Because, as I reported yesterday, I didn't decide to jet to Cannes until the very last minute, I was unable to get my usual suite in the town I've jocularly dubbed "Asbury Park on the Mediterranean."
Not one to be daunted by such adversity, however, I rented a small skiff and held court there. With all the strife in the world today, I don't believe anyone should have a yacht that sleeps more than two dozen, but nevertheless, I couldn't find anything smaller than this 125-footer. That said, no one was sleeping last night as we partied till dawn. Fear not, friends, it wasn't all play. Work was discussed, arguments were heated and scantily-clad women sat in judgment. O tempore, o mores! As the Romans remind us. And as my Yiddishe Mama reminded me with a long and wagging finger, "where there's smoke, there's salmon." And so, I bade my winsome and lissome guests farewell and got down to the ever-pressing business of improving the state of "adverts," (as our bad-toothed English friends self-consciously call them.) More on this later, but for now, some hair of the dog that bit me.