Thats why I need to get myself down to the French Riviera. A bipolar friend of mine once told me that on the French Riviera in general - and in Nice in particular - it is customary for really old, ugly white men to walk around arm-in-arm with beautiful young, black women. In public.
My friend also told me about a game he invented to honour this paradox: Every time he spotted a white, rich, ugly, really really old man displaying his nubian trophy-queen in this manner, my friend shouted, at the top of his lungs:
EBONY/BLANC!
EBONY/BLANC!
By doing so, he assured me, he was not making a statement on the social/economic/racial/patriarchal aspects of the ebony/blanc occurence as much as simply commenting on the contrast of it all. Because contrasts made him feel confident of his own existence, contrast gave him something to behave towards.
I guess we all want that.
My friend also told me about a game he invented to honour this paradox: Every time he spotted a white, rich, ugly, really really old man displaying his nubian trophy-queen in this manner, my friend shouted, at the top of his lungs:
EBONY/BLANC!
EBONY/BLANC!
By doing so, he assured me, he was not making a statement on the social/economic/racial/patriarchal aspects of the ebony/blanc occurence as much as simply commenting on the contrast of it all. Because contrasts made him feel confident of his own existence, contrast gave him something to behave towards.
I guess we all want that.
(My friend has never been to the French Riviera. I have no friends. In contrast, I sometimes wish I was an elderly, rich white man living in Nice. And Vincent Gallo never recorded a song called "Jungle Fever".)
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