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The Maisano Code: French-fried

I went to France for the first time two years ago. I was so excited at the prospect of going that I forgot I had to fly to get there. Miami? Piece o’ cake. France? Not quite the pastry I’d prefer. So I gave my shrink extra billable hours until I had myself all geared up and ready.

Photo Credit: Cliffview Pilot
Photo Credit: Cliffview Pilot
Photo Credit: Cliffview Pilot


NOT the author

Went with my girlfriend ,who is a painter (not the Home Depot kind), a true artist. She has a couple homes in a remote village in the Lorie valley, home of wine vineyards and chateaus. Ooh la la.

If ya ever travel with me on a plane: As soon as it takes off, whoever’s next to me immediately gets a head into the shoulder. She got it this time.

As soon as we landed in France, I felt God saved me yet again….Of course, as we waited to board the train, a Frenchwoman asked me something. I was clueless, so I did my best Pepé Le Pew.

“Ahhhh,” she replied in her best English. “I see you are doing de skunk! Just so you know: That is an American cartoon, not a French one!”

The train ride was cool. The countryside was beautiful and soooo green…. must rain a lot there.

Finally, we arrive at the station — only we now have to rent a car. So over the river and thru the woods we go!

The Author



The village itself looked like a set from a World War II movie: concrete houses built on the road, no curb to speak of, and shutters.

The next morning, as we prepared to take in the sights, my friend tried backing out of the parking space —  only she doesn’t drive a stick. This amazing painter, my girlfriend, started yellin’ like a paisan on the docks: “You friggin’ motherf-in’….”

Yikes!

Somehow, we made it out. At that point, we made a deal: No pulling into spots you have to back out of — and keep it in drive.

That got us as far as a parking lot that required her to make a circle, only she overshot it. Oofa!

So she’s tryin’ to get this thing into reverse, with no luck. Eventually, I get out and, standing in mud, I slap my hands down on the hood as if I’m gonna push.

“OK, hit the gas! No, wait…. DON’T!!!!”

Too late. Mook that I am, I slid into the mud.

So now we’re both out of the car waiting for someone to come along who can show us how to drive this thing.

Now my gal pal paints beautiful landscapes and also has a thing for cows. So here we are on this amazing little road with farms surrounding us. I see the cows. They see us.

All that’s separating us is a thin little wire. No fence. Nothin’!

I ask her: “When you paint these cows, how do you get them to sit for you”?

“I sing opera,” she says.

So there we were, straddling a thin wire, as she belts out “Carmen” full-throated. I swear, before ya know, these moo-makers are walkin’ over, sniffin’ like they found a pile o’ truffles.

And wouldn’t you know it: All of a sudden, one of ’em — a cow, a bull, how the hell am I supposed to know — pushes through the herd, nose flarin’, and charges!!!

You never saw two mooks run so fast. We get into the car, the cows are coming, and this little piece of shit with four wheels is buckin’ all over the road like a friggin’ rodeo horse.

“C’mon!” I say. “Let’s get outta here!”

Eventually, we make our way to a little farm house. Beautiful, like a painting. Dog lying on the porch. Sunflowers. The whole ball o’ wax, as they say.

As we pull up, the dog starts running toward us. So I roll the window down: “Hey, fella! How you doin’?”

Suddenly, he’s foaming at the mouth and digging his choppers into the sleeve of my jacket. Oh, my God. Step on it!

So now the car is moving, with the dog hangin’ on my arm. I’m yellin: “Gun it, will ya?” And my friend is, like, “But what about the dog?”

“Oh, yeah??? What about my friggin’ arm?!”

Suddenly, we hear the sharp pierce of a whistle and Fifi immediately lets go and doink! Hits the ground like a sack o’ potatoes.

I’m sittin’ in the passenger seat with a torn jacket, my heart beatin’  like a jackhammer. What’s with the friggin’ animals around here, anyway?

So I rationalize: I figure maybe the dog was depressed, even suicidal. He’s hangin’ there, waiting to do himself in, when he looks up and sees — US!

“Ahhhh, luke at theee car! I know: I weel run into it and maybe they weel drag me until I am dead….After all, they are Americans.”

Despite the animal drama, the journey was so worth it. The village people gathered to bid me adieu. But first they had to tell the story of a man whose wife buried him alive in the wall of her kitchen — sort of an Edgar Allan Poe fable told with a French accent.

Just what I needed. I’ve gotta get some sleep before my trip and now all I can think about is monsieur suddenly emerging from behind the wall.

So, instead of going to sleep, I indulged my creative juices.

Going into my friend’s studio, I found some materials. Then I made myself a sign:

“IT TAKES A VILLAGE TO RAISE A CHILD — AND IT TAKES THE VILLAGE IDIOTS TO SCARE THE SHIT OUT OF THIS ITALIAN CHICK.”

Bon jour, muthaf—-rs.


Reviewers have raved about Maryann’s music & standup. She’s opened for Joy Behar and Ray Romano, and has played The Laugh Factory, Broadway Comedy Club and Dangerfield’s. She has a CD out and will be featured on Danny Aiello’s upcoming album, “City of Light.” Judging from the looks of the packed houses, she’ll also be staging plenty more performances with the ITALIAN CHICKS, whose show has been called “part meatball, part cannoli.” For more on Maryann, the group, where they’re performing & how to get tickets, click here: ITALIAN CHICKS. Tell ’em CLIFFVIEWPILOT sent you.

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