father had a pet name for my college major of Creative Writing/French;
he called it Starvation/Poverty. So, here's a video of yours truly -- a two-part author
interview for the Pure Euro Tour in Paris this summer -- doing the
interview in French. (Bill Baggott? How you like me now?)
I want to shout to Sister Joan (if you hear a little Bronx
in my accent that's from her); Monsieur Lachance, Monsieur Columbat, the
nuns at Mt. Aviat who spoke in French among each other as a secret code that I was motivated to break.
Now, since this is the first time I've seen myself
speaking French, I notice
A. I repeat hand gestures (I think that the
damn bonnet gesture is because I thought the tape would be edited to sound
bytes, which, um, didn't happen)
B. I understand French interviewers
better when biting my bottom lip nervously.
And C. at 4:26, I start
talking about the Freudian interpretations of the Dome and my childhood
-- relating to my wonderfully hyper-protective mother, Glenda -- a move
that's so French, I can barely stand it.
The second video link on this page -- click here-- here is better
-- you know, wild gesture and strange faces-wise. Seriously, in the screen
shot for video #2, I look like I'm trapped in the body of Celine Dion.