist accented under her breast in an attempt to hide her ever increasing waist line.
I kid you not darling, these Americans have been fooled into losing all common sense and if the fashion industry over here doesn't right this wrong, I see nothing in their future other than more gluttony of which speaks despair.
Yes, I know our little Euro is having its own crisis, but that's just temporary, as we're certain to find a good hero soon enough who shall lead our country back to financial stability, which isn't that bad, as we haven't lost our fashionable comportment, you know; and well, need I say more? As I know you so agree. It's how we look when we're down that says so much about how truly spectacular we must look when we're up!
And with William now marrying Cate Middleton, we've so much to look forward to, as there will be so many new designs being created for the wedding that hearts will be lifted and joy restored. The monarchy shall not die with Lizbeth, what with Charles off pandering himself to the commonors and the like. There's hope in the air, darling.
Cate's told me herself that she's selecting hats for the upcoming season from designers all over Europe, which of course will create jobs for the millners and most importantly, she's ordering gloves to match! Everything will be fine, darling. I promise.
Ciao
Jacqueline
CHICK fIL-A FASHION WEEK
There's been rioting in the streets of Manhattan, darling. Of the most sorrid sort. You'll be astounded, I'm sure, to know that even on the east coast of America people seem to want everything fried at anytime they damn well please, day or night, as if they feel titled.
I witnessed this myself darling, on the very eve of Fashion Week.
I looked stunning I might add in white blouse by Dior and suede cowboy-like chaps(double-sided)and trimmed in fringe by Ralph Lauren with gorgeous boots of Ostrich in orange(looking very chic American, you know). I had no more than stepped out on my way to David Zwirner's Gallery to see Philip-Lorca diCorcia's photographs, when I was stopped like a girl thrown from her mount when I saw the fat riot.
It's too true, darling, but they're demanding their "Jesus Chicken". Seems there's a franchise of sort called Chick fil-A that won't fry or serve dead hens on Sunday. Of all things to protest, truly! I suppose next I'll see Sean Penn saving them in a documentary.
It's certainly not on the unescapable level of protesting with the Egyptians for freedom, but it does serve a certain person a notion of being part of a movement, I suppose.
Not to worry, darling, I received a cablegram from Andrea this very morning along with arrangements for my travel across the ocean. I'll be home before the next frost. I haven't the oversized charcter to withstand more of the same on this shore.
Oh, and the show at Zwiner's Gallery I found dull, as having just seen people in the street dressed as chickens in wraps had left me in no mood to strut round the hen yard and have everyone gawk at my fashionable attire as if there were nothing more to chirp about than ME, though there truly wasn't. Oh, it was just awful, truly, as the photographs were wall after wall of hen houses shot in piles of chicken shit during the dust bowl and depression done in varying shades of brown; yes, nothing but brown upon brown!
I took it all in with my casual sort of charm and an eye toward the exit with a vodka in each hand. The alternative to getting looped was lassoed into clucking like the hens who were watching the crowd on the street demanding they have their Chick-fil-A's on Sundays; no matter that the proprietor finds it sacred and wants one day of seven for rest. These PEOPLE seem so crass, don't you think? If it were up to me, which of course it most certainly is not, well I'd shop for six days and rest one of seven.
And this little protest- on Fashion Week fergawsdsakes!
I'm taking to my pillow, feather downed.
-best
Jacqueline
I witnessed this myself darling, on the very eve of Fashion Week.
I looked stunning I might add in white blouse by Dior and suede cowboy-like chaps(double-sided)and trimmed in fringe by Ralph Lauren with gorgeous boots of Ostrich in orange(looking very chic American, you know). I had no more than stepped out on my way to David Zwirner's Gallery to see Philip-Lorca diCorcia's photographs, when I was stopped like a girl thrown from her mount when I saw the fat riot.
It's too true, darling, but they're demanding their "Jesus Chicken". Seems there's a franchise of sort called Chick fil-A that won't fry or serve dead hens on Sunday. Of all things to protest, truly! I suppose next I'll see Sean Penn saving them in a documentary.
It's certainly not on the unescapable level of protesting with the Egyptians for freedom, but it does serve a certain person a notion of being part of a movement, I suppose.
Not to worry, darling, I received a cablegram from Andrea this very morning along with arrangements for my travel across the ocean. I'll be home before the next frost. I haven't the oversized charcter to withstand more of the same on this shore.
Oh, and the show at Zwiner's Gallery I found dull, as having just seen people in the street dressed as chickens in wraps had left me in no mood to strut round the hen yard and have everyone gawk at my fashionable attire as if there were nothing more to chirp about than ME, though there truly wasn't. Oh, it was just awful, truly, as the photographs were wall after wall of hen houses shot in piles of chicken shit during the dust bowl and depression done in varying shades of brown; yes, nothing but brown upon brown!
I took it all in with my casual sort of charm and an eye toward the exit with a vodka in each hand. The alternative to getting looped was lassoed into clucking like the hens who were watching the crowd on the street demanding they have their Chick-fil-A's on Sundays; no matter that the proprietor finds it sacred and wants one day of seven for rest. These PEOPLE seem so crass, don't you think? If it were up to me, which of course it most certainly is not, well I'd shop for six days and rest one of seven.
And this little protest- on Fashion Week fergawsdsakes!
I'm taking to my pillow, feather downed.
-best
Jacqueline
SVELTE FOR THE PEOPLE
As always, I remain svelte; however, this sitting about on grand ships all day is taking its toll on my physical health, darling. I must say my goodbyes, no matter that the social set I've come to adore will be sore upon my departure. It's my desire I keep my travel calendar chock full of adventure if for nothing more than it's ability to keep me thin. Well, that and knowing the Post would fall flat without my brilliant articles to the PEOPLE. And, darling, you know I'd never ever report on a story without looking my best. So, not only for myself must I carry on, but for the PEOPLE.
And of course, My Sleeping Africa is never far from my thoughts. I can't possibly fathom that were I to arrive with an ounce of fat on the hips that a one of them would want to awake to that!
-Jacqueline
And of course, My Sleeping Africa is never far from my thoughts. I can't possibly fathom that were I to arrive with an ounce of fat on the hips that a one of them would want to awake to that!
-Jacqueline
MEL GIBSON: THE OUTLAW
Darling, have you seen the latest issue of Vanity Fair? The cover spread had the look of sophistication but I found the articles lacking style. So, I had to wire Graydon immediately after reading the piece on Mr. Gibson, as I find the people's persecution of him more outlandish than any acts of his bad judgment under duress:
Graydon, dear:
Jesus was an outlaw in the land of plenty and among those persecuted.
Let Mr. Gibson carry his own cross and God be his judge, not you or me.
The people sailed across the ocean blue to establish America, a land of plenty, free from religious persecution.
They claimed freedom in their right to express their religious beliefs, which all these years later their descendants, fat in their opinions, have sadly lost and forgotten the words of their forefathers.
Mr. Gibson became a movie-maker.
And in the religion of his father he filmed his beliefs, which were strong and mighty, but not all believed.
Not all need to believe or follow the outlaw.
Mr. Gibson's crucifixion is not ours.
Let him be.
His cross is heavy.
And, he enlightens me.
-best
Jacqueline
I'm certain Graydon will telephone me this very afternoon with apologies and flowers sent to my room, as he so appreciates my percision in assessing situations when a person's character is smashed by a journalist for his inability to see human nature as astoundingly unique and not contrary to the image he portrays to the public, but a brilliant fresh light. However, I feel somewhat responsible for what Graydon allows printed, as after all I'm the one who got him that editor's job and he knows I only recommended him because I thought his skills superior. Sadly, he's disappointed me and I can only hope that he rights his ways by the time I read May's issue. At the very least.
-Jacqueline
Graydon, dear:
Jesus was an outlaw in the land of plenty and among those persecuted.
Let Mr. Gibson carry his own cross and God be his judge, not you or me.
The people sailed across the ocean blue to establish America, a land of plenty, free from religious persecution.
They claimed freedom in their right to express their religious beliefs, which all these years later their descendants, fat in their opinions, have sadly lost and forgotten the words of their forefathers.
Mr. Gibson became a movie-maker.
And in the religion of his father he filmed his beliefs, which were strong and mighty, but not all believed.
Not all need to believe or follow the outlaw.
Mr. Gibson's crucifixion is not ours.
Let him be.
His cross is heavy.
And, he enlightens me.
-best
Jacqueline
I'm certain Graydon will telephone me this very afternoon with apologies and flowers sent to my room, as he so appreciates my percision in assessing situations when a person's character is smashed by a journalist for his inability to see human nature as astoundingly unique and not contrary to the image he portrays to the public, but a brilliant fresh light. However, I feel somewhat responsible for what Graydon allows printed, as after all I'm the one who got him that editor's job and he knows I only recommended him because I thought his skills superior. Sadly, he's disappointed me and I can only hope that he rights his ways by the time I read May's issue. At the very least.
-Jacqueline
Thursday, February 3, 2011
UNBECOMING
Darling, with my identity in peril during my Oklahoma stay, it's your forgiveness I seek in not having written sooner. It seems life went to pieces.
The 18th Amendment is so unbecoming.
I'd think it best if they allowed the sale of liquor six days and Sunday as it might thwart some of the malice Oklahoman's display toward outsiders and themselves; which at best, one would hope they'd find humor disentagling themselves from their existence, which is a pretty good place to avoid altogether.
Monday, January 31, 2011
LANDLOCKED
Yes darling, it's been such the longest of times. No darling, I haven't madcap stories to share. It's been such a terribly long journey. One that nearly took me assunder. Yes, darling I'm fine, though I never got commited to the hospital of my choice to repair, but rather was thrown to the wilds of Oklahoma; which was to survive or perish. I certainly never got the opportunity I had so wished for: a luxurious hospital stay with beautiful grounds kept by the help. A staff in white that allowed me to sleep out my troubles, hold the world at bay, and only wake long enough to smell the sweet new mown grass while I lounged on its perfect lawn in a poolside chaise and had pills delivered to me on a tray for magnificent dreams till it was all over: my storm of self-doubt.
No, I hit tragedy upon travesty and no matter that I was weak, I found the strength to survive, thank God.
I cannot express all that I witnessed in Oklahoma, as it's frightening to even remember its ability to destroy a girl's joy. Oh, darling, I faced despair each time I asked for a napkin and was brought paper rather than cloth. Yes, darling, it's true. They haven't napkins crisp from starch folded just so, right. The world across one little ocean remains full of heathens using paper for grace. But, then again I suppose you can't expect them to be graceful in their table manners when they're simply mad for everything fried. Fergawdsakes, no amount of paper could soak up all that grease, ever! I refuse to accept that they know no better, as they surely must have at some point, at least, glimpsed an Emily Post book in their youth, even if it wasn't provided for them at home; there are libraries where one can find a book on good manners, you know. But, then again, I suppose you'd have to give a damn, first. And Oklahomans just seem intent on not giving a damn about anything proper.
Oklahoma is in the very center of the states of America. Landlocked. Yes, darling, that awful.
I was so fragile after praying in Ireland in my self-imposed exile that never should I ever have accepted Mr. Joe Buck's plea to help save the Indians. Well, I'll tell you straight up without hesitation that the Indians are a damn better breed than the heathens who stole their land.
You can imagine all you'd like, but you'll never come close to actually realizing how close I was to having my joy masacared in that God forsaken land, and God knows how good Oklahomans are at masacaring and scalping. And never could I figure if Route 66 for vehicles was more tragic than the Trail of Tears. It simply held nothing of pretty.
Everything was RED, a terrible shade of red, no less. It's flat land, you know; for as far as you can see, it's flat and nothing more than red. The dirt? Well, there's plenty more dirt where ever you might think there isn't. And nothing but RED. The people's anger is as red as their dirt!
It's a hard country, that's for certain, darling. Scary and wild. And I most certainly should never have gone.
The people are just as big as their cows if not bigger and look just as sad if not sadder. In line for slaughter; waiting for the end. I promise. Dreadful, and nothing more. In Oklahoma there is no where to rest upon the ocean's shore, no hope to either. It's landlocked. Misery trapped. It's one hell of a prison. Imagine the strength it took ME to put on a good show and carry on, but as you know, the survivor in me chose to laugh, even as I laughed alone. Which was always.
Oh, and they will fine you if you walk on the wrong side of the street or in the rain, or both. They'll judge you if you haven't a license to drive, as they haven't even a public transport system other than the odd city bus that goes this way and that, but nowhere you need be. A cirlce of living hell, I'm telling you, darling.
Most certainly, I understand now why they've so many country singers, as the only way to survive there is with hope that you'll get out. And so they sing for thier supper, those who have dreams. Most Oklahomans do not have a dream, but those few who do, sing till a recording label discovers them and sends money to them and they find a big bus that actually leads out of that place and gets them to Texas where they can catch a flight to Hollywood and become a big star and send money home to their mom so she can feed all her children that hope left behind, because their dad's a drunk and never had the money to feed them in the first place.
And all the while, these Oklahomans told me how they pitied the Irish, down right judged them wrong for singing their hero folk songs of defending their land; and never once turned round to look at themselves to see they sang only songs of despair.
Ironic? No.
I found it ignorant.
They are referred to as Red Necks.
Ignorant, red mad. Though they may be mad as bulls, they haven't the class of the Pamplonians of Spain who at least celebrate their charging of bulls. In Oklahoma they have a drink called Red Bull which they gulp and then go chasing Indians if they aren't one themselves.
Darling, that state nearly cost me my spirit, which is the very thing they know best how to do: steal spirits. As the Indians told me that when the Red Necks slaugheterd their people and stole all their land, they also told them, (the ones who survived the long walk on that trail)that no longer could they worship their "spirits". Well, they damn well near killed mine!
They just seem so intent on wiping out your joy, that if you aren't a survivor, you certainly better learn to be if you want to make it out of there alive. I've never met such arrogant ignorance in all my life and I'm never ever returning, ever, never. I do so hope and pray that one day the Indians will call on their "spirits" to fold the Red Necks in paper napkins before they toss them all right into their dirtiest lake of all: Eufaula
I suppose though, they, the Indians, have done something similar to that, and they're called casinos. Well, darling, that's the most brilliant scam ever created and the Indians own them all. Marvelous scalping backward, don't you think?
I don't compare. I am unfairly beautiful and have my own share of troubles that others do not.
This was not about Eloise all grown up. This was a story of survival and nothing less.
To escape the arrogant insanity of the state of Oklahoma I found my own guitar, but it was in the hands of a man, so I let him sing for the supper his way and found MY WAY.
Anyhow darling, I'm now on the shore of the Hamptons with a scotch on the rocks, and you know as well as I, that nothing can wash away a bad story like a good drink.
-Jacqueline
Thursday, April 8, 2010
aller de l'avant
It's been since forever, hasn't it, darling?
Seems I got lost along the way. Lost myself. Lost my space, my voice, my forever forward direction. Most of all I lost my spirit, which is the saddest thing. Oh darling, I fell right from center, or perhaps left. Either way, it's been all rather tragic. Horrid things just seemed bigger than my existence and left me swamped in looking at myself, of which you know I absoluetly abhor and haven't the time for.
That effortless grace I possessed that glided me cross the shores of life, that endlessly opened experiences that dug deep into my soul and caused me a richness of love from others and such just seemed to vanish much like fall into winter. Ever so quickly, quietly, slowly, bare and fast; colours fading their glory days of summer into barren valleys of snow trapped in a cold harsh shadow.
Rotten spot to be, darling. No doubt. And I certainly can say that I've never been happier to know I don't have to pack up that suitcase of trash and carry it with me into the bright days before me.
I argue that with no indication of a significant complication up ahead I should be able to see my spirit regain itself and once more take flight above all obstacles and set itself to great heights above past tragedies. I shall simply highlight my eyes with my tortise shell Chanel shades blocking the sun and paint my lips in Christian Dior's Blazing Red and walk one pointed Christian Lacroix sharp heel in front of the other to keep moving forward, which the French say so lovely:
aller de l'avant
Anyhow, darling, I did take a rather extended holiday in Ireland to release my misery into the ocean blue and attend Mass daily to pray to God that my soul be healed and my life restored in His grace. Soon I shall write all the small moments of that wonderful holiday, but until then I think most important is to bring you to date about the man I'm just mad for. Love him like no other before.
Tomorrow, darling.
Seems I got lost along the way. Lost myself. Lost my space, my voice, my forever forward direction. Most of all I lost my spirit, which is the saddest thing. Oh darling, I fell right from center, or perhaps left. Either way, it's been all rather tragic. Horrid things just seemed bigger than my existence and left me swamped in looking at myself, of which you know I absoluetly abhor and haven't the time for.
That effortless grace I possessed that glided me cross the shores of life, that endlessly opened experiences that dug deep into my soul and caused me a richness of love from others and such just seemed to vanish much like fall into winter. Ever so quickly, quietly, slowly, bare and fast; colours fading their glory days of summer into barren valleys of snow trapped in a cold harsh shadow.
Rotten spot to be, darling. No doubt. And I certainly can say that I've never been happier to know I don't have to pack up that suitcase of trash and carry it with me into the bright days before me.
I argue that with no indication of a significant complication up ahead I should be able to see my spirit regain itself and once more take flight above all obstacles and set itself to great heights above past tragedies. I shall simply highlight my eyes with my tortise shell Chanel shades blocking the sun and paint my lips in Christian Dior's Blazing Red and walk one pointed Christian Lacroix sharp heel in front of the other to keep moving forward, which the French say so lovely:
aller de l'avant
Anyhow, darling, I did take a rather extended holiday in Ireland to release my misery into the ocean blue and attend Mass daily to pray to God that my soul be healed and my life restored in His grace. Soon I shall write all the small moments of that wonderful holiday, but until then I think most important is to bring you to date about the man I'm just mad for. Love him like no other before.
Tomorrow, darling.
Friday, September 11, 2009
ONLY A DREAM
ONLY A DREAM, YES IT WAS, YES IT WAS
You must forgive me darling, as I've been to West Africa and became lost in its despair. The work was daunting to the extent that my exhaustion was a comfort to me. I haven't written for the Post in months as there were things so evil I was witness to, events so horrific and pain so tragic that my love and passion for all things, yes darling, even writing became nonexistent. I no longer cared for, as the American's say, "The ballgame of life". I lost Andrea, the gloves, the silliness of all the people who had cluttered my mind and perhaps at times had charmed me. The tragedy of My Africa left me standing cold in it's heat and oppression. I cried a bloody Sunday every waking dirty day.
My heart is worn.
Darling, I'm on the train headed for Spain in all I have left of my once dashing, elegant and extrodinary outfits for the parties and gayness of life. My dirty jodhupurs, scuffed brown boots and favorite starched white shirt are all that's left of what I once smiled in. Well, you know me, despair may overcome me, but my love for the finest of white shirts will always remain.
I may hop over to the isle of Ireland, weather permitting.
I may hop over to the isle of Ireland, weather permitting.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
BUT WHERE IS WHAT I STARTED OUT FOR SO LONG AGO? AND WHY IS IT YET UNFOUND?
OH MY GAWD! The Duchess of Winchester had a Wildcat 22 which is a rifle. For gosh sakes darling, my little pistol looks like a beautiful pearl accessory in comparison and certainly doesn't look the least bit dangerous. I think the Duchess has cold in her blood. The damn rifle is so bloody long she keeps it in her trunk. I felt so innocent and she seemed so dangerous. The first club we ran into, yes darling, ran right straight into as the Duchess doesn't use the brake. She stops her car upon impact. Well, we stopped at the Tiger Tiger Club when she smashed us up to the brick lined garden out front, which caused only a moment's discomfort when a man calling himself the maitre' d came running out to see the commotion. Darling, truly it lasted no more than a moment as the Duchess simply went to the back of her top down and pulled out her rifle and hushed the little maitre' d by asking him if the Tiger Tiger Club was a hotel. When he responded that it most certainly was not the Duchess cocked her gun and said, "Well then, you're most certainly out of line, but in mine, as a maitre' d is the master of a hotel not a night club." And with that darling, he said to us, "Welcome to the Tiger Tiger Duchess Winny and Lady Jacqueline." The woman is bloody nuts I tell you, but damn good fun and wild with spunk. And she's quite the dresser, much like ME. Though I think my clothes frame me in a much more fashionable way. And moreover, I find my gun much more attractive than hers.
Once inside the Tiger Tiger I had the best of fun with Lapo Elkann, remember darling, he's the son of Fiat heiress Margherita Agneli? Well, the two of us danced a magnificent pas de trois with a chair while the Duchess and Count Gian Luca Passi de Preposulo wished they were us. Oh, it was rare.
We next found our way crashing into the Zoo Bar & Club where Francis Bacon stories of his patronage there are legion. That wore on me some, as after the third I was done with short essays about a dead man's drinking. Don't get me wrong, as I do so find Francis a fascinating figure whose lover was a reformed burglar named George Dyer who tried to commit suicide at the Algonquin Hotel by swallowing a handful of pills; wherein once word got out the authorities promptly had Francis and George flown back to England. No? Truly? Yes, darling, truly. Flown right straight out of the States and back to the Queen. It's told that on being scolded by Lizbeth for his scandalizing behavior he replied to her, "Death can be so life-enhancing." And you know how his little tragedy of life ended, don't you? Francis had a death-haunted brush for years to come. Just look at his most fascinating paintings of all. They were done after George finally was successful in killing him/her self. Whichever gender he/she truly was. I haven't the slightest. But, I would most definitely conclude that George had an intense personality that played to Francis's creative mind, you know?
Anyhow, darling, I shant say the Duchess and her gun scared me, as I so love a good blast. However, her crashing ways in stopping a car caused me to have the most dreadful of crick in my neck this morning. I so wished to stay on with Lizbeth a few days, but Antonio dialed me this morning with news that I must hurry to Paris as a cablegram from Mr. Long was received at the HOTEL DE CRILON last evening requesting, in earnest, that I return his Penis Song. Well, damn darling, didn't I toss that in the trash with my shoes? I can't remember. That was so weeks ago and what fergodsakes is so urgent about a penis song when I've got bigger things I need to address. Like who slipped that wonderful gun into the Martin and gave me the beautiful red ribbon? And most importantly, who was the divine person who found my gloves and placed them in my Kelly handbag? I do so want to give my thanks for such a kind act.
THE IMPORTANCE OF BEING EARNEST
I most likely will be expected to charm the Inspector and like; identify couture outfits bloody dead and all. Which as you know, I'm extremely adept at doing: Charming and identifying. But, right this very moment I have no intention of moving as I'm placed horizontal with an ice pack behind my head.
Oh, pleasure, pleasure!
What else should bring one anywhere?
Oh darling, I'm so rot with having to amuse everyone that I'm longing for Côte d'Ivoire; to sit by the sea and lie under the sun in my sleeping Africa. The very essence of romance is uncertainty, you know? So I find it best that I let everyone's worries, needs and pleas be left to linger while I put up my feet. I only am in need of an aspirin is all.
Let them all wait in speculation, perhaps then they will see how romantic a mystery like Me can be.
Oh, pleasure, pleasure, I'm going home with nothing more than ME.
"I dreamed of going to Africa....then, one day, it happened..."
I'm off!!!
-Jacqueline
Monday, May 18, 2009
LONDON TOWN
Oh, darling. The Queen can be such a bore on a Friday night. I did, I did so try to paint with her, but I can't do horses. And all she drinks is tea.
The Countess of Winchester has come to save me and we're taking her old top down to see London Town. Darling, she knows all about guns seeing as how she's from the Winchester family and all. I told her all about mine and she's bringing hers and we're going to see if we can find any trouble.
Two girls loaded in a top down. I simply can't wait. I wonder which of us will be Thelma and the other Louise? Don't tell Andrea as I'd hate for him to know of how much fun I'll be having without him.
-Jacque
POSTCARD OF PERFECT HEALTH
Wherever should a happy girl begin, most especially when she can't stop?
I caught some little fish, some big fish and splashed about the coast, darling, all to my delight. Andrea says that you can feel quite guilty about the past, apprehensive about the future, but only in the present can you act. The ability to be in the present moment is a major component of mental wellness. And my darling, Andrea being a man of many wise words tells me that I am the healthiest girl he's ever come upon in this respect.
Well, I do love my moments, but how could I not? They're all so splendid that I'd be a fool to let a one of them skate by and me miss a beat. It was so sincere of him to find me a healthy delight, but looking at my beautifully tanned feet with painted red toenails in these white Pucci sandals seems to me the epitomey of health, glowingly so, you know? Exuberance and elation in my tanned little toes.
And darling, Andrea simply had exhausted all my pleasures that I felt it time to bid him farewell and reach for my next moment: My Queen's horses in distress in N. Ireland. So, with a kiss in a rush I promised to meet up with him in France so we could continue on with Inspector Clouseau who seems insistent to finish his story and I find it the least I could do for such an odd little man. He's such the pestor, you know? Fiona and a brother are dead, but he just can't seem to let it go. Perhaps he's got his heart's sleeve on receiving a medal of some sort from the King's Ms. Bruni for his tenacious attitude in cracking his first big case. The poor dear, I doubt he's aware that the King is a fraud and Ms. Bruni's to be found at the shopping mall. Oh, wouldn't that be the laugh if she were to pin him at the top of the escalator on her way down.
Certainly every man deserves his moment in the sun and seeing as how the Inspector tried so to reach me on the Amalfi coast and received no invitation to join me by the sea, as I simply refused anything that spoke of the past or future, I feel compelled somewhat to make the little man happy. His cablegrams have become rather annoyingly tart and pathetic in that I believe he finds my behavior obnoxious in denying him the luxury of lounging beside me, which seems to have caused him to become quite frustrated with me. Anyhow, he still must wait as my focus is on the racetracks, which I seem to have solved with no difficulty and much grace. If only he were as good as ME. But, then I'm not looking for a medal now am I? That always puts a twist on things in a most distressful way. People seem to go bloody mad looking for their moment instead of absorbing the one their in.
Lizbeth and I joined for tea after my survey of her beloved horses' plight. I explained to her in simple terms that the racing industry needed only a 69 billion bailout to stop the horses from dying and the commoners from eating them. She found it a swell idea. We both agreed that should gambling industries such as banks receive bailouts then so should the horses. Sixty Nine billion in bales of hay. Smashing idea, isn't it darling? Bailouts for bankers, baleouts for horses. Seems quite fair to me. Everyone is happy with a BALEOUT OF HAY, even the jockeys. Gambling is gambling, whether it be the bankers' office or the horses' track. It just wasn't so hard, you know. Just a bit of common sense is all.
Oh, darling, how I'd love to go on and on with all the wonderful things I've been up to and down to, but I haven't the time as I've got to type my story on the corona no. 3 and wire it to the Post before Lizbeth and I take in entertainment this evening. I think we'll spend the time in her chambers painting landscapes of horses all the while laughing over my stories of all the horses' asses I had to interview to come to my conclusion that a bailout would solve all the world's problems. Well, darling, I might just be as smart as Mr. O. How we're going to change the world and all, you know?
Pleased to meet you
Hope you guess my name
But whats puzzling you
Is the nature of my game
As he now obviosly agrees with my assesment on that waterboarding fiasco that he let run wild before he reined it in. But don't say you read it in my Post article, for I'd hate to show that I was out of the starting gate first. I'm not a gambler. Just a simple girl with a bit of common sense. I'll never understand why people get themselves all worked up over nonsense. Oh, because they're the neurotics sitting behind you, in front of you and to the left of you. You simply ignore them is all and go about your day, you know? Otherwise you'll get caught in their trap of insanity which will put you to taking antidepressants to deal with what garbage they've thrown on your shoulders. Simply throw it over.
The public would never know to look at her, but damn my Queen's rather savy and has quite the perfect sense of humor. She just doesn't much care for children is all. And where's the harm in that? If not raised with certain detachment they become quite the little beasts and grow up to stamp about demanding attention. How dreadful, but it's too true. All one must do is look at the closest neurotic adult sitting next to you.
I'll dash you again as soon as I can. Please do forgive my lack of communication. I promise it shall happen again, as life's so big and simply just never ceases to amaze me.
Darling, darling, darling, you'll never believe where my leather gloves turned up. In my Kelly handbag wrapped round my loaded gun tied with the red ribbon from the Aston Martin's antenna. I didn't spill a word of it to Andrea as I wish to have all the secret developments drop splendidly in my lap before I begin the fun of figuring all of it out or in or in or out or in or out or in and out.
-Jacqueline
postscript:
We're goin to Habana, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Monday, May 4, 2009
SUSPICIOUS MINDS
Darling, I simply had to leave all suspicions behind as I can't have any sort of fun with doubts lingering on a line right straight in MY WAY. And I refuse, adamantly so, not to enjoy myself. Andrea and I had the best time ever yesterday running through castles in the rain.
On our way to Tuscany it began to rain, only slightly so that I implored Andrea to leave the top of the car down, as nothing's quite so thrilling as doing 100 in the Martin with a bit of rain on your face. In any event, when you're driving so fast the rain doesn't seem able to catch up with you, which makes for the best sort of getaway.
Were caught in a trap.
I can't walk out.
Because I love you too much baby.
Why can't you see what youre doing to me.
When you don't believe a word I say?
We can't go on together with suspicious minds.
Darling, once we reached the castles I was so happy to find no OUT-OF-TOWNERS were brave enough to weather the rain. Andrea and I had the grounds to ourselves. It was the loveliest of sport, what with Andrea chasing me in and out of castle corridors and us laughing so hard when he did find me that we fell to the floors in puddles of joy. Most of the castles are left without tops in certain places, so that the outdoors is in, you know? Perhaps from a war or just a matter of time. Gawd, does it not rather remind you of Fiona somewhat? In and out, out and in? No matter, as I've decided not to let the memory of her bad behavior spoil another day that should always be nothing more than about ME.
Damn darling, but I loved that rain.
Yes, we are in Italy not Spain, but we couldn't but help ourselves from singing in harmony:
Eliza, hurricanes hardly happen.
How kind of you to let me come Henry!
Now once again, where does it rain?
Eliza, on the plain! On the plain!
Henry, and where's that blasted plain?
Eliza, in Spain! In Spain!
The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain!
We left the Martin in shelter and spent the night in a Queen's bed! And this morning we awoke to sunshine and are racing to the Amalfi coast just south of Naples. Andrea says we'll take the ferries to get from one fishing village to another. Yes, he is going to teach me to fish! Is that not the most smashing of grand ideas? He's quite full of them, you know? Grand ideas.
How ever could one bother themselves with world affairs, murder and the sort when there are boys in fast cars wishing to show you the world?
Let's don't let a good thing die. When honey, you know I've never lied to you.
Mmm yeah, yeah...
Arrivaderci-
-Jacqueline
Sunday, May 3, 2009
THE OUT OF TOWNERS
Darling, the Italian newspapers contain nothing but article upon article of Fiat's latest decision in hitching their last star to Amercia's fat cars. I would conclude that if Gianni Agnelli still were alive, he'd cut the moon from its hinge and watch the sky light up in oversized headlights - without him. Everyone's talking about that disastorous agreement he made eons ago with America's General Motors that progressively let the American company court Fiat. Sadly, the Italian's feel they will watch their beloved Fiat die a slow death at the hands of Mr. O. and men in bad suits or would that be suits of bad men?
TRAGIC MISTAKE
What might at the time have seemed like a wise if not genius business decision on his part, I'm afraid that poor Gianni never envisioned Americans would become so fat that four of them in a Fiat would leave it going no where fast, let alone anywhere slow. With over 60% of American's overweight, they most certainly are looking for economical cars, but not ones which are small. There's a difference, you know.
Darling, you'll never believe the rubbish they're writing about Fiona's death. They're calling it a tragic accident. That she suffered a bad headache which caused her to drive over the avenue and into a crowd of scooters where she met her tragic death. They report that she was an American from Long Island, US, and her mother, Ms. Burberry, states her daughter was a victim of amnesia from an early age, who also went round stealing other's names which quite often found her in certain sordid situations. No. Really? Do tell. How about her stealing my damn Chanel outfit? They didn't print that, but said she was wearing a Valentino gown. These reporters come up with the most gawd awful trash when they haven't a clue as to what really took place. Or, maybe they do. Darling, do you really think it possible she worked for the CIA with Mr. Long and got knocked off for killing the wrong brother? I think I'll watch Andrea's round abouts with a little more caution.
The article went on to say that her funeral will be held the 9th May of 2009 at Grey Gardens and are requesting donations to the mentally insane, as flowers might cause allergies to those in attendance. Is that not the laugh?
And she did not crash into a crowd of scooters, Andrea and I saw her ourselves that night. She was throwing herself into and out of and into and out of and into and out of her car. I don't believe that amnesia or the story of Mr. Long's refusal to give her his password was the cause of her rather obnoxious behavior. I tell you darling, something's just not quite right.
The damn wench murdered my Chanel outfit fergodsakes, not a Valentino! Not one bloody word they wrote held a bit of truth and do you know what Andrea said?
"Baby, nothing's the truth but you and me."
Damn, but that man has a way with the words.
Well, we had the most wonderful rooftop long lunch reading the Italian newspapers and all when Andrea asked if I owned a riding crop. To which I answered yes, why do you ask? He said, "Just asking is all." Darling, do you not find that rather odd? He said we needed to get lost, go someplace no one would recognize us and that we should drive to Tuscany and tour the castles. He went to pick up my handbag to leave and asked what I was carrying to cause it such weight. I told him, "Oh, only a hundred or so shades of lipstick is all."
Two can play this game.
That loaded gun is my little secret.
Well, I was up for a drive as people were beginning to stare at us in a most unfamiliar kind of way. Darling, have you noticed that things just aren't seeming quite right ever since I bumped into Andrea in the grottes? Oh well, I'll figure it out another day or the next, as I'm having too much fun to let intrigue and espionage get in MY WAY.
Andrea says touring the castles will be a wonderful escape as we will blend quite well with the-
OUT-OF-TOWNERS.
Oh, darling, I do hope so NOT, as I find I've developed quite the passion for...
boys in fast cars.
Ciao-
-Jacqueline
postcript:
I've misplaced my gloves.
I HAVEN'T ANY CODE
Andrea and I had the most beautifully fast drive into Italy last night. He let me listen to Chet Baker's music over and over and over again. Darling, he absouletly adores the way I love to repeat something to no end, once I've decided I can't get enough!
Well, the drive was so wonderful that we drove right straight on into Rome and checked into HOTEL EDEN. We arrived so terribly late or early, whichever way you'd prefer to see it. Anyhow, Andrea still was asleep this morning when I went down to the front desk and asked that they contact the HOTEL DE CRILLON in Paris for any cablegrams I might be in receipt of and need read. After a few cups of coffee in the breakfast room the young conciegre approached me with a rather severe sort of smile and asked where I'd like to begin.
There simply were scads and scads of cables, that I rushed through them looking only for the most imperative ones, as darling, I did not have time to read all 143!
A cablegram from the nice Inspector Clouseau read:
LADY JACQUELINE. FORGOT TO HAVE YOU IDENTIFY BODY OF DEAD BROTHER. WAS YOUR LIMP CAUSED AT SCENE OF GROTTES? PLEASE CONTACT AT YOUR CONVENIENCE. INSPECTOR CLOUSEAU.
Darling, did I not tell you I found him to be an odd little man? Is that not too much that he forgot what he summoned me to the station for? That, my darling, is why I always say you must make absolute certain to always look your most fashionable best. It makes a man forget that he may want to scold you or worse, pin you to some rotten question you'd rather not answer, you know?
My only mistake was choosing to wear those damn YSL heels, which stand 4" tall instead of the Christian Louboutin shoes I had planned on wearing in the very first place. I know better than to ever hesitate my first fashion instinct. Now, I'm afraid the Inspector may even be a bit more confused should he be assuming that my twisted ankle happened the night of the grottes. Which of course, you know darling, it most certainly did not!
Inspector Clouseau is in possession of a dead brother which he forgot to get an identification of while Andrea and I were there, let alone OUR STORY? Are you dying laughing, or what? Well, darling, he'll have to do a much better detective job than what I've witnessed so far before I even begin to ponder a decision at my convenience of when I shall grace that gawd awful station again.
First, the last thing I want to do is identify a MURDERED Armani suit, as I've just been witness to too many tragic fashion deaths of late, that I can't possibly bear another. How I do wish people would learn to take better care of their clothes for gosh sakes. And not only that, but I'm still reeling with thoughts of Fiona not only having MURDERED my beautiful Chanel suit, but that she had the audacioty to steal it from me! Darling, have you ever heard such a thing? Fergodsakes, if you can't afford to buy your own couture outfits, don't go out in public.
There was no word from Harry. I do so hope he is all right.
And darling, having left all 42 pieces of my luggage in Paris, I was forced to drive the Martin over to Pucci and purchase several new summer dresses. Oh, I also picked up nine new pairs of sandals, as I wanted one in every colour. And also, I'm trying to act reasonable, as being in Italy there are so many damn stones one must walk, that I just don't think heels will serve me well should Andrea and I have to spend our entire time here doing 'getaways'. A lady must always be prepared for life's little surprises, you know.
Pull on your gloves, darling, before you read this latest news: When I jumped in the Martin this morning to run over to Pucci you'll never suspect what I found in the passenger's seat. The damn bloody gun that Frank had been waving about in the bistro yesterday. I could have sworn he still was holding it as we sped away. And tied round the gun in a deliciously divine red silk bow was the PENIS SONG! I hadn't the time to figure out its code nor did I care, so I popped it in the trash along with my heels and tied the red ribbon round the car's antenna, as it was such the perfect match and I've hidden the gun in my little black bag, yes, darling, my Grace Kelly bag, why of course! I do so hope the gun won't come in handy, but all with what I've had to go through lately I think it best I keep myself loaded.
Andrea and I are dining at the Giardino dell'Eden, it's the most spectacular open air restaraunt, and the ONLY place to be seen for lunch. It's straight right on the hotel's rooftop so we can view all of Rome.
Do let me know if you hear from Harry.
I'm in yet another mad rush, darling, as I want to make it up to the room before Andrea wakes, so I can decide which colour of sandal will look most smashing today, you know.
All of Rome shall be looking MY WAY.
Ciao-
-Jacqueline
Well, the drive was so wonderful that we drove right straight on into Rome and checked into HOTEL EDEN. We arrived so terribly late or early, whichever way you'd prefer to see it. Anyhow, Andrea still was asleep this morning when I went down to the front desk and asked that they contact the HOTEL DE CRILLON in Paris for any cablegrams I might be in receipt of and need read. After a few cups of coffee in the breakfast room the young conciegre approached me with a rather severe sort of smile and asked where I'd like to begin.
There simply were scads and scads of cables, that I rushed through them looking only for the most imperative ones, as darling, I did not have time to read all 143!
A cablegram from the nice Inspector Clouseau read:
LADY JACQUELINE. FORGOT TO HAVE YOU IDENTIFY BODY OF DEAD BROTHER. WAS YOUR LIMP CAUSED AT SCENE OF GROTTES? PLEASE CONTACT AT YOUR CONVENIENCE. INSPECTOR CLOUSEAU.
Darling, did I not tell you I found him to be an odd little man? Is that not too much that he forgot what he summoned me to the station for? That, my darling, is why I always say you must make absolute certain to always look your most fashionable best. It makes a man forget that he may want to scold you or worse, pin you to some rotten question you'd rather not answer, you know?
My only mistake was choosing to wear those damn YSL heels, which stand 4" tall instead of the Christian Louboutin shoes I had planned on wearing in the very first place. I know better than to ever hesitate my first fashion instinct. Now, I'm afraid the Inspector may even be a bit more confused should he be assuming that my twisted ankle happened the night of the grottes. Which of course, you know darling, it most certainly did not!
Inspector Clouseau is in possession of a dead brother which he forgot to get an identification of while Andrea and I were there, let alone OUR STORY? Are you dying laughing, or what? Well, darling, he'll have to do a much better detective job than what I've witnessed so far before I even begin to ponder a decision at my convenience of when I shall grace that gawd awful station again.
First, the last thing I want to do is identify a MURDERED Armani suit, as I've just been witness to too many tragic fashion deaths of late, that I can't possibly bear another. How I do wish people would learn to take better care of their clothes for gosh sakes. And not only that, but I'm still reeling with thoughts of Fiona not only having MURDERED my beautiful Chanel suit, but that she had the audacioty to steal it from me! Darling, have you ever heard such a thing? Fergodsakes, if you can't afford to buy your own couture outfits, don't go out in public.
There was no word from Harry. I do so hope he is all right.
And darling, having left all 42 pieces of my luggage in Paris, I was forced to drive the Martin over to Pucci and purchase several new summer dresses. Oh, I also picked up nine new pairs of sandals, as I wanted one in every colour. And also, I'm trying to act reasonable, as being in Italy there are so many damn stones one must walk, that I just don't think heels will serve me well should Andrea and I have to spend our entire time here doing 'getaways'. A lady must always be prepared for life's little surprises, you know.
Pull on your gloves, darling, before you read this latest news: When I jumped in the Martin this morning to run over to Pucci you'll never suspect what I found in the passenger's seat. The damn bloody gun that Frank had been waving about in the bistro yesterday. I could have sworn he still was holding it as we sped away. And tied round the gun in a deliciously divine red silk bow was the PENIS SONG! I hadn't the time to figure out its code nor did I care, so I popped it in the trash along with my heels and tied the red ribbon round the car's antenna, as it was such the perfect match and I've hidden the gun in my little black bag, yes, darling, my Grace Kelly bag, why of course! I do so hope the gun won't come in handy, but all with what I've had to go through lately I think it best I keep myself loaded.
Andrea and I are dining at the Giardino dell'Eden, it's the most spectacular open air restaraunt, and the ONLY place to be seen for lunch. It's straight right on the hotel's rooftop so we can view all of Rome.
Do let me know if you hear from Harry.
I'm in yet another mad rush, darling, as I want to make it up to the room before Andrea wakes, so I can decide which colour of sandal will look most smashing today, you know.
All of Rome shall be looking MY WAY.
Ciao-
-Jacqueline
Saturday, May 2, 2009
HOLLYWOOD
Oh, darling, I need a cigarete, no two, no give me the whole damn bloody box.
Andrea and I drove round and round and round the Eiffel until we spotted Harry and Frank. Being in the Martin left no room for the two of them, you know. So we told them to meet us in the Latin Quarter at Le Procope. Once we were seated in the back corner room Frank began a campaign of words that I wasn't sure ever would end. Damn, that man can talk faster than I can do cold type.
Anyhow, he went on to ask if I remembered receiving a cablegram containing a penis song, and I told him I did and that it was from an old friend of mine, Mr. Long. Frank said that Mr. Long is no friend of mine and that the penis song was a message in code and mistakenly sent to my hotel room. To which I said, "Yes, do go on." Darling, he told me that Mr. Long works for the CIA, and no it does not stand for Curiously Inquisitve American. I think it's the acronym for American International Capers, but backward. I think. I didn't ask. I could be wrong. Though I doubt it. Well, anyhow darling, it seems that Frank was at Eton the same time Mr. Long and Nicky H. were attending the school. They were fraternity brothers of some sort and swell friends. Darling, I had to stop him right there, as his train of thought was going back years, so much that he was losing himself in the telling of one of their great cricket matches. Even recounting their scores! Gawd!
Why Mr. Long went to America after Eton is beyond me. But, that's neither here nor there. I was laughing hysterically so that a penis song could be code. Is that not a scream? Remember darling, I told you how Mr. Long and Nicky had the bloody best good humor, and if Frank's story is true that Mr. Long's penis song was in code, then it made perfectly fine sense to me. Only Mr. Long would think such an antic which could make it past the government's high security twittering system.
Frank's story was such a long mess that the four of us went through three bottles of fine French Bourdeaux in the course of an hour or so. Frank said that Mr. Long and Fiona were lovers and Fiona developed that terribly bad habit of throwing herself into and out of and into and out of and into her car because Mr. Long refused to share his secret password with her. What? How the bloody hell does a bad habit of throwing and thrasing one's self all about a car have anything to do with being denied a secret password? Frank says he's not for sure, but he's still working on that part of the story.
Andrea asked him what the bloody hell did any of that have to do with me, him and his dead brother? Frank said that he was still working on that part of the story as well. Well, darling, Andrea and I just burst into roars if not fits of laughter at this point. But, Harry looked so grave and concerned that I had to boost him up a bit and tell him that we had no worries, I only was missing a pair of gloves was all. Harry said, "Oh, but Jacqueline, we do, we do have a worry." Harry can be so dramatic, you know? I told them, "Look I am a titled Lady, do service for my Queen and write wonderful articles for the Post on my corona no. 3, nothing more."
And for Christ's sake darling, do you know that right there and then Frank pulled a gun from under his beautiful Henry Ford rust, brown, and light yellow plaid sporting jacket and said, "Jacqueline, this is serious." "Well, you're bloody damn right it's serious, you've got a fricking gun fergodsake and you're waving it round as if it weren't loaded." I told them we were on our way to the police station to retrieve my gloves and Frank told us not to say anything that might implicate us later on, as the French police were unaware of all what was going on. Someone please, do tell me what is going on, as I'd like to know! Darling, I believe Frank and Harry might well have lost a screw somewhere. Geez, it's just a pair of gloves, you know? What drama queens!
Thank God for Andrea, as he grabbed my hand and said, "Let's get lost, Jacqueline and make a getaway." I love it when he says that. Well anyhow darling, while we were running to jump in the Martin I twisted my ankle on the gravel and now I can't walk as proper as I'd prefer. Oh, I was wearing my striking new LV heels as they were the perfect match for my navy outfit that I'd selected just for the police chief or captain, whichever.
I called back to Harry as we sped away that I'd give him a dial tomorrow. Poor fellow, he looked so forlorn standing there in the drive left behind with just Frank and the gun. Well, truly darling, we couldn't have fit three in the Austin Martin. I'll make it up to him tomorrow. That is if Frank hasn't killed him by then.
Andrea and I laughed the entire way to the Paris police station where upon our arrival we were met by Inspector Clouseau, who was the nicest chap by the way. An odd little man, but nice, just the same. And, yes, wouldn't you know, he asked me to identify Fiona's couture outfit, and damn it to hell - it was MY favorite pink Chanel outfit, MURDERED straight right there for me to have to witness. Remember darling, the one we picked up just this spring from Karl's new collection? I was spit burning mad. I told you she was a rat. How ever in the world did she get hold of MY CHANEL, is what I'd like to know? Inspector Clouseau said he was working on that story.
Good Lord, is everyone working on a story? Well, I wish they'd all hurry and finish to get back with me when they reach the end, you know. I've grown beyond weary of everyone's wanting ME to be the cause of THEIR story.
Anyhow, the nice Inspector Clouseau handed me my beautiful driving gloves, and in such fine condition I might add, especially for all they had been through. He asked if I knew how my gloves wound up in the grottes where a dead man's body also had washed up on a nearby river's bank. I told him that I was still working on that story.
The Inspector asked that I stay in France for awhile longer as he may have questions he will want to ask of me as he continues to work on HIS story. Andrea told him, "No problem there chap, you can't twitter us, but you can send a cable to the HOTEL DE CRILLON where Lady Jacqueline is keeping all 42 pieces of her luggage." Gosh, do you not just love the way Andrea handles a situation? He's so cool.
Well, darling, we jumped in the Martin and we're headed for Italy, as Andrea thinks it best we lay low for a bit. Do you not love it? The way he is playing McQueen, you'd think he'd been in the movies. And he's never even been to Hollywood for a screen test.
-Jacqueline
HARRY'S BACK IN TOWN
I've just received a cable from Harry that he's back in town and has brought Frank with him.
JACQUELINE. TROUBLE. MUST MEET. EIFFEL TOWER. 11A. FRANK KNEW FIONA. INVESTIGATION UNDERWAY. YOU ARE CAUSE AND SUSPECT. MURDER. HARRY.
For Christ's sake am I ever ever going to be able to make my way to the police station to retrieve my gloves?
Now what?
How must people ever expect me to get dressed as long as they keep sending me cablegrams? I just knew right straight that something was amiss with Fiona. I'll absouletly go stark raving mad if the police want me to identify her MURDERED couture outfit. I simply won't be able to bear it. If there is any blood whatsoever on my gloves I shall throw a grand fit and demand to see the captain in charge. I simply will not stand for blood on my hands.
-Jacqueline
JACQUELINE. TROUBLE. MUST MEET. EIFFEL TOWER. 11A. FRANK KNEW FIONA. INVESTIGATION UNDERWAY. YOU ARE CAUSE AND SUSPECT. MURDER. HARRY.
For Christ's sake am I ever ever going to be able to make my way to the police station to retrieve my gloves?
Now what?
How must people ever expect me to get dressed as long as they keep sending me cablegrams? I just knew right straight that something was amiss with Fiona. I'll absouletly go stark raving mad if the police want me to identify her MURDERED couture outfit. I simply won't be able to bear it. If there is any blood whatsoever on my gloves I shall throw a grand fit and demand to see the captain in charge. I simply will not stand for blood on my hands.
-Jacqueline
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