Make sure that the URL field (see above) is empty – otherwise the picture becomes clickable like the one in “Hooked” and comments can get added to the picture rather than just to the post.

Click on Hooked AND then on the image in Hooked to see what I mean.

Upcoming Teenage Pop Singer Colin Officially Released Four (4) New Recordings Today via Popular Music Site SoundClick.Com.

I Freakin’ Love This Guy’s Music and Style. He’s Talented and Seems to be the Sweetest Guy You’ll ever Meet. Okay So, He’s Also Co-Creator Of This Site…But Hey, We Have To Promote Somewhere, right? Why Not Here!? Don’t Be Mad. We Love You! LOL.

Tell Us What You Think In the Comment Box!!!

Know Him? You’ll Love His New Music!

What The Heck Is Colin? Follow The Link And Fall In Love Enjoy *wink. LOL

http://www.soundclick.com/bands/default.cfm?bandID=1013507

or

http://www.isound.com/colin_pop_randb

Outty 5000,

-Loop

Ibland förundras man som fotbollssupporter av dessa fotbollsspelare, dessa vuxna män står ibland för pinsamheter som filmningar etc, men att börja använda Twitter och via internet göra bort sig, det är inte okej. Jag köper det faktum att fotbollsspelare också är människor som även dem har ett privatliv, men är man i denna bransch så är man i fokus. Där av gäller det att inte göra bort sig och bete sig på ett bra sätt.

Den spelare som jag skulle vilja nämna nu är våran landslagsman, Colin Kazim som genom Twitter inför BJK derbyt gjorde bort sig genom att skriva 8tas för att nu efter derbyt attackera domarkåren. Efter derbyt tog han det lite lugnare på twitter för att slippa en massa onödiga konversationer, men nu när han ett par dagar senare började att skriva igen så släppte han en otrolig bomb.

” Jag har inte skrivit på ett tag här på Twitter för att saker och ting ska lugna ner sig” på detta sätt börjar han sitt inlägg, för att sedan mata på som en gatlingun mot domarkåren, “Jag vill inte vara ohövlig men domarna i Turkiet kan inte engelska. Engelska som är ett gemensamt språk inom fotbollen. Exemplet är hur jag i derbyt säger att jag kollar på bollen och förklarar detta för domaren. Men på grund av mina gester som jag gör för att försöka göra mig förstådd får jag ett rött kort. Jag säger inte att domarna är dåliga. Men varför finns det inga Turkiska domare i Europeiska turneringar?

Efter att man läser något sådant här faller man nästan pladask från stolen, varför måste man som idrottsman skriva något sånt här? Varför inte bara vara tyst och fokusera på fotbollen och utveckla den till något bättre istället för att skapa en dialog med andra lags supportrar på internet? Som dessutom är anonyma.

Jag förstår att pressen på idrottsmän på en hög nivå är stor och att media vill skapa skandalrubriker, men snälla håll er till fotbollen istället, det är det ni är bra på!

Everyone needs to know Colin Meloy, especially those of you from Montana! As front man of the well-known band, The Decemberists, Colin is also a native Montanan (from Helena). At age 35, Colin has already traveled the world solo and with his bandmates (most of whom are from Portland, OR), and has had a more than successful career. I was lucky enough to see him play two years ago while on tour in Seattle. Here is his solo website.

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His unique voice can soothe away your sorrows and you can’t help but get sucked into the lyrics. This is the kind of music you can sit and meditate on. He’s also extremely entertaining as you’ll see in the first video below. My favorite song from Colin is The Crane Wife series (it’s broken into three parts), but it is from The Decemberists, and not his solo album. Therefore, I’ve included the video for it (second video, best part at 5:45), and one from his solo career. I hope you enjoy them! Also, buy his CDs, you WON’T be disappointed.

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Meanwhile, Gus and I will be on our way to Montana for Thanksgiving. We’re leaving after I get off work and driving halfway today and the rest in the morning. Hopefully we get lucky with the weather! I’m looking forward to seeing my family, and especially my Aunt Mickey who is a regular reader of this blog… Hi Mickey! See you all soon!

I hate fucking ABBA. Their music is really only appropriate in two places, at a wedding party and at a New Years Eve party. In other words when people are massively, massively, massively drunk. When our pub had a jukebox I had my own personal ban on ABBA. If one of their songs came on when the Jukebox was on random play I demanded it was skipped. I did let it play if someone had actually paid for it. I may be a dick but I’m not that much of a dick. Besides, those times were thankfully very few and far between.

Which surprised me to be honest because this film, this fucking film, did better at the box office in my hometown of Braintree, Essex than ‘The Dark Knight’ did. Apparently this town is filled with repressed ABBA fans, glad for a film to come out featuring their music so that they could sit there in the dark cinema where people might not recognise them. So yeah, thanks for that Braintree.

In fact a quick check of the internet reveals that Mamma Mia! Is the highest grossing film of all time in the UK. Yep, we had an empire that once spanned the globe and now we’re going mental for films based around the songs of a 70s Swedish pop group. Rule Britannia indeed.

Anyway, back to this movie. It basically tells the tale of a woman and her daughter who run a villa on an island for some reason. The daughter has met the boy of her dreams and intends to marry him. There’s one problem though. She’d really like her father to give her away at her wedding but because her mother was something of a slut in her youth, she has no idea who her father is. She finds her mother’s diary and sends invitations to three potential fathers, without telling her mother, and waits for them arrive. They do and shenanigans ensue.

Now, as I previously stated, I fucking hate ABBA but today I found out that I actually hate something more than their songs. It’s their songs sung by people who can’t sing. This was like watching a bunch of drunk people on a bad karaoke night. A really bad karaoke night. Except that I was watching it at work so I couldn’t drink. Dear God, I’ve never wanted a drink so bad in my life.

Well, I suppose that’s a little unfair. Meryl Streep ain’t bad. Not great but not bad. Still, the worst offender when it comes to aural raping is Pierce Brosnan. What the hell are you doing man? You were James Bond for fucks sake. You were the James Bond I grew up with, for better or for worse and now your singing ABBA songs whilst making a face that makes it look as if you’re trying to cough up a tortoise.

But it’s not just the singing that’s bad either! Some of the actors in this film are the worst I’ve seen outside of a B-Movie in many a year. In particular I’d like to say that the guy who plays Sophie’s fiancée Skye is a terrible actor. He was so wooden and insincere that I thought that he was being played by some kind of sarcastic puppet.

Oh, and another thing. Half the dialogue in this film seems to be delivered in some kind of strange, shrieking language that I’m fairly sure only women can understand. If you are going to do such a thing then you should probably have included subtitles for those poor bastards who got dragged along to see this by their wives and girlfriends.

Now, there were a couple of times when the film elicited a chuckle out of me. One was when a drill was used as a euphemism for a penis, telling me more than I wanted to know about exactly what childish level my sense of humour is at. The other was at the image of Pierce Brosnan dressed as a hippy. That was kinda funny. There was also one scene which I thought was kinda cool for a split second. The guests at the daughter’s hen party are looking over some kind of cliff ledge and a bunch of people are crawling up it. For one sweet second I thought it was some kind of zombie attack and I thought wow, people kept this twist quiet but alas, it was just the bachelor party on some kind of panty raid. I was sorely, sorely disappointed.

Perhaps the point where the movie really stretched the limit of believability was when all three potential fathers figured out the reason that they were invited out of the blue. They all came to the conclusion individually that they were the girls father and she wanted them to walk her down the aisle. However, they had all spent quite some time together at this point and they all knew that the other two had received equally mysterious invitations. How the fuck did they not realise that the other two were there for exactly the same reason and that Sophie hadn’t yet figured out who her actual father was? That’d be the first thing that came to my mind.

Perhaps the best thing about this movie is the fact that I watched Tremors directly before it. Man, Tremors is such an awesome film. Kevin Bacon is at his finest and you really believe that him and Fred Ward have worked together and been friends for quite some time. And who doesn’t love crazy survivalist Burt? And the Graboids still look fucking good even by today’s standards. Sure you can sometimes see the strings used to operate the tentacles in some scenes but it just adds to the charm of the movie. One thing that does confuse me though is the DVD cover. Seriously look it up now. I’ll wait.

Ok, you back? Right, what the fuck is that creature on the DVD cover with all the teeth and stuff? That looks nothing like the Graboids in the film. It just confuses me. Anyway, overall I’ll give Tremors four pints out of five.

Wait, what? Mamma Mia? Oh fine. I give Mamma Mia! one glass of white wine out of five. And you wanna know what the worst thing is? There is one ABBA song, one song that I can kind of stand. That song is Waterloo. Not sure why I don’t mind it. Maybe I’m just OK with songs based on historical events. Anyway, it’s not fucking in the film until the end credits. I kept thinking, oh just suffer through, at least Waterloo isn’t the worst thing in the world and they must have included it and then it turns out you have to watch the entire fucking film to get to it. And it takes place during this bizarre credit scene where Meryl Streep and her two friends yell at the audience asking if they want another song. Waterloo then follows filled with some of the most embarrassing dancing I’ve seen outside of a wedding reception… Which I guess is appropriate. Still, it well wasn’t worth it.

Fuck, this film has put me in a bad mood for the rest of the goddamn day. Still, if people like this kinda thing, and apparently they do, then it does give some hope for my planned film ‘Snooker Loopy’ featuring the music of Chas and Dave. Laterz.

Colin McRae Dirt 2

Test Colin McRae Dirt 2 : DirectX 9 vs DirectX 11 ! » ScienceInfo.fr ».

It’s been a little while since anyone updated here, but SymbioSys is powering onwards.

Virtually all bugs have been eliminated, new random events have been added, powerful combinations of previous events that are sure to cause more chaos, and I’ve been outlining a new campaign mode that takes advantage of these improvements, as well as the new victory conditions been added.  New particle fountains now show players which tree creatures are attracted to as well.

Adam has been working to update the game editor into a Windows app that is far more user friendly, which will expedite level construction and make for a viable editor to ship with the game.

Dean was involved in assisting with campaign story ideas, and he’ll be working on some of the new levels when he can … he’s currently holidaying in Europe, but he should have time to work on things whilst he’s there. Before he left, he also gave me the latest tree models … plus the highly anticipated Lunarscape environment.

Alex gave me some new UI art, and more is expected soon to facilitate more user friendly features and the new game victory condition.

Jai has been working on normal maps, and is creating a new, improved Leafy model!

And I am currently working on implementing shaders … no lean task that one, shaders are not straight forward to implement, but they can be extremely powerful assets in a game, whilst reducing the computational burdens on the CPU.  I am making headway there, and whilst it is slow going, it is important that we improve the ‘look’ of the models in game.  I am hoping to get Phong shading happening within the next day or so.  I also plan to use shader effects to enhance the appearance and effects of ‘were species’ by having them take on a ghostly corporeal glow during their violent phase.

Other features I must prioritise is the upgrading of the Creature Objectives codes to simplify the editor and allow for better level design options whilst removing redundant Critter Rules … modifying target species stats, for example, is something that we never allow in missions, hence the option to have target species that can be modified is redundant (otherwise, it becomes very cheap to drop all target creature stats for quick kills).

Another priority is user feedback when the game ends … we want to show a ‘game over’ sort of message that reiterates the achieved goals (or reason for failure) … and adds an aftermath that drives the story.  Something similar is required to introduce the story too.

With these objectives under the belt, hopefully the game will be ready for release

-Colin

Voilà, ça y est, le salon Esperluette est fini… est c’était bien.
Deux jours sur le pont, de 10h00 à 19h00, sous pression constante pour éviter de dire des âneries (ma spécialité) ou de les dire trop fort… et pourtant on en redemande.

Pourquoi ? Parce que…
… il y avait du monde, du beau monde, du monde gentil, qui s’intéressait à ce qu’écrivaient les auteurs, même si ce n’était pas sa tasse de thé (« Moi j’aime pas la science-fiction »),
… il y avait Catherine Dufour, qui est gentille comme pas permis et qui dit des trucs super au lieu de se contenter d’en écrire (je cite de mémoire : « Hum… je réfléchis. »)
… il y avait Fabrice Colin, que j’ai peut-être un peu gavé par ma comparaison des stations de ski françaises et italiennes, mais c’est comme ça, groupie complex, on dit n’importe quoi au lieu de rien, et André-François Ruaud, que j’ai peut-être un peu gonflé aussi en lui demandant quel genre de texte il voulait pour sa revue Fiction,
… il y avait Delphine et Sylvain, qui avaient fait le voyage depuis Lyon à (presque) trois et que j’ai dû gonfler un peu aussi mais ils ont été assez gentils pour ne pas le montrer,
… il y avait Jean-Marie Blas de Roblès, tellement ému quand je lui ai dit merci pour son livre Là où les tigres sont chez eux (lisez-le, c’est beau, et puis prêtez-le)
… il y avait Eddy Harris, tellement grand, sage, ouvert, magnifique !
… il y avait Cathy, qui dessine des fées comme une fée (facile !) et qui, et que… non, Manu, je n’y ai pas touché !
… il y avait le chef papou (en pagne, plumes, os dans le nez et tout) avec qui j’ai déjeuné et papoté en pidgin et qui a dû partir en courant sinon il pissait là, par terre,
… il y avait tous ces gens qui ont pris le risque de s’offrir Djeeb le Chanceur jusqu’à ce qu’il n’y en ait plus, et tous les autres à qui je n’ai pu que le raconter (ben oui, y en avait plus, rupture),
… il y avait tous ces gens qui ont pris le risque de s’offrir Aria des Brumes, même sachant que la suite ne sortirait pas, enfin, pas tout de suite,
… il y avait Chloé et Isabelle, dont les sourires m’ont touché tout droit, là où ça fait chaud, parce qu’elles aiment ce que j’écris (Oh merci vous !)
… il y avait tous ces organisateurs si extraordinairement sympas, Thierry Caquais en tête, que j’en suis à me demander si Esperluette n’est pas le salon le plus agréable où je me sois rendu.

Voilà. Un bon week-end. Merci les gens. À bientôt j’espère.

A post I’ve wanted to make for some time is how I came to be doing this at all.

I mean, I know I wrote this, right back at the beginning, which explains the why of it – but the how of it is down to the people who put me in a position even to think that someone like me could sustain a non-native bilingual existence with my first-born for a matter of weeks, let alone the 21 months we have so far clocked up between us, one day at a time (as we say in the After School Club.) 

I have been lucky and had a lot of talented teachers in all disciplines in my life, most of which was (at least, prior to the After School Club watershed) spent in full-time education. But a few of them have given me confidence that I was able to take outside the classroom, confidence which saw me through the lessons of the many rubbish teachers I have also had, and, in a way – though the faults are all my own – helped create the Francophone monster that is Papa et Piaf. 

Here they are. 

Martin was probably the first, though he came on the scene at about the same time as Nadia (see below). The first teacher to make me realise that French was a language that people actually used, rather than a verbal trigonometry. He smoked immensely and, again, his failing made him seem more human. He was a caustic, cynical man in some ways and regularly referred to hapless students as “cretins”, which was one of the many things I liked about him – he didn’t pretend to like everyone just because they were children. This meant that, if ever he did show signs of liking you, you could actually believe it might be true. 

And he was, in other ways, tremendously kind. I remember going to see him once after the lesson because I thought I didn’t understand the perfect tense (yes, I really was that much of a loser.) I ended up actually crying (a loser AND a wimp – hands off, ladies, I’m practically married!) When he saw how distressed I was, Martin spent half his break talking me through it (remember, this man was probably a forty-a-day smoker who self-medicated on Gauloises and must have lived for his breaks. )

Several years later, he also enlivened A-level by actually telling us things we might want to know, and hinting at the dirty bits in Camus. Without him, I probably wouldn’t have bothered doing French past GCSE.

Nadia arrived at our school when I was in what was then called the third year. She came to teach us Russian, taking over from a man who had learnt his Russian spying on Soviet air traffic. She was a real Russian; she was very short; she claimed to have a brown belt in karate; she was clearly mad. Nadia, again, made a language seem much more than lists of declensions (of which Russian has many). With her, we could imagine people actually living, loving, arguing, even doing karate in this then very rare language (perestroika didn’t really get underway until my GCSE year.) When I sat A level, Nadia coached me. When I applied to Oxford, Nadia gave me extra lessons, free of charge, which is basically what got me in. When I wanted to go to Russia, Nadia helped me sort it out, and gave me a few pointers on how to get extra hard currency through customs. When I thought that Chekhov was tosh, Nadia reassured me that I was not alone. And she also said one of the nicest things a teacher had ever said to me. We were flying to Moscow together. Somehow, we were talking about my family, particularly my mum. “Well, she’s done a good job,” said Nadia. It took me a second to realise what she meant and, when I did, I must have been pink with pride. A teacher thinking that I was not only a good student, but a good person? There was hope for me yet.

Mary was the one-woman welcoming committee when I arrived at Oxford. She had given me my place (when my first choice college had, foolishly, rejected me); she had patiently and politely answered some nonsense letter I had written to her before starting (about something nothing to do with her, like bedding or grants – I had so little idea about how Oxford worked that I just wrote to the only person whose address I had on paper, and it was hers, on my offer letter); and she welcomed me, along with my fellow first-year starters, into her North Oxford sitting room in October long, long ago. 

I was not, at that point, studying French. I was at college to do single honours Russian (the English faculty had decided it could struggle by without me.) I was amazed that I was at Oxford, and was liberated by having no idea what to expect. 

The intake that year seemed beyond good. A half-Russian man; a half-Polish woman; a frighteningly gifted man who had taught himself Hungarian for a laugh; and me. And this woman, Mary, was posher than anyone I knew – she had a ‘cello, for heaven’s sake! I almost gave up, there and then.

But Mary did not give up on me. Always quick with praise and measured with criticism; always acting as if my admission had been a considered choice and not a slip of the pen on some long, closely-printed list of names; always taking her students seriously, even when we spoke nonsense. After two terms, I had even started to believe her. 

Colin took me on when I decided that, though I still wanted to study Russian, the particular joys reserved for single honours students – extra linguistics, the Lay of Prince Igor and the Memoirs of Prince Avakkum, these latter two to be read in Old Church Slavonic – were not for me. He found a place for me in his already crowded French group.

As I made the group an odd number, he also agreed to see me individually for tutorials. As I began to develop interests, and as they began to align themselves with his, he would occasionally let me set my own essay title. He even gave me a 10-year-old bottle of home-made white wine, which turned out to be the best sherry I had ever tasted. This, I decided, was what Oxford was about. 

So much so that, after a couple of terms, in the last tutorial before the vacation (it was a hollow joke to call them “holidays”) I diffidently mentioned that I had been thinking of a future in academia. 

Silence. 

If, at that stage, he had turned around and started an awful, mocking impersonation of a deranged simpleton, it would not have surprised me. Of course I had been fooling myself. I was, perhaps not hopeless, but very much an also-ran, and clearly a pretentious one at that.

Instead, he said, quite quietly, “Yes, well. I was thinking of giving you a scholarship, but you don’t work hard enough.”

In a flash, several truths became apparent to me. I was not an idiot; I was not delusional; and, most important of all, the age-old myth fell apart. At school, I had been effortlessly successful. Then I had come to Oxford and had been effortlessly mediocre. I had assumed that my dear old mum was right, that the bar ha been raised and I could no longer clear it. Instead, it turned out, no-one here was effortlessly anything. The people who succeeded did so because they were very bright, but because they also worked exceptionally hard. I started taking their lead. The following term, I worked harder than ever before or since (as well as acting, rowing, and writing at a “jolly good sport” sort of level) and got my mini-scholarship (or “exhibition” as they call it). I went on to narrowly miss a First and come out of that with enough confidence intact to go on to do research at Edinburgh. Without Colin’s quiet honesty, I’d have ended up pretending to want to be a school-teacher and wondering why I hated my life (I did that anyway, years later – but at least I had a go at what I wanted to be.) 

Ian was the last one. Believed by his Edinburgh undergraduates to have it in for English loafers, he nevertheless took on an Oxford graduate, to all appearances a dilettante (it took me about a term to tell him I was working twenty hours a week and that that was why I was a bit behind on the reading) who came armed only with an undergraduate dissertation on Daniel Pennac, an author almost no one had then heard of, apparently word-processed by a five-year-old, and of which Oxford’s examiners could not decide whether it was a work of genius or the ravings of an imbecile. 

Ian gave me the benefit of the doubt and, when he realised I was broke, did all he could to enable me to make some sort of a go of my doctorate. He sent me to France twice; he found me teaching hours (my poor undergraduates, I am so sorry you were lumbered with me); he got me published; and he let me stay round his house once so I could return from Nice to do a conference paper. He also took me lunchtime drinking at the Southsider. Ian made me believe that, not only could I become an academic, but that I could live as an academic, perhaps for my whole life. The question of what the hell I was going to do with this bizarre commodity called life was finally, and to my immense relief, solved

Of course, I went on to piss all that up the proverbial wall, but that was no fault of his. And I did come out of it speaking really rather good French …

So, if any of the five of you end up reading this, thank you. I couldn’t have done it without you.

I came across these two lovely articles covering master accordionist Daniel Colin on his tour in Japan.

Musette Delivers Taste of France, from Friday November 20th, 2009, in The Japan Times Online. Written by Yung-Hsiang Kao. The piece covers French Accordionist Daniel Colin’s current tour there, and includes a little backup history on the mordinary (a better word for extraordinary) music that is Musette! Interestingly, the article also connects the Musette interest with Japan’s larger Francophilism: Louis Vuitton bags, french baking, and frog legs (just kidding about that one.)

“For 15 years now, there has been a comeback of the accordion and musette — trash musette, hip-hop musette — but with this group (with Colin) it is a more traditional French musette and chanson.”

Musette is an accordion-centered traditional French music created in Paris in the 1920s from a mix of sounds by Italian immigrants and Auvergne folk from the Massif Central region.

It is to France what jazz is to the United States, according to Cravic, a producer and guitarist.

“Musette was very successful until the beginning of rock ‘n’ roll,” Cravic says in English on a recent visit to Japan with Colin, an accordion player. “Accordion players were overwhelmed, so most of these guys tried to be more showy.

And the other article, Paris, Love Song for You, in Metropolis, written by Dan Grunebaum, from November 12th, 2009.

The accordion revival took hold in Japan in the ’90s, rooted in the continued popularity here of musette and its more sedate cousin, chanson. Among its exemplars are virtuoso Coba and young chanteuse Uri Nakayama.

“It’s an instrument that can be impressive even for young people. They are used to electric guitars, keyboards, and usually this music is not complex. But when we have the experience of playing in front of different musicians in France who are involved in rap or whatever, when they see and hear and feel Daniel, it’s very impressive for them. From the mid ’80s, accordion came back in all sorts of different fields. Now you can hear accordion players in rap or even punk.”

Enjoy!

Another post about Contemporary Accordion Classical Music

Another post about Communist Fighting Accordionist

Another post about World Accordion Trio

Another post about Bluegrass Accordion

Another post about my latest project

Another post about Guido Deiro

Another post about Richard Galliano’s recording Paris Concert

Another post about Accordionist Richard Galliano

Another post about Accordionist Maria Kalaniemi

Another post about Accordion Event Calendar

Another post about Octoberfest Accordion Babes

Another post about New Polka

Another post about Punk Rock Accordions

Another post about Busking

Twitter’da, “8JK’yı parçalamamız için artık geri sayım başladı” diye yazarak ortalığı kızıştırdı.

Kendi hesabında Fenerbahçe’li Kazım Kazım, bugünkü derbi öncesi Beşiktaşlıları çok kızdıracak sözler sarf etti. Kazım, kendisine ait twitter hesabında dün İngilizce olarak yayınladığı mesajda, ezeli rakiplerinin 8-0′lık Liverpool mağlubiyetine göndermede bulundu ve Beşiktaş’ı ‘8JK’ diye tanımlayarak “8JK’yı parçalayacağız” şeklinde tahrik edici bir ifade kullandı.

Anlamını sordular
Kazım , mesajında şu ifadeye yer verdi: “Yes my people… İts a bit of a misarable day in İstanbul but the count down starts till we smash 8JK!” Hahahaha!!” “Evet dostlarım. İstanbul’da biraz tatsız bir gün yaşıyoruz ama 8JK’yı parçalamamız için geri sayım başladı!! Hahahaha!!…” Kazım 8JK’ nın anlamını soranlara ise “BJK ya da Beşiktaş olarak bilinir” diye yazdı.

Le joli petit signe qui sert de titre à ce billet s’appelle une esperluette, caractère typographique qui signifie “et“. Sur votre clavier, vous le trouvez souvent en haut à gauche.
Esperluette
C’est un nom assez bien trouvé pour un salon littéraire qui, comme beaucoup, fait le maximum pour rapprocher les lecteurs & les auteurs. L’avantage de celui-ci, c’est qu’il se tient près de chez moi. Mais je lui trouve un autre atout cette année : Catherine Dufour, Fabrice Colin & Jérôme Noirez font partie des auteurs invités. Rien que pour eux, ça justifie le voyage, d’où que vous veniez.
Le thème sera Envie d’Ailleurs. Autant dire que cette triplette de chouettes bons auteurs comptent parmi les meilleurs guides pour tous les ailleurs dont vous pourriez avoir envie.

Alors notez, s’il vous plaît : Salon Esperluette, à Cluses, en Haute-Savoie, entre Genève & Chamonix, pour vous situer un peu, du vendredi 20 au dimanche 22 novembre.

L’ambiance est excellente, les interventions de haute qualité, les libraires prévenants, les activités pour enfants très bien fichues & il y a même un bar. Parking gratuit.

Ah… j’y serai aussi, pour papoter et éventuellement signer quelques livres.

Envie d'ailleurs...