I mean…

There’s this video of Fantasia performing “Lady Marmalade” at a 30th anniversary fete for Patti LaBelle going around the internet right now. Fine, fine, the lady can sing. But nothing can EVER come close to LaBelle doing the original, in Norma Kamali incredibility.

P.S. What was so wrong with Patti’s old nose?

What is it about Bret Michaels?

Rock of Love Bus has become a dangerous obsession of mine. Perhaps it’s the global economic crisis that has me with too much time on my hands but the minute I sniff a new clip surfacing online (or God help me a full episode) I drop everything and enjoy a televisionary motorboat in all those fake tatas.  I hate reality TV, have no interest in Charm School, the skank-only spinoff, so it must actually be Bret himself and his gee-shucks-rock-cheesery. The way he feigns affection and care for these psychopaths is actually kind of tender.

International Hair Club for Men

I’m watching the Australian Open, and troubled by the news of the Balkan brawling after Serbian Novak Djokovich and Bosnian Amer Delic’s match. But of course, in the moments it takes for my thoughts linger on men from other countries, they wander to the rainbow tapestry that is their hair. First there’s all the panning to the fans in the stands, where I’m visually assaulted by highlighted, curly, Australian blunt man-bobs. Is it the surf culture and the year-round sun that makes them think this is OK? It’s like a highly-controlled interpretation of beachiness except it looks more like Barbara Mandrell than the big kahuna.

Then I see Gael Monfils and his atrociously jacked up orange fro. Monfils is black, and French, and clearly the prevailing Latin cultural norm of too much hair has gone to his head. (His player profile shot has cute braids but I’ve only ever seen this scary, shaggy, finger-in-the-light socket look.) Do the mental tally on the Latin countries: Nadal, Fernando Gonzalez, and on and on. I’m beginning to think the Americans and their practical, no-fuss hair, are the true minority. Are American men are too afraid of looking like they primp (i.e., might be gay) to do much other than cut it short or shave it? I’m reminded of a date I went on with a French fellow I met on Facebook. Groovy dude, worked in an arts capacity, excellent taste in music. His pictures were all a little blurry and, I realized when I met him, a little old. Now, a man hiding his baldness with the old picture bait-and-switch is nothing new to anyone who’s dated someone online. But I wasn’t expecting an enormously puffy fro, cleaved down the middle by a Red Sea of pate. Men go bald, no big deal. But I contend that only hipster of Latinate persuasion would have kept the rest of his feathers so long. My people would have shaved that shit tout de suite.

Obviously most of my musing here is about the hair of tennis, a sport whose conservatism is on the wane, but that still lacks a prevailing fashion culture of its own. There are tremendously creative ‘dos in the NBA, where the ruling aesthetic is more African-American street style. (God how I miss it.) Tennis is far more international, and thus we get a real survey of dudes from all over the world, and how they roll. For once, I think my vote goes with possibly incidental homophobia.

P.S. I am still learning how to post pictures or I would have reams of examples.

Where’s the beef?

We Americans in Paris suffer one French thing above all others. Not bad attitude, exceedingly conservative social mores or deeply troubled internet service. No, we suffer chewy French beef. The country that gave the world steak frites has a little secret: most of their steaks suck ass. Tough, stringy, comparatively flavorless (when compared to a properly aged New York cut), the meat here is bad. In all other ways, French agriculture and husbandry produces superior products. The chicken is tender and flavorful and a little gamey, with oversized legs and thighs; the pork is sublime, and everywhere; the produce available in your average grocery store makes cooking at home a delight.

Thus it was with some sadness that I read today that the divine and, um, beefy President Obama has not yet reversed trade barriers on French comestibles. Roquefort is still three times the import price it was not so long ago, and the French are still unable to import our magnificent, cruelly raised, environment-killing American beef. Obama: can’t we all just get along? I also read today your first meal on Air Force One was a hamburger. So you like the red meat. Granted, it was a hamburger done medium well, which is a crime. But still. Please help.

So what could I do but go to L’Entrecote? It’s the only restaurant in Paris with proletarian charm and edible beef. This is because they do not serve anything but grilled entrecote and frites. Nothing. So it’s fresh and presumably they have a bulk deal with an awfully nice supplier. The waitresses–uniquely charming if unfortunately dressed in dowdy white-collared LBDs–pop over to ask how you want the meat and within ten minutes you’ve got a plate of sliced steak in a mystery sauce that looks like pesto but tastes more mustardy. Sleepless nights have been spent by many a diner wondering what goes into that sauce. It was only after a friend of mine went on vacation with a relative of the proprietoress that I learned the magic ingredient is anchovy.

Relais de l’Entrecote, 20 bis rue St. Benoit, 75006 Paris. No reservations; just get in line.