Boggling. I don't need to tell you I was in-a-word flamboozled. Room-spinning, hand-flapping dis-be-lief!
Monday morning found M. Chariot installed, as is my wont, on a threadbare, yellow brocade wingback before my tiny escritoire, quill pen at the ready. It was exactly 5 o'clock Ante Meridian, and California's surgical light had yet to scalpel through heavy draperies. Le Open Salon teetered on the threshold of its dazzling debut on Le Grande Salon, and I was elegantly dressed for the occasion in black silk pajamas, a meticulously restored antique Chinese smoking jacket and of course, my top hat, which I never remove — not even for l'amour.
Yet despite my scrupulous poise, this unexpected discovery — this obscenely generous "tip" — filled me with such joy that I leapt to my feet, tripped on the tassel of my opera slipper and collapsed, bringing down an entire table festooned with porcelain Spawn figurines, which crashed and tinkled all about my crumpled velveteen form.
But I lurch, breathlessly ahead of myself. How to explain events leading to this extraordinary benefaction? For those unfamiliar with M. Chariot, I should point out that all of my tiny essays for Open Salon are writ longhand, with quill pen, enclosed with a waxen seal, and mailed, by post, to the relevant associates. Technical persons — unknown persons — manage the rest, and they are quite welcome to it if you don't mind my saying so!
Comments in response to my gentlemanly reminiscences are then transferred to longhand (as specified in my contract) and mailed to my cloistral apartments here in The Enchanted City. I apologize for dragging those afflicted with ADD through this longish explication. But I am no supporter of The New Instantaneity, which I hold liable for the great fat lot of half-baked unschooled gobbledegook one must typically wade through in these quarters. If you can't take a moment to read something through I suggest you take up tennis, because you are a complete buffoon and we are all very disappointed with you!
What? Oh yes, the money. And so, arranged there before my precious lettres from Le Open Salon, I began reading-crumpling-tossing, reading-crumpling-tossing, looking for something, one knows not what, does one? Until a tiny red envelope caught my eye. A letter inscribed, Confidential to M. Chariot.
Here, confessions are in order. Yes, M. Chariot is now registered for the dreaded Tippem feature! Horreurs! Toss me, sans blindfold, upon the guillotine at dawn, for I am not ashamed! And why not, you may ask? I shall tell you exactly why not! As one who has fraternised with the very wealthy (under several perhaps unfortunate aliases) for decades, I can assure you that casual generosities are commonplace — one needn't always threaten to reveal indiscretions, no indeed! Hid behind computer screens, the rich are just like you and I — lonely, desperate for the kind word, the congenial smile, the gentle touch. The only difference, if one can call it a "difference", is that they wallow in sky-high piles of cold, hard cash, while you and I wither on credit cards. Strip away the trust funds, the precious gems, the stocks and bonds and yachts and chateaux and unanticipated connections at the FBI and we are all the same, mon frère!
But back to that lavish gratuity, if you don't mind indulging me for another paragraph or two. Deftly ripping open the little red envelope with a monogrammed crystal letterknife from Gumps, I read:
- Revolution Money Exchange - Tippem
- Date: August Eleventh, Two-Thousand and Eight
- Title: Bombarded By The Booty
- Author: Monsieur Chariot
- Tip Amount: $7,500.00
Well! As you can no doubt imagine, my monocle plopped right into the Limoges tea service. Once recovered from the swoon, there was dancing, whoopsing, shrieking and the tossing back of many jiggers of Royal Salute, not unlike the old days at Le Cafe Cote D'or. Such whimsical munificence! Why me? I claim neither to be scholarly, nor informed, nor particularly charming: I only claim to be exquisitely dressed at all times. What made me the exalted recipient of such largesse?
And then, turning o'er the card, I saw it: "Love, Mother. Call me at once."
Sigh. If you are reading this, Mother Dearest, you will see that I am very busy indeed!
To say nothing of the fact that the telephone was disconnected Wednesday last
by those witless imbeciles at AT&T!
TIP:
Enter the amount, and click "Tip" to submit!
scottcvoss
Autumn Whitefield-Madrano
Authenticity
Foolish Monkey
Procopius
Susie Lindau
Salon.com
Comments
"looking for something, one knows not what, does one? " No - but one knows it when one sees it.
I agree and I also love imagining our L'enfant Terrible, M. Chariot, " in black silk pajamas, a meticulously restored antique Chinese smoking jacket and of course, my top hat, which I never remove — not even for l'amour."
Mon dieu! Quel image!
My dear Mlle Miller ~ your delicately scented epistles never fail to hit the mark: the gentleman's heart.
Be still my heart!
Charming!
I worry the Limoges have taken quite a beating of late. Easy on the porcelain M_C. you are not Greek.
But who does transcribe your luscious prose? I fear it's Gnomez.
My dear Mme Swift ~ the magic of my ensemble lies in producing the supreme effect through the least extravagant means!
kisses, hcdc
My dears M et Mme Biblio ~ Prolificacy is a Mother whose readership never ends.
The sweet murmurings of the rural lady never fail to thrill! But alas, a gentleman never allows his beloved to pay for the refreshments. Until I am, as we say, "flush", our delicious romance sadly remains in the realm of the Blust'ry Blogologia!
My darling Pous-Pous ~
Many thanks for your concern about the Limoges. It is now delicately repaired by artisans employing the most rigorous craftsmanship available. And yet, chips are detectable; on both the Limoges, and my self-confidence. But what are persons of our class to do? We march on, courageously.
"Cracks" are the bane of my gentlemanly existence. But tiny kisses blown by Capital City artistes do much to repair the fissures on the soul — if not, sadly, the Limoges.
My dear Monsieur St. Amant ~
I have written out your generous appellation in longhand, on parchment, and taped it o'er the mirror in my tiny parlour. Mille merci!
By the way mon vieux, regarding the top hat. Many years ago (more than I care to admit to remember), after making "Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex ...", Woody Allen commented on the part that his then wife Louise Lassiter played, a frigid women, as being completely unlike her actual character. Mr. Allen declared that she could "come at the drop of a hat", but that unfortunately for her, he wouldn't wear a hat to bed. I am gratified to read that you would be far to much the gallant to leave Ms Lassiter in such a deplorable state. You are a true gentleman indeed, my friend.
I should point out that I rejected Mother's little "tip" — unceremoniously ripped it to bits in fact just this morning! Nothing more than indentured servitude, if you don't mind my saying so!
My dear Monsieur Eckstein ~
As a fellow artist, your wee cumshaw means far more to me than any lavish, desperately needed endowments from the boorish masses!
What can one say but très bien, très bien!
Now, I need to continue considering the moral quandary I find myself in: can I sign up for Tippem, after the hoopla I raised about it? Perhaps an apertif will help me qualm the inner debate.
M. Chariot, purveyor of the finest designer coffees, teas, cups, and utensils.
M. Chariot haute couture, specializing in top hats, waistcoats, breeches, cloaks, cravats, cumberbunds, -- and dare I say it -- codpieces. No man of any worth, from rapper to roofer -- will appear in public without his M. Chariot codpiece.
The M. Chariot monocle, available only in the finest eyewear establishments.
M. Chariot quills and writing paper, offered exclusively at Levenger.Com
The M. Chariot book "Expressions Françaises Essentielles," which no gentleman will be without, after the publication of which no rapper will extoll the virtues of "fuck the bitch," but rather "ayez les rapports sexuels avec la chienne."
And finally, the M. Chariot Guide to the Martial Arts, featuring the "M. Chariot Death Stare." Martial arts will never be the same.
In other words, M. Chariot will no longer be a mere man, a mere mortal, but an entire Industry and Lifestyle, drawing all men of distinction and non-distinction to his refined selection of books, clothing and products.
I'm sure Mother Chariot would agree with me, and for the small tip of $7,500 I'll supply you with a business plan that will make all of this a reality.
As a gentleman of the highest order, your recommendations are typically the most refined, the most well-considered. But I am relieved to see by your innocent commentary on the subject of l'amour and haberdashery, that you have never been sullied by the more, shall we say, sordid experiences.
My dear Monsieur K ~
How very nice to make the acquaintance of another Spawn connoisseur! Welcome my good man! Alas, what, in my tiny time here on earth, have I not collected? I think I may claim to have collected everything which is —er— collectible. Including... clocks. But if you're going to demand a lot of er, critical details, you must ask my secretary. I haven't the time to attend to them.
As apertif, allow me to recommend a chilled cidre normand. I can assure you that only the best people drink it.
My dear Monsieur Lazar ~
Your approbation is like music to my ears. I cannot tell you the relief I felt upon shredding Mother's "tip." Even as a small child, I could not bear rapacious behavior of any kind. It offends my sense of the beautiful. It is so stupid and... unaesthetic.
Ah my dear Monsieur 666 ~
No possibility escapes your audacious business sense. My wealth, I confess, has been principally in the things of the Spirit — but I must say I rather do like some of your ideas! M. Chariot has been living on his wits for nearly twenty years now, and the struggle to continue doing so can be so very wearing to someone with my delicate artistic nature.
Thanks to your kind words on my first post here I had the great pleasure of finding your exquisite confessions of a gentilhomme...bravo et bonne continuation!
Of course you should be remunerated appropriately for your writing, as well as the uniqueness of your contributions!
Perhaps you might consider creating a brand along the line of Mishima's suggestions? Moleskin devotees would be likely customers. ;~)
I did have a knitting crisis recently, but it was after this post. I must have been very preoccupied with work on the 13th. Deadlines!
The knitting 911 was over the weekend; I was helping a young girl that my daughter had started on a new knitting project, after she encountered some difficulty.
If I had a VW Beetle, I could put one of those magnetic signs on it, with a pair of knitting needles and "911." ;~)
It's not an easy task, let me tell you, especially with the longer posts, such as this one.
First of all - the flowery cursive hand gets my eyeballs spinning after a single page. And then, the frequent excursions into froggy-talk give my spellchecker fits.
And then there's the returning traffic. Transcribing all those thinly veiled sexual advances into longhand often has an arousing effect, but at other times seems downright disgusting.
Too bad Monsieur ripped up the tip from Mater - I was going to demand a raise!
Mon dieu! Quel fromage!