“Where in the world is Carson Cistulli?”

That question, the question in the title, is what everyone is wondering these days who doesn’t have anything important to do. “We haven’t seen him around these pages for a whole week, and that’s not like him. Is he drunk?” No, but I understand why you’d think that.

“Is he too poor to pay for Internet anymore?” Another likely answer, but not the correct one.

“Has he been fired?” Regrettably, no.

“Is he dead?” Possibly; I can’t verify this one way or the other.

Of course, the reason I can’t verify that is because Carson, or at least his graceless corpse, currently is residing in Paris, France, which is the greatest of the Parises, narrowly eking out a victory over Paris, Texas, Paris Hilton, Plaster of Paris, and Paris of Troy. There, he is allegedly staying with his inexplicably lovely wife and is immersing himself in the French tongue (that sounds dirtier than I meant it). And this has apparently also been the week for his new surroundings to acclimate themselves to him.

While there, in addition to reviving the thoroughly stupid FranceGraphs, Cistulli will serve as an ambassador of sorts, bringing the goodwill of American baseball and sportswriting to the City of Lights, as you can read in the letter below:

Click on through to embiggen  your mind.

Always read the fine print.