I am probing the living heart muscle - like a nurse searching for a collapsed vein...or maybe a doctor looking at an EKG... what do those little peaks and valleys mean?

A redhead in long white pants, and a pink tank top sauntered down the street. She was absolutely gorgeous, too. A model maybe. She walked fast, as if she were late for an assignment. Then, there was a woman who looked like Greta Garbo. And another one - a young Deneuve. Following her was a Brigitte Bardot-like woman with a waifish face and a figure that reminded me of someone. In fact, each one seemed to remind me of something - but I didn't know quite what it was. It was like Proust's lemon cakes - triggering a recollection so rich and inviting I could barely resist. But a recollection of what? I was like an aging writer, trying to recall love affairs I never had, and lovers I only imagined.

A woman in an extremely small, extremely tight blue skirt walked towards the caf‚. As she approached, the feeling - whatever it was - increased, like the sound of an on-coming freight train. And then, there she was - right outside the window - all motion... voluptuous... irresistible. I cannot describe her in detail. She was everything a woman should be. And as she passed, the wave washed over me, leaving me crumpled up, broken, collapsed on the beach.

Francis Galton, Darwin's cousin, was so fascinated by some of the women he saw in Africa, he could scarcely believe they were real. He got out his calipers and other measuring devices and went to work, moved no doubt by the spirit of scientific curiosity.

But it was not science that moved me on Friday.

Just as one wave subsided another wave built up - a woman in a yellow dress, a stunning woman with hair nearly the same color as her dress... riding a bicycle. Could a woman in a dress that short be really be riding a bicycle, I asked myself as she drew alongside the caf‚ window. And then, she passed, and I felt as though my surf board had slipped out from under me and I crashed down onto the beach. Oh my... the rocks!

It is summer. Not technically yet. But it sure looks like summer. The streets of Paris are full of attractions and distractions. Enticing, enchanting, absolutely intoxicating...

Of course, not all the people passing the Caf‚ St. Andre on Friday were beautiful young women. There were also a few handsome young men. (Do women feel the same way way when a handsome man passes? I don't know...)

Then, too, there were quite a few tourists - many of the recognizably American. One couple was typical. The woman looked bright and chipper, like she had invested in Microsoft back in 1987 and gotten a good night's sleep on the plane from New York. The man was a different story. He looked as though he had waited until December of '99 to buy Microsoft and hadn't slept a wink. His jaw was slack and looked as though he could use a good drink.

"Back in 1897," Gary North tells us, "economist-sociologist Vilfredo Pareto's study of income distribution appeared. He surveyed the larger countries of Europe and found that there was a strange income distribution curve in all nations that he studied. Something in the range of 20% of the population received about 70% to 80% of the income."

The 80/20 rule became known as Pareto's Law. As recently as 1998, it was tested in a study of the U.S. and Canada. Again, it was discovered that little had changed. In 1997, the top 20% of the population owned 84.3% of the wealth.

Gary concludes that "Getting rich is simply not possible for 80% of the population. Anything that offers the hope of riches to the middle-class majority is a delusion."

It may be a delusion, but it is certainly a popular one. People want to get rich. They do not need to get rich.

I remind myself that beauty is only skin deep. And like money, it is superficial. But superficial seems plenty deep enough. Money can't buy love. But it can buy those Russian women in the Bois de Boulogne. And what would be nicer - a 30 minutes of cheap, imitation love with the woman on the bicycle... or a lifetime of the real thing with Janet Reno?

Hmmm... maybe I'm thinking too small. Or too American. Why settle for 30 minutes? French men often have mistresses they keep for decades. President Mitterand's mistress shocked society in France by showing up, with his illegitimate daughter, at his funeral. It was not the revelation that he had a mistress that was shocking. Everyone knew that. But that she would attend the funeral - - that just wasn't done.

Radical feminists, bless their hearts, (if they have hearts), say that there's no difference between traditional marriage and prostitution anyway. In both cases, the woman is kept (at great expense, I might add) in order to give the man what he wants.

But the radicals don't understand the difference between want and need. What you want is what you don't have - even if what you have is better.

Finishing my blanquette de vaux, the waiter returned.

"Dessert" he asked, "can I recommend a cherry tart?"

"Oh yes..."

Your correspondent, hard at work...

Bill Bonner

P.S. I am glad I am happily married. Otherwise, I might be tempted. I might buy a tech stock at 200 times sales. Or try to meet a redhead. Either way, I'm sure I would regret it.