Frenching

I ran into a crush Friday. I saw Julie Delpy in 2 Days in Paris, but that’s not who I mean. No, I mean the exquisitely beautiful P– . Once after closing out a local bistro’s bar (they told us we could close them anytime we wanted to), we kissed on a street corner. O, golly. It was winter; she was wearing her silver Michelin Man jacket. How soft all that puffy down is…. Snap out of it, man! (I think summer is definitely over.*) Anyway, I was walking down Union St. and this hottie approached, brightening up my day…even before I recognized her, actually. And then when I realized it was her, I smiled broadly and so did she as she recognized me. Hugs, catch-up, etc. She’s back in town, back in her old apartment. And nervous about an upcoming date.…

When you’re a Ted Kaczynski-like loner (you know, the one all the other kids thought was really weird back in the sixth grade, when I was spellbound by a premature, albeit post-facto, beatnik named Noel who always dressed in black), the unrequited factor looms large. Perhaps going to see 2 Days was therefore a mistake. It’s an uneven production, but it was trying to be adult by getting beyond the Before Sunrise/Sunset paradigm. It's about what happens further into a relationship before the biggest commitment. I could have done with less of the neo-Woody Allenisms of the male lead. I almost thought it would end… but I won’t spoil it; but let’s say it’s not French, it’s Franco-American, like SpaghettiOs.

Now, you know Groening’s Rule, right? The French are funny, sex is funny, and comedy is, well, duh! And yet no French sex comedy is funny. Such a paradoxical people.

*New subscribers: your blogger tries not to date in summer. Too damn hot. But it got down to the upper 40s last night…