pardon the delay...

But for whatever reason, I have not found the time for this, me beloved blog. This may have everything to do with the uptight-ish rage into which I have FLOWN. At first, I thought, 'Wow, it's great to not have any more weed, I'm obsessively cleaning my room and checking things off the old to-do list left and right.' But apparently, I am making up for all my previous mellowness by currently having a perpetual fit.

OKay. The calmness is now washing over me. Is this what it's like to be an adult during the holidays? Perpetually stressed out instead of enjoying what it's supposed to be about? I hope not.

I am in the unique position of being the only American of my group of invites for T-Day dinner, so I am completely in charge of the goings-on. And obviously I never have been before. I mean, this is why people have mother's, for fuck's sake. I'm just hoping I don't fall flat on my fucking face and ruin everything before of audience of between seven and eight Thanksgiving virgins who would forever more resent the ritual as well as, possibly, all of America.

Okay, here's the good stuff that's been happening these days. Saturday night, my little Morlaisiens and I decided to branch out going-out wise. We have three or four bars we like and go to regularly, but there were plenty more we had never visited.

The first one was deeply depressing - three other people, pool table that looked like it had hepatitis, sea shell ashtrays. It was called Le Chop and it appropriately got the chop, semi-instantaneously.

The second - Yikes. Tragically bad techno managed by totally retarded DJs. Outlandishly drunk woman of a certain age who grabbed my friend's ass (his wife was there, too) and then decided to serenade the door to the bathroom with her eerily drunk dance skills. Hot. I couldn't get out fast enough.

The third was the best. And by best, I mean worst, of course. Okay, ready? There were two kinds of people at this bar: prostitutes and the sleazy dudes who love them. Oh, and a pimp (called un mackrel en français (like the fish)). We verified this when my friend went up to the bar and was accosted by said pîmp, who said a bunch of things in French he didn't understand, and then just said 'Sex?' and pointed at the whores in the bar. My friend Matt also made the mistake of talking to the drunkest whore in the house. It was sort of a nostalgic moment: I remember being 20 and really feeling like I could and should speak to anyone. Oh, the hard lessons of old age. Anyway, she immediately latched onto him, told him he was a very beautiful man, etc. My friend Marie came up very quietly and said drunk whore actually leapt back from us and apologized (presumably for stepping on another whore's turf).

In short, it was the greatest thing ever. And they made their whiskey cokes with single malt whiskey, which I managed to discover right before I put the coke in. Phew.

Then we got wasted. And by we, I mean me. As soon as I realized I was going to be emotionally blackmailed into going to the Estonia-style discothèque, I forced my way back to my friend's house to douse myself with tequila, to make the experience tolerable.

I ran into one of my students who just dropped out and hopefully she is going to get me some wizeed. Which apparently is oh-so-necessary to my continual well-being. Or something.

Obviously, 4.5 million other things also happened in the last few days, but I choose to rest on the laurels of the tale of the whorebar.