#6 Craig Ruby

As I write this review of my former Bushwick Brooklyn roommate Craig Ruby I wonder how many young Americans are out there who are going about their daily lives wishing that they could instantly become French. How many of them would love to shed their American skin, their American culture and way of life to be magically transported 3,000 miles across the Atlantic to the Champs Elysees, the Riviera or even for one moment to be hovering above a bidet in a Lyon cafe rather than be in the stuffy old U.S.

I’m pretty sure that if Craig Ruby, who came to fill the spot vacated by Louiselle Moreau, had his way we would have had one of those strange private parts cleaning contraptions installed into our closet-sized bathroom. After all, if you can’t wash your ass like Gerard Depardieu, then you really aren’t ready to be French. Nevertheless, I’m sure that during his life changing six months playing his guitar at the outdoor cafes along the Seine, Craig had some occasion to use a bidet and by the time he moved in with us in Brooklyn was sorely missing it.
Like my Boston roommate Jake Funterbick, Ruby had an affinity for the French but took it ten steps further. Whereas Funterbick signed up for and then dropped out of French classes, Ruby spoke the language quite well, with an accent that could fool most Americans. After his visa in France had expired, Ruby, a Connecticut native, returned to the states in the hope of perfecting his language and jazz guitar skills to the point that he could return to the land of wine and cheese to join and ensemble and make a living for himself there. Though worn out, I thought it was an admirable goal. My mother speaks French and lived in Nice for a while. People really seem to love that country and I know I would like to visit there at some point. The problem is, France has this weird power over some Americans that turns them into not simply Francophiles but also complete assholes.