paris, toujours

Let's start with last night, shall we? In the spirit of eschewing chronology, let's first deal with how I got mysteriously hellbent on getting wasted. I decided to discard all good sense in this hollow quest, and thought it would be superneat if I drank six beers and a bottle of wine that I ended up drinking in about twenty or thirty minutes. Noooooooooo! But yes. I think my hostel roomie slept through my vomituitous fits. Such purple puke reminds me of secret pukings at chez Tabs and Nettie, back in the bloom of my youth. Ew. I should know better.

But, I'm in Paris, and the reverie was such that I had no other choice. Likely story, hmmm? I wandered into my old haunt on the Quai de Saint-Michel, the Irish pub of yore. My old people (adorable retired American professors) were not in attendance, so I downed my pint by my lonesome and got to writing a ten page letter to my darling friend Nicole. I think the combination of relating my state of being, ie dying from the lack of my little American loves, and the being in Paris completely on my own thing left me no choice but to get utterly 'housed.

Said letter shall be delivered by Debra Earling, a creative writing prof at the old alma mater and patron to aforementioned Nicole, one of our school's buddingest genie-asses. She is here for the Festival America thing I have mentioned, day one of which I attended today.

In short: yes, Michael Chabon is THAT FUCKING DREAMY; Donna Tartt is short and hot; they both signed my books; I am realizing that my continual deference to the French is a by-product of their ability to speak a language that frequently vexes me, and that they are in fact just as stupid as Americans in many instances; aaaaaaaaaand that semi-wraps it up.

I'm dining with Deb and any possible combination of A, B and C list litterati this very evening. Exciting! Yes, hopefully.

I have been tragically hung over most of today, but let it be a reminder that drinking to excess does not have to be the same as drinking with blind stupidity.

I spent most of this morning asking after headache-be-gones and telling people not to go to the fucking Louvre for fucks sake. But the sheer quantity of American tourists that are so hell-bent on satisfying the stupid little checklist (Eiffel Tower? Check. Spit on my a French person? Check.) that trying to tell them about Musee D'Orsay, etc. is nearly impossible. Not to mention pointless. These are the same people that think spending two days in a place leaves a goodly amount of time to appreciate their respective wonders. Oi.

Being back in Paris is dreamy as hell. I sort of can't believe I didn't jump at the chance to switch schools and be an assistant here, but there is no fucking way I could handle it. I would never work, I would never have money, it would be folly to say the very least. But...oh, well, yall know by now I'm obsessed with the place.

I met fellow blogger/assistant Nat in the wilds of Montmartre, the suckiness of which cannot be argued with, but luckily, he knew a sweet-ass bar in the area. He's really cool, but even if I tricked him into being my new best friend, I don't think he even has enough floor for me to stay on.

Need to make my way back to the festivities, even though Michael brought his wife along, make seduction totally impossible. Unless she's into that kind of thing. Whatevs. Please excuse the stunning lack of structure in my thoughts at this moment.