Susie Bright's Journal

50 Ways To Light Your Bougies

You say it's your birthday; well, it's my birthday too, yeah:

Song: "Euphoria," Holy Modal Rounders

The Oakland Peach Goes to Paris

From Susie, Easter Sunday in France:

I just received a rather amazing letter of advice concerning my first visit to Paris.

It is written by the notorious femme —known as The Oakland Peach— who has given me permission to print her billet in its entirety:

Dear Susie,

The best thing about Paris is that the tourist stuff is actually cool, so you can't go wrong.

I was a local for over a year, and I did the Red Bus thing four times! Twice on my own!  I can't remember what it is called, but it's the red double decker bus, it costs 25 euros for a 3-day pass, it cycles every ninety minutes or so, and you can get on and off all day. 

It goes to all the most lovely places. Once I got on when I was depressed and lonely, and spent the day just looking around at how fucking lucky I was to be miserable in such a beautiful place. Sometimes you just wanna look.

The other, most awesome touristy thing that I did every time someone visited, and a whopping 5 times on my own was the Bateau Mouche.  It's the long boat that you pick up at Pont Neuf and it rides you up and down the Seine.

But the catch here is that you MUST do this at night. Last boat goes around midnight. Of course, it's a great view of the sites, but the best part is that they shine these huge lights off the sides of the boat to light up the Quay's, and it catches all the randy twenty-somethings having sex on the lower bankments of the Isles.

One balmy summer night I saw a whopping five couples in various stages of flagrante! Awesome! You're pretty much guaranteed a sighting of at least one slight little French girl in a full skirt discreetly straddling her dirty-looking Italian boyfriend, but you're just as likely to see actual flesh.

I do like to look.

Another good looking place is the Pont des Artes, the wooden foot bridge that spans between Carrefour de Louvre and the Academie. Again, night-time is the best. It's a foot bridge with a great history, and you can just sit and sit and sit.

I used to like to contemplate the rumour that the Lady Nestle, the original inhabitant of the building that is now the Academie, used to avail herself of her male servants sexually. While that might sound like a reasonably good gig, supposedly if they didn't please her, she would toss them out her window into le fleuve! The bank wasn't so far away back then, because they built it up there for the road. Evidently a few lived to tell the tale.

I did all of the walks with "Paris Walks." The Marais walk is particularly good. They are in the morning so it's a great way to start your day.

Anyway, enough of the tourist stuff, here is the stuff I want you to eat in honor of me.

Look for the ice cream ads for Magnum bars. Easy to spot, they feature a lovely gal in bed performing oral sex on what looks like a chocolate version of those America Bombs you used to be able to get from ice cream trucks. I used to get such a giggle from these ads. I feel all erotic about ice cream too.

Finally I tried one, and OMG the chocolates and pastries and macaroons can all go to L'Enfer! This is the best damn treat in the world.  t's a carmel ice cream bomb, covered by a layer of salty carmel sandwiched between two layers of dark, not too sweet chocolate.

The Ferris Wheel in the Tuilleries is likely up by now, with an amazing view of the Eiffel Tower twinkling. And you can get a Magnum there. My vote for best place to blow an ice cream bar. Please please think of me when you do.

Fuck Deux Magots, I'm a Cafe Flore girl. Order the hot chocolate, (avec chantilly, natch)  and prepare yourself. They melt chocolate bars in a double boiler, then add heavy cream, then bring the little metal pot they did all this in right out so you can pour it in your little cup. Go around 11 PM, and you'll catch Karl Lagerfield walking in with some of the skinniest people you will ever see alive and in person!  Sit out front. Yeah, the famous people go upstairs, but they have European lungs. You have Santa Cruz lungs. You can't handle it upstairs.

Now about the shopping.....it won't fit, and you can't afford it, for the most part. But here is my by far best tip for bringing back some fabulous outfit from Paris. The Les Halles underground mall H&M third floor. It's their version of the "Women's" department, meaning XL isn't a size 8. It's pretty much the only place in Paris I found anything to fit my lush, full-figured curves! But here is the thing about H&M.

They have different things in every city. I assure you, they are taking the pulse of the French chick on the street (its pretty much the only place they shop, too), and you won't see any of that back here. AND YOU'LL BE ABLE TO AFFORD IT!

Now about the dressing....you will never get that nonchalant, 'I didn't try', dirty luxury fabulousness that the French girls do. You will never unravel the secrets of the neck scarf. Don't try. Because they love characters. If you can't be preternaturally chic, be acharacter. You will see one in every nabe, on every walk...  Dandy old men in threepiece suits and a pocket watch... German ladies in vaguely African head scarfs and flowing handmade scarf-dress things... Italians in all denim outfits so tight you'd think it would give them an embolism... Artistic types in exquisitely hand detailed Russian coats... Glorious short kimonos over skin tight jeans and sky high heels.

Do this, wear your handmade dresses that show off that magnificent cleavage.  Proudly bounce your clean, asymmetrical hair and flash your clear skin. Walk tall (and you will indeed be a head taller than the tallest Gallic fella). Wear your kooky earth shoes with brightly colored tights. Say, "Tout les choses ici est SI GENIAL!" And they will love you for it.

Once I figured this out, and got comfortable with being looked at, it changed everything for me there. The French frown is as much a facial tick as our involuntary smile. This is their secret, and it doesn't take much to get them to spill it.  THEY FUCKING LOVE AMERICAN WOMEN. We smile, we laugh, we talk loud enough to be heard, we're in a good mood, we like to hug, we have cute little accents, we LUV! their home... You are gonna charm the pants off of
them!

And go to Shakespeare and Co. on the Quai St. Michel. They know you there, I'll bet. You might even be able to do an impromptu reading.

So here is a little walking tour of my fabulous old neighborhood. Start out early evening at the point where the Tuileries meets the grounds of the Louvre. (I think technically it's Rue Lemonnier, but I knew it as the Terrace du Tuileries).

There are some great chubby girl statues in mid-tumble that look like 3d Boteros. Walk across Pont Royal to the left bank, take a left then an immediate right onto Rue de Beaune. There are some crazy rich people antique stores with art-furniture like you couldn't imagine! Look for the teeny tiny vintage clothing and stuff boutique.

Walk two short blocks to Rue de Verneuil. Left on Verneuil. Two blocks up you will pass Serge Gainsbourg's house on your right. It's covered in graffiti. One "big trash" day there was a pile of old furniture outside. I found a bunch of tins in a desk, full of vaguely pornographic poloroids, and pictures of little skinny girls on the beach. I probably could have sold this stash, but whatever.

Also on the right is a design bookstore, of which there are a hell of a lot in Paris. This is a particularly quiet and airy one, though, and Karl Lagerfield hangs out here too.

Take a right on Rue Saints Peres and marvel at the store that sells chandeliers to Versailles like palaces in Saudi Arabia. Go on3 block and take a left on Rue Jacob, probably the cutest little street in Paris: Turkish rug dealers, an AMAZING Afghan/Persian/Asian import shop, very "south of France" fabric stores, unique antiques, another design bookstore, a couple of fine linen stores, anyway, you'll see.

Keep wandering down until the Rue ends. Now you are on Rue de Seine. To the left are little galleries (Friday evenings are the openings) to the Right is a fantastic restaurant called "Fish". It's run by New Zealanders and it is, for my money, the best affordable seafood in town. If it's dinnertime, eat there (unless it's market night, see below). They own a sandwich shop across the street that is the only place where you will find the California style gourmet sandwich (roasted eggplant with red pepper coulis and arugula on fresh foccacia).

But save your drinking for the Cafe de la Presse, right on the corner of Rue de Buci.This place is full of hunky young North African guys who work in the multimedia industry andthey are dying to buy you a drink. This is the top of the Carrefour de Buci area. Wander around in that market area. It's particularly
bustling at night. Several times I was walking home around 2 AM and they were dancing in the street out in front of Cafe de la Presse.

Tuesday evenings they have a full on farmers market with huge woks full of seafood paella, and charcuterie makers that tempt the staunchest vegan, fruit so sweet like you've never had, enormous wheels of peasant bread the size of 18-wheeler tires. (They will cut these peasant breadsfor you. Juste une petite tranche, si'l vous plaît)!  All of that is right out in front of Le Champion, the "French Safeway," which makes it extra funny.

Anyway, you take it from there. You're just a few blocks away from either Mabillon or Odeon Metro, if you get tired, but with the coffee, you won't.

Oh yeah, one quick tip about coffee. I'm not a big latte person, (called Cafe Creme there) but I do like to have a little hot milk in my coffee. Order Cafe Noisette. No, they don't put hazelnut in it, it refers to the color. Make it a double. They're little, and you'll need the caffeine.

Okay, I'll stop.

Profites-bien, et dis-moi toutes quand tu reviens!

Trés bon sejour!

La Pêche d'Oakland

This is the quick note I wrote her back tonight:

Dearest Peachy-Pie,

Sacre Bleu!

I just read your letter out-loud to Jon and we are speechless at your savoir faire. We just spent our first full day out and about, and I assasinated my feet. I mean they are DEAD. I limped home from the Place Monge. 

Mais, je ne regrette rien!

We just returned from this crazy party a world-class boho theatrical inspiration named Jim Haynes throws every Sunday for anyone who rings him up and wants to come.

Jim's apartment was packed with locals, swingers, southern belles, Texas poets, Canadian homeschoolers, queens, Hillary Clinton insiders dying to gossip, beatniks, teenagers, literate dirty old men, expats, visitors from all over. Lamb stew and make it sloppy, baby. Jim once ran an Amsterdam newspaper called SUCK in the '60s. That's what made me take a chance.

You are so sweet to me to tell me "what to wear," and what to be proud of. It's true, I always feel like La Elefantine when I am here. Although Jeanne D'Arc looks like a Amazon, I must say. I must visit this H&M branch you speak of; whatta score.

We went to Musee D'Orsee today, but first, since it was Easter, we started with mass at Notre Dame. PANDEMONIOM. Thousands of visitors moving like a giant herd, a Catholic stampede. Cameras popping everywhere, thousands of votives burning bright, the light pouring in from every stained-glass wall.

The monsigneur was screaming about materialism and money-worship. Some people were on their knees, rapt, and others were freely spending at the gift shop. And the singing! There is nothing like singing in a real cathedral.

Jon got to see me do a real "Hail Mary "over my candle.

We declined to go to the Louvre, because the line was insane... and impressive to me, nearly all French in the queue. Everyone comes out for their national treasures on a holiday. I listened to ten-years-olds at d'Orsee discuss Cezanne like he was their personal property .

I'm glad to hear you recommend the tour bus so I won't feel so dorky. Since my feet are like swollen balloons, the chauffeur sounds good.

We shopped on Rue Mouffetard, and I cooked supper in our kitchen. A butter lettuce salad with new potatoes marinated in balsamic vinaigre de figue and handpressed olive oil, with fresh raspberries, avocado, and sharp parmesan. And bread. Pain. Pain. Incroyable.

I can't wait to find the Magnum ice cream bar. I lost two of my belongings things today (losing things is my bete noire) and the only thing that plucked me out of utter self-hate was a crepe d'Anane and then a crepe de Nuttella.

I have to tell you about a funny ad splashed all over the subway. It features a no-nonsense  blonde, barking at you: "Do you want to learn 'Wall Street English' in 20 Days? We guarantee it!" 

(It says this in French, of course).

Well, this advertisement obviously came out before The Crash.

I could teach these people "Wall Street English" in twenty seconds; it would go like this— "Hit That Fuckin' Clown!"

LOVE YOU, la lutte continue,

Susie

Photo: Susie and her best friend, Joan of Arc, at The Pantheon. Then, "L'aire" by Malliol.

Tale of Two Vics

There's two kinds of victims in a sub-prime mortgage meltdown; the money managers, and the people who followed their lead. Each one faced their own unique risk, right?

Let's take a look.

To my left is a photo of Jimmy Cayne's new home. Jimmy is the disgraced former Bear Stearns CEO whose company went kablooey this week, but which was saved by a bailout the Feds engineered with... our tax dollars. 

Funny, I was just working on my taxes. Also this week, twenty thousand California teachers got their pink slips, taking our state to the the absolute bottom in public education spending.

But Jimmy and the other Bear Stearns blowhards need my money more.

Jimmy just closed a deal on a twin set of adjacent apartments at the famous Plaza Hotel (home of Eloise!) for $28.24 million.

Altogether, Jimmy and wife will have 6,000 square feet at the Plaza, plus room service, maid service, a concierge, and stunning views of Central Park. I'm so glad everything is working out for them!

Meanwhile, back in California, we have a new version of the 1930s Hoovervilles. These are shantytowns for people who have lost their homes because of mortgages they couldn't pay, and health crises they couldn't avoid.

This film was taken by some BBC reporters, because the American media is far more interested in adultery and blow jobs.

And after all, it's these people's fault that their fortunes went up in smoke, just as it is to Jimmy Cayne's credit that he's found a golden parachute. Right.

What exactly is a subprime mortgage banking crisis? What caused the subprime meltdown? Who's to blame, really?

This PowerPoint presentation seems to explain it best, in a cunning manner than even the most green financial virgin can understand. Yes, click on that link, it will download, you will open it, and all will be revealed in simple stick figures. Call me when you peel yourself off the floor.

Thanks to boingboing for the Hooverville tip, Heather Harrison for the PowerPoint tutorial, and New York magazine for the real estate update.

Ringtone Virgin

Sometimes I have crazy insomniac ideas in the middle of the night. Like making a "Susie Ringtone."

More from Susie Bright at Myxer

I was reading about the recent SXSW conference, and how musicians are making a living with their talent. We know the recording industry has melted like the Wicked Witch of the West under a hot bucket. So musicians are touring their tuchises off, and selling fan merchandise, such as ringtones. People note that ringtones cost a lot for a few seconds of sound, yet they sell better these days than many other aspects of a musical career!

Writers read the news about musicians like a crystal ball, since we're having the same problems, only slightly behind the catastrophic curve. I wondered, "Why can't spoken word performers and authors have ringtones, too?" There's lots of beautiful voices I'd like to hear coming out of my cell phone, people who are familiar and inspirational to me.

I'm a virgin at this. I've made six ringtones so far:

Bright Love: This is a classical choral piece by David Meckler, with the libretto based on my story, "BlindSexual."

Circus Whore: This is my live performance of a Cyborgasm fantasy.

Hunter Thompson's Late Night Phone Calls to Susie: Say no more.

I'm Not in the Business: Some comic melodrama.

Let's Talk About Sex: Humorous scene, I wrote for Erotique.

Milky: A sexy lullaby, the intro to my "La Leche League" Cyborgasm recording.

Listen to all the audio previews here!

I have some ringtone questions for you experts out there:

Do you enjoy other spoken word ringtones— or are they nonexistent, or unappealing?

If I make a short ringtone, will it repeat itself when your phone rings? I want it to!

What makes the "perfect" ringtone?

Do you change yours all the time, or keep to a couple favorites?

Of course this is a wild author scheme to make money, and to play upon your worst impulses to buy nonessential items for your hedonistic pleasure. The noble part is that you are supporting the artists you respect, who need you like lambs need their milk!

If you are a paid subscriber to my blog already, please let me send you a ringtone for free. I appreciate your support so much, and I'd love you to have any of these new toys. Just email me, with the subject: Ringtone Club, and tell me which one you want. I 'll email it to you.

If you'd like to subscribe to my blog, and get everything for free that I cook up, please do join our merry band, for $5 a month— and we're talking dollars, people— practically nothing! The photo of me in the Ringtone pic, btw, is by Della Grace...

I Love Paris in the Springtime

Me and my baby are going to Paris this week, to celebrate our 50th birthdays— and coincidentally, the 20th anniversary of when we first became friends and lovers.

I haven't been to France in sixteen years. I was always a dreamy Francophile, but one day, when I was a brand-new mom, walking down Valencia Street on a cold San Francisco day, an artist friend of mine, Spain, stopped me by the laundry-mat and asked if I knew anyone who'd like to swap their home for a few months with an ex of his, living in Southern France.

"Yeah, sure— me!" I cracked. I was glum that day because I had just lost my job, and had no idea what to do next.

Off I went, with six-month-old Aretha in tow. I had never used my French language skills outside of a high school classroom. "Où est la bibliothèque?" was about my speed.

I ended up making some of the best friends of my life in this little village, in the Valley Herault. It's near where they had all those McDonald's riots. Lots of organic, grape, and pot farming. Very much like California's Mendocino County in its climate and beauty.  It also was a place where many leftwing and hippie Parisians had fled to, to form land communes, in the early '70s. They were called "soixante-huit-ieres" or "babacoux"—  I'm probably spelling that wrong, but that's what it sounded like.

The communes had the usual utopian-decay problems, but some of those folks actually got seriously into organic farming and rural life.

I also discovered this area had been a respite and refuge for many San Francisco artists and bohemians, from the Zap comix veterans, to the founders of COYOTE, the first hookers' rights organization. Margo St. James had a beautiful place there, where we'd eat her famous stews and sit out in the garden. Aline Crumb can talk the birds out of the trees in perfect French.

I learned a lot about the country living there, staying in a stone fort from the 11th century. C'est froid! But it was paradise, compared to my house-swapper, who got my pad in San Francisco, across the street from a freeway entrance and a 24-hour drug-dealing gas station. Interestingly, she survived a teenage burglar at my house, and I got my car smashed and broken into by teenage boys in Montpelier. But how could I complain when I had just spent the day at a public beach covered with pink flamingos, wearing nothing, kids running around everywhere, being served steaming hot sweet mint tea?

I remember when I first took Aretha to the creche, (nursery school), and met a young girl, Doudoune, who offered to babysit for me. She spoke a little English, because her sister had emigrated to New York. She was so enamored of all things Americaine that she even saved the Coke can her sister had left behind on her last trip.

When she told me she was Algerian, and hinted at the issues that raised for her family, I said, "Really? How does anyone know you're Algerian, or Muslim? You look like everyone else here..."  She stared at me like I was daft— which I was— but it just goes to show how hard it is to understand other culture's prejudices when you didn't grow up with them. I had a lover there who was a light-skinned child of an African-American father and Parisian mother. He was stopped in his car, or on foot, almost EVERY day for being "Arab," and when the police would realize that he was actually half-Baptist-Yankee, they would become amused, apologetic— and act like profiling was the furthest thing from their minds.

I also had a little "Michael-Moore-Sicko-style" experience too, in my Fort. I got sick with pneumonia, and was vomiting up blood, when my neighbors sent for the doctor. He came to my bedroom to diagnose and treat me. I didn't understand a thing he said, but he fixed me up good. He then asked a nurse in the village to come see me every day, and help me with Aretha, until I got better. This took a few weeks.

I kept worrying that someone was going to send me a bill for some ungodly amount, but it never came. I thought I had gotten away with something special, but now I realize it was just routine. Meanwhile, here I am turning 50 in the U.S., and I can now no longer afford health insurance for myself without moving into a pup tent.

I brought together a lot of new friends during my stay in France, people who normally would never socialize. But because I was a visitor, oblivious to the "social divisions," I got away with it! I had a Pancake Party one morning, which brought everyone to my apartment out of sheer curiosity about American Johnny Cakes. Yes, they were a hit, especially since I had brought in Canadian maple syrup.

With all these adventures,  I never spent more than a few hours in Paris, changing trains or going to the airport. So this is really my first time in the most beautiful city in the world.

Have you been? What would you inspire me to do, if you only had one thing to suggest?

I don't know anyone there, except the folks whose apartment we're house-sitting, and obviously, they're not around.

I am busy worrying about what to wear, and finding the ideal, fashionable pair of walking shoes. I made two skirts. I am practicing my manners and irregular verbs. By the time we arrive, the dollar should be worth about two cents, so I should really practice my busking!  Perhaps the Parisians would like to hear me sing this:

Photo: A postcard my Uncle Bud sent my mother from Paris when he served in the Air Force during WWII.

Tommy, We Hardly Knew Ye

This spring marks our first St. Patrick's Day without singer and storyteller Tommy Makem... since his birth in 1932. He died last August— and I bet a lot of people are toasting Tommy with more than a few tears this weekend.

Tommy Makem, and the Clancy Brothers, sang the songs I was put to bed with, as a child, my lullabies. Not all of them are sweet, or sad like this one— Tommy is just as famous for his dancing tunes. I remember my mother grabbing me up into the air and starting an Irish jig at the first chord of Finnegan's Wake, or O'Reilly's Daughter.

These Irish folk songs are the first lyrics I learned by heart, the kind of tunes a toddler warbles without having any idea what the words mean!

Mary Mack, Mack, Mack
All Dressed in Black, Black, Black
With Silver Buttons, Buttons, Buttons
Going Down Her Back, Back, Back

Now way down Yonder, Yonder, Yonder,
In the Jailbird Town Town Town
Where the Women All Work Work Work
When The Sun Goes Down Down Down

You know, it wasn't until I was 32 years old, and singing my infant to sleep, that I realized that song is the story of a singular streetwalker!

I was watching the Pete Seeger documentary the other night— The Power of Song— and contemplated his remarks on the fate of music's communal memory:

In 1943, when he was in the Army, Mr. Seeger conducted an experiment on his fellow soldiers, asking them to write down the names of the songs whose words and tunes they really knew. In his own memory file he counted about 300, but he was impressed by the competition.

“I was surprised how many the average person knew back then,” he said. He supposed that the number of songs crossing lines of generation, class and sex would be much lower today, outside of “Over the Rainbow” and “Happy Birthday to You.”

Ouch. That's sad but true. I think how many songs I know by heart, and they pale in comparison to my parent's musical memory. My mom not only sang all the songs, she knew all the dances that went with them.

Sometimes I get in a panic, when I realize that the days when I sang my daughter every night are long behind us. At a certain point, she became embarrassed by my singing— Mom! Stop it!—  and since the rest of the neighborhood wasn't crooning their own tunes, voices floating out the windows, kids singing harmony in the streets, there's been no peer support for it.

You have to go out of your way to find a singing group now— in my childhood, I can't recall going over to someone's house where people didn't dance and sing as a matter of course.

The other night I went to a dinner party followed by the roll-out of a home karaoke machine. I noticed that anyone who knew the song, would rather turn around to the crowd, and belt it out, without the lyric prompt. The microphone's the fun part, not following the bouncing ball. My friends were shocked that I knew so many  old country tunes, like "Your Cheatin' Heart," or "Jackson."

I don't know how I know these songs; I can't remember a time when I didn't know them. I realize they go so far back in my mind, because I learned them from my family's singing, not from a recording. I didn't know who "Patsy" or "The Carter Family" was. It was only when I when I got older, and bought my own 45's and records, that I learned lyrics from the original recording artist.

This song, The Butcher Boy, is the lament of a young girl who's found herself knocked up by the butcher's helper, who's abandoned her. She contemplates her and her baby's fate, and  hangs herself, with her last poem tucked in her pocket.

Tommy is singing it on Pete Seeger's wonderful old TV program, Rainbow Quest.

The tragic splendor, if not the narrative, of the tale, is an inspiration to Patrick McCabe's novel, The Butcher Boy, and Neil Jordan's movie of the same name. In the case of the McCabe's tale, it's as if the young girl had birthed her child after all, and named him "Francie Brady." His story makes his mother's look like a walk in the park— one of the most damning stories about religion, poverty, violence— and Ireland— I've ever read.

But back to Tommy. What a passion for life. His poems will be sung for very long time. I hope you don't mind if I change the lyrics to another one of his favorites, this time, a Scottish one:

Now Tommy is a bonny lad, he is a lad of mine,
I've never had a better lad and I've had twenty-nine...

And for you, and for you, and for you, my Tommy lad,
I'd dance the buckles off my shoes wi' you my Tommy lad!

Why WASPs Stand By Their (Cheatin') Man

I had an interesting correspondence yesterday with a reporter from Barcelona, who was covering the Spitzer scandal and wanted to know why American wives "stand by their man" after such a betrayal.

Let me share some of our conversation with you:

   Dear Ms. Bright,

My name is Juan Cañete. I am the correspondent in Washington DC for the Spanish daily El Periodico, published in Barcelona.

The Eliot Spitzer scandal has provided us with a familiar picture in American politics: a politician who appears in front of the press confessing an extramarital affair, as the wife stands next to him, stoically. 

I am preparing an story about this public ritual. Coming from a Mediterranean country like Spain, it is quite shocking to see the wife "standing by her man."

   Juan Cañeto

 

Dear Juan,

Thanks for writing me. I'm  interested in this subject too, having written before about the "cuckolded wife."

Let me address your questions:

1.Why do you think these spouses accept this kind of public humiliation?

The wives have a huge investment in their marriage... it's their career too. Their "family" is a unit that  used in their electoral campaigns to win. It's practically a requirement of office here.

2. Why is it so important for the husbands to appear with their wives?

It's contrition for sexual misconduct. The wife is understood to be the first victim, and must be the first to forgive him, if he is to have any chance with the public.

3. Why would be wrong for him to appear alone?

It would show that he had utterly failed to keep his marriage together— which again, is used as a symbol of his commitment to everyone else, his constituents.

4. What about her image? What do you think that the public thinks about the wife when she is standing by her man?

Horrified sympathy. Nausea. It's the fascination of a auto accident— someone else's tragedy is riveting. Many have fantasies about how she should cut his dick off, but at the same time think she's noble to stick by him, with a shred of dignity. We wonder if she's been paid off. People think Bill Clinton is "making up" to Hillary even now. Everyone feels a little lucky to not be a politician's wife.

5. Do you think this is a sexist situation? Do you think that if a female politician was in the same situation, her husband would stand by her?

That situation is so rare as to be irrelevant. I can't think of a single parallel example in US history. The sexism is at the root. Very few women even have the chance to test the waters on this subject. Among "ordinary" families, the husband would probably go to great lengths to cover his wife's infidelity up, because it would reflect badly on his virility. Everyone would be worried about "emasculating" him.

Let me ask you...  What would such a political wife do in Barcelona— if her husband was caught cheating on her?

I'm dying to know!

Susie

   
Dear Susie,

It's hard for me to imagine a political wife in Spain standing by her man in a press conference.

First of all, our politicians' private lives are  not as important as in the US. For instance, the presence of the wife in the election campaign is not as common as here.

Recently, the prime minister's wife didn't attend to a royal reception commemorating the king's birthday because she was singing with her choir. She was criticized, but not too much.

Some years ago, an important member of the conservative government left, and eventually divorced, his wife. He married a twenty-something he met in a party convention. He cheated on his wife before leaving her. Later, he left this second wife and married a third woman. It was a gossip story for the gossip press, not a political story for the serious press. He did not resign at all, and nobody asked him to. Both cheated wives gave interviews, to be sure, but to the gossip media.

I think the Spanish would not see it as a good thing for a politician to show up with his wife in a press conference. They would think, "this jerk not only cheats her, but humiliates her in public for his own selfish interest!" Probably she would be criticized for agreeing to play this PR game.

It is not that Spain is not sexist. It is indeed (at the end of the day, we invented the words 'macho' and 'machismo').

But, as you said, in our ancestral Catholic culture, the woman may "belong" to the man, but the man must fulfill his duties with her; she has "some rights." One of his duties is to protect her. It is already enough of a burden for her to have been cheated on. She does not need to appear in front the whole country as the humiliated wife.

And, quite frankly, I cannot imagine a wife doing this (not mine, for sure!). Call it the "passionate Mediterranean woman," if you want.

   Juan

   
Dear Juan,

I remembered a historical reason for why American and Spanish attitudes towards a wife's reaction to her husband's betrayal might be different.

This one is the most intriguing of all...

Lands in the US that were originally colonized by the Spanish have profoundly different property laws, regarding gender, than the areas colonized by the English.

According to traditional Spanish law, a woman comes into a marriage with her own property, and if something should happen to that marriage, her property stays with her. She could have land in her own name—  this was not thought of as "feminist," but merely matrilineal. Women's families counted for something, their historical line.

What this meant in modern American life, is that when the US became independent, the divorce laws followed the tradition set by the original settlers. In California— where I live— because the Spanish tradition is so profound, the divorce laws ALWAYS gave women half of everything earned in the marriage, plus their own property they brought with them into the marriage.  Hence, Spanish-tradition states like California were clearly favored by wives, in breakups.

Nowadays, the 50/50 breakup in divorces is much more common, but California and other Spanish-tradition states are still the minority in their property-respect for women's matrilineal lines.

In the British Protestant tradition, when a woman leaves her father's household, she leaves it all behind, and everything that she brings into the marriage becomes her husband's property. Her lot is cast with him, her identity is subsumed by his. Her maiden name, her family, is no more.

I am describing a very old tradition. I'm sure modern American spouses do not view each other this way, consciously. But there is a sense American WASP culture, unlike the Hispanic Catholic tradition, that once a woman commits herself to a man, his survival is her survival; her family is not a refuge. Silda Wall Spitzer was raised Baptist. Hillary Clinton, Methodist. That surely must affect how they cope with trauma to their relationship!

   Susie

 Dear Susie,

On the issue of property laws and how land rights have a matrilineal path in the Spanish law— this is still the case in Spain. 

In fact, women do not give up their last names when they marry and they keep their family's last names (i.e. in order to be able to trace the family tree).

But like you say, this has nothing to do with giving women their rights but, on the contrary, making sure that family property (i.e. property over which the men have decision-making power) can be traced through the generations.

At any rate, I agree with you that these two approaches, which come from long way back, do affect how women will react.

One last point: as an ancestral machista society, Spain thinks that whatever happens at home stays at home, even if we are talking about a politician.

This means that politicians are seen only in their political roles, and not necessarily as role models for good husbands/lovers/etc.

On the other hand, the fact that whatever "happens at home stays at home" means  that issues like abuse and domestic violence are hidden. It's  taken a lot of time to have laws that consider domestic abuse as a crime. Above all, it was hard (and sometimes it is still) to consider this abuse as something that must be rejected, and dealt with in the public sphere, not only at home.

Thanks again for your info and comments.

Best regards,
Juan

Illustration: Of Susie, by Pascal Steig at Powell's Bookstore event in Portland, Oregon, February 2008.

Photo from El Periodico coverage. The popular image of Silda standing by Eliot as he apologized was NOT used in the Spanish paper at all— it's considered so grotesque! This photo was their "dignified" way of illustrating the story.

Painting: "Vaqueros," by Charles Christian Nahl, 1866. Anchustz Collection.

Book Cover: Codes of Silence— Women and the Spanish Conquest of California

Why WASPs Stand By Their Man: The Cuckolded Political Wife in America

I had an interesting correspondance with a reporter from Barcelona, who was analyzing the Elito Spitzer scandal and wanted to know why American wives "stand by their man" after such a betrayal.

Let me share our conversation with you:

   Dear Ms. Bright,

My name is Juan Canete. I am the correspondent in Washington DC for
the Spanish daily El Periodico, the most important newspaper in the city of Barcelona.

The Eliot Splitzer scandal has provided us with a familiar picture in American
politics: a politician who appears in front of the press confessing  an extramarital affair, and the wife stands next to him, stoically. 

I am preparing an story about this "public" ritual.  Coming from a Mediterranean country like Spain, it is quite shocking to see the wife standing by "her man."

   Juan Caneto

   Dear Juan,

Thanks for writing me.  I am very interested in this subject too, and I have written before about the plight of the "cuckolded wife."

Let me address your questions:

1.Why do you think these spouses accept this kind of public humiliation?

 

They have a huge investment in their marriage... it's their career too.  Their "family" is a unit that is used in their campaigns to get elected. It's practically a requirement of office here.

 

2. Why is it so important for the husbands to appear with their wives?

 

It's contrition for sexual misconduct. She's understood to be the very first victim, and must be the first to forgive him, if he has any chance with the public at all.

 

3. Why would be wrong for him to appear alone?

It would show that he had utterly failed to keep his marriage together, which again, is used as a symbol of his commitment to everyone else, his constituents.

4. What about her image? What do you think that the public thinks about
the wife when she is standing by her man?

 

Horrifed sympathy. Nausea. It's the fascination of a auto accident, someone else's tragedy is riveting. Many have  fantasies about how she should cut his dick off, but at the same time thinking she's noble to carry on with him,  with a shred of dignity. We wondering if she's been paid off.  People think Bill Clinton is "making up" to Hillary even now.  Everyone feels a little lucky to not be a fat cat's wife.

 

5. Do you think this is a sexist situation? I mean, do you think that
if a female politician was in the same situation her husband would
stand by her?

 

That situation you suggest, is so rare as to be irrelevant. I can't think of a single parallel example in US history. And yes, the sexism is so tremendous, that very few women even have the chance to test the waters on this subject.  I think among ordinary familes, the husband would go to great lengths to cover it up, because it would reflect badly on his virility, everyone would be worried about "emasculating" him.

Let me ask you...  What would such a political wife do in Barcelona— if her husband was caught cheating on her  I'm dying to know!

Susie

 

   

   Dear Susie,

It's hard for me to imagine a political wife in Spain standing by her man in a press conference.

First of all, our politician's private life is not as important as in the US. For instance, the presence of the wife in the election trial is no as usual and constant as here. Recently, the prime minister's wife didn't attend to a royal reception commemorating the king's birthday because she was singing with her choir. She was criticized, but not too much.

Some years ago, an important member of the conservative government left and eventually divorced his wife to marry a twenty-something he met in a party convention. He cheated his wife before leaving her. Later he left this second wife and married a third woman. It was a gossip story for the gossip press, not a politic story for the 'serious' press. He did not resign at all, and nobody asked him to. Both cheated wives gave interviews, to be
sure, but to the gossip media.

I think Spanish people would not see as a good thing for the politician toshow up with his wife in a press conference. They would think something like 'this jerk not only cheats her but humiliates her in public for his own selfish interest'. Probably she would be criticized for accepting to play this PR game.

It is not that Spain is not sexist. It is indeed (at the end of the day we invented the words 'macho' and 'machismo'). But, as you said, in our ancestral catholic culture the woman 'belongs' to the man but the man also must fullfil his duties with her, she has 'some rights'. One of them is to protect her. It is already enough burden for her to have been cheated. She does not need to appear in front the whole country as the humiliated wife. And, quiet frankly, I do not imagine a wife doing this (not mine, for sure!). Call it the 'passionate mediterranian woman', if you want.

   Juan

 

  Dear Juan,

I thought of a historical reason for why most American and Spanish attitudes towards a wife's reaction to her husband's betrayal might be different.

This one is the most intriguing of all...

Land in the US that was originally colonized by the Spanish has profoundly different property laws, regarding gender,  than the areas taken over by the English.

According to traditional Spanish law, a woman comes into a marriage with her own property, and if something should happen to that marriage, her property stays with her. She could have land in her own name—  this was not thought of as "feminist," but merely matralineal. Women's familes counted for something, their historical line.

What this meant in modern American life, is that when the US became independent, the divorce laws followed the tradition set by the original settlers. In California— where I live— because the Spanish tradition is so profound, the divorce laws ALWAYS gave women half of everything earned in the marriage, plus their own property they brought with them into the marriage.  Hence, Spanish-tradition states like California were clearly favored by wives, in breakups.

Nowadays, the 50/50 breakup in divorces is much more common, but California and other Spanish-tradition states are still the minority in their property-respect for women's matralineal lines.

In the British Protestant tradition, when a woman leaves her father's household. she leaves everything, and everything she brings into the marriage becomes her husband's. Her lot is cast with him, her identity is subsumed by his. Her maiden name, her family, is irrelevant.

I am describing to you a very old, tradition. I'm sure modern American spouses do not view each other this way, consciously. But there is a sense in WASP culture, unlike the Hispanic Cathoic tradition, that once a woman commits herself to a man, his survival is her survival. That surely must affect how she  tries to cope with trauma to their relationship!

   Susie

   Dear Susie,

On the issue of property laws and how land rights have a matralineal path in the Spanish law, this is still the case in Spain. 

In fact, women do not give up their last names when they marry and they keep their family's last names (i.e. in order to be able to trace the family tree).  But like you say, this
has nothing to do with giving women their rights but, on the contrary, making sure that family property (i.e. property over which the men have decision making power) can be traced through the generations.

At any rate, I agree with you that these two approaches, which come from long back, do affect how women will react.

One last point: as an ancestral 'machista' society, Spain thinks that whatever happens at home stays at home, even if we are talking about a politician. This means that politicians are seen as such, and not necessarily as how good husbands are. On the other hand, the fact that whatever happens at home stays at home means also that issues like abuse and
domestic violence are mostly hidden and it has taken a lot of time to have laws that consider this abuse as a crime. And above all it was hard (and sometimes it is still) to consider this abuse as something that can and must be rejected and dealt with in the public sphere, not only at home.

Thanks again for your info and comments.

Best regards,
Juan

Pride Goeth Before Client #9

Governor Eliot Spitzer of New York, who became famous prosecuting Wall Street crooks, has been caught on a federal wiretap, making arrangements with a high-priced prostitute.

The pro, named Kristen, called her booker after her session with Eliot to confirm that all had gone well. She said she didn't find Spitzer "difficult,"€ as some of the other girls had complained.

The booker replied to her that "Client 9," as Eliot was called, was known to ask the women "€œto do things that, like, you might not think were safe."

Aside from the kinky slap to his Mr. Clean reputation, Spitzer is also facing legal jeopardy, since, among other things, the feds are hitting him with the Mann Act, a 1910 prostitution law designed to crack down on interstate "white slavery."

Everyone would like to know how Spitzer got the money to pay an escort $4K an hour, and what government resources he might have used to meet with her, in secret. Bizarrely, Eliot used the name of one of his big donors, "George Fox," to book his rendezvous.

Yesterday, Spitzer and his wife appeared for one shaky minute before the press,€” where Spitzer said he was sorry, and that he had let down his family and his moral beliefs.

How unfortunate that this bust doesn't serve as a wakeup call to Eliot to realize his moral "beliefs" are full of it.

Only a few years ago, in 2004, Spitzer spoke "with revulsion" after announcing his arrest of eighteen people who ran an escort business out of Staten Island.

"This was a sophisticated and lucrative operation with a multi-tiered management structure," Mr. Spitzer sputtered at the time. "€œIt was, however, nothing more than a prostitution ring."

And now, his critics and many of his supporters are asking for nothing less than his resignation.

Okay.

If we could give a truth serum to all the parties involved—€” or wiretap their personal diaries— here's what we might listen in on:

The $4,300 an Hour Prostitute:

Well, first of all, I got less than half of that, and my manicurist charges almost as much.

The Wife:

There's not a political wife alive who's been schtupped by her own husband in years. If you want a career as a high profile spouse, you can kiss your sex life goodbye.

The John/Governor:

Those sons of bitches. I know who did this, and I'll destroy them if it's the last thing I do.

The Escort Service Booker:

There's a couple dozen high end joints like us operating at any time to service the Pol crowd, and we just can't charge enough. Once they start ratting out each other, they'll mess us over so bad there'll be forty people filing bankruptcy as a result of their bullshit.

The John/Governor:

What? I'm a man. I'm a human being. You thought we could do this job sober and celibate? Bullshit. There's not one man in higher office today who's NOT a john, unless he's on Prozac or radiation therapy.

The Wife:

My policy influence, my privileges,€” it's all paid with this: public humiliation, the mockery of my sexual pride, the calculation of the material price of my abandonment. Don't ask me if it was worth it. I'm not ready to resign.

The John/Governor:

Why didn't I keep a nice vanilla girlfriend on the side? I would never do this kind of heavy play with my wife or any decent woman. Nobody gets this kind of scene for free, unless they're some kind of pervert sex freak activist. Yeah, I know those people voted for me, but I'm not one of them.

The Kids:

Dad didn't do this! They're lying. Dad's so uptight about sex, there is no way he would even take his clothes off in front of anyone.

The Corporate Criminals on Spitzer's Hit List:

Oh thank god, just in the nick of time. We told the RNC they had to do something about this maniac before he brought us all down. How much did it cost to run the sting?

John and Jane Q. Screwed Public:

We needed someone— and we voted for someone— to fight for us, and now he's gone and blown it all to hell.

Should prostitution be decriminalized?

The John/Governor:

No. I need the shame to get off, and the ammo to destroy my enemies.

The Wife:

I don't want his cock anywhere near me. This is my political career, too. Give me plausible deniability and I'll give you decriminalization.

The Escort Service:

Hard to say. Prices would fall, but so would expenses. It's inevitable, so thankfully we know how to run the game no matter what the law is.

The Pro:

Decriminalizing? yes. Legalization, no. The last thing I need is a government bureaucrat topping me.

John and Jane Q. Screwed Public:

The sex fatigue has set in. Do these pols have five minutes they could spare to work for us, their constituents? We'll give Spitzer something to scream about.

The Sex Fairy:

Decriminalization, yes. Stigma-busting, yes. Realizing that we are complicated creatures and creatures have sex, yes. Contemplating why people go through so much shit to feel physical intimacy and orgasmic surrender... a lot more of that!

Photo: by Tracy Mostovoy, from Nothing But the Girl. Tracy, an accomplished photographerQuinceneara, took this portrait of her late lover in the 1980s, who was working as a dom for clients who had much in common with men like Elliot Spitzer. 

My Apologies: My Email Alert List Got Spammed!

I'm offering you this sweet little excerpt from John Huston's The Asphalt Jungle, as an apology for something rather weird that happened this afternoon: my automated email list, that goes out to everyone who wants an email alert when I write something new— it got spammed!

Everyone on it, apparently, got a notice telling them all about Amy Winehouse's infection, Panda mania at some zoo, and more gossip I'm sure you could do without. Thanks to Eric and Sue for writing me right away and letting me know.  I don't know yet what or who's responsible... working on it!

UPDATE: The God of Feedblitz, Phil Hollows, has discovered the culprit. It's not his system, or Feedburner. It's my blog server, Typepad. Phil found a blog report from a fellow named
BudTheTeacher:

[Typepad] apparently mixed up their feeds, and have been pushing celebrity gossip through mine and many other Typepad users.

Typepad says:

On March 6, 2008 we experienced a brief problem with our feed service
on TypePad. Some TypePad users were affected, where another blog’s
entries appeared to be coming from their feed. We’ve corrected the
problem and feeds are now rendering correctly, but your readers may
still see these incorrect entries in RSS reading applications (like
Google Reader). We’re very sorry for the confusion this issue may have
caused you and your readers — and we’re working hard to make sure it
doesn’t happen again.

Thank you, Phil, for solving the mystery. As always, I recommend Feedblitz to everyone I know who wants their blogging readers to know when they've posted something new! It's so great not to worry about that task anymore.