shot glass
Issue # 1 March 2010
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Steadman Kondor


For she is Paris.

She is the Epitome of Elegance, the Apex of Arrogance and the Paragon of Romance.

She speaks the lingua franca of diplomats and aristocrats. And she commands world-weary hoteliers to berate you for not learning her language.

She might toss you a Niçoise salad or seduce you with pâté de foie gras.

She boasts the admiration of ageing divas who die there reclusive, shrivelled, deranged, while their legend shines on. And she despatches her Gypsy Girls to ask you for spare change with their broad smiles.

She worships in temples to high art, with cold marble statues and a Mona-Lisa smile. She dances with high kicks, howling joy and jiggles her frilly knickers.

She is the Mime in black and white who gestures the subject without the object. She is the smell of strong black coffee sitting in front of you in a little glass.

She is Paris.