Bulletin Board of Bad Behavior

He came to visit me and we had a wonderful time. I didn't write about it because he doesn't like the BB of BB any more.

The best portion of a good man's life is the little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.
- William Wordsworth

A better man than me said this. A worse man than me never got it. Rummy will burn in hell for his holy war.

Some people would say if it wasn't for Marky and Sarah we would still have people come to this BB of BB. But we don't censor.

Fuck 'em. I never wanted to be popular.

brett,

i'm very sorry to hear that.

After I got settled in we drove to Tony's temporary family home in Hunter (he is currently building a new one) where his wife, who had just run the New York City Marathon a few days prior, was not only making dinner, but she was actually dancing as well. Earlier the same day I was walking around the Chelsea art galleries and had seen a Marathon runner walking his dog. I had asked him how it went and all that, and he said it was a highlight of life moment but now he was very sore and could barley move. And here was Poise dancing to Underworld.

We feasted on a delicious vegetarian meal of risotto and squash and quaffed cabernet sauvignon. After diner Campbell, the oldest son of eleven, schooled us at FIFA Football Playstation and baby Noel read me the A, B, C's. It really is a talented family. I went to bed with a slight buzz and a full belly. It's the best way to catch some Z's.

The next day I awoke to the Republican defeat and lots of rain. Tony and I did a quick 3-mile run. It wasn't really that quick. Tony has run four Marathons on top of many other races and grueling trail competitions, but we stayed at my pace and did nine-minute miles. Then we had a late breakfast of champions of pumpkin pancakes at Sweet Sue's in Phoenicia.

By noon the rain was really coming down. I turned to Tony and in my best Withnail & I impersonation shouted, “I've gone on holiday by mistake!â€￾ On the way to Woodstock we learned that Donald Rumsfeld had gotten the boot. We walked around this famous little town, getting soaked to the bone. There really is no other place than Woodstock to look for peace on earth. I'd like to say we were given free love by naked woodland nymphs and had an orgy of celebration on tie-dyed blankets but the heavy rains kept the joyous occasion inside. But not even the torrential downpour could dampen our spirits. A hard rain was a fallin' but now a new foliage leaf has turned over. Hopefully policy will change. This is a victory for the American people. The honeymoon period should last, at least, until I get back to New York City.

Curiously, Woodstock has a nice golf course. David Bowie and Bill Walton have to hit the links someplace. And yes, there are many arts and crafts, and trinkets for sale and a more cynical soul than me would argue that Woodstock is nothing more than a tourist trap. But I'm not a tourist. I'm a wonderer. Spirits can't be trapped.

My trip literature had been Mojo and Uncut magazines and Tom Robbin's short stories 'Wild Ducks Flying Backwards.' At Golden Notebook, 29 Tinker Street, I bought Bob Dylan's 'Chronicles Volume One' and 'Music From Big Pink', by John Niven, which is part of the 33 1/3 music book series.

I'm a dimwit, so it has taken me longer than most to figure out that iPods are the best way to travel with music. Besides, stewardesses no longer let me store my two Technics in the overhead bins. I bought an iPod nano at the Apple store in Manhattan and Tony loaded up all 4GB's for me.

My Catskills soundtrack was the newest music from old favored truth seeking troubadours Bob Dylan 'Modern Times', Neil Young 'Living with War' and Bruce Springsteen 'We Shall Overcome- The Seeger Sessions'.

Traveling the Adirondacks while listening to 'Thunder on the Mountain' (BD) and 'Shenandoah' (BS) it is easy to understand country folk, and even though far away, 1960's Greenwich Village is closer than it seems.

'Living with War' (NY) both album and song are not the best protests ever set to music, but not since Dylan's own 'Masters of War' has it been so direct. It is good to know that people still care. John Lennon was right. 'Shock and Awe' has shit lyrics, but it is a true story. How else do you tell it? I wonder what people who have lost loved ones in Iraq think of 'Flags of Freedom'. I wonder what Bush thinks of 'Impeach the President'. Not only is it asking for his head, he couldn't make it any easier. He is sampled telling lies. The last song on the LP ends with a cover song, and it is my favorite. The last song on the album is 'America the Beautiful'.

Because I'm not the type of guest who masturbates in other people's houses I haven't had any sexual release. And this has lead to intense sexy meowing dreams of Cat Power. I have a non-story about Cat Power. Years ago I was scheduled to DJ at this festival, but at the last minute I was fired. It was a bad situation and it made me very sad and mad. I still hold a grudge against those promoters. I would cross the street to spit in their face. Anyway, it turns out that that night, after her gig, Chan Marshall came into the tent and drunkenly danced all-night and flirted and fawned over the DJs. I thought that should have been me. For no other reason than my own pissed off jealousy and fucked up reasoning I've always sorta held it against Chan.

Lately I've seen her in magazines smoking cigarettes and looking breathtaking and I heard (even though I haven't actually heard it) that her album 'The Greatest' is um, great. But she has just gotten out of rehab and has stopped living with pain. I haven't given up that side of life yet. We will never be able to be together. With a rusty razorblade I cut my arm until it bleed. Now permanently scrawled into my skin is: Cat Power & McCutcheon 4 Ever. A person needs release.

Just like in Withnail & I, a day after the rain the next day broke with the bluest skies over the mountaintops. But by then it was time for me to get back on the bus. I listened to a DJ compilation that Tony and I made a few years ago for our friend Madina's going away party. And it was truly well rounded and coherent. Better than any film soundtrack of the last ten years.

I looked out the window with the lonely melancholy feelin' of solitary travelers. Where have I been? Where am I going? Than when we were close to the city we passed the Weehawken Public Library that looks like an Irish pub turned into a castle. It was the coolest library I've ever seen, but the reading rooms can't be that quiet. It is located right along the highway into Manhattan. And I thought. What the fuck.

Hello. Remember me? While putting the finishing touches on my novel I've become more and more disillusioned by blogs. Like who gives a fuck? Most days I don't. But I also don't want to disappoint my two readers. So here it goes. A post. I think this one means something. First, let's take a step back...

I'm excited! I was in Woodstock hangin' with the Dylan vibe.

Brett I hope you know my 'zany style' enough by now that you know I jest!! send me an email and I'd love to send you and kim two books.

My thoughts are with you.

Now that I'm in the grip of the come down and my body is weary and cold I want to be alone. I want to get into that big bed all by myself and get a few hours sleep before I have to buy my cheese. Brit's been so good to me I don't say anything. We stagger to the edge of the cemetery and hail another cab.

Brit gives the address and I drift off to sleep along the way. The next thing I know Brit is nudging me and we are getting out at the George V. Brit grabs me around the waist and half carries me into the lobby. I openly grope her, putting my hand up her shirt, pulling her bra taunt, fondling the flesh of her awesome breasts.

“Don't she says. I'm in love with Jake.â€￾

“Don't you want to love me too? I want to be like Serge.â€￾

“You don't even speak French.â€￾

“So?â€￾
“Just take it easy.â€￾



I keep trying to make out with Brit as we pass reception.

“Sex is the only way to avoid death!â€￾ I yell. “Sex, sex, sex! Serge Gainsbourg is God!â€￾

“You are not even saying his name right,â€￾ says Brit. “Just shut up.â€￾

On the way up to the room I see people staring at us with disdain. I am making a wasted spectacle of myself. And I don't care. I see the rich folks look at us with disdain.

“Fuck off, sirâ€￾ I yell. “Sir, fucking, sir!â€￾

Up in the room I have almost nothing left. I need to collapse. Then Brit takes her jacket off and I see the curves men live for.

“I have a CD we can play,â€￾ I slur. “Made by the best Paris DJ in the world.â€￾

Even though we have only been introduced, the ghost of Serge Gainsbourg has possessed me.

“Okay,â€￾ agrees Brit.

I put on some of Raz's music. I want to suck on Brit's tits. By the time I turn around Brit is already passed out on the bed, on top of the sheets. I ponder this moral dilemma. I cop a feel. And it feels so right. And it is so wrong. I lay my weary head on the pillow. I soon pass out. For the second day in a row I fall asleep before the first tune is finished.





It is dark. I fumble on the bed. But I'm alone. Brit has gone. My internal clock is messed up. I'm not sure what day it is, how long I've been in France, or how much time I have left. Today I must buy the cheese. I turn on the light. It takes a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. I call down to room service.

“Oui?â€￾ The concierge says on the other end.

I put the phone back on the receiver. I barely remember stumbling in. I know it wasn't pleasant. My first real Ecstasy experience turned into a sloppy mess. I feel retarded. I know that drinking kills brain cells and I have had plenty of killer hangovers, but my mind is mush, like I've actually become acutely stupider. I have difficulty thinking. Even in English. I'll never understand why I make my life harder than it has to be. I have to get it together. I need some food.

I look out the window. All of the big cafes are open. I trudge down to the Champs-Elyesee promenade, hurrying as I pass through the lobby. I keep my head down. I bring the guidebook and a map.

I sit in a café. I see a waiter. The waiter sees me. He doesn't approach. I look up basic French words under the 'Food' section of the guidebook.

When a waiter finally arrives I ask.

“Une café crème et trois croissants, S'il vous plait.â€￾

That means a coffee with milk and three croissants.

“Oui?â€￾

Oh shit.

“Une café please,â€￾ I say. I hold up one finger. “With crème, cream, milk. And three croissants.â€￾ I hold up three fingers.

“Oui?â€￾ he repeats.

“A coffee. One coffee with milk. Three crossiants.â€￾

The waiter looks at me with a blank stare.

I try a new approach. With both hands in the air, I say, “Aujourd'hui.â€￾ Which means, “today.â€￾

The waiter stiffly turns and walks away. When breakfast does arrive it's the best meal I can remember eating. The coffee is warm and milky and sweet, the milk settles my stomach and the caffeine stimulates my psyche. My brain opens its bloodshot eye. The croissants are even better, light and flaky with a buttered texture. I devour the pastries and sip the last drop of coffee. Fortified, if not nourished, I feel almost human again.

21!

Back in my hotel room I double-check the cheese list. Many of the cheeses, like Camembert, are very common. What I have to do is buy the specific type of Camembert from each shop. I organize the list, guidebook, map, and my money. I can catch the metro at the George V stop. It is right outside the hotel.

I'm good with public transportation, having used it all my life. I could navigate the New York subways system blind. The metro won't be any harder. I sit in a fold down seat, and look at my fellow passengers. There is no difference than New York. People keep busy, nonchalant, but still on constant alert. It is almost Zen.

As a tourist I can't help but steal a few glances. The girls are breathtaking. They all look so natural, lithe and elegant. At every stop there is another Natalie Portman. I've never seen such a collection of fine skin and high cheekbones.

The first stop is a straight shot on the 1 train. I didn't have to transfer. I get off at Hotel De Ville. This will be easy. I climb up the steps from underground. I take two different side streets and find the shop. No problem.

The cheese shop isn't open. The street is deserted. And every boutique is closed. This is a problem.

I open the curtains. It is night, but outside streetlights electrify the scene. Storefronts and cafes and bars are all a glow in the business of nighttime pleasures. I can't remember my last meal. If they served food on the plane I missed it. I decide to explore Paris and hopefully get something to eat.

I change my clothes and get the money out. I put some smaller bills in my wallet and put the wallet in my front pocket. This is the best way to deter dexterous pickpockets. If you keep your wallet in your back pocket you are looking for trouble. The Champs-Elyesee looks like a decent area to hang in, a bit rich, but if New York streets have taught me anything, it's to keep your guard up in cities at all times.

I decide to roam a bit, maybe walk up and down the Avenue and find a sandwich and a beer. Then I'll get some more sleep. Tomorrow, or later this morning, is the big day. I'll get up early, buy the cheese and have a day and a half to myself to explore Paris.

I walk through the grand lobby of the hotel. It is deserted except for a few of the staff. I almost ask where I could find a good French restaurant. I think jet lag is kicking in. According to the guidebook, almost any café is good for light fare.

After about half a block I realize the problem with the Champs-Elyeese is that it has more American style fast food chains than authentic cafes. There are huge tourist cafes but none of them seem to be very intimate or have the ambience that is unique to the true type of French café.

I walk up the street toward the Arc Du Triomphe. It is highlighted and very imposing. To my left I see the Eiffel Tower also lit up. It's fitting that the City of Light has many monuments illuminated. It looks very beautiful, standing sturdy and tall against the night sky. Then in a flash it disappears. It must be turned off at night so the people who live around it can get some sleep. Tomorrow I'll also have to check it out, go up to the top and see the view of the city.

I turn around and walk back down on the other side of the street. A bouncer and some club kids gather outside a door. I can hear the music blasting from inside. It's typical house music: generic music, with the repetitive bang, bang, banging. I never got into dance music.

A group of kids rush past me speaking American English. I impulsively stop them.

“Hey, excuse me.â€￾

“Yeah?â€￾

“You know a good café to get a sandwich?â€￾ I ask.

“No.â€￾ Says one of the guys annoyed. He is trying to hail a cab.

“At this time only the big cafes are open. Come with us it will be fantastic,â€￾ says a very attractive girl with attention grabbing, well-rounded, firm, gravity defying breasts. She has that unique figure only a few girls are blessed with, thin with big tits, skinny-voluptuous.

“We're going to the Bastille,â€￾ says the other girl, who in comparison to her friend is only reservedly attractive. Girlfriends are often like that. There is the 'pretty one' and the 'nice one'. The ying and yang buddies.

“They have the most fantastic crepes in the city at this time of night,â€￾ says The Pretty One. “Why don't you come with us?â€￾

“I don't know.â€￾ I say.

“Yeah, come on, sweetie,â€￾ says the other boy. Then he jumps up and down and gives me a big hug. He is obviously very gay and very out of it on strong drugs.

When I look into each of their faces, I see that they have very dilated pupils. The group is very high and happy. It's a good loving energy. I jump into the cab with them. It's a tight fit with four of us across the back. The asshole sits in front. Both the girls and the gay guy put their arms around me and give me hugs.

“Where are you from?â€￾

“New York.â€￾

“Fantastic. Me too! The city?â€￾

“Yeah.â€￾ I give them Raquel's address.

“Cool. My parents live across the park.â€￾

12!

The cab speeds down the street. We pass the river. Many beautiful stone bridges span the Seine. The suburbs are where the slums are. Unlike an American city that deteriorates from within the core, the inner city areas here are on the outside. The heart of Paris is superbly preserved.

In the back seat of the cab we are scrunched together. Hands grab my legs. I don't look to see who is doing the groping. I'm getting a lesson in Gay Paree, as Mike would say. I hope it's one of the girls grabbing me. The gay guy hands me a pill.

“Here take this.â€￾

“What is it?â€￾

“A dove. Perfect happiness.â€￾

“Thanks.â€￾

“What's your name?â€￾

“Trevor.â€￾

“Nice to meet you Trevor, I'm Jack, and this is Brit, and this is Greta.â€￾ I get more squeezes around my waist and a hand goes to my inner thigh.

He points to the back of the guy's head sitting in the passenger seat. “And that boy is Bobby Cohen. He's a bit of a dickhead,â€￾ Jack whispers in my ear. “He likes boxing, what do you expect?â€￾

I think about the cheese and decide I have plenty of time. I'm not really tired anyway. I swallow the pill. We stop at a huge roundabout with an obelisk in the center of it. There is also a big new building, one of the more modern buildings I've seen in Paris. Everyone gets out. Bobby pays the taxi driver. There is even more activity here than on the Champs-Eyleese.

“There are some fantastic clubs around here,â€￾ Brit says. She is bouncing on the balls of her feet. Greta hugs Brit and they start to tongue kiss in front of me. Both of the girls are getting extremely more gorgeous by the moment. Everyone and everything looks beautiful to me. It isn't like beer goggles when you are leery and sloppy and the Jersey girl at the end of the bar who has been sitting there all night is finally so out of focus you want to take her home. There is an overwhelming lightness to this clarity.

I feel the drug start to work. This is real Ecstasy, not at all like Tommy's piece of shit placebos. It's not a psychedelic the way acid is. People's beauty comes from the inside. I stare and watch the girls and then a wave of euphoria washes over me. Watching the two girls kiss is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. I start to sweat and get clammy hands. I lick my lips. Every sensation is heightened to the highest degree.

“Come on, quit goofing around,â€￾ says Bobby to the girls. He points me down a small street. “You can get a crepe over there.â€￾ He wants me to leave. Maybe he can sense some competition.

I'm no longer hungry. I want to join Greta and Brit in their kissing games.

“Come with us,â€￾ says Jack. He grabs my hand and leads me away toward a club. I don't mind his touch. In fact I like it. I have always considered myself a bit homophobic. I harbored a closeted prejudice against the gay guys that I would see in Chelsea. The way they'd check me out as I walk by. It's worse than passing interns at the hospital with a steaming pizza.

Jack doesn't bother me. I like him and don't care who he fucks. I feel love for the whole of humanity. Another wave of Ecstasy sends shivers down my spine and into my balls. I have never felt this good in my life.

We wait in line to enter a small club. At the door Bobby pays for all of us to enter. Once inside he orders champagne. We sit down at a table in the corner. Off to the left is a small packed dance floor. A deejay is spinning records. The dance music sounds like the best tunes I have ever heard.

Bobby chops up some coke on the table. Greta snorts some of the powder after Bobby does a double line. I pass on it. I don't have to feel anything more than the way I feel right now. I want this to last forever. I sit between Jack and Brit. They both hold onto one of my hands. It's like they are holding hands and I'm the conductor of love that is being used to pass their emotions to each other.

Bobby snorts more coke and gulps the champagne. Greta gets up and dances by herself. I sit back and relax. I gather in all the love. I sit back and take deep breaths, listening to the music and taking in the whole scene. I get up to walk around and buy a bottle of water.

13!

In line at the bar I see Raz across the dance floor talking to a beautiful black girl. I go over and give him a hug. He hugs me back. It's like we are long lost friends reunited for the first time in years. I feel free and happy. I'm sure it is the magic pill that Jack gave me. It is bringing up all the overwhelming emotions that are buried deep within me. It's a prolonged feeling of that instant you get right before you ejaculate. Then I hug the girl because she is beautiful and I love her, even though we have never met.

“How's it going man?â€￾ Raz asks all smiles.

“Cool, fucking great actually.â€￾

“I'm glad for you. This is Rita my girlfriend.â€￾

“Hiya,â€￾ Rita says. She has a strong British accent.

“Where are you from?â€￾

“London.â€￾

“London is cool,â€￾ I say. I have never been to London but if Rita is the girlfriend of Raz and Raz is cool then London has to be cool. This Ecstasy makes it easy to like people. I give both Raz and Rita a big group hug.

I have never been this physically excited before. I feel an idiotically tremulous smile spread across my face. I want to hug and touch everyone and don't mind being touched in return. Growing up with Grandpa and Mike there wasn't a lot of touchy-feelie going around except a few punches here and there.

It isn't a sexual feeling, exactly, either. It's more an intimate cuddly longing to embrace everyone in the room. I know it is just a drug experience, but Ecstasy doesn't feel like coke or speed with the high intense chemical sting, the arrogant blast of the self. This is warm and fuzzy. I fully understand Janis now. I want to talk to her. I love her.

“So how are you enjoying Paris?â€￾ asks Raz.

“It's the best moment of my whole life,â€￾ I say.

“Oh my, I should say so,â€￾ laughs Rita. “How long are you here?â€￾

“I leave in two days or tomorrow or something.â€￾

“That's too short to see Paris,â€￾ says Raz. “If you know what I mean.â€￾

“I'll be back. I just came for work.â€￾

“If you want to meet for coffees tomorrow give me a call. Do you still have my card?â€￾

“Yeah, that would be cool, I'd like that.â€￾

“Hey Raz?â€￾

“Yeah?â€￾

“I'm glad you picked me up from the airport.â€￾

“Yeah, me too.â€￾

“And Raz?â€￾

“Yeah?â€￾

“I really like your music mixes. I know you will be DJing in a club soon.â€￾

“Thanks, man.â€￾

I hug Rita and Raz goodbye. I sip my water from the bottle and slide back down on the couch. Bobby is trying to talk Brit into leaving with him. She says no, so he goes home with Greta. Jack has found a boy and he is slow dancing and making out with him on the dance floor.

“You want to get out of here with me?â€￾ asks Brit.

“Sure.â€￾

“Fantastic.â€￾

14!

Brit and I say goodbye to Jack. We leave with big hugs all around. I even hug Jack's new boyfriend. When we leave I'm startled to see the sun is up and people are awake and starting the day. My night hasn't ended yet. I should buy my cheese but I don't have the list with me. Brit takes me over a bridge to a café by the river. We sit outside. The waiter arrives at our table and Brit orders us beer and croissants and café crème.

“This is a cool spot,â€￾ I say.

“It's one of the islands, called Ile Saint Louis.â€￾

“What's that?â€￾ I point to the backside of a huge old church.

“That's the Notre Dame, and Square de L'Ile-de-France. One of the first parts of Paris.â€￾

“Is that the first arrondissment?â€￾ I read in my guidebook that Paris is made up of twenty arrondissments, or districts. I thought it would be boroughs like they have in New York- Brooklyn, the Bronx and Queens and all that, but it's much more compact and they all touch and spiral outward clockwise.

“No. This is the fourth arrondissement.â€￾

“It's great here. This is such a wonderful spot. I can't believe there is a place like this right in the middle of the city.â€￾

“Yeah. It really is fantastic.â€￾

“So what are you doing here?â€￾ I ask.

“I'm having a drink with you, silly.â€￾

“You're a funny girl. I mean you and your friends, what are you guys doing in Paris?â€￾

“We all go to school at the American University of Paris. We are a few of the students that didn't go home for the holidays. Most people left the city.â€￾

“That must be great.â€￾

“What?â€￾

“To go to school in Paris.â€￾

“Yes, fantastic. Being able to study in a foreign country allows you to get a school book education, I mean at college, as well as the experience of Paris, empirical knowledge of France, you know? You can only learn so much in books. You have to live through things to truly understand them.â€￾

I sip the beer and then the coffee, then more beer. It is smooth on my lips and helps steady the chemical vibe of the pill. I lean back in my chair as the day breaks. The croissants look and smell very delicious. I have absolutely no appetite.

“Do you want to split another half?â€￾ Brit asks.

“Is it the same as what Jack gave me?â€￾

“Yeah.â€￾

“Fantastic.â€￾

Brit takes the pill out of her pocket. She sticks it between her front teeth and bites it in half. She gives one half to me and I swallow it with a big gulp of beer. It works fast. I start to feel that great high again. Brit puts sunglasses on and smiles at me.

“You know I'm in love with Jack,â€￾ she says.

“Oh.â€￾ I could see a problem with that. Jack is gay. Not too fantastic for Brit.

“The problem is I'm in love with a gay boy.â€￾

“Uh-huh.â€￾

“It pisses me off. It isn't something I planned. He is just so fantastic. One night we went out and we were super high and we kissed playfully. For him it was just fun and forgotten, but with me, well I can't stop thinking about him now. Shit.â€￾

“Does he know?â€￾

“Well, he knows I just adore him. But what can I do? I go out, get wasted, and have sex, all with other people when I want it to be with him. My love for him has turned me into something of a slut.â€￾

“That is tough.â€￾

“Yes, it is.â€￾

I think of Janis. She wouldn't believe this- me sitting in an outdoor Paris café high on Ecstasy. I wish she could see me right now. That would show her. Then those mean feelings fade away. I only have love and respect for Janis.

Brit takes a swig of beer and lights a cigarette. She hands me a cigarette and it is the best smoke I have ever had. We sit talking. I have rush after rush of euphoria in the early morning sunshine. I don't feel the cold.

“You ever love someone who doesn't love you?â€￾ Brit asks between deep drags of her cigarette.

“Yeah sort of, with me I think we love each other, or could fall in love with each other, but we are too stupid. I don't know, like too independent to really let each other in. Also I caught her sleeping with another girl while on Ecstasy and I've slept with a few girls since then.â€￾

“Wow, when was that?â€￾

“Um, well like all last week.â€￾

“What? No way.â€￾

“Yeah, it's been crazy lately. A crazy fuckin' life.â€￾

“That never helps.â€￾

“I mean, we were never dating.â€￾

“But did it hurt?â€￾

“Yeah.â€￾

“The way relationships are today, people don't really date. They go out. They fuck. They just do their things, so when it hurts, it's as painful as when people went on dates, but we think it's not supposed to hurt as much.â€￾

“I don't understand it. That's for sure.â€￾

15!

After more beers we stand up and walk across a footbridge until we are standing right behind the Notre Dame cathedral. I recognize the gothic styles of flying buttresses and stained glass. Maybe I'll put in stain glass back at the house. Keep grandpa from staring at the graveyard all day.

Brit tells me that this was where Paris first started. That Paris was first an island and the old school Parisians used the water as a way to keep them safe from Huns and other bad guys of the era.

Then we cross another bridge. Paris has many bridges because the Seine runs down the middle, dividing the left and right banks. Brit shows me a little bookstore called Shakespeare & Company that is located across the river from the Notre Dame. They have them in New York as well but the one I went to on Broadway with Mike was pretty clean, like a miniature Barnes& Noble. This place is weathered, with musty books crammed into the shelf space.

Brit buys me A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway.

“Thanks,â€￾ I say.

It's a fantastic book,â€￾ says Brit. It's sort of a memoir of his early days in Paris, published posthumously in 1964. The writing reflects The Lost Generation; groups of expatriate American writers and artists who came to live in Paris and rejected American beliefs. You know every generation of fantastic literary greats get their own label. The Lost Generation, The Beats.â€￾

“What about now?â€￾

“I don't know. Is there a voice of a generation? Maybe the closest we have is Dave Eggers, but I think his writing sucks. McSweeney's is more like a clique than a movement. I think literature is like music today. There will never be another Beatles or Stones, the biggest rock groups in the world, because too much is being put out and society is so fractured.â€￾

“I guess.â€￾ I say. And I realize that Brit and Janis would get along great.â€￾

The kid behind the counter stamps the inside page of the book with the Shakespeare & Co. in Paris logo. I don't know if they stamp the Shakespeare & Co. books in New York because Mike was shoplifting. Brit uses the kid's pen to write her name and a big heart. She also dates it.

There is a quotation from the author on the first page:

'If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it goes with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.'

“I like this,â€￾ I tell her.

Yeah, it's fantastic. It's a great gift for an American in Paris. You know what Oscar Wilde wrote?â€￾

“No, but I have a book of Oscar Wilde's poems.â€￾

“Isn't that sensitive of you. Old Oscar wrote, 'They say that when good Americans die they go to Paris.'â€￾

“That's cool. Who's 'they?'â€￾

“Don't know.â€￾

Brit and I find this extraordinarily funny. We leave the bookstore arm in arm with huge smiles on our faces. I slide the slender book into my coat pocket.

16!

The sun has fully come up now and broken through the early mist. Around the corner Brit shows me the oldest church in Paris. She isn't sure how old it is but to me it looks like it is about to collapse. It's a simple box structure. It doesn't have any of the size of the Gothic cathedrals. It rests unassumingly in the Latin Quarter.

We walk through narrow streets crowded with little restaurants. Many are Greek bistro type places and have rotating meat skillets in the window. The grilled lamb gives off rich sickly aromas. The proprietors stand in the doorways and try to entice you to come have lunch with them. Ricardo would be proud of their entrepreneurship. From the Latin Quarter we arrive back along the Seine. Tourist boats travel up and down the river.

“Where would you like to go?â€￾ Brit asks.

“I want to see Van Gogh,â€￾ I say. In the back of my mind there is the creeping feeling that I should get some rest and then get the cheese. I'm too excited to sleep though.

We walk at a brisk pace along the Quai. Finally we arrive at the Museum D'Orsay. There is a bit of a wait and Brit hugs me as we stand in line.

“I'm glad you didn't want to go to the Louvre. When friends come to visit they all want to go there right away to see the Mona Lisa because it is the most famous painting. When looking at art you should pretend you are at a garage sale and take the time to see what appeals to you.â€￾

“That's a good philosophy,â€￾ I say.

“Thanks, this is fantastic,â€￾ she says and kisses me on the cheek and hugs me closer.

“Yes, it is.â€￾

“It is truly refreshing to have met you.â€￾

“Thanks.â€￾

At the ticket window I pay my entrance fee. Brit has a student card that allows her into all the museums for free. I read a brochure in English. The D'Orsay museum used to be an old train station that has now been converted into one of the best museums in the world. The concrete grayish exterior is impressive close up.

The D'Orsay was the work of three French presidents. The train station was deserted since 1961. Then Pompidou saved it from destruction. In 1978 Giscard d' Estaing decided it would be used as a museum and Mitterand inaugurated it in 1986. It is now the home of many famous artists. High on Ecstasy I study the art works.

We start on the lower level. The first painting to catch my eye is Decline of Romans. At 25 feet wide and 15 feet high it's hard to miss. The massive mural is a festive orgy of robust half-naked women and grapes and wine goblets. It's a banquet of the damned, a feast of fornication. It arouses a historic sense of what sentient beings do for pleasure. We aren't supposed to be completely sober and somber in our lives. We need our intoxicants. It's been documented through the generations in grand gestures.

I've always thought of myself as a hedonist living out of place and time. I wanted to be around in the sixties when all my favorite music was being made. Then in the art history class I learned of the Romans. One of the reasons I wanted to go to Europe and especially Italy was because I once had a dream that in a past life I used to be a Roman Emperor. I did a little research and found out that those guys really knew how to party.

This painting makes me wish I could have been there drinking the wine and indulging in the delights of the women. But then I'd be dead now. And I don't want to be dead. I never would have tried Ecstasy and met Brit. I have to live as much as I can in my own time.

The way I see it drugs are here to stay and they are only going to get better. There are drugs like alcohol, which is the time tested best drug ever invented. And new drugs like Ecstasy that will come and replace other drugs as the hip choice. Drugs will come and go. I wonder what the next wave will be like. I hope I'm not too old to enjoy it.

“Brit?â€￾

“Yeah?â€￾

“You know how you said we live in a boring time, with the writing and all that?â€￾

“Yeah, there is no art anymore.â€￾

“I don't agree. We have to think of our time the same as you said people should look at paintings, our time is its own garage sale and we need to find what appeals to us. It is out there and if not, it's up to us to create it.â€￾

“Are you creative?â€￾

“I paint, but not like this.â€￾

“Exactly, see art is dead.â€￾

“I disagree.â€￾

“That's okay lovely, we can still be friends.â€￾

Brit leans in and gives me another kiss. I grab her and kiss her back, high on drugs and lust, living large, surrounded by years of the best artistic endeavors of dead men. Life is far from boring.

We head up to the other levels. I'm blown away by all the paintings, awestruck by Degas's Dancing Lesson, Monet's Poppies and Renoir's Ball at the Moulin Rouge, which is another tapestry party scene I would have loved to be a part of.

There are nudes, Courbet's The Source, Chasseriau's The Tempidrium, Bouguereau's Birth of Venus, Gerome's Greek Interiors, Cezanne's Temptation of St. Anthony and Lafebure's Truth, which looks like Janis without the moles, freckles and green eyes.

After passing many masterworks I finally see the Van Goghs. The first self-portrait is from Paris 1887 and I'm a little disappointed because it isn't the one Mike and I always looked at. Then I see it, the self-portrait from Saint-Remy September 1889. The painting I have seen in books. The painting that Mike and I have decided is the best painting in the world. I can't believe it is hanging right in front of me. It's Vincent fuckin' Van Gogh's self-portrait- the most intense blues and eyes that burn agony into your skin.

The museum also has the painting of Van Gogh's bedroom in Arles. The room looks lonesome. I know from art history class that Van Gogh would sell his works cheap so that he could afford to buy new painting supplies. He was born to do it, never made any money. He was the purest, greatest artist that ever lived- a pure punk rock painter. He was also crazy and cut his ear off for a prostitute hooker in the South of France. Then he shot himself in the stomach.

Brit sees me staring at the painting.

“You like that?â€￾

“Yeah, very much.â€￾

“You have to go to the Van Gogh museum in Amsterdam. It's even better.â€￾

“Yeah, my friend Mike and I are gonna do that.â€￾

“Come on,â€￾ Brit says. “Let's get another drink.â€￾

I take a last look at the stunning clear blue eyes of the artist. They haven't lost any of the power over the years. The blues are textured with a wispy cool, but also reflect a ferocious storm brewing in what is the physicality of mental anguish and insane genius. Mike has to see the real thing in person. Get empirical knowledge, like Brit said, of this painting.

All these wonderful works of art have inspired me to paint. My supplies are still at Janis's house. I'll have to get them when I get back home. I want my final project to be great. But I know I don't have the talent.

The museum café has a great view of Paris. We sit down and order beers. It's a little crowded and the vibe isn't matching my high. There are too many parents and tourists who are too obvious and oblivious. It's quite loud. I've noticed that in public places where it is mostly French people it is never as frenzied or noisy as in New York. In the cafes here, in contrast to a bar in New York, no one yells at each other as part of daily conversation.

“Let's just stay for one beer,â€￾ I say. “It's too crowded in here for me.â€￾

“Okay, where are you staying?â€￾

“I'm at the George V. But I don't want to go back. I'm having too much fun. Do you have any more ecstasy? I could pay.â€￾

“I got one more. Do you want to split another half?â€￾

“Yeah.â€￾

“Okay. Where should we go?â€￾

“I want to go up the Eiffel Tower.â€￾

“Great.â€￾

Brit takes a pill and bites it in half again. We split it and drink it down with the miniature size Heineken beers that have arrived. I try to pay her for it but she refuses. Instead I leave money for the beers.

“Can I kiss you on the cheek?â€￾ Brit asks.

“Of course.â€￾

Broken-hearted love doesn't count for much when you are flying high, stoned to the heavens. Brit leans over the tiny table. In front of all the tourists and crying babies and annoyed cafeteria staff she gives me a sensual kiss on my cheek and then lets her tongue go to my ear and neck. It sends shivers down my spine. I can tell from the way she handles her lips that she is a good kisser. That is why she kisses everyone. You have to stick to what you have talents for. And there are more useless talents in this world than being a fantastic kisser. Brit gives me the real thing, the perfect French kiss.

17!

We walk away from the museum and continue along the river, walking arm in arm. The Seine cuts Paris in half dividing the Left Bank from the Right Bank. From the river we cross an open space called Les Invalides with a majestic shrine at the base that holds Napoleon's tomb.

Leaning into each other as we walk we turn down a side street called rue de Grenelle. There is a little market and we buy tall cans of cheap beer.

“Shit, I hope I don't see anyone,â€￾ says Brit.

“Why?â€￾

“This is near my school. I don't want to see anyone while I'm out of it.â€￾

“You're out of it?â€￾

“Yeah, three hits of Ecstasy, and all these beers on no sleep. Aren't you?â€￾

“I guess I am but I feel so great.â€￾

Brit points to The American University of Paris on the corner of rue Grenelle and Avenue Bosquet.

“That's my main building.â€￾

“Cool. Looks small.â€￾

“It is small but just so fantastic, lots of fun. Kids from all around the world go to school here. The professors know their stuff- most of them come from really esteemed academic backgrounds, but teach here because they are drunks and perverts. Either that or they just want to be in Paris.â€￾

We continue to the Ecole Militaire, the Military school. I turn right and get a great view of the Eiffel Tower hovering over the Champs de Mars. I see the tower in all its glory, from the base right to its tall tip. I'm stunned by such a splendid structure- its wrought iron arrogance. The fact that it stands at all is amazing. I like this guy Gustave Eiffel who built it.

“Why did Eiffel build this?â€￾ I ask.

“For the World's Fair.â€￾

“Yeah okay, but why did he build it, and don't they usually tear things down from the World's Fair?â€￾

“I guess they do. I don't know, but I saw on television that Chirac called the Eiffel Tower the symbol of Paris, and all of France. Don't you like it?â€￾

“I love it. It is the most perfect structure ever built.â€￾

“Yeah, I think it's pretty fantastic myself. Sometimes when I'm having a bad day I'll come and sit under it and think. It calms me in some way. You know he did some bridges, I saw one of his bridges in Porto, Portugal and it looked just like the Eiffel Tower turned on its side.â€￾

“Someone told me that the Williamsburg Bridge was based on the Eiffel Tower. But I don't see it.â€￾

I'm falling in love with Paris. I want to move here with Mike. Instead of just visiting Paris, I want to live here. Brit and I find a park bench and sit under the Eiffel Tower for about an hour. We chain smoke, lighting our next smoke off the end of each others last butt. We don't talk. I stare at the Eiffel Tower. Somehow my brain believes that this huge inanimate structure will give me all of life's insights.

“Let's go up it.â€￾ Brit finally says.

I stand up. My legs are stiff and my body is finally reacting to the cold December weather. I feel a deep chill.

“I kinda feel like I should go back to my hotel,â€￾ I say. I can go up the tower with Mike when I return.

“Okay, I'll walk you back. No wait, I have to take you to Cimetiere du Montparnasse to see Serge Gainsbourg's grave.â€￾

“Who?â€￾

“Serge Gainsbourg. He was this great French singer who fucked the most beautiful women and drank himself to death. He was married to Jane Birkin.â€￾

“I know her,â€￾ I say. “She was in this film I saw called La Belle Noiseuse.â€￾

“Yeah, but that was when she was old. She used to be so foxy in the sixties.â€￾

Serge sounds like my kind of guy. Though I am starting to feel very tired. I need to get rest. I start to have a bit of mental clarity, and entering the corner of my mind is the fact that I haven't bought the cheese. I don't panic about it yet, because the Ecstasy is still in me and nothing can be that bad while you are high. I have to let this day unfold and see where it takes me.

18!

Brit hails a taxi and gives an address in French. We stop outside an apartment building. Brit tells me to wait in the cab. I do and the cabby asks me something in French and I don't know how to answer so I shrug my shoulders.

“Ca va?â€￾ The cabby repeats.

“I don't speak French, sorry.â€￾ I say.

“Pas de tout?â€￾

“No, not at all, sorry.â€￾

Brit hurries out with two bottles of wine, and an I-pod. She jumps in and gives another address. We drive past the one Paris skyscraper.

“That's Montparnasse.â€￾ She says.

“Kinda stands out in this city. I like the Eiffel Tower better,â€￾ I say.

“Me too. Everyone does.â€￾

The taxi stops outside of a cemetery. Brit pays the cabby, and as she scrounges in her purse for money the cabby winks at me. It's a conspiratorial wink, like man-to-man sign language. He is letting me know that I am going to get some and he approves of my choice.

“Is this the cemetery where Jim Morrison is buried?â€￾ I ask.

“No, that's Cimetiere Du Pere-Lachaise. Chopin is also buried there along with lots of other famous writers and stuff.â€￾

The cemetery is mostly deserted. I'm no longer aware of much and consciousness is daunting. It must be late afternoon by now. The cool weather now affects me. I feel the winter chill through my whole body. I rewrap my scarf around my neck. Most people don't go to cemeteries when it's cold. It must be a summer activity, which is weird since death is the winter part of the cycle of life.

I grab the bottles of wine and follow Brit. She sits down cross-legged in front of a gravestone covered in fuzzy stuffed animals and empty bottles of wine. She plays her I-pod. The music sounds like sixties lounge music, she must be kidding, it's too kitsch to be cool. But as the music plays I get into it. I don't understand the lyrics, except the English lines, but his voice and cheesy little tunes grow on me and it becomes a very sexy musical experience.

“What do you think of the music?â€￾ She asks me.

“It's growing on me.â€￾

“It's just so fantastic. Serge drank himself to death. He would always do duets with the most beautiful women. It didn't matter how well they could sing. They just had to be sexy.â€￾

“Yeah, you said. Sounds good to me.â€￾

Brit opens the first bottle of wine with a Swiss army knife. Swiss army knives are one of the best inventions ever.

I could use some wine. Brit takes a pull from the bottle and hands it to me. She puts two cigarettes into her mouth and lights them both. When I'm done taking a gulp of the delicious red wine she hands me a smoke. We sit on the ground sharing the wine and listening to Serge Gainsburg. Brit takes out a joint- she uses a metro ticket at the end as a filter. She tokes and I contemplate.

Sitting in a cemetery surrounded by cold gray granite. I look at Serge's grave and how he is missed, and then I look at the other gravestones. Maybe being familiar with a cemetery is a way to get closer to death, allowing you to no longer fear it. That might be what Grandpa is doing. Making peace before he leaves.

The Ecstasy really gives me an oral fixation. We sit and smoke and cuddle. And we kiss, our cold noses rubbing against each other. Both bottles of wine are drunk. I have heard every Serge song twice. It's time for rest and recovery. There has been too many highs, too many experiences and too much to see. I have a hard time taking it all in. What a crazy twenty-four hours. I also need to get the cheese.

“Let's go back to your hotel,â€￾ Brit says.

“Okay.â€￾

Every position must be held to the last man: there must be no retirement. With our backs to the wall, and believing in the justice of our cause, each one of us must fight on to the end. - Earl Douglas Haig (1861-1928), British general and commander of the Expeditionary Force in World War I When I re...

The guy driving is about my age. My first thought is terrorist! He has a caramel complexion, with black eyes and scruffy black beard. He looks like the men dominating the news.

“Hi.â€￾ I say. I repeat my mantra. 'Don't be an ugly American.' But don't get yourself blown to bits, either.

“Hello.â€￾

“Where you from?â€￾ I ask. I'm over-reacting. He is probably from Columbia like Ricardo.

“Saudi Arabia.â€￾

“Oh.â€￾

“And you man?â€￾

“America.â€￾

“Cool. I love America, man.â€￾

“Uh-huh.â€￾ I listen to the sound of a bomb ticking. It is only my heart.

Not only do the taxis look different in Paris than New York, but this driver speaks perfect English, with a slight British accent.

“I want to go to The George V hotel,â€￾ I say. “It's on the Champs-Elysees, in Paris.â€￾

“No problem, man.â€￾ He says. “I'll put on some tunes.â€￾

The music he plays is hip-hop sung in French, but the beats are mellower than New York rap. It sounds like a soulful love song. Even though I don't understand the lyrics, it is more Curtis Mayfield than 50 Cents. Janis would love it.

“This is cool, what is it?â€￾ I ask. Usually I like rock n' roll but this tape has some of the most refreshing tunes I've heard in years.

“It's my latest mix I did last night. It's got all French music. MC Solar, DJ Cam, Kid Loco, Dimitri From Paris, I: Cube and Mirconauts. When I'm not driving this cab I deejay.â€￾

“Cool, you deejay in clubs?â€￾

“Not yet man, but I hope to soon. I keep my CD's in the taxi and maybe I'll pick up a club promoter someday. I drive around the Bastille a lot. I like to vibe on the scene, if you know what I mean. â€￾

“Cool.â€￾

“I even have a MySpace page.â€￾

“Uh-huh.â€￾

I relax. There is nothing more American than a MySpace page.

We drive into the city listening to the music. I'm too busy checking out the sights to talk. The buildings are anything but impressive. I find they actually look worse than New Jersey. We pass gray factories and weird colored seventies-looking housing projects. It's cold, but there is no snow. My first impression of the supposedly most beautiful city on planet earth is that of a desolate abandoned Mars colony from a 1970's science fiction film.

Then I see it in the distance, the symbol of France. The stately erect Eiffel Tower rises above the city. I only see one other building in the skyline. Paris isn't built up the way New York is. I'm surprised there aren't more skyscrapers.

We descend into a dark tunnel and when we emerge I'm in Paris. We drive along the river Seine. My art history classes stunningly start to make sense. When you see things in a book it doesn't ever seem totally real. Now I understand. This is the Paris from the postcards.

We turn away from the river and rush down a huge boulevard. New York is laid out on a grid system- everything is cut down in symmetrical blocks. Paris has more winding roads and tiny streets contrasted with huge boulevards. Here the streets differ in size much more than New York City.

The people on the streets look elegant. Both the men and women wear colorful scarves and even the children are well groomed. And not one person could weigh more than 200 pounds. Curiously there is a pharmacy on ever corner, and not so curiously there is a café kitty-corner to every pharmacy.

The cab swerves onto the grandest street I've ever seen. It is sort of divided like Park Avenue, but wider and more decorated. This is Avenue des Champs-Elysees. The taxi parks outside my grand hotel. I look up the street.

“Wow,â€￾ I say. “What's that?â€￾

The cabby looks at me like I'm a bit stupid.

“That's the Arc du Triumphe. This your first time in Paris?â€￾

“This is my first time anywhere.â€￾

“This is where you stay, the George V.â€￾ He points out the fancy hotel. Then he spreads his arms. “And the Champs-Elysees stretches from Place de l' Etoile to Place de la Concorde. Check it out. It's a bit posh and past it's prime but you know, it's the Champs-Elysees.â€￾

“Wow.â€￾

I get out and tip him. He gives me a look.

“Do I need to give you more?â€￾

“No, man, you are good. In Paris you don't have to tip as much. My cousin drives a taxi in Chicago, the home of House Music, and he says the people sometimes tip half. Unfortunately, the French keep their money tight.â€￾

“Thanks, what's your name?â€￾

“Raz. I'm Muslim if that's why you are asking but I'm not a very good one. I'd rather have my virgins on earth than in heaven, if you know what I mean.â€￾

“Thanks, Raz.â€￾

He hands me his card. It says: Raz Mohammed Husainkhil- 'Taxi Driver & DJ.'

“Call me if you need a taxi or some spliff. I got the best shit, hashish, in Paris man. And I'm gonna be going to a club in the eleventh if you want to hear some good music.â€￾

“Cool.â€￾

10!

Raz hands me a couple of CD's and drives off. I put the CD's in my pocket. I'll need to get a laptop. As I walk toward the entrance of the George V, I pass a kiosk plastered with fashion magazines. Bi is on the cover of a couple. She is topless and has her hands on her frail hips. These must be French magazines because they don't have topless Vogue in America. I feel like a loser. Here is this topless model on a magazine cover, showing off her flat as glass stomach, protruding hip bones and perky tits, something she gets paid well to do, and only a little while ago was fucking my finger because I couldn't get it up. I realize that as an adult, I have no chance of being cooler than when I was in high school.

I buy the magazines with Bi on the cover and look for some sexy postcards for Grandpa. They have tourist spots of Paris. There are no nude color photos of young babes. It's bad luck for Grandpa.

Inside I go to the front desk. The other hotel guests are dressed nicer than I am. Even the employees are dressed nicer. A man looks up from his paper work. He must be the concierge.

“Hello.â€￾

“Hello, sir.â€￾

“Yes, are you the concierge?â€￾

“Yes, sir.â€￾

“Cool, you are the first concierge I've ever met.â€￾

“I'm happy for you, sir.â€￾

“My name is Trevor McDuffy. I think I have a room here and there should also be an envelope waiting for me.â€￾

“Please wait a moment, sir.â€￾

The concierge types away at his keyboard and then he stiffly walks to the back and looks through a file. He returns back with a room key and a thick manila envelope. He hands both to me.

“Here you go, sir.â€￾

I turn to walk up to my room and bump into a bellhop who has somehow stood right behind me without me noticing. I drop my bag.

“Please,â€￾ he says. “Can I take your luggage, sir?â€￾

“Uh sure.â€￾ I wish I had a classier suitcase.

I follow the guy up to my room. The room is gorgeous and even bigger than the one I stayed in with Rachael. I tip the guy well, even though Raz said you don't need to tip as much in France, it's still a good thing to get in well with the help.

“Need anything else, sir?â€￾

“Do you guys have a laptop or boom box I could use?â€￾

“Boom box?â€￾

“Yeah, I need to play some CD's.â€￾ I pull Raz's CD's out of my pocket and show them to the bellhop. “You know, to play these.â€￾

“I'll look, sir.â€￾

Once the bellhop leaves I jump on the bed. It's big and luxurious and firm. I open the envelope and it's full of money; brand new euro bills. There is also a list of the cheeses and the names of the shops to buy each cheese: specific varieties of Port-Salut, Camembert, Gruyere, Neufchatel, and Pont-L'Eveque. I have never heard of these cheeses except for Camembert. With my list though I can point and get what I need.

The bellhop returns with a CD Walkman and portable speakers. I tip him again. I play a CD, but don't remember even hearing the first tune.

When I wake up it's completely dark. I turn to see if Mike is home yet and then realize I'm not in my basement. I fumble for a light switch. I find a lamp and turn it on. I remember I'm in Paris. I pick up the phone and manage to call the front desk.

“Oui?â€￾

“Do you speak English?â€￾ I ask.

“Yes, sir.â€￾

“Do you know what time it is?â€￾

“Yes, sir.â€￾

I wait.

“Well, do you know? Can you tell me?â€￾

“It is almost two in the morning, sir.â€￾

“Two in the morning?â€￾

“Yes, sir.â€￾

“Thanks.â€￾

After a little sleep and sobering up being called 'sir' so many times is getting annoying. It's almost sarcastic. Like:

“Do you know what time it is?â€￾

“It is almost two in the morning, fuck off.â€￾

“Two in the morning?â€￾

“Yes, fuck off.â€￾

“Thanks.â€￾

I have the white and blue one. What does that mean again? It was a re-release.

Marky is DipsoMacho. Because he dances like he means it.