I’m almost through Memoirs of a French Model. My copy is a later edition and one marketed as an Ernest Hemingway title. I mean just look at it. And I’ll admit—after reading Hemingway’s introduction, I had a moment where I thought: did Hem actually write this? And if he did, was the whole affair a little… transactional? Kiki was more than just a “muse.” She was a sex worker in Montparnasse—as well as a model, performer, and survivor. And I don’t think it’s crazy to wonder what the real exchange was here. An introduction from Hemingway carries weight, even in 1929 when this book was first published. And Kiki had something to sell. The book itself? It’s OK. Interesting in spots. Not exactly great. Far too brief. She introduces us to characters that you have to research a bit; I would have preferred Kiki telling me about them instead. Then you hit the middle section of this edition. And suddenly you’re not in her memoir anymore—you’re in a “dirty book.” Full-page photographs of nude women presented as “Kiki’s Friends”; in other words, nudes pulled from a stock photography house. Models Kiki didn’t know and who had no idea their naked images would be folded into The Mythology of Montparnasse. Which is what makes this edition so cool. It’s not just a memoir—it’s part literary artifact, part soft core porno (although kinda hardcore for 1955), and part marketing sleight-of-hand. (I won’t even go into the Sam Roth story.) A “dirty book” dressed up as a legitimate Hemingway title—a trick to both sell it and dodge U.S. obscenity laws. Which is exactly why I love it.
THING 2: Peaches — No Lube, How Rude!
It’s been a decade since her last record and twenty-six years since her first and Peaches, at 52, is still creating, still pushing, and still making people uncomfortable. She changed outfits throughout her show—each one landing somewhere between Berlin’s KitKatClub and performance-art-as-fashion. The crowd skews wide—people who’ve been there since The Teaches of Peaches, mixed with younger kids who were in diapers when it first dropped. But everyone understands the assignment: participation, not observation. A Peaches show is a reminder that when live music really works, it’s as much about the performance as it is about the music.
THING 3: The Opener — Curtis Fuller.
I’ve been spending time with The Opener, part of that Blue Note 1500 run I can’t seem to leave alone. Jazz, for me, does two things: it holds up to close listening, but it’s also the only music I can leave on while I work without it getting in the way. I found The Opener the way I usually find music—chasing a label as much as the sound. The 1500 series has a reputation that goes beyond collectibility, and once you start hearing why, it’s hard to stop. They’re not just good—they’re consistent in a way that makes you wonder how they were put together. Then you look at Fuller’s lineup for The Opener: Hank Mobley, Bobby Timmons, Paul Chambers, Art Taylor. Fuller didn’t fuck around. Neither did Blue Note.
The last time I spent any time with Project Hail Mary was reading the book soon after it was published—the first sci-fi I’d read since Philip K. Dick. Truth is, Andy Weir and PKD are about the extent of my sci-fi reading experience. (I don’t count Slaughterhouse-Five as sci-fi.) My brother first made me aware of Weir after reading and raving about The Martian years ago. (The Martian is part of the Mountain Range of Unread Books that lies due east of my bed.) We all know the cliché—books are better than movies—just like we all know how clichés come to be. So yea. In this case, the movie respects the source without feeling stiff, overfaithful, or commandeered by a heavy-handed, know-it-all director. Which, for me, is plenty! I’m not looking for reinvention—I just want to feel like I’m back inside the story again for a couple hours. Side note: always mix your popcorn with plain M&M’s.
THING 5: Kiki’s Memoirs—Introduction by Ernest Hemingway (Black Manikin Press edition).
At the onset of reading The Education of a French Model, of course I got pulled into the object as much as the text. And the story about the book, which I’ve learned is often as compelling as the story in a book. Which, of course, sent me down the path of the true first edition in English, published in 1930 Paris by Edward W. Titus at his Black Manikin Press. Which, of course, led me to a copy I couldn’t pass on…of course. Unread, unopened, the fragile glassine jacket and original red wrap-around band still intact, coming out of a noted Ernest Hemingway collector’s library, all housed in a custom black leather slipcase! I’ll call it a flex—or sheepishly admit—the slipcase probably cost that collector more than I paid for the whole she-bang. How could I pass on that?! But it makes me wonder about Hemingway’s collectibility in 2026. Does anyone care about Hemingway anymore? A rhetorical question, of course. All I care about is how effin’ cool this book is. Side note: if I could set the dial on a time machine, I’m going straight to 1920 Montparnasse…and just for the decade, please.
