|b l o g|
Here are ten signs that you are a piece of shit.
10. Someone with a disordered mind thought that you were a 'gay bar.' The joke is obvious enough.
9. Another bartender has dragged me out of you, for my own good.
8. A man who's been mugged outside of you gets a knife drawn on him. Afterward.
7. At least one one old woman with a typewriter has sat in you, being unbearable.
6. Your patrons throw up outside of you & come back in for more.
5. Patrons punch car hoods outside you.
4. Horrible harpies (fat, black) howl outside of you at your owner for half an hour. Your owner knocks one's head against a car.
3. Daring opportunists with no standards in this world try to pick up said horrible harpies (see 4.) outside of you. A daring opportunist gets his nose broken.
2. We can spit on you from stories up & no-one cares.
1. A man has been slapped outside of you in broad daylight.
A dream several nights ago involving the running of a bar & restaurant by Aaron, Casey, & myself. Aaron was manager, Casey was chef or sous-chef. I had some vague responsibility to do with making drinks. They were honest and industrious. And I, I was shirking and spiriting away liquor at every opportunity.
Two new heroes: a certain Australian, an old hero, who's just made the move of the silly season; and a certain Malaysian (rubbish) I met, a tester in French F3 (so rubbish there's no link), and former classmate of a certain other Malaysian, who two years ago had the honor of being thrashed around the world for an entire season by the aforementioned Australian. Unimpressive. All the same, the brushes with fame get nearer in this narrowing gyre.
The only other thing left is to say goodbye to Stella, and 'raise a glass to the greatest cat that ever was.' Thanks, and goodbye.
Amy won a largest tongue contest (don't ask) at a bar tonight and came away with a backpack, frisbee, visor, &, I don't know, datebook, all bearing the official device of Ali G. And then, in a universe of infinite improbability, gave them back. 'Bigupyaself Princeton.'
Boorstin's Decline of Radicalism discusses how and why Americans are statistical creatures, and love to know how they're doing & how much. We found a recent count interesting. [Ed. We've revised our estimate in accordance with updated figures.]
I suppose there's nothing like an idea whose time has come, or whose time came at the dawn of life, in the sex-filled, peery primeval wash, when everyone was the same age. 'Teenagers want to learn about sex from one another not their teachers, new research says.' Indeed. When I was in school, it all was certainly a juggernaut of awkwardness, when one added in the gym teacher with a prosthetic leg.
Next: porn encourages responsible citizenship. (Go ahead, click it at work.)
I went to the catacombs yesterday & came back bearing as a prize a broken radius, the very same bone that I myself have broken. For the fantastic tale of how I smuggled the bone out (and what orifice I used), you'll need to read my forthcoming account of graverobbers & the women who love them (French only).
In local news, Dbar is (considering?) giving a test run to 1664. A number of people this side can handle that.
Selective quote of the day, or all coming days: 'I thought listening to Erik talk about Formula One was tedious. I was wrong.' That is a (selective) vindication. In fact, I'd like to think it's been a day of (selective) vindications. Pat's findings (my paper on the subject having been held up by domestic opposition) show him striving, seeking, finding, and probably having a slash. In the name of the art, sir, you are saluted.
Someone at BBC4 evidently has his head screwed on straight. (Straighter than the gnashing, miserable crone dragged by the police from Epinal last night.) My class is being filmed on Thursday for a documentary. About learning French, I suppose. If that doesn't sound like an interesting program to you (it isn't), keep in mind that this is a channel airing a series called Painting Flowers. Everything is to appear 'natural,' which may permit 'au naturel.'
And since I'd forgotten it, I might as well add that I saw (from behind) a woman wet herself whilst standing in the Metro the other day.
And I'd be lax & remiss if I didn't mention that Amy's neighbors have a new pet wallaby. Yes, that sort of wallaby.
For the tens of interested persons out there, our winy jag was a wild success, ending in hilarious messes (ho ho) & ridiculous Frenglish dithering. Even our professor came (bringing bonbons). But it could have been so much more if we'd had (and perhaps you'll have remembered this) one of these. Now available for your 'favorite rooms.'
Cheers, garden gates, goes the salutation of this country on the 14th of July. It's Bastille Day, & everyone can avoid fulfilling their obligations on someone else's time today, which here is called a Work Ethic. For our part, we've slept far too late & avoided meeting some Germans. Which is fine by us. And will be continued Friday when all in the neighborhood are encouraged to come to our rendition of the Feast of Rowdy Young Yellers. We're having a party. We're coming.
Much to say, readers, & how to do it? Rouen (yes, then) was an unrelieved horrorshow. It's a pleasant enough town if you like myths of burgeoning feminism (Joan of Arc was burned there), or Monet, or having 1.53 EUR bottles of wine stolen from you by Algerians. Then given back. Accomodations were swell-cheap, except that The Most Honest Innkeeper in France at Three in the Morning would *not* let us put three people in a double room (already paid for). He wouldn't even take bribes. (Quoth Valentin, 'Where did you think you were, Italy?') Casey slept outside the train station. Aaron & I stayed awake so he wouldn't be eaten, & so that the paramedics called for the drug-sick, sick-all-down-herself tart across the square didn't pick him up instead. Back in Paris, our landlord had his key in the lock. We waited three hours for him to leisurely answer a knock, buzz, or phone call.
A day or so later, we carried his luggage down when he left. (He did ask: 'You guys want to take a couple of things down with me?') The cunning stunt. He carried an orange juice carton. In parting he left us a dozen bottles of rotten Normandy cider & the empty carton: 'Don't say I never gave you anything.' It's been bonvivantism (cheese, butter, etc.) since then, except for my undiscloseably small bank balance.
Other French news: Olivier Panis's onboard fire extinguisher exploded today. That's what happened.
I'm in Paris. Apologies, loves. I haven't blogged because I felt I had too much to say, but since I've heard (from a raving, deported Kraut) & well that no one cares about travel-twaddle, I'll buckle down & merely say that I miss London & its Regent Street, & that I've been spending my time well enough. I'm off to Rouen tomorrow (today), upon the imminent arrival of my landlord.
A very small number of items or learnings (in short declaratives). The Euro (savvy?) is like Formula 1 in so far as it is good. My neighborhood (in the 10th) is just south of, and north of, and east of rubbish. I was mistaken for a Kraut ('German'). Volvic will do. Moulin Rouge (The Most Pointless Place on Earth Today Given That It's Next to Real Whorehouses) is non-smoking. Amy had a dream that I was driving for Ferrari (in a yellow racing suit) & that NJ Transit was one of the sponsors. Which is brilliant & ridiculous. Of course, it would be a Williams.