"In America there are two classes of travel -- first class, and with children."
-- Robert Benchley 1889-1945: "Pluck and Luck" (1925)
Just got back from Paris. We spent two days there idling on the left bank. Every so often we would launch the punt and read Rimbaud and Mallarme. On Thursday afternoon we crawled down the rocks and braced ourselves against the current with gravely resolve. Since our I-Phones were rendered useless in the bohemian gloaming, we couldn't instantly know that Michael Jackson had died from an overdose. It was as if we lived in an obsolete village at the outer rings of cyberspace, a place where time had passed us by for a period of hours. I felt sad that the King -- of pop, that is -- had not read my blogs discussing suboxone and its benefit to those desperate to escape the evil clutches of deadly narcotics.
As we drank turkish coffees in the Parisian twilight, B. remarked on how lucky it was for those poised at the tabloid brink, and unlucky for those whose tragic demise deserved more attention, and how many would overlook the fact that anal cancer, which is typically sexually acquired, can be prevented by the HPV (human papilloma virus) vaccine.
-- Robert Benchley 1889-1945: "Pluck and Luck" (1925)
Just got back from Paris. We spent two days there idling on the left bank. Every so often we would launch the punt and read Rimbaud and Mallarme. On Thursday afternoon we crawled down the rocks and braced ourselves against the current with gravely resolve. Since our I-Phones were rendered useless in the bohemian gloaming, we couldn't instantly know that Michael Jackson had died from an overdose. It was as if we lived in an obsolete village at the outer rings of cyberspace, a place where time had passed us by for a period of hours. I felt sad that the King -- of pop, that is -- had not read my blogs discussing suboxone and its benefit to those desperate to escape the evil clutches of deadly narcotics.
As we drank turkish coffees in the Parisian twilight, B. remarked on how lucky it was for those poised at the tabloid brink, and unlucky for those whose tragic demise deserved more attention, and how many would overlook the fact that anal cancer, which is typically sexually acquired, can be prevented by the HPV (human papilloma virus) vaccine.
To which I commented that some forlorn "oncewas" in a Columbian mansion took modest gifts from the dead in hoping Jackson's death might do for him what 9/11 had done for Gary Condit.
A man in a wheelchair barged brusquely through the salon doors, mumbling something about flights to the horn and railroad tracks; which gave me pause as I froze in mid-dip, my scone poised above a steamfrothy flagon of latte. My, "what say you, I say," approach deterred him little as he accused me of false blogging on a subject most serious. Sensing my cavalier veneer was vanishing fast, I took quick physical assessment of this mobile miscreant's possible menace. Then he recognized me, accusing me of writing about the BIID (Body Integrity Identity Disorder) issue without proper authority, chastising me for having no medical background, and berating me for having better hair than himself. Not knowing if he was a wannabe, pretender, or devotee, I couldn't be sure of how I'd react to any possible fisticuffs. Suddenly, he stood up and screamed 'til his face turned so red that he fell on the floor, and started drooling his sordid desires. He was all three: he wanted his leg cut off, loved the attention of his wheelchair, and r
eveled in the waist high oogling of loose genitalia.
A man in a wheelchair barged brusquely through the salon doors, mumbling something about flights to the horn and railroad tracks; which gave me pause as I froze in mid-dip, my scone poised above a steamfrothy flagon of latte. My, "what say you, I say," approach deterred him little as he accused me of false blogging on a subject most serious. Sensing my cavalier veneer was vanishing fast, I took quick physical assessment of this mobile miscreant's possible menace. Then he recognized me, accusing me of writing about the BIID (Body Integrity Identity Disorder) issue without proper authority, chastising me for having no medical background, and berating me for having better hair than himself. Not knowing if he was a wannabe, pretender, or devotee, I couldn't be sure of how I'd react to any possible fisticuffs. Suddenly, he stood up and screamed 'til his face turned so red that he fell on the floor, and started drooling his sordid desires. He was all three: he wanted his leg cut off, loved the attention of his wheelchair, and r
eveled in the waist high oogling of loose genitalia. With that, I inquired as to what he had tried to achieve the first goal. He said dry ice had failed him twice, as he could never quite get his leg frozen enough due to its tremendous girth, the result of a chronic elephantitis that had plagued him since birth, exacerbated by a profound Macdonald's fries addiction. I helped him up, brought him an espresso, and asked if he too knew the secret of Mogadishu. He produced the very same news item as I had, neatly tucked in the back pocket of my dockers. It seems the Shabab, a fierce Islamic group bent on overthrowing the Somali government, had cut off the right hands and left legs of four men accused of stealing. Knowing his intention was to seek the Mogadishu cure as a solution to his obsession, I lied, and warned him that the punishment might kill him. To slick for my wiles, he reminded me that the Shabab had nursed the men back until their wounds 
had healed.
Leaving him with a terse, "suit yourself," we moved down the boulevard to a famous pastisserie. There we were accosted by a belligerent Irani from Isfahan. Seeing we were American, he began to laugh, charging us with being warmongers, babykillers, and hypocrites. Snarlingly, he asked what the difference is between having an American Supreme Court install Bush and the Supreme Ayatollah install Ahmedinejad. Wanting to distance ourselves from his fetid breath, which reeked of rotten falafil and cactus milk, we fled to an upscale creperie on the rue du Hoodoo in the fifth arrondissement. Blaring in the background was a French television show hosting a debate on whether there was any merit to the American tabloid TV commentator, Bill O'Reilly's, charge that the democrats were too harsh in their condemnation of the rash of republicans who had fallen from grace. Lazilly savoring our fruited crepes we nodded in agreement with the anti-O'Reilly Colbertian, Ashvin Shah: "Personally, I do not care if an elected official has an extramarital affair or otherwise deviates from the 'ideal,' but I have no patience for such politicians if they continually demonize others who fail to live up to those ideals while they themselves do not."
I think that about covers our time in Paris.
Greeting from Paree - R. Louis Tessier
had healed.Leaving him with a terse, "suit yourself," we moved down the boulevard to a famous pastisserie. There we were accosted by a belligerent Irani from Isfahan. Seeing we were American, he began to laugh, charging us with being warmongers, babykillers, and hypocrites. Snarlingly, he asked what the difference is between having an American Supreme Court install Bush and the Supreme Ayatollah install Ahmedinejad. Wanting to distance ourselves from his fetid breath, which reeked of rotten falafil and cactus milk, we fled to an upscale creperie on the rue du Hoodoo in the fifth arrondissement. Blaring in the background was a French television show hosting a debate on whether there was any merit to the American tabloid TV commentator, Bill O'Reilly's, charge that the democrats were too harsh in their condemnation of the rash of republicans who had fallen from grace. Lazilly savoring our fruited crepes we nodded in agreement with the anti-O'Reilly Colbertian, Ashvin Shah: "Personally, I do not care if an elected official has an extramarital affair or otherwise deviates from the 'ideal,' but I have no patience for such politicians if they continually demonize others who fail to live up to those ideals while they themselves do not."
I think that about covers our time in Paris.
Greeting from Paree - R. Louis Tessier
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