Domain St Foy 2003
Coffee,
I woke again to the sound of hunters killing wild boar in the fields.
Our vines. If you think about it, they are perfect hunting grounds.
Pigs like to eat grapes no matter how withered. A hunter is hidden by
leaf heavy vines as he does the Elmer Fud Tiptoe, peeking around the
corner of every row, looking for prey....
Just like me looking around the corner of the Chateau on my way to
get a bottle of homegrown. Picture this, imagine me in only my Budweiser
boxers, a Petzle headlamp and some paint spattered Van's skateboarder
shoes doing my own Elmer Fud/Homer Simpson Tiptoe. Not a pretty picture
but one you can imagine.-some reluctantly better than others. I open
my side door out on to the terrace, walk along to the door that leads
down the dry leaf covered semi spiral staircase, through the greenhouse
and outside. Trip over the barbecue, cut my shin, round the corner,
round the next corner hopping on one leg holding my shin and head for
the garage , trip again over the $150,000 Astin Martin and find a million
cases of this pink wine crap . The stuff is actually very good Rose.
It's shit to me only because I've had too much of it. Once I get back
I'll be drinking the spiciest heaviest Cab/Zinfendels I can find. But
for now it's all I got. I hobble back to my room, bottle in one hand,
bloodied shin in the other. Back in bed in front of the fire, back to
my laptop and my headphones. More Mano Chao in the CD player.
Back to this . Coffee.
This morning instead of pressing my coffee and heading straight to
paint, I press, I pour a big cup of black jet fuel and head to the vines.
The first frost.
It's Thanksgiving.
Almost everything I'm grateful for, I miss. Almost all of you are back
home. But this morning I'm grateful for an incredible sunrise amongst
vibrant colors I can only attempt to paint.
I'm splattered in paint, I wear my favorite hooded Scott USA sweatshirt
that is my reward for helping design this year's ski pole line. It's
ruined with oil paint but it's warm. I walk along my favorite row of
vines that afford me a view of the whole place. I get half way down
the row, stand on the stone walled edge dividing the Syrah from the
Grenache and sip deeply. The first sip of French coffee, just as the
first sip of French wine, always the best.
Last night was the first frost so there is still a little on the leaves
making the reflected pink sun sparkle across the top of the field. The
leaves, on this side, the Grenache side, vibrant Cadmium Yellow Deep.
Sorry, I only know Colors in terms of Paint Color or a Graphic Artists
PMS book. If I told you that the reds of the field looked like PMS 485,
the romance would be lost. They are yellow. A yellow that combines the
yellow of a Rock Worn Caterpillar D9 Bulldozer and a Dorris Day Sun
Dress. A beautiful yellow, a perfect yellow.
Upon close inspection the leaves have veins of red. PMS 132 to be exact.
Pinkish. A leaf is not one color, it is the meat that holds the chlorophyll
and the veins that transfer water & the grape characterizing soil
nutrients. The chlorophyl has died leaving colors of different compositions
(depending on the grape). I have never seen Fall in the US East Coast
so dying French vines are my first experience with this intense natural
color. I only know Aspen Tree yellow. But not like this yellow.
This morning, the frost has made the leaves heavy. I listen close and
hear the fall of leaves all around me. I take another sip, close my
eyes feel the sun on my face and listen. It may be death I'm listening
to. The Hindu God Shiva spinning her many arms around like like a natural
Weedwacker to the Vines. A beautiful death none the less.
I turn and open my eyes as I hear Boo, Parker's dog coming to say good
morning. He's a big Bouvie De Flaunder. Stinky, but very affectionate.
A mass of black curly hair. Covered in burrs, dirt, leaves and a sheen
of pond water. He is very protective of the kids even though I've seen
River, Parker's 4 yr. old son, bite the dog and come up with a mouth
full of black curly dog hair. I still cringe at the thought. I feel
sorry for Boo. If he didn't smell so bad, he would get a lot more of
the affection he is so desperate for. It's been a beautiful morning
so I can spare a little love and spread my arms in a pre-embrace. Oversized
coffee cup in one hand, the other one free to scratch his head as he
jumps up to give me a kiss. He's coming a little fast though...Concern
comes a little late. Just as a Lab jumps from a dock to retrieve a tennis
ball in the water, Boo's 4 paws leave the ground. He assumes the head
tucked Ram position and greets me with a high speed head butt to the
crotch.
I'm dropped.
I should have known better. He did the same thing to Parker in obedience
school on "Sit, Stay, Come" day. At least I'm alone.
My coffee cup is somewhere in the next terrace below. I'm on all fours
ready to puke. Boo's twisted affection continues as he licks the back
of my neck. The cold stench of pond water he's been drinking drips from
his hairy chin and puddles in in the dip between my head and neck. I
slowly try to get up. Just as I get on my feet, the cold-dog-spit-pond-water
spills down my back like a stench covered ice cube. An involuntary epileptic
shudder of revulsion rips through me strong enough to make me slip on
the rotten banana peels disguised as fallen vine leaves. With my feet
still flying up in the air, I land flat on my back hard enough to knock
the wind out of me. I know I've just been dealt a metaphor but I can't
see it through the meteor shower of my vision backed by baby shit yellow.
With a goddamed fucking piss yellow leaf stuck to the side of my face
I slowly roll my head sideways to see Boo scampering away while looking
back at me. His tongue hangs out the side of his wide open smiling mouth,
mocking me as he continues on his morning walk.
He has no tail. But this morning, randomly bouncing and waving 'Tah
Tah' is one of my missing socks hanging half way out his ass. I guess
it wasn't the dryer eating them after all.
Soaked now, still on my back. I slowly turn away scanning the sky for
one last morning star to wish upon.
God Get Me Home Soon.
Happy Thanksgiving
Brad
........
2002
Heading back to France.
I'm barely able to get my bag out of my friend Katie's car. It's a
new
bright yellow North face rubberized monster duffel. It's stuffed with
clothes but mainly books on tape so we can turn our brains off and
paint. Not so hard in my case. The pack has backpack straps but is
still awkward as hell. I've also got a computer bag. Heavy too.
Quick peck and a hug and I'm off.
I buy a Tom Clancy book at the newsstand, a book I'm sure I'll never
read, and head to the gate after having my shoes violated by security.
737 to Washington. Not very comfortable.
Worse is the irritating elderly couple on their way to Paris for the
first time. The entire way they are quizzing each other out of their
French phrase book while I'm trying to sleep. Even with my pathetic
lack
of command of the language I cringe at the verbal butchering. I can
only
take so much... so with my most sincere smile, I tell them I go over
every year for a couple months and if I may, I'd like to give them some
advise.
Their contorted look of eager appreciation reminds me of one of those
taffy twisters in the window of an Estes Park tourist trap shop.
...Random thought I know but I'm drinking one of 4500 bottles of Pink
wine long since turned to vinegar so bear with me.....I tell them to
throw away their phrase book and always speak English. I explain that
the French really like it when Americans make no attempt to speak their
language. The French think it's 'cute'.. Honestly... And If a waiter
or
whoever doesn't understand you, just keep speaking Louder and LOUDER
till they understand. I motion them to come close and quietly tell the
couple that all French have learning disabilities and they really
appreciate it if you use a lot of hand gestures and enunciate every
English word slowly.
I then continue with restaurants and tell them that if a waiter takes
a
really long time to get you your food, well, That's just because they
don't want you to feel guilty about not giving them any tip. 'They
really don't want one' I assure them. The French are very
accommodating, sensitive people and serving Americans is considered
and
honor. I tell them I've seen waiters get into fist fights over who gets
to serve me.
A little assurance removes the look of confused disbelief on their
faces. The phrase book goes into the seat pocket in front of them, and
I finally get some sleep.
I get to Dullus.
One hour layover where on my way to the gate, I see some poor airport
bartender get fired for letting a drunk business man stumble around
the
concourse with a big gin & tonic. It wouldn't have been so bad if
the
drunk hadn't been gay and after striking out hitting on me, gone right
up to a security guard, winked, and asked to see his 'night stick'....
Homophobic rent-a-cop, beat red screams at bar manager, bar manager
fires Filipino bartender. But not before I order the last beer he'll
serve. At least I tip well.
I get on the plane to Paris. Cool, it's a Triple 7. Things are looking
up-I think I get a window seat too. I do,,I do get a window seat.
Yeah.. No jet lag for Bradford. Smiling, I tell the guy on the isle
I'm
next to him at the window. My smile turns to a green, insta-gag'n, puke
face when I catch a whiff of this guy's bionic euro stench. Good
fucking God this guy stinks. I chalk it up to insta Karma, reach up
and
turn on both air vents full blast & point them right at him. I'm
hoping
that this creates a barrier of air between us. Alleviating my nasal
discomfort. He looks at me oddly. He's twice my size but I visually
convey to him: " Dude...you stink, I know you stink, you know you
stink, move those air vents away from you and I'll shove this copy of
Hemispheres right up you ass." No words are spoken the whole flight.
Get to DeGualle
It's raining outside. I don my North Face rain gear. Yellow of
course...Did you by the way know I live in a yellow house? You'd think
I
drove a yellow camero...Oh yeah, no that's my roommate Gage..I swear
it's not my favorite color.
On to customs.
DeGualle has a big flat people escalator like mover taking you from
one
terminal to the other. Customs is right at the end of this terminal.
Two crowded flights empty into customs at the same time so things are
tight. Stinky is in front of me and a 90lb fur wearing, 100 yr. old,
pink haired Parisian socialite is right behind me. Just as we are about
to get off the escalator, a Japanese tour group decides to stop right
at the end of the mover so their equivalent of the Love Boat's Julie
McCoy can tell them which customs lane to go in. This causes a traffic
jam with a melting pot of human sheep slamming into each other unable
to
stop their forward momentum. Stinky starts jogging backwards. So do
I.
panicked, the fluttering french woman does as well-in her high heals.
Quite a sight. This blows because nobody speaks anybody else's language
to make things move. The agro American in me takes over. I wait for
my
opportunity. The tour group takes their collective head out of their
ass
for one a second and moves a foot forward. My opportunity. I fake left,
move right into an opening and like Rashaan Salaam of the good old CU
days, I plow through the tour group. Black hair and cameras go flying.
I
blast a hole through so team escalator can get through... I'm an
international hero.
One Japanese kid on the floor wearing a sideways baseball hat and an
Eminem shirt flips me some gang signs he learned on MTV. I look back,
laugh and tell him he should have "Gone Round the Outside".
Baggage Claim
I'm feeling pretty damn cool at this point. I've done this enough,
I
know the drill and people from all over the world are thanking me for
making the airport safe for free movement.
As my bag comes down the conveyer belt, people look at the bag, then
look at me where I nonchalantly sit across the way. It's obvious it
belongs to me. The seas of people part for me without a move and I time
my snag perfectly lifting and swinging onto my back with all the force
I
can muster so I can pretend I'm Fonzi (Happy Days). I was looking and
feeling really cool until the physics of weight in motion keeps my bag
swinging around with me (now attached to it) and right back onto the
conveyer belt. My arms and legs are frantically kicking in the air
unable to get out of this predicament. I look like some huge ugly yellow
beetle trying to right itself while moving round and round. The elderly
couple still grateful for my advise pulls me out on my second lap.
The rest of the trip goes smoothly.... Kinda...Buy a ticket to the
South on a fast train in the only perfect French I know. Blue RER to
Chatalet, Red RER to Gar de Lyon. Death march with 100lb pack clear
to
car 17. Get on & find seat in non-smoking section. The train starts
moving so I can lay down across the empty seat next to me.
Sleep....Finally...Maybe not... For the 5th time, a 3 year old snot
dripping Hasidic Jewish kid pokes me in the eye till I wake up at her
exact eye level and then she sneezes on me. Bolting upright, I convince
her father that I have just smacked her from the sound of his kid's
startled cry. His curls turn to horns and I know I'm in trouble. The
rest of the trip is spent in in linguistic hell as I do my best to
explain to him in limited French that "Time Outs" just aren't
working
for his kid.
Finally I get to Les Arc, Off the train & see Parker. I've got
a perma
grin...so grateful to see an old familiar face. Off to our favorite
bar
in Lorgues. A quick beer and a game of pool. On to the Chateau where
Isabelle has made yet another amazing meal. Rabbit with an olive
gorgonzola sauce.
River is shy but obviously happy to see me. SolÈ, who was born
the day I
arrived last year, is already flirting with me. David Parker when we
worked together on Blake street was hands down the most skilled ladies
man-player I have every know. Now it's evident that his daughter might
someday, be a little pay back.
I sit back, take in the last day and relax
I'm back to my second home...
So now we paint.
.......
2000/#1..... Paris
The Margarita
So,
I'm making a margarita.
A special Margarita. A much needed Margarita. A Little different than
one would normally make. Here's the recipe. Pour a liberal amount of
tequila over a down vest, a couple T-shirts and through a couple of
socks-they work the best, just like coffee filters. After at least 6
ounces are imbedded in you clothes, you wring out the garments over
ice,
skim off the floating fibers and drink...quickly.
Oh, the first part of the recipe is pretty important. You first
carefully wrap a bottle of Jose Cuervo margarita mix in your softest
clothes. Then very carefully position this package in the very center
of
you backpack. Pack Rolled up T-shirts, underwear etc. around it so that
the bottle is protected as much as possible. Then go to the airport,
check your bag and have United Airlines do the rest.
If your lucky, your plane will lose a wing before takeoff, they will
send you to San Francisco instead-Yes that's the wrong direction I
know--And get on a 11 hour flight to Paris. If your really lucky, you
will get an isle seat. An Isle seat with a smelling still drunk AND
hell
bent on getting more drunk French prick next to you. The beauty of this
part of the recipe is that you don't want to drink on the plane while
sitting next to this guy, but you'll definitely need one later. See
when
he's not leaning across you to grab a flight attendant's ass,
innocently answering her accusing stare with a pointed finger in your
direction, he'll be stealing liquor bottles of any kind from a passing
cart and downing them one after the other with no mixer or chaser. Maybe
after he passes out you can get a good look at the brand new booze
stained 'Las Vegas Mustang Ranch' T-shirt he's so proud of. ...If your
lucky.
Now this is crucial to the "Eurotrash Margarita" ..... United
must LOSE
your luggage.
United must lose it for at least two days so you look and smell like
the guy next to you on the plane. When the courier finally arrives with
it, you greet him with a mixture of gratitude and fist clenching French
pounding fury. He can't carry your bag because that would mean he would
have to put down his cigarette. Heaven forbid. So he smiles drags it
down the block (One handed) to apartment door you hold because you have
forgotten the code that is carefully written on something IN the very
bag he drags. He smiles and drags. He smiles and drags over cigarette
butts, through dog shit, across the water filled gutter and up to the
doorstep you stand on.
Shifting to first person ---
I look at him, I sign the release, I say "Adios Muchacho!"
He's
confused. Too bad.....I heft the 80 lb bag....damn my bag smells
strange. Something's wrong.
Up to Alli's apartment. She's one of Dani's best friends. She's been
so
great to me. She's put me up in her apartment a bunch of times and been
an incredible hostess. She even let me stay here by myself while she's
back in the states for a few days. She let me stay even though I
infested her place with fleas from Parker's Chateau the last summer.
They're gone, I've already spent one night on the couch and haven't
been
bitten. So I wanted to do something nice for her and bring something,
(the only thing) that they just don't have here. Margarita mix.
Too bad I didn't go to physics class the day they taught us that one
cubic inch of air space, at the top of a bottle, is enough to blow open
the cap at 37,000 feet. Oh well I'm an artist.....
You have no idea how much I've gotten away with by saying I'm an
artist. At least it's better than saying "hey I'm I dumbass with
style,
give me a break".
So I have my bag, I have my "mix" soaked clothes spread all
over Alli's
balcony, I have the code to the front door so I can easily get back
in
without waiting for another tenant to come along. I head to the Bon
Marche- If the purfume maker Chanel had designed a grocery store this
would be it. I get a baguette, some sausage, an amazing variety of
cheese, check out in non fluent silence and head back. I make myself
a
plate of culinary heaven, squeeze out my margarita, and sit down to
my
first good night in France.
Tomorrow I will miss my train for Parker's place and get spit on by
another Algerian, but for now I'm a happy misplaced American.
Cheers,
Brad
.......
Coulobres, France 1998
"This isn't France, this is Hell"
It sure sounds perfect when you say it out loud. "Brad is painting
landscapes in the South of France" OOh La la.
Well it actually has been the time of my life but the interesting thing
about travel is that it's like life in overdrive. The great times are
Life Changing but the the bad times make you beg for the routine of
home.
I had a very traumatic experience last Saturday and I can only now
relay what hasn't mercifully been dropped from my handicapped memory.
This is the only time this little inherited trait has come in handy.
It all started with Isabelle, Chip(David), myself and Menina (one of
the Moroccan sisters next door...Catch the 'Men' in Menina?..It's appropriate.)
She had looked so familiar to me but I couldn't place it until she gave
me an especially toothy grin with her eyes closed. I realized I had
seen her on the discovery channel. Zoomed up on his face, She was the
spitting image of King Tut's mummified remains.
So the 4 of us packed in the $3 a liter gas saving midget car and sped
to the Mountains to pick mushrooms. The whole way up while I was trying
to take in the old little villages or the new mountainous scenery, Menina
kept punching me in the arm to make me listen to her tell me about one
of her problems again. I really blew it in the past when I listened
to her or
watched her sign language with what she assumed was great interest and
empathy. Actually, It was simple fascination with the smoke rings she
blew involuntarily from the huge gap between her front teeth.
So We collected about 10 pounds of edible fungus in a forest that looked
a lot like Colorado only densely lush with ferns and moss under every
step. On the way home Chip had the great idea for all of us to go with
all 7 of Menina's siblings to the "Club" that night. I avoided
this last week by feigning stomach problems so I knew I was stuck this
time. And Since
Chip and Isabelle were going I felt like I might be safe from Menina
and her sister Sadia....Wrong Wrong Wrong. Grinning wildly Chip told
me what sweet girls the El Karkaoui sisters were and how it would be
logistically perfect for me to marry one or both of them since their
muslim religion permitted that. Whom I thought to be my life saving
chaperone for the night was turning out to be Cupid's Sadistic twin.
Sadia came over and cooked the mushrooms while Menina was getting hammered
on wine and Pastis-that liquerish drink. She was saying something about
this being her night because her heart was "Broking" due to
her divorce being final today. Dinner was served and it was semi cooked
bare bowtie pasta on one side of the plate and a heaping pile of slimy
black fungus spiced with absolutely nothing on the other. Yum Yum. I
ate as much as I could so as not to offend.
We all drove to the club separately. It was way out there. I found
out later that this was one of the few places that people on North African
descent can go and dance without being hassled. Apparently Racism runs
rampant here. Sounded familiar. So we get to the club and out of their
car comes all 8 El Karkaoui kids. I actually like all of them. I've
had fun kicking
around the soccer ball in the street with all 4 brothers. But I was
definitely taken aback when Sadia got out of the car looking like Slash
from 'Guns & Roses' and probably smelling
like him too. She pulled aside her frizzed out that was doing just fine
hiding her face and gave me that 'You can't resist me with my Cleopatra
eyes' look.
We got into the club after our group paid the mandatory $80 for a bottle
of booze. Obviously alcohol at that price wasn't going to make these
girls look any better tonight so my only other option was to find a
little French date fast. I covered my ears to ward off the disgustingly
popular Village People music coming from the speakers and surveyed the
crowd like a hawk. Any of you that know me well know that the thought
of even approaching a girl in a bar and feeding her a line scares the
shit out of me. Put me in another country where no woman would even
understand me and you'll begin to understand how desperate for escape
I was. I took the plunge and asked a really cute little blonde girl
(go figure) to dance.
Success, she smiled a lot and it was way too loud to talk at all and
I could care less about the 2 pairs of laserbeams boring through the
back of my head. Everything was great even after we got off the dance
floor despite my poor French. That is until the novel american idiot
rap wore off. Between that and finding out she was only 16 made me look
for an alternate plan. We did the tripple cheek kiss thing that everybody
does here, said au revoir, and I bolted for the snack bar. All I understood
was hamburger so I ordered one. The burger was a bad omen when it came
with a small patty in the middle of a foot long baguett. I even looked
like an idiot eating the damn thing.
Ok I give up. Instantly I was grabbed by both arms and dragged to the
dance floor bouncing between los Dos El Karkoui like a reluctant pinball.
the entire night I would look over at Chip for help and see him laughing
his ass off. So 5am rolled around none too soon. I was sober but Menina
and Sadia each had 200 Francs worth of vodka in them. Sadia just looked
more and more lustily into my eyes but she was sweating so bad that
her egyptian eye makeup was getting an Alice Cooper flair. Menina on
the other hand was leaning all over saying "Bwadfod dis i my night,
my hot it is broking. My deworse it finish, you good fwend. We?"
I know she had been practicing this single english sentence all day
and it made me nervous as hell.
Chip, laughing of course, offered them both a ride home in the most
sugar coated 'Oh I'm going to enjoy this' voice. Guess who had to sit
in the middle of the microcar's back seat... So the final scene is Menina
on the verge of passing out chanting her only english again and again
and Sadia on my other side playing with my hair trying to let her eyes
do the talking. Somehow I had wedged my shoulders into a 6 inch space
between the two front seats so I could escape the horror in the back
by talking to Chip and Isabelle in the front.
Chip kept elbowing me and laughing relentlessly.
Suddenly Isabelle screamed "pull over, pull over" I leaned
back wondering what was going on. I looked to my right just in time
to see Menina projectile vomit onto the unopened window. As most of
it ricochet onto my face I was reminded somehow of what I had been gathering
in the woods... Bad? Gets Worse... One would think that ones sister's
vomit on a
guys face would be a deterrent. --Ou contraire mes amis-, Sadia saw
this as an opportunity! Her sister was finally out of competition. My
face was grabbed with both hands, turned 180 and stretched to never
imagined proportions as Sadia shook her hair out of the way and laid
a tongue first wet one on me. I'm sure I must have looked like that
black sitcom geek
Erkel the rest of the ride home as I fought to get away. "This
isn't France, this is Hell" I thought until finally arriving home.
Parker was hoarse from laughing despite the state of the car as I bolted
from it into the house up to the bathroom and behind the safety of the
only lock in the house. I think I'll sleep here tonight.
Good Night