The French are always getting ripped on (even by me) and I don’t know why.  I was in Paris once and I had no problems whatsoever.  I found most Parisians to be quite helpful in whatever I needed from food to beer to riding Le Metro.


I struggled avec mon tres flailing Français but everyone was appreciative of my effort and attempt to parle Français.  They were even truthful in helping me decipher menus.  I didn’t eat any socks with cheese and cream on top.


A funny one was when I went to Pere LeChaise Cemetary.  I went up to one of the guards and gingerly asked, “Pardon, parlez vous Anglais?”


And she smiled at me and nodded her head.  “Come on,” she implored me to follow and she walked me over to Jim Morrison’s grave.


Of course, if I could leave well enough alone, I wouldn’t be me.  I decided to be a wise guy and I said, “Non, non, Je veux regarder Frederic Chopin.”


And she was a little confused and taken aback by my response.  She seemed a little hurt so I was left trying to explain to her that I was only joking.  “Je plaisantais.  Seulement une blague.”


She was a bit flustered and I was apologetic in increasingly flailing Français.  It’s hard to say how she felt when she walked away and left me alone with Jim.  Hopefully, she had enough of a sense of humor to not be too upset.


But I ain’t too worried.  “Baiser s’ils ne peuvent pas prendre une blague, n’est-ce pas ?”


It was significant, though, because it was my first joke told in another language.  It’s a historic event in my literary and comedic career.  The comedic stylings of George Schaefer transcend cultural and linguistic barriers—and with this new beginning created a new market to be besieged by my madness


11-15-98  (the trip was in 1995 but for some reason I thought about it in 1998.)

allets's picture

95 to 98

It took time to marinate. ~( :D )-



georgeschaefer's picture

my memory likes to play games

my memory likes to play games with my mind