That reminds me...

The following is a transcript of the first seven minutes of my upper-division economic theory and research course taught by Professor Dennis O. Doherty (above), a faculty member who has been at the university 35 years. His knowledge about the topic and acumen to discuss economics are unquestioned. His brevity and succinctness are not.

DENNIS O. DOHERTY: I love teaching in this room. The first time I taught a course in this room was in the fall semester of '84. They had just built this building five or so years before after a substantial struggle with the administration to secure funds. The former Department Chair -- actually the chair before him; the one two chairs ago -- felt we should direct our money toward sports -- football specifically. He was a big fan. He thought it would help recruiting. Ironically, after this classroom building was constructed the school did away with the football program, making this the only Division 1A NCAA institution to get rid of a football program in the last century. A real shame, if you ask me.

[DOHERTY PAUSES AND LOOKS AT THE WALL FOR A SECOND, COLLECTING HIS THOUGHTS.]

DENNIS O. DOHERTY: Actually, it would have been the spring of 1984. I remember because they were putting in the East lawn. Looking out this window, it used to be a mess of shrubbery that the science students would burn back with freshly mixed experimental weed killer. It was all very impromptu. The brass opted for aesthetics over academics and installed the sod. Their work was a major interruption. Every class period, it seemed, we'd be bothered by the sound of their travails. I like that word, travails, did you know it's borrowed from the French? Sometimes I think we ought to return it.

[PAUSE]

DENNIS O. DOHERTY: I had cold cereal for breakfast this morning. For years I had a regular breakfast of two eggs and toast. It was the perfect combination, I thought, of carbs and protein and it stuck with me pretty well. I never had any pre-lunch collapse. But my doctor is worried about my dietary cholesterol. Any biology students here? No? Well, the cholesterol you consume in your diet isn't nearly as bad for you as the saturated fat you put in your system. In fact, you can eat a lot of cholesterol and not have a problem as long as the saturated fat is kept to a minimum. But for some reason my doctor is worried about the cholesterol. He wants to put me on a statin drug -- some kind of HMG-CoA reductase inhibitor -- to reduce my risk of heart disease. But I'm concerned about the liver damage. My dad was an alcoholic and died of liver poisoning. Or whatever it's called.

[ANOTHER PAUSE]

DENNIS O. DOHERTY: Take care of your diet. Take care of your health. Life advice...
[ANOTHER PAUSE]

DENNIS O. DOHERTY: Oddly enough, they would use a drywall knife to cut the sod and they had to be careful how they placed it because the irrigation system was pre-installed. This was in the early days of low-evaporation sprinklers, when environmental consciousness was just starting to emerge as a dominant consideration. Nowadays it isn't nearly as much of an operation, but back then it was perceived as very innovative. A drywall knife. How many of you guys have seen a drywall knife? It looks like an oversized putty knife with blades that are almost too dull to justify the name "knife." I wonder why they never developed a tool explicitely for cutting sod. I have a buddy who works in the landscaping business -- he actually does design for upscale and bids out installation projects to subcontractors -- I ought to give him a call and ask about that. He's got a couple of kids, wonder how they're doing...

[PAUSE AS A STUDENT ENTERS AND SHEEPISHLY TAKES A SEAT BY THE DOOR]

DENNIS O. DOHERTY: Miss, you are late. You are fortunate I am so lenient on tardy students. When I was a graduate student at the University of Utah -- that's where all the backslidden Mormons go -- I was tardy for the first day of my statistics methods class. I didn't miss a day all semester and was never again late, but he really drilled me for it in his seminar review. Eugene Billington. That was his name. He specialized in regression analysis of demographics -- a field which is really quite large now, but was just emerging in the 70s. He gave me an A- in his class. I don't think I've ever worked so hard for an A-. I mean, I had classes at the undergraduate level that I just surfed through -- never did the readings, missed class, glossed over the homework -- but not in Billington's statistics methods course. He would grill you for that.

DENNIS O. DOHERTY: So, here's the syllabus...

Madame, cover that up...please?

It was a gorgeous Spring day outside and the French class felt couped up behind the white walls of the biggest classroom building on campus. Someone suggested we enjoy the amenities of nature and spend part of the class dehors. No one objected so we grabbed our textbooks and sortied.

As I have had opportunity to mention here before, French classes are dominated by the fairer sex. Something about the Y chromosome doesn't take to language instruction and we guys generally shun all courses whose modus operandi is to "get you out of our box." Males have a hard enough time communicating in English much less in a second tongue, especially one that forces all vowel sounds through the nose. Without exception, the guys in my French class are eccentric, odd and just plain weird (if you just applied that sentence to me, please don't think you are being original or insulting). With some exceptions, the males are also submissive, Type B personalities who would rather bow down than face conflict.

I offered my consent for the departure, a mark of approval I now regret giving.

The class' female majority led the males out of the classroom toward a picnic table where the Professor would be conducting her lecture. Predictably, the request to go outside had been as shortsighted as our bifocaled instructor and the seating area we secured lacked the capacity for all fifteen of us. Being gentlemen as well as scholars, we males let the ladies take the seats and squatted like our ancestors on the warm cement. While my left leg went to sleep, the professor asked us questions about the depressing Senegalese author she'd assigned the week before.

At first my attention was devoted solely to the material. I struggled to comprehend the author's difficult vocabulary and took notes about the other student's thoughts on the selection. For the most part, I was not environmentally aware. All of that changed when I looked to my left.

A young woman, who's name has graced these pages before, was seated on a picnic table bench directly beside me. She was leaning forward, presumably for the same reasons I was leaning forward (although I doubt think her leg was asleep). Unlike me, she was wearing a short cut blouse that failed to reach the top of her jeans. Actually, it failed miserably. Her shirt left about five inches of bare skin on her back to exposure to the outside elements.

This sort of thing has always bothered me, but I'd never had to deal with it in such close proximity. From my perch, inches away from the exhibit, I could see the roots of the hairs as they rose from her skin. I blinked twice, trying desperately to delete the image. I forced my eyes back to the reading and calmed my breathing. I thought about changing seats, but was penned in by another student to my right who was leaning toward me to stay in the shade. Any movement on my part would really disrupt the precarious tranquility we'd managed to attain. Moving would also break the code of non-disruption and throw the apple cart doctrine into a state of flux.

I thought about reaching up and pulling the young woman's shirt down. Such a nonchalant move could restore some standards of propriety to our small group and would also allow me to breath normally. Then I remembered the pending lawsuits on campus against males who had performed similar behaviors and decided force was not a suitable remedy. Maybe that was the reason guys don't take French: they can't take the lower backs.

I was powerless to enforce any kind of decency. The young woman had made her shirt selection and the rest of us had to suffer because of her mistake. I decided to mitigate the pain by keeping my concentration on my book.

My Look Away strategy worked until the Professor called on me. As I looked up to answer, I cast an inadvertent glance toward The Back and my mental picture was instantly refreshed. "Ma'am I didn't ask for this refill." I don't recall the question, but my response went something like this: "I think the author demonstrates a lot of backbone in the face of harried circumstances. I mean she could have tried to cover up her pain but instead she aired it out for everyone. Some would see that as a virtue, but I find it a tad disgusting."

The Professor nodded her approval and proceeded to explain my logic to the rest of the class. Apparently "my theory" was shared by some prominent literary critics, although it wasn't the mainstream interpretation.

The beautiful day had fallen under a shadow, the shadow of a nude back. I couldn't see the sun but was frightfully close to seeing the moon and I couldn't wait to get out of there.

French class is like the internet: you can't unwatch anything.

Presentation

Nobody could understand the gibberish Bill stuttered, stumbled and sputtered through as he began his presentation on Catholic influences in France. Bill held his handwritten notes close to his body, as if gathering warmth from between the sheets. His eyes glanced furtively around the room, willing approval from a student body that was more nervous than attentive. Those that were scheduled to follow Bill's group were not paying attention, those who had already delivered were thinking of more pleasant things, like root canals.

Several days' growth of peach fuzz glistened with nervous sweat but, other than an unsteady hand, tentative voice and visibly shaking knee, Bill exuded no signs of nervousness. He was as put together as you would expect a college freshman discussing an arcane subject in a foreign language to be.

Bill sported his thin body in a way that was far from cool. A Led Zeppelin shirt or tight jeans would at least have rendered his frailty an air of purpose. As it was, it looked as if he'd forgotten to eat breakfast for the last two years. Or maybe he was a crack fiend on slim fast, we'll never know for certain. Bill's delivery was as anemic as his appearance. Words were missing where they belonged and inserted where they made no sense. Bill distracted us from his incomprehensibility by shifting his weight back and forth, like a human pendulum counting down the seconds until he could sit down.

When Bill's portion of the presentation was complete and the last grains of sand filtered through the professor's mental hourglass, he moved his thin figure to the back of the room, folded his pencil arms across his chest and began swaying back and forth. I tried to determine what song was going through his mind to inspire such dour movement and hoped against hope that it wasn't anything on my playlist, when Annie (yes, that Annie) productively cleared her throat and began to speak.

Annie's contribution to the presentation was as intense as it was confusing. Her normally zoned out features acquired new life in front of the language class and she waived her arms about with the dexterity of a Jazzercise employee. Unlike Bill, Annie managed to not look nervous. She seemed oblivious to the subdued laughter shared by the derelicts in the back row and, from my point of view, managed to get through all five minutes of material without making eye contact with anyone.

I wish I could remember what aspect of French Catholicism Annie spoke about, but I confess that I was too busy writing the above paragraph to catch much.

Annie's gruesome exercise in presentation aerobics came to a welcome ending as she joined Bill in the back of the room, folded her arms and began swaying in tandem with her teammate. Bill leaned in to give Annie a thumbs up, but things got awkward when Dré, who was speaking next, tried to turn around to see what the audience was staring at. Bill made an attempt at explaining his encouragement in French, but couldn't remember the word for "thumb." Dré's puzzlement was intensified by Annie's attempt at assistance when she wrongly introduced the word for "big toe." Bill thought the students were laughing at him (and maybe they were), so he stopped swaying and his face turned crimson. I don't think Annie ever got the joke, because she stood stock still with a blank look on her face, pointing a limp finger at a vertical thumb.

Dré soldiered on, introducing a religious interpretation that I found as offensive as it was inaccurate. Sensing his error, Dré tried to dig his way out, but only deepened the rut. The result was a tragic retelling of French history that lost even the advanced students. The professor made a eye contact with me and smiled. I felt better.

When it was over, the students broke out into one of the most enthusiastic golf claps since Geoff Ogilvy halted Tiger Wood's win streak. We were genuinely happy for the presenters as they smiled grins of relief and retook their places as far away from the whiteboard as possible. The professor marched to the front of class, said something unnecessarily gracious about the drivel we had just endured and introduced the next presentation...

Todd's Economics

Todd is studying for a big examination in his tough economics course. He doesn't particularly enjoy studying, but he still finds his book or notes open in the oddest of places. This morning, he takes Gregory Mankew's Macroeconomics with him to the bathroom as he puts in his contact lenses. With one eye focused on the Cobb-Douglas Production Function, he places a thin film of soft plastic over the other. The process is painful, awkward, dangerous and inconvenient, but it is efficient and brings more utiles (units of utility) than waiting to read the book until the vision of both eyes is corrected.

Todd begins his day with a number of basic assumptions. His zero assumption is that everything will be recounted in the present tense. This assumption is self contradictory, but Todd doesn't let that minor difficulty discourage his believing. Todd sometimes wonders why this fundamental presupposition isn't given the number 1, but he doesn't let this undirected curiosity distract him from his list of assumptions.

Assumption one is that darkness follows periods of light. While this has been observed, it cannot be proven predictively. Therefore, Todd assumes it.

Todd's third assumption, and one that always makes his father laugh, is that people are rational. Todd doesn't understand why this assumption is so funny.

Assumption four is that all assumptions are exogenous, meaning they don't make any sense.

Assumption five is that more assumptions can be made at any time, with little or no warning and that these assumptions can augment or weaken preexisting assumptions. That is, no assumption goes assumed.

At breakfast, Todd pulls out his notes from a lecture about population. The lecture focused on an English demographer (someone who studies demons), but Todd forget the name and thumbs through his notebook to refresh his memory. With his free hand, Todd shovels cereal into his Malthus.

Todd groans at the pun and then checks his watch. Language class is in forty-five minutes and Todd debates the marginal advantage of attendance. Todd has already skipped class twice this semester, a behavior that puts him squarely in the "poor student" bracket. Todd takes out a piece of paper and quickly graphs a model of the Marginal Product of Attendance (MPA). Todd enters arbitrary values for each of his graph's four inputs and looks at the result with a frown. Todd erases his inputs and enters new arbitrary values. With a satisfied grin, Todd leans back and finishes his cereal.

Todd puts a third tick mark on the blackboard above his fridge.

Todd goes alone (Solow) to his computer to check his email. A classmate sends him a competitive study challenge. Apparently studying alone brings all the dangers of monopoly: High prices, less output and, worst of all, incessant loneliness. Todd objects that the addition of a second student would actually be an oligopoly since perfect competition requires a large number of students.

A third classmate joins the discussion and a triangle is formed. The Harberger Triangle.

Todd groans again and navigates to the online study notes. Demand for the site exceeds the supply of bandwidth and the page takes a while to load. Todd guesses that too many students are trying to access the page because of the demand created by the examination but considers other options. Perhaps the site is undergoing renovations and no longer has the supply to handle the same number of accessing students. Or, alternatively, the university has imposed a quota on simultaneous website to reward those who don't wait for the last minute to study and thus kept the market from clearing. Or...

The doorbell rings, waking Todd from his causation reverie. It's Janet. She wants to go to the library to work on the exam. Todd doesn't like the library. The busyness creates a confusion that reduces his overall study output and his tastes and preferences are better satisfied by a quiet room, alone with his Macintosh.

The mental mention of busyness draws Todd's mind to the professor's lecture on business cycles and Todd absently shuts the door without an explanation for Janet. Even though no words are exchanged, Janet understands that Todd is in the valley of his cycle and does not take offense. She also knows Todd can be a very nice person at his peak. After all, Janet is an economics major.

Todd is beginning to feel dismal. All economies will end up stagnant according to David Ricardo and it won't matter anyway because we will all be dead in five generations (prediction made circa 1798).

With a sigh, Todd puts aside his study materials and grabs his coat. Language class is in ten minutes and he doesn't want to be late.

Help: The scary girl has a crush on me!

Devoted FCN fans may remember a post from five months ago in which I bemoaned a young woman in my language class who scared me more than a passel of half-humans in a Will Smith movie. In that post I described "Annie's" neurotic "zone out" behavior and the jarring impact her intense escapism had on my psyche.

Back then, she hurt my ability to focus; now she is interfering with my love life.

With a new semester underway, the unique seating arrangement of my language class got a shuffle. It seemed none of the eleven continuing students retained their old places and familiar neighbors were replaced with new, fresher faces. Even I, a stubborn student and aspiring ornery codger, budged a couple seats.

But no one moved further than Annie. From her old place across the room from my desk, she transplanted herself to the spot immediately to the left of me. And know, faithful FCN few, that this selection was not random. Annie did not enter the room like tumbleweed in the wind and "find" herself sitting next to yours truly after a couple tours of the class. Nor did she respond to the entreaty of a friend and nab a seat to engender amitié. No. Rather she beelined to that spot with a purpose unbecoming her years.

How pretentious, the reader may opine, of FCN to conclude that a girl holds a crush simply because she wants to sit by you! Only an inflated ego "needs to be needed" and FCN is obviously suffering from a bad case of bragadocious navel staring.

Ah, but cool your jets, the evidence is just beginning to stack up. On the second day of class, Annie's new seat was already taken (Melanie be praised!). Instead of choosing a desk closer to last semester's position, she picked the place to my immediate right, thereby maintaining adjacency. This seat has she jealously guarded every class period since.

Further, Annie has sought my attentions for nearly every group exercise our professor assigns, often grabbing my hand before I even have a chance to ask another student. She finds reasons to ask my assistance on petty problems, even those that have no relevance to class material. Another classmate even asked me discretely if "knew how much Annie likes" me, as if my socially inept mind were incapable of comprehending a teenage crush.

While I may be wrong, all the available evidence, albeit circumstantial and based on conjecture, does point to a crush.

The height of irony is finding a girl you derided on FCN seeking your attention mere months after the derision. Help!

Don't misunderstand, I don't mind a crush. Knowing that someone likes you enough to redo their seating plans is an ego boost. But did it have to be the scary girl?

Here I am, one of four males in a class of sixteen. With plenty of beautiful women whose image does not immediately induce a cringe, there is enough estrogen to go around (It could go around four times, actually). But the other females could care less and are as likely to give our professor another glance as their attention starved colleague, leaving me alone with the freaky girl. Help!

Maybe she could reform and learn to stop zoning out - even Rachel Bilson once had a learning disorder - and I will one day utterly regret not responding to her overtures. Perhaps she is the proverbial diamond in the rough, the undiscovered gem that just needs a little cutting to shine. But that's a chance I am going to take.

Zucht. Soupir. Seufzer. Sospiro. Sigh.

There’s a girl in my language class who scares me

My foreign language teacher is a linguistic anomaly. She was born and raised in the United States, is a huge Red Sox fan and has all the outward physical trappings of an American. That is, she’s overweight. She covers for these deficiencies by using a limited set of carefully coached European facial expressions. When she is confused, she does the Parisian shrug and happiness is expressed with a gesture more common in Bordeaux than the Bronx.

Class is organized in an unorthodox fashion. Instead of sitting in neat rows and columns like so many numbers on a mathematician’s page, all the seats are scattered to the outskirts of the room, the way they would if Nancy Pelosi suddenly appeared in the center. This arrangement, teacher tells her students, allows for better “linguistic interaction,” an unnecessarily large phrase that means “shooting the breeze.” And believe me when I say we students shoot the breeze.

Aside from simply being unorthodox, the arrangement of seats forces me to look at the students sitting across from where I’m sitting. Sometimes this fact allows me to share in a joke and otherwise interact with my fellow classmates or converse with them on a more intimate level, which is fine. Other times, like today, seat placement is a catalyst for horror.

Annie is a freshman from the wrong side of Massachusetts. I know, is there a right side? She is, I am sure, a perfectly pleasant girl in person, but she has a habit which borders on the neurotic and has gone well beyond the distracting.

Many students will ”zone out” during a professor’s lecturious droning and allow their minds to wander to a happier place. This mental voyage is expressed physically with a slanted head, slack jaw and wide open eyes that look but don’t focus. At any point after the first five minutes of a lecture, a speaker can expect to see as much as 60% of her audience performing this “zone out” escape.

Annie zones out. A lot. Except that when she allows her mind to wander, her face gets the most serious and intense expression as if she’s desperate in a persuasive plea. Her eyes remain unfocused, but the small muscles around them tighten so that she is almost squinting. Her lips are slightly parted in a way that is more Spears than Loren. She looks as if she is heavily focused on letting her mind wander.

When most students zone out, the spectacle isn’t so absorbing that I can’t look away. But when Annie zones out, it’s like watching art happen. The face is letting you in on what’s happening in the mind and the viewer is swept along in the drama of the zoning. The whole thing is, quite frankly, very scary.

Maybe Annie needs to take zoning out lessons or maybe I need to learn to pay more attention in class, but regardless, the faithful FCN few can take a pointer from this pour soul: If you’re going to zone, zone! For goodness sakes, zone! Please!

FCN Classic: Louis XVII

Jack was my best friend and room mate. We were both Political Science majors at a bad state university, and one day, Jack got an envelope in the mail. It said - and I'm not kidding - that some distant relative had died and deeded all his worldly possessions to him. This included so much money I need a drink every time I think about it. It also included the deed to Versailles.

Versailles is located about twenty miles away from Paris. It is one of the most impressive palaces in the world; with a massive statue of some French king - I never figured out who - in front, a grand courtyard that could hold tens of thousands of people, and a massive, massive palace structure that took Louis the XIV hours to cross. In the back and on either side are miles and miles of incredible gardens, with fountains, summer villas, fake country hamlets, massive canals, statues everywhere, the works. It backs up to a huge forest where French nobility used to go hunting.

By some freak of the legal system, though the French government operated Versailles, it didn't technically own it. Now, Jack had the property.

First thing he did was send out an invitation to all his friends. I still have my email copy. It ran like this:

Hey guys: I just got a new place and I'm inviting you all over for pizza to celebrate. I have everything planned. Bring a dessert or a snack. If you can't get a plane ticket, call me and I'll see what I can do. - Jack

And then it had the address and driving directions from Charles de Gaulle International Airport. Needless to say, Jack's girlfriend Jacqui (I think the name was on purpose) called a few hours later and said, in a word, are you nuts. Jack said he wasn't. Jacqui said she couldn't afford a ticket. Jack said he'd fly her over himself.

He did the same for all his friends. All of them were really surprised about him moving to France. At the appointed day, limousines came by and picked them up (there were about forty of them), then drove them to the airport, where Jack's private plane was waiting. It had his name written in big letters on the side. Remember, up until then, no one but me knew he was filthy rich. I need a drink.

When we arrived, there were thousands and thousands of tourists all over. You don't have to pay to get into the gardens, so the doors were open, and there was a crowd of people strolling all over, just like old times, only their clothing was modern. There was a line a quarter of a mile long to get in.

Jack had thought ahead. He'd hired one hundred armed security guards, and they were parked just out of sight behind the stables, which is across the street from Versailles, which is about a mile away. I am not kidding. Versailles is big.

There is a gate with the Fleur-de-Lis in gold (everything there is gold) all over the tops of the bars, and we went through. Then Jacqui said:

"This is nice, Jack, but I thought we were going to your place." Rather than explain, Jack punched some buttons on his new, very ritzy cell phone.

"Stand very still," He said calmly.

"Why?" Asked Jacqui. Jacqui is a very smart girl usually, but that was a stupid question. Within seconds, guards were swarming all over the courtyard waving M4s, which have never been seen before in France and will probably never be seen again. They're really dangerous military rifles made by Americans.

The M4s had rubber bullets, which the guards were using very freely. People began to scatter in all directions. A few people tried to fight back. The French police showed up and had to be roughed up a little. For about four hours, things were pretty ugly. Jack invited his friends into the palace accompanied by a dozen bodyguards while the rest of his boys flushed the gardens.

When Versailles was clear, the servants were invited in. There was a huge French police presence outside the gates; they'd even sent in a helicopter and it was shining a spotlight down on us (it was getting dark). But Jack's guards, who were now using real bullets, were holding tight.

It was a great party. We had some of the hottest music idols performing live, and the rooms were all huge and interesting, and the pizza was fantastic. The only thing that wasn't good was Jacqui's dip, but nobody complained, as far as I can recall. Jack had studied up on Versailles before we arrived, and he gave a guided tour of the King's Apartments before we settled down to sleep around six in the morning.

Here's a sample:

"And this is your room, Bob. This used to be the Dauphin's private study. Three doors that way is the restrooms with all the modern luxuries; I had it installed in the former Monsegnieur's bedroom. Don't touch that painting, it's really old. Everybody else come with me, please. This next room is the Monsengieur's first antechamber ..."

We slept really well. The air mattresses were fantastic. I woke around noon and, after a shower with one of those new ten-mode showerheads, got lost in the palace. After awhile, I noticed there was an intercom system installed. I called Jack, who was just getting up in the King's bedroom (which has the most awesome view of the courtyard ever), and he sent a bodyguard to pick me up. It took the guard fifteen minutes to find me and twelve minutes to lead me back.

We had brunch in the hall of mirrors, where the treaty of Versailles that ended World War I was signed. While we were eating (the food was fantastic; so was the live music), a smoke grenade came through the window, which is a shame, because it was really old and expensive, followed by three ninja types who shot the four guards in our room immediately with shotguns. Then they made us all put our hands in the air. They wanted to arrest Jack. Jack showed them the deed.

They got really upset and talked into their radios a lot. They were talking in French. More people came in, and Jack's guards came in and there was a confrontation, but Jack had them hold on so they could get this thing sorted out and put away the helicopter and the snipers.

Finally, the French left. They said, in French, that they had been bad little boys and they were sorry. Actually, I don't know what they said. I presume they were cursing at us. The chief inspector Kluzo was really mad.

After breakfast, we toured the gardens. Then we came back for dinner. Two hundred more guards had shown up and the whole left wing was being remodeled. There was scaffolding out and it was pretty loud. Priceless paintings were being taken out (or cut out, in some cases) and carted away to sell to the Louvre. There were a few protesters, but they kept their distance.

During dinner, which was in the courtyard, somebody showed up and asked if he could join us (in French: permitay?). Jack said oui. I hadn't known he could parlay-voo until then.

The bash was awesome. We went to bed at sunrise. Jack put the newcomer, Jean-Marie, in Marie Antoinette's bedroom. I don't think he got the joke. French.

The next afternoon, word had gotten around about Jean-Marie, and there were a thousand outside wanting in. Jack let them in and beefed up security to around four hundred and quadrupled his staff. There was a grand party in the chapel with more live music and great food. I was starting to get used to this. Incredibly, Jack managed to find rooms for everyone, but he was up so late making arrangements that he slept until nine the next day. In the evening. Of course, that's when things were really picking up anyway.

The day before it had been a thousand. Now it was forty thousand, with more people coming every minute. By the time Jack woke up, they were starting to get angry about being ignored and were chanting for him to come out.

I was with him when he woke up. He opened one of the three huge windows to the King's Bedroom and wandered out onto the balcony in his striped pajamas. The crowd roared. Jack literally jumped.

"You know something," He said, "The last time there was a crowd like that outside those gates, it was the French revolution. That was two hundred years ago. They broke down the gates and killed everybody inside."

That got me thinking.

"This might be bad," I said. "There's no way we can keep that many people here."

"Maybe," Said Jack. "I have a lot of money, remember ..."

I need a drink.

Anyway, Jack's solution was to get a bunch of catapults and launch food, water, and pup tents by the thousands over the fence. There was a huge scramble and some people got hurt. Jack realized he needed to organize things better. With the help of the guards he got everyone in lines. They gave their name and were then handed their allotment: two days food and water, one pup tent, a first aid kit, and a cell phone with three hours and lots of cool games on it so they could call whoever and say they weren't coming back for dinner.

The French were theoretically in control of the city of Versailles, but they couldn't do much about this. They started complaining, so Jack bought the whole town from them. Of course, by morning, there were a hundred a fifty thousand people outside, and Jack's guards were working round the clock to keep the people with tents and food from getting stormed. More people got hurt.

Jack made a speech to the people in the palace that evening (a Versailles morning), and said that everyone was going to have to make a few sacrifices while he got everything sorted out. Then they got back to the feasting. Afterwards, Jack went with Jacqui and me to the gate. The whole city had been taken over and most of it was burned, which is a shame, because it was really old and expensive.

Jack distributed more pup tents, phones, and rations than I care to think about. Everyone had their name recorded. Then Jack chose two thousand people from the list and invited them in, kicking out the people who had been there before, except for his old friends from America, including me, and Jean-Marie, who was overlooked in the madness.

The next day, there were a quarter million people there, and Jack's police force was huge. It had taken most of the hunting forest for headquarters. A UN ambassador landed next to Le Grand Canal, which is French for The Grand Canal, and helped Jack set up his new government, which Jack was calling The Oligarchy of Versailles, which you can just call Versailles. I didn't find that very clever, but he was adamant. I suppose he was referring to the original forty, or forty-one, if you count Jean-Marie.

Versailles was a protectorate of the French Republic, but that didn't keep it from building its own standing army to defend itself from lawlessness in the former city, which was starting to become known as the slums.

Finally, we settled into a system. Everyone was given a card that identified them. Every four days, two thousand people were rotated out of the palace and into the slums, and from the slums into the palace. Every six months, the whole crowd was told to leave so new people could come.

When the world heard that they could book a spot being a bum in an burned French city with a pup tent and a cool cell phone for six months, Jack's secretaries got very busy booking tickets. The next six months sold out in two and a half hours.

By the way, for those of you who can't count, only about a third of the folks in the slum would ever get called up to the palace, and then it was only for four days.

After a week, Jean-Marie realized that there was a huge garden going to waste, and told Jack to let some of the bums, as they were starting to be known, take up residence there. Jack agreed.

Every four days, twenty thousand people were called up to the gardens. Two thousand of the old batch were sent to the palace, and the old occupants of the palace and gardens were sent back to the slums. Soon, names developed: King Jack, Council of Forty (forty-one, actually), Courtier First Class (in the palace), Courtier Second Class (in the gardens), and Bum (in the slums). Even a bum carried his title as temporary resident of Versailles with pride.

"Long live the oligarchy!"

The feasting, live performances, fun and games, and general state of luxury continued nonstop, with parties all night and sleeping it off all day. The first four days passed. Then, when the rotation started, Jack invited three people to stay indefinitely. They agreed. Duh.

Well, that turned out making things pretty complicated. The next rotation, everyone was trying to get a piece of Jack, and he realized he'd have to change something if he wanted to get some piece and quiet. He announced he would decide who could stay randomly. That settled them down.

I was there when Jack "randomly" selected the people. He put all the names in a hat, and then fished around until he found the ones he wanted. Then he drew four more just to throw people off.

By now, there were fifty-eight people in the council, and a few were starting to think long-term. Jack gave them unlimited expense accounts, so folks started building summer villas off in the gardens. Jacqui's was the coolest. It was modeled after the Taj Mahal and was placed at the end of Le Petit Canal (the Small Canal). When you looked out the right window, it looked just like India. Only Jacqui's palace was a bit bigger than the real thing.

"Viva l'oligarchie!" (Long live the oligarchy!)

Well, you can probably see where this is headed. Five and a half months later, the Council of Forty consisted of One thousand, nine hundred and twenty-six people. One thousand, nine hundred and twenty-seven, if you count Jean-Marie. That meant not very many Courtiers First Class were being turned out; most of them stayed to build their summer palaces. The mood in the slums stated getting ugly. They saw their opportunities closing up. The gardens started getting permanent residences too.

The morale at the palace had never been better, though. Versailles had all the conveniences and festivities money could buy. I need a drink.

One day the President of France called asking for a tour of the oligarchy. Jack told him there were a few tickets unsold for the slums three years from now, but he had to act now if he wanted to get them because they were selling fast. The president got angry and said some rude things. Jack said some ruder things. Then he hung up. The French can curse pretty well when they put their minds to it.

"Xx xx xxxx xxxxxx!" (Xx xxxx xxxxxxxx!)

At the six month mark, the non-permanent residents of the gardens were sent to the slums, and then everyone was told to leave. By now, the council of forty was a full two thousand, one, counting Jean-Marie. The quality of life as a Versailles bum was actually pretty good, they had set up semi-permanent communal residences and played with their big screen TVs all day. But when the bums were told to leave, they refused. Jack sensed that a blood bath might be coming and told his guards to pull back behind the gates.

The next morning (evening, technically), there was an angry mob outside the palace demanded entrance. Most of those people had waited for six months and had never been allowed to the palace. The rest had only been there for four days. They demanded that Jack permitay. Jack said non.

"Vers le bas avec l'oligarchie!" (Down with the oligarchy!)

"Mise à mort Jacques!" (Kill Jack!)

"Brûlure dans l'enfer!" (I am unhappy!)

Eventually things went downhill. They got out a battering ram made of big screen TVs and knocked down the gate. The guards started shooting at them, and they were slaughtered, but there were so many of them that the guards couldn't do much about it. The mob stormed the palace and started killing people with silverware and remote controls. I was with Jean-Marie in his bedroom, which had a great view. A guard showed up at the door and yelled:

"Sauvez la reine!" (Run for it!)

Then he mised à mort. We sauvezed. There's a secret passage (passage) next to Marie Antoinette's bed that she used to escape from the French revolution (revolution), and we made good use of it. We snuck through the palace and made our way outside, where the bums were using a lawnmower blade to behead the council of forty one at a time. I decided to make good my escape. We ran for a rendez-vous point (rendez-vous point) we had discussed before hand, which had a helicopter (helicopter) hidden behind some tall hedges.

Jean-Marie started powering up the helicopter. Then he realized he'd forgotten his suitcase full of souvenirs (souvenirs). I told him to forget them. He said non and ran back for them. The bums caught him and put him in line, then started going for me. I lifted off the tarmac and sauvezed myself.

I was the only survivor out of the council, as far as I know. Eventually the French came in and put a stop to the whole mess. They tried to sauvez the palace and restore it to the way it had been before, but it was too far gone. Now it's a museum to Jack and his friends. I personally think Jacqui's Taj Mahal was the best.

People We Actually Like

After our post a few weeks back detailing those people who are on the wrong side of our disposition, a number of comments and even a few emails have asked us to spill our guts on exactly who we do like. It's as if you guys know, deep in your heart of hearts and in places we don't talk about at parties that there is a nice streak to the FCN writers and you are desperate to dig it up. Well, from our perspective, there is nothing quite like a passel of readers jabbing us into writing something. Maybe “Faithful FCN Few” should be replaced by “Fierce FCN Fighters,” because that's what you feel like to us. It's like we're play acting: we are Paris Hilton and you all are the wardens. Or maybe we're Shamu and you are the SeaWorld trainers.

OK, fine, we'll do it. But with a bad attitude: we've got to maintain some individuality.

People we actually like: a non-exhaustive list.

Mommy G - It just wouldn't be right to start this list any other way. Mommy G is awesome. She gives us brownies. We like her. When she leaves, our colors fade to gray. Nu ma nu ma iei. Etc etc etc. Life is good.

Nancy Pelosi - What can we say? Nancy is something else. She's a real go-get-er. She stands up for what she believes in, which is a lot, among other things. She makes pants look good. She makes Zillary look bad. She's way photogenic. She doesn't need makeup. What's not to like about Nancy?

Tom Cruise - Nuff said.

Em - She reads our stuff. She emails us. She talks to us. She dances with us. She gives us girl advice. She takes care of our accessories. If FCN needs it, Em is there to supply. She's the reason FCN came back online four days early. As a side note, she asked us to never use her name again. Sorry about that, Em.

Josh Groban - All the ladies like him, so apparently we have to, too. We never actually heard his stuff, though, unless that was him singing at the end of Troy, not that we watched that movie.

Lindsay Lohan - Okay, ladies DON'T tend to like her, but that's probably just jealousy. Let's just start things off by saying that Mean Girls is one of the greatest movies ever, not that we watched that movie, either. Lindsay keeps us guessing. We can't figure her or her freckles out. She keeps us awake at night. We seriously need to have her over for an FCN interview.

The Late Saddam Hussein - This guy was so misunderstood. It's like: "You killed a bunch of innocent people, so now you're no good and we don't want to have anything to do with you." Come on, people. Lay off poor Saddam. He had feelings too, you know. In fact, he had a lot of positive qualities, like vision, decisiveness, and lots of body doubles.

Marie Antoinette, also known as Archduchess Maria Antonia of Austria, also known as Marie Antoinette, Queen of France and Navarre - She sat in a palace and ate rice krispies and Crepe Suzette and wore fancy clothes and had good grammar and had her people eat cake. Duuuuuude. What a woman. Kirsten Dunst definitely did NOT do her justice.

Sandy Berger - Here's a man who knows how to use his socks. Sandy's been completely maligned by the popular media for doing what any normal person would do - carry classified documents in his undergarments. We think there is more to the story and that everyone should lay off poor Sandy. If we had to choose between having a beer with Sandy and visiting the National Archives with him, we would do it.

Hillary Duff - She can sing. She can act. She can design clothes and perfume. She looks like the girl next door. She looks like a supermodel. She is now an adult. Questions? I didn't think so.

Kim Jong Il - Not every petty despot is willing to fly across the Pacific just to explain his plans for world domination in football terms. And this guy makes a great fashion statement. He clearly values performance and intimidation over appearance. One glance at those shades says: "I don't care about how I look." The opposite is actually true. That careless look takes some cultivation. Give the guy some credit.

Desperate Student - Because ... oh, forget it.

Bashar Assad - It's a bird! It's a plane! Actually, it's Bashar Assad. We can't quite figure out what he looks like. He definitely makes a great world leader, that's for sure. I mean, look at that face. It spells power. It also spells Doritos, but that's another story. Frankly, we can't figure this guy's face out, but we would definitely put a poster of it up our wall. Or maybe we wouldn't.

Jose de la Cocinar - Okay, so maybe there wasn't ever a guy named Jose de la Cocinar. This is the honorary name we've given to the dude who invented taquitoes. To the real Jose de la Cocinar, we say: we don't know who you are, but if you're still alive (which would probably be pretty freaky), we take off our sombreros to you.

This post is much too positive in tone for FCN. We're usually locked in bitter sarcasm, and here we are patting everyone on the back. To redeem the post, we'll end it on a negative note by pointing fingers at one more person we really don't like:

Santa Claus - Um. Last year? No presents? Okay, not cool. Bad Santa. Very bad Santa.

Now Gavin Newsom can be the President of the French Republic!

Have you noticed all the bad blood being spurted at Gay Area politician and general morality advocate Gavin Newsom? Apparently the good Major broke the solemn vows he made his stunningly beautiful wife and did something really “inappropriate” with his (former) best friend's wife. Except the inappropriate behavior lasted a long time and Newsom didn't look apologetic about the situation until all the cameras where shining their red lights on him and reporters stopped throwing him softball questions.

Fair enough, we say, but so what? Indiscretions, even sordid, ugly and incomprehensible discretions, are no stranger to politics. Big names like Bill Clinton, Gary Hart and Barney Frank have long paved the way for today's generation of carnal politics and, we must not forget, Newsom is the mayor of modern day Sodom. This episode should actually end up helping is political career as he is lauded as a hero. We here at FCN think its amazing that a man like that can keep two women happy at the same time. His name should be hoisted in lights above all the not-so-single bars all across that great city and this great land.

Here's the problem, at least as we've been able to interpret it from various news sources: Gavin has higher political “aspirations” (a fancy word for greed) that may be interrupted by this revelation. From our limited understanding of America's political process, this concern is a complete quack. Why will the American people will accept a pot smoking Senator but not The Act (granted, times seven months) with the campaign manager's wife. How are the President of the United State's indescretions with an intern thirty-something years his junior less repulsive than Newsom's fling with someone his own age. Why can a Congressman run a prostitution ring run from his own home and yet be better than a man who confessed his sins?

Given his office, the stress of the job and the inordinate amount of national media attention the whole gay marriage licenses thing created, this sort of behavior can only be expected. Even Abbé Piere broke his vow of chastity.

Even if we accept the mainstream media's concerns, which no doubt, reflect the heartland values America has long rejected, FCN has an easy solution: Why not run for French political office?

The longest lasting President of the French Republic is a gentleman named François Mitterrand (pronounced nasally). He served for 14 years as head of the world's littlest roaring mouse all the while keeping a Mistress and his Wife in opposite wings of the Élysée Palace. That's right. On one end of the French equivalent to the White House he kept his gorgeous wife while on the other wing he kept his gorgeous mistress, Anne Pingoet, with whom he had a daughter. Mitterrand was also notorious for his extramarital affairs, a fact that puzzles history today given his abject ugliness. But here's the point: the public knew about Mitterrand's odd personal choices but elected him to two seven year terms nonetheless.

Newsom can learn quite a bit about political salvagery from Mitterrand. San Francisco is about as close culturally to Europe as any city the United States can muster, so the switch should be pretty easy for Gavin.

The only mistake Newsom has made is in appearing apologetic about the whole episode. He's lost his best friend, that's a subtraction in the political math, but he has put himself among the elite of his occupation who have gone beyond the call outside their marriage. He needs to embrace that as an opportunity, leave his morality behind and, like Lot's wife, not look back.

My deceptive water bottle

It was the second hour of French class and I was getting pretty thirsty. The professor was droning on about stress accents and the tails of Cs when my wandering eye caught the cap of the water bottle stuck in my backpack. Excellent! I reached under the desk, pulled open the container and chugged a couple comforting swigs. The lecture didn’t get any more interesting, but at least I wasn’t parched anymore.

I kept the water bottle on my desk in case the thirsts decided to attack again and once again pretended to listen. That’s when it hit me: I was a victim of false advertising! I know, I know, that doesn’t make any sense. But it will. Keep reading.

Below is a picture of the bottle from which I drank in the first paragraph:



It looks really normal, doesn’t it? “The kind of water that tastes like water” as they say on the TV. Looks can be deceiving. This particular bottle is actually none of those; it is just Safeway’s generic “Refreshe” brand and nothing fancy. Either the typist who wrote out the label was new or French, because refresh is not spelled with an “e.”

My sensibilities were comforted by this label on the side of the bottle:



I’d had pizza and a diet soda for lunch (both high in salt) so the fact that the bottle didn’t have any sodium was comforting. I smiled inwardly. Then my eyes wandered to the opposite side of the water label where I saw:



“Cody, ça vas?” My teacher had a concerned expression on her face as she looked at me from the front of the class. In my horror, I had probably done something ungentlemanly. “Oui, ça vas bien.” Then my brain went on auto pilot. “Et vous? Comment allez-vous?” Sodium Bicarbonate! SODIUM Bicarbonate which adds an “insignificant” amount of sodium! Whatever happened to that “Sodium Free” label with the heart? I almost coughed up the water right then. What a blatant act of deception! Anyone who cares about their health could take the time to flip the bottle over and find out what was really going on.

My curiosity piqued, I turned the bottle and began scrutinizing the label for other inconsistencies.



Some people might find this comforting. But for me, in my deception induced heightened state of alert, this was a clue. And an oxymoron. How in the world is osmosis reversed? We learn in biology that osmosis refers to the act of any liquid going down the concentration gradient (like water down a hill, only different). Without some serious magic or technology, it is impossible to reverse that. And the reversal is never natural.

My teacher interrupted my line of thinking to ask me a question. I mumbled out an answer that I and the rest of the class forgot almost as soon as it was uttered and returned to my aqua thoughts.

The front of the bottle advertised that the water was filtered using a microfilter (just below the sodium free notification and two pictures up in case you forgot). In my book, water cannot be both microfiltered and reversed osmosised. It’s impossible. They must have mixed up the bottles somewhere down the line.

I sighed and leaned back in my seat. No one paid any attention (At this point in the semester, I could come to class wearing a speedo and no one would bat an eyelash; there is one guy who might, but for the most part, no one would care.) and I rusticated in my disappointment. I had purchased this bottle of water as part of a thirty count case a week ago and I could think of no way to legally express my disappointment in a manner that would effectively relieve the stress. Then I saw it:



The bottle still contained a third of its original contents and I knew the Safeway where I’d bought it. All I would need to do was run down and get it replaced. I was antsy until class ended and I raced down the stairwell, fully intending to cross the street and return the bottle. That’s when another attack of the thirsts hit. And I stopped. Desperate, I looked to the deceptive bottle for quenching liquid. Before I could think through the consequences of my action I had swallowed the last drop, reverse osmosis, sodium bicarbonate, money back guarantee and all.

The worst part about this story is that I was back in Safeway yesterday. And I purchased another 30 count package. Hey, it was the cheapest there.