What with the illness, the family crises, the accelerated graduate program, and the middle-school escapades, I've had very little time to keep my French skills up to snuff. Occasionally I get to converse for ten minutes with Mattieu three doors down, but that doesn't cut the grey poupon.So I subscribed to Paris Match, which is the French equivalent of People (except that in Paris Match there are interviews with French celebrities who are also public intellectuals--there are almost never intellectuals featured in People). So I read a nice interview with Bernard Henri Levi about the woeful state of lefty politics in France, and then read about the astonishing victory of the Blues over the New Zealand All Blacks in the rugby World Cup. I know nothing about rugby except that no one ever beats the All Blacks because they're scary and they do a Maori war dance before each match that sends everyone on the opposing squad into paroxysms of fear. But then I saw pictures of Sebastien Chabal and realized that the French have some tough muthafuckas themselves. They call him the caveman (homme de grottes).
And I thought the French rugby team was merely a bunch of calendar models:
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