Our loyal staffer hard at work.
Summer is here and you are no doubt buying lotions and maybe organizing a trip to Iceland to beat the heat, just to see if there’s any ice left there. (What will they call it when there isn’t ?) Before you pack and fly away, may the mighty Riffs have a minute-ten of your time ?
Since it appears no Americans will actually manage to slip into Europe this summer unless they pass through Morocco in steerage, while Europeans seem as hesitant as ever about going too far, and we here at Continental Riffs, meaning me, the writer, that one, that scoundrel Graham, begin my odyssey to becoming a real legal person tomorrow morning at 10… the kind souls at Substack suggested I stage a Summer Sale. Slash your prices, they told me. And there I was, just about to slash myself.
Alright then, let’s go at it like that dude on Canal Street used to do : all out, discounts galore, big and shouty. I proposed 20 Euros for a year of Continental Riffs, with plenty of new ‘subscription only’ entries.
We cover politics and culture : a very fine interview with the French saxophonist Quentin Rollet will, pardon the expression, roll out in just a few minutes time. I write at least one entry a week on whatever strikes me of interest, on whatever subject in France and Europe readers want to hear about, that I know anything about.
20 Euros in France will get you : a pack of cigs and a kebob deluxe; three pairs of men’s underwear or two decent bottles of wine; in some parts of town, it will get you five minutes with a lady of the night, in others, coffee and creme brulée at Verfour. I could go on. In the States, 20 euros will get you either an unmarked pistol or a Monster Bucket of chicken and coke; or a pack of condoms and a cheap wig.
Unfortunately the Substack folks nixed that. I don’t mean the wig, I mean the 20 Euros. Thirty is the minimum, they replied from San Francisco, where 30 won’t get you anywhere at all. I wasn’t able to lower the monthly rate, so there it is, Continental Riffs, in splendor and in angst, all yours, live from the bar, the cave, the hole, the heights of Montmartre. 30 Euros a year, 5 Euros a month. While supplies or writer last.