Did you ever notive how much the laconic cool persona of Greg Graf is the male version of Francis McDormand's effortless hipsterism? I never did either. But then I happened to read Jane magazine's profile of Francis McDormand on the same night as the new New Yorker magazine arrived with another fawning profile of her, and it stressed her high cheekbones, which Graf has in spades, as well as her patrician jawline, and there is no mistaking the artistocrat in Graf's mandible. So it got me thinking.

And all this was, as are all things, a matter of timing. In this case of a visit by Graf. Actually his visit wasn't to me at all, but to his stepfather by his wife, meaning she was visiting her dad, and he was along for the ride and since her family is around here, he stopped by. But there were more than a few similarities between the Graf, and Francis, who is apparently annoyed with the association of having won an Academy Award for her role as a good hearted sheriff in Fargo. According to her interview in Jane.

Although I had the pleasure of Graf staying in my house for several years, way back, I don't really know Francis McDormand, other than her public persona. Though, of course, I have seen her films. But I am a fan of both. I did run into Ms. McDormand near my house about a year ago and spoke with her, then I saw her again later that day and spoke to her again. Then I ran into her yet again about a week later when she inexplicaply showed up at my place of work (not to talk to me, but still). This was right around when I went and saw her in an avant garde play in Brooklyn, called To the Birdie! by Phadre, where she didn't do much but scowl and smoke, but the fact that she was standing a few feet away for an evening sort of felt like we had hung out.

I'm not going to stretch this thin premise further by drawing in the connection of Elaine working on the architecture of her house, or Chris buying her car, a pristine and jacked up Land Cruiser,which meant he went through a week or so of talking to her on the phone about details of the sale. Let's just say I'm basically friends with Francis McDormand. But please don't mention it to her, as she prefers it if we both act as though she is totally unaware of this state of affairs.

But that's not really the news, the news is that, not counting that Graf got here on Friday afternoon, and everyone knows that shpotz is 8am Friday morning, we almost had an actual reunion shpotz. I know, it's like putting the Beatles together again, impossible not just because all the good ones are dead but also you can't go home again and youth is not to be recaptured. Nonetheless, we had some fine scrambled eggs Saturday morning, which is Friday morning in Zibo, China. Anyway, he told me about his life, which is excellent, a mix of laptops on a wireless network, yoga classes and flax seed all held together symbolically by his investment grade white gold ring-sealed marriage, which is going swimmingly.

I know I'm skipping around chronogical order, but we also had dinner Friday evening, where we were joined by his fantastic wife. They were very nice, giving me two plates and some olive oil. Then we got stopped crossing the street by Critical Mass, the bicycle group who ride the streets each week and antagonize motorists by yelling "polluter!" at them while blocking up traffic in a big herd. This is, I am told, a way to agitate to make more people use bikes, though it struck me as contrary to it's stated aim, since the people stuck in cars were mostly frustrated looking, and probably more than one person in an SUV is tempted to run them all over.

But that was a mere bump in the road, and we eventually made it to a restuarant, despite a fairly menacing street person who approached from the shadows carrying a golf club muttering darkly about smashing stuff. It looked like a Big Bertha, but I couldn't be sure.