I just hung up the phone, after talking to my friend Jacques for two hours. He lives in Paris, but he's working in Virginia this month, and I gave him a call. I hadn't talked to him in more than two years, although we exchange e-mail messages several times a week, so we had a lot to discuss, including my outfit at last weekend's wedding, the Boston Groupie News website, and why he prefers Wrangler jeans over Levi's.

But first, we had to get over the extreme oddity of hearing each other's voices. Before I dialed his number, I tried to recall what he sounds like. I had a vague recollection, which turned out to be completely inaccurate when he answered the phone and I found myself talking to what I imagine Serge Gainsbourg sounds like. Very calm, measured, and extremely, purely French. Which of course, he is, but I've gotten used to the imaginary voice I hear when I read his messages, which sounds like, I don't know, my own voice, but with a quasi-French accent. I identified myself, and we talked for a moment before he paused and said, "Strange voice," and I started to laugh.

He's been working quite a bit, and part of his duties include showing his French colleagues around town. There are any number of good restaurants in the area where he's working, but the Frenchmen all wanted a real American experience, and demanded he take them to Hooters. They all loved it so much. Well, except for Jacques. He'd been dragged there once previously, and reported negatively on the attire of the waitresses, the loud music and multiple blaring television sets, but the best part of his story was hearing him pronounce the word "restaurant" in the French manner, in conjunction with the name "Hooters."

Tomorrow is Saturday, and although he'll be working most of the day, he told me he plans to spend the afternoon in an American manner: visiting the outlet malls. This also amused me, and I told him I never went to the outlet malls. "But there are very good bargains there," he explained.

Another item on his agenda is photographing a local car dealership, where there is a big Ford truck displayed atop what he described as "compressed Cadillacs," as if the truck had crushed the cars with its sheer weight.

On that subject, Jacques said, "I still am not understanding why people are having these... these... pickup trucks. It is not like they are removing their house every week, or have some place in the country where they are doing work, like on a farm... or going camping..." It totally mystifies him, and I can't hold up my end of the conversation, because it also mystifies me. "Why do they not have a normal car?" he asked, total bewilderment in his voice, and although I've asked that question a hundred times, I don't have a comprehensible answer. He was equally baffled when I explained the importance to truck owners of keeping the truck absolutely pristine. The guy who garaged his car next to mine in San Francisco drove a big, bloated black Dodge pickup truck that he would brush gently with a long, soft-bristled brush every time he put the truck away. Carson and I used to laugh and fake-brush our old Honda to mimic him, but secretly, we were scared of him. He was big and metrosexual, and any guy who cares that much about how he transports his ass from place to place is likely to be fragile, ego-wise.

"Perhaps it is like in the old west, like the stage coach," he mused, but I disagreed. Stage coaches were dirty, and dusty, and less a matter of pride than of necessity. I think. I did not live in the old west. I live in the new west, in the land of the Hummer and the Porsche "Cayenne," the most absurd name ever for a German car, conjuring as it does the image of Louisiana and fragrant skillets full of crawfish etouffe.

My horoscope today said that I would hear a surprising voice today, a long-distance call I didn't expect. I did expect to hear Jacques' voice today, but I guess I didn't expect it to seem at once so foreign and so familiar.

Star of the day. . .Sting