Dr. Done Right

She doesn't like to count her chickens and lay on the MD title yet, as she still has to pass her exams, but in this case it refers to her certified ability to rock a romper.  Clothing seems to lose relevance on the Cote D'Azur in favor of vast seas of uncovered skin,  so it was kind of exciting to see a happy mixture of well-designed limbs and pretty clothes.  She and her mum, who is going to make me some homemade curry next time I'm in London,  were going back home for the closing ceremonies of the Olympics.

This is the one and only street (pier) style photo of the whole coton-picking trip and it was taken by my capable assistant with his iPhone.  Let's recall and be angry all over again and send a freakin Bentley's worth of hostile thoughts to my worthless camera.  I'm big on impotent raging.  Nevermind that I would not have had the balls to actually inflict my surgically unenhanced self and my very impressionistic French language skills on impossibly chic people who operate meaningfully on a thimble of coffee.  

Let's look at what's going on around Dr. Done Right, above.  We're standing on the pier of the port of Monaco. Princess Grace may have stood here. To the left, a sailing vessel with lights strung in the rigging has a party in progress, or maybe a  condominium sales scheme,  in which older conservatively dressed couples boarded the boat and a guy dressed as a captain rolled up the gangplank and the captives were plied with likker and subjected to frenzied African drumming and encouraged to rend their clothes and join the love pile.  The big white thing that looks like a WalMart is an American tourist a yacht. The lights of Monte Carlo (which is just the casino, not the country, sheesh) are coming on via hundreds of liveried vassals, or maybe Hapsburgs, shining special Grimaldi-crested flashlights on strategically placed heaps of diamonds.  Every hour, they toss out the old diamonds or give them to Karl Lagerfeld and get new ones.  The bump above the almost-doctor is her hair. And above that, Italy.  To the right is some cement, and righter yet is the Mediterranean Sea. Only minutes before this photo was taken, on the other side of the little wall with the lights in it (so Monaco-ese!), I had shed my lesbian sandals and my American inhibitions and slipped into the mysterious sea, the great Nebraska-like expanse of my chest causing nary a ripple.  Barely a nipple. C'est la vie.  Or as the French say,  What the hell, it's dark.  Princess Grace said that.