Bulletin Board of Bad Behavior

“Bye, Bi,â€￾ I say. She doesn't turn around.

I walk up the onramp. The air and light of Charles Du Gaulle is different. I'm in Paris, France. There is a long wait at customs. There are two lines, one for French nationals, and another for foreigners. I'm now a foreigner.

The airport is visibly full of members of the French army. Many of the soldiers carry machine guns. In New York you don't get a military presence. I wonder how long it will be before Americans casually walk past machine guns as they go about their day-to-day. I get my passport stamped. It's now official. I'm in France.

I shuffle with the other passengers over to the baggage claim. Announcements are declared over the intercom. It takes a moment before I realize I don't comprehend what is being said. I grab my suitcase and follow the signs with the picture of the train.

I patiently stand in line for the trains. It is not dissimilar than waiting at Grand Central Station. I have the situation under control. This will be easy. I step to the ticket counter.

“Paris, please.â€￾

The woman selling the tickets sits behind her thick glass booth and stares at me like I'm speaking a foreign language. Which I know I am. I don't want to speak English and be rude, so I stick to French. I smile and repeat, “Paris?â€￾

I fumble in my wallet and hand over ten U.S. dollars. The woman looks at me with annoyance.

“Non.â€￾ She says.

“No?â€￾

“Non.â€￾

“No Paris?â€￾ I ask.

“Non.â€￾

I put another ten dollars down. Twenty dollars should get me a ticket to Paris. Rachael told me it should cost about seven.

The woman looks at the two ten dollar bills.

“Non.â€￾

“No Paris?â€￾ I repeat.

“Non.â€￾

There is an uncomfortable silence as I'm acutely aware of the line waiting behind me. The woman isn't offering any help. This is all a big mistake. I never should have come to Paris. I wish I were back at the Blue Rose.

“Excuse me,â€￾ says a man behind me. I turn around. “You must get French money, I mean euros, over there. An exchange.â€￾ He points to another booth. “Then you can buy your ticket for the RER.â€￾

“Thank you,â€￾ I say. It is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me. I wait in the other line wondering what's an RER. I cash two U.S. one hundred-dollar bills into euros. This will surely be enough to get me to the hotel where more money is supposedly waiting for me.

I wait again, back in the train line. When I step up, I give another smile, and place the euros on the counter.

“Oui?â€￾ The woman asks.

“Paris.â€￾

“Oui?â€￾

“Paris, you know Paris?â€￾

“Non.â€￾

“No?â€￾

“Non.â€￾

“No Paris?â€￾

“Non.â€￾

I grab the euros and follow the signs with the picture of a taxi. There are no yellow cabs. I get over this culture shock by jumping into a small Fiat.

I have Live at the Witch Trials, which is not a live album.

Mike walks into the house.

“Move over.â€￾

Grandpa and I move left so Mike can sit down next to us on the far right side.

“Well, I think I'm ready for new beginnings.â€￾ Mike says.

“What do you mean?â€￾ I ask.

“Well, you are going to gay paree and I have a surprise. Follow me.â€￾

I stand up and start to follow him outside. Mike stops and turns to grandpa.

“You too old man.â€￾

“Me?â€￾

“Yeah. Let's go.â€￾

We follow Mike outside. Balanced in the back of the Dick's truck is a brand new velveteen sofa wrapped in plastic. It's an expensive couch. And is probably worth more than anything else in our house, besides my records.

“What's that?â€￾ Grandpa asks.

“That's the new place for you to plant your ass.â€￾

“I like my ass just fine on the old sofa.â€￾

“This one will be more comfortable.â€￾

“Are you sure?â€￾

“Yeah, and with your active lifestyle you'll wear it in soon enough.â€￾

“I guess so. Now I can get some female company to come and sit next to me.â€￾

“Yeah, sure.â€￾

We carry in the new couch and unwrap it from its plastic casing. Then we throw the old one out to the curb. Under the space where the old couch sat for so many years the carpet is a couple of shades brighter compared to the rest of the room. I vacuum the room. We place the new couch exactly where the old one sat. When grandpa is settled in, it's time for me to leave.

“Well guys, this is it.â€￾

“The witching hour, time for you to go?â€￾

“Yep.â€￾

“Come here and give me a hug, my boy.â€￾

I hug grandpa. He holds me for a good minute.

“I'll be back in two days.â€￾

“We'll have a nice Christmas on the new sofa.â€￾

“Yeah.â€￾

5!

I run down to the basement and grab my suitcase. A quick look around. I pat my pockets to make sure I have my money and passport. Upstairs grandpa walks me out to the truck. He stays on the curb and waves as we pull away. The hand he isn't waving with rests on his old couch.

“So, where did you get that couch?â€￾

“Around.â€￾

“A man of few words.â€￾

“Who?â€￾

“You.â€￾

“Listen, just don't be stupid. And stay alert.â€￾

“You don't think I'm a person who is alert?â€￾

“You lost that model the other night, didn't you?â€￾

“Well.â€￾

“So just be cool so we can go back together like we planned. I want us to see Europe together.â€￾

“Yeah, of course. You don't think that I don't want to still go on our trip do you? I'm doing this for the money, you know. And I will find a place for us to stay in Paris. It will be cool. Don't worry.â€￾

“Okay. That's cool, but talk to me.â€￾

We drive the rest of the way in silence. I take long looks at the ground passing by outside the window. I scrunch up my eyes and see gray patterns blurring into a smoggy horizon. It's cold today.

John F. Kennedy airport is a mad mess of people coming and going. The ground traffic and air traffic are both backed up. Holiday travel is the worst. Peace on Earth. New Yorkers are very loud and strident, honking horns and shouting.

“Cars are no longer allowed to park along the curb,â€￾ Mike says. “I don't want to pay for parking so jump out.â€￾

Mike slows down and I literally jump out with my suitcase.

“Bye,â€￾ I yell as he pulls away.

“Bon Voyage!â€￾

And he is gone. Outside the airport I take a long look at all the confusion. A cop stands next to me.

“Get a move on buddy. We got people trying to get home for the holidays.â€￾

“I was just looking around, it's my first time at the airport.â€￾

“Great. Now shove off willya?â€￾

6!

Inside I follow the signs to the Air France ticket counter. People are bustling and hustling to make flights and connections. Everyone is in a hurry, moving at a slow pace. Tempers start to flare.

I try the e ticket and it doesn't work. An employee tells me they are not letting people board with e tickets anymore. I have to stand in line like everyone else. I get in the long line, and I wait. I stand in the same spot, barely moving. And I am getting repeatedly hit. Nudged from behind. An older lady in rich gaudy sunglasses keeps hitting the back of my ankles and calves with the sharp corner of her heavy suitcase. I want to turn around and give her a good slap, knock those fancy glasses off her stretched plastic surgery face. Instead I take a deep breath and decide to be diplomatic.

“Excuse me,â€￾ I say with a smile. “The line isn't going to go any faster if you keep hitting me with your luggage.â€￾

“You keep backing up into me, I'm trying to make my flight.â€￾

“Look lady, I'm not backing into you, you are running into me, and if you keep doing it-â€￾

“Look,â€￾ she curtly cuts me off. “Move forward! From the looks of it you have no place to go in a hurry, but I need to make the plane.â€￾

“We are all waiting to go to the same place.â€￾

“I just can not believe this world today. I'm stuck with the proletariat.â€￾

“Did you just call me proletariat?â€￾

“She turns her head, and closes her mouth, and a noise not dissimilar to 'hump' escapes her lips.

I turn back around. I cringe to myself. A small, well-attired Frenchmen in front of me is rapidly talking into his cell phone. I don't understand a word he is saying but I can tell he is very agitated. He shouts into his phone and snaps it shut. He creeps a few centimeters ahead.

“Move up.â€￾ The woman behind me says.

I turn around and point out what little room there is to actually move forward. The woman continues to glare through expensive tint.

“Look,â€￾ I say as friendly as I can with clenched teeth. “You can step in front of me if it makes you feel better.â€￾

Without a thank you or even a nod of appreciation the woman lunges past. Within a minute she and the Frenchman are fighting over territory. Unlike the French military mentality that is the butt of many jokes, the Frenchman doesn't give up without a fight. Soon security is called and both are taken away kicking and screaming.

I skip ahead two spaces. I get to the check-in with plenty of time to board. The women behind the counter are obviously French. I mean this is what all the excitement must be about. Because unlike the nurses at the hospital, these fully realized women look stunningly sexual in uniform.

“Do you have your ticket?â€￾ The woman at my station asks.

“No, I was supposed to get an e ticket but I was told to come here instead.â€￾ I try to give a Steve McQueen smirk. It doesn't have the effect I want. The woman ignores me, reacting like a robot as she looks at her computer screen. I'll need to practice that look in front of the mirror if I'm to melt the hearts of one of these Stepford Wives proficiency babes.

“Passport?â€￾ She asks.

I proudly hand it over. Finally using documentation to travel. The statuesque woman in the red, white and blue polyester finery looks at it and then with lightening dexterity hits her keyboard with a thousand little clicks until my ticket comes up. She smiles.

“Did you pack your luggage yourself?â€￾

“Yes.â€￾

“Has it been out of your sight?â€￾

“No.â€￾

“Has anyone touched or handled your luggage without your knowledge.â€￾

“No.â€￾ How would I know if someone touched my luggage without my knowledge? I know what she means though and don't push the issue.

“Thank you, and enjoy your flight.â€￾

It's time to spend some of Rachael's money. I sit at a bar and order a bottle of Heineken and a shot of Jack Daniel's. It costs fifteen dollars. At the Blue Rose I could drink with fifteen dollars all night. But I'm not in New Jersey anymore. Leaving is still worth the price of admission.

I sit and read the New York Post that someone left on the bar stool next to me. I quickly get bored of its right wing political slant. That is the New York City periodical paradox. A place that is richly liberal, home to the New York Times and the New Yorker, and yet, the two daily cheap rags that litter the city streets and subways are strictly Republican. Like Fox News in print.

I pull out the French guidebook Mike and I bought last year. I want to get accustomed to foreign culture. I don't want to be an ugly American. I read that France is a socialist country, and has a deep appreciation for culture: food, art, and romance. I've switched reading material the way I'm switching countries.

After fifty bucks spent drinking and tipping well for good travel karma they call our flight and it's time to board. Of course, we don't walk straight onto the plane. There is another line and I have to show my boarding pass and passport again. I'm booked into first class.

The drinks are working magic on me. I feel no fear about flying for the first time, no panic about the job on hand. I'm happier than I have been in months or even years. The trouble with Janis and Mike slips to the back of my mind. For the next two days I can be anyone I want. No pizza deliveries, no Ricardo Junior, no love issues to deal with. People will wait on me. I won't be an asshole.

I smile at the flight attendant that shows me to my seat. She is beautiful in her uniform, in the same way as the counter woman. These Air France girls are a knockout.

I'm shown to a luxurious and wide seat, one that is even more comfortable than the new couch Mike got for grandpa. The sexy stewardess bends over me. Stands of her hair fall over her face. I'm flush with confidence. I reach out and brush it back.

“Merci.â€￾ She says, even though she jumps back a bit. I've invaded her personal space.

“No problem.â€￾ I say.

“Would you like some champagne monsieur?â€￾

“I would love some champagne.â€￾

This is really traveling in style. I could get used to this. I sip champagne and take in my surrounding. From all the commotion at the airport I thought the plane would be full. But first class remains almost empty.

7!

The head in front of me looks vaguely familiar. Long dirty blonde hair combed back in an expensive haute couture fashion that looks like the girl just got out of bed. I lean over my seat and tap her on the shoulder. At the last minute I regret it because it can't be her. I have this problem that when I get drunk I have a way of mistaking people. I am always thinking I'm seeing someone famous. Once I was really wasted at the Blue Rose and I bet Purdy twenty bucks that Johnny Depp had just walked in. I lost that bet.

The girl turns around with an extremely mean look on her face.

“Hey,â€￾ I say.

“What do you want?â€￾

It's her. This is a bet I would have won.

“Bi, it's me Trevor.â€￾

“Trevor?â€￾

“From the party. We jumped into the garbage together.â€￾

“Trevor?â€￾

“Yeah. You know, clean garbage.â€￾

“Oh yes, the pizza boy who just left me outside a bar.â€￾

“You disappeared. Where did you go?â€￾

“I don't know.â€￾

Bi jumps out of her seat and moves in next to me. When the stewardess brings the next passenger to first class, the person who is supposed to sit next to me, Bi informs him that he is now sitting in her old seat. But it is relatively empty and the man moves ahead three rows and across the aisle. We are left almost entirely alone in first class. I look behind us and before the curtain is pulled I see that the rest of the plane is crammed full. The only other first class passenger starts to snore before we even take off. It's just Bi and me in these plush big seats. I assume that the French businessman and the snotty old bitch didn't make the flight. Bi demands a bottle of champagne and a bottle of vodka before we takeoff.

The champagne is delivered and I refill my glass. Bi drinks the vodka out of the bottle. With the drinks at the airport and now this champagne I have a strong buzz going. The plane taxies down the runway and then we take off. The cabin lights are turned off. It illuminates the outside city lights. It's a rush leaving the ground. The plane gathers more speed as we ascend skyward. I look out the window. Everything appears to grow very tiny as we leave the world behind. We dip a little and my stomach turns the way it does when I'm on a roller coaster. But I'm calm. I'm enjoying myself immensely.

Bi takes off her full-length fur coat. She is in a revealing sheer black mesh see-through dress. It's all she has on. If Bi were playing strip poker she would lose in one hand. I see her nipples and thin shaved pubic patch. She is a real blonde. I gulp champagne. I'm very turned on.

We drink for a while and then without talking start to kiss. Bi kisses me first. Our heads collide in a drunken stupor. Bi hasn't gotten any better at kissing. Even though I'm drunk I can tell she is still sloppy. I can't get into it. It is the sexiest experience I've ever been in, and yet there is no chemistry. I'm sure Bi feels it too. Or, maybe not.

Bi takes her hand and deftly grabs my dick under her plush fur coat. Her touch isn't very arousing either. The way her hand moves on me is awkward and indelicate. I open my eyes to look at her. She is pure sex. But the sexuality is all surface. She knows the effect she has on men when they look at her. It doesn't carry over into intimacy. My semi-soft cock is getting rubbed raw.

We keep drinking and kissing. When I touch her and look at her I can almost forget that we are not matched right. There are very few moments in life like this. I want it so bad.

The fascinating thing about being inebriated is that you lose perspective, and tend to get away with things you would never attempt sober. Bi takes her fur coat and wraps it around us. She lifts up her little dress and unbuttons my pants. She wants to fuck me. But I'm still not hard. She leans her head back, revealing her neck. She makes sex sounds and starts to move up and down. I slide my finger into her as a substitute and curse myself. Do I have whiskey dick? Or is it really possible for guys to not get hard when they want. I admit I have performance anxiety.

“This is the mile high club,â€￾ she whispers. “Do you like it?â€￾

“Yeah,â€￾ I mutter.

Bi looks down and sees that she is fucking my finger and not my cock.

“What is this?â€￾ She asks.

“Um, I can't get hard.â€￾

“Shit.â€￾ She gets off me.

After the faux sex Bi won't talk to me. I lean my head against the plane's little window and watch the night sky as I fly through it. I keep drinking, but am more sober than when I got on the plane.

Normally I can be good at sex. I fucked Janis and Rachael in two days and I lasted long and had no complaints. And I was hard. I was so fucking hard. I even managed to fuck Rachael's sister Raquel, and she repulses me. Even though Bi can't kiss and had a bad touch doesn't mean I didn't want to fuck her brains out. I feel very low. Like I'm not much of a man.

I wonder if she will give me another chance, let me be in charge. I will fuck her little pussy until she can't take it. I close my eyes and try to summon potency. I turn to look at Bi, but she is passed out, a half drunk bottle of vodka in her hand. Under the cover of the fur coat I masturbate. Then I take the bottle of vodka and slowly finish it.

Somewhere over the Atlantic I must have passed. When I awake Bi is kissing me.

“You're sweet,â€￾ she says. “Like candy at Christmas.â€￾

“So are you.â€￾

“That was the best sex.â€￾

“Yeah,â€￾ I lie.

The Captain tells us we are descending to France.

these need to be listened to on vinyl and headphones. only way mate. but then also, loud in a club. When I was doing my Manchester nights, these songs sounded so fucking good.

The next morning Mike is gone. I still have plenty of time to get to the airport but I'm a little panicked that Mike won't return. Then he walks into the room.

“Where were you?â€￾

“I made grandpa his breakfast.â€￾

“Oh.â€￾

“Here,â€￾ Mike hands me his laptop and a DVD.

“What's this?â€￾

“I thought you might like to watch some movies on the plane.â€￾

The DVD is Midnight Express.

“Thanks, but I'll stick to the movie on the plane.â€￾

“So what's your plan?â€￾

“What do you mean?â€￾

“I mean what's the plan for getting the cheese onto the plane?â€￾

I open my suitcase and show him the Saran wrap and tinfoil.

“Yeah?â€￾ Mike asks.

“Yeah.â€￾

“Yeah, what?â€￾

“I thought I'd wrap the cheese real tight, and then cover it in tinfoil, to mask the smell.â€￾

“Won't the tinfoil set off the metal detector?â€￾

“I don't know, will it?â€￾ I ask. The panic grows.

“It did in Spinal Tap.â€￾

“Spinal Tap?â€￾

“Yeah, remember when the bass player had a cucumber down his pants?â€￾

“Oh yeah. Spinal Tap.â€￾

“Foiled again.â€￾ Says Mike.

I don't laugh at his joke. I throw the tinfoil into the wastepaper basket.

“You need to travel light,â€￾ Mike says.

“Yeah, travel light.â€￾

“Look,â€￾ he says. “Only fill your suitcase half-full, leaving room for the cheese. Put the cheese into a pair of pants. And listen.â€￾

“Yeah?â€￾

“Let's just hope your blue eyes get you through.â€￾

“My eyes?â€￾

“Yeah, how many terrorists getting profiled have blue eyes?â€￾

“Probably not a lot.â€￾

“Right.â€￾

“Let's just hope they don't think you are some kind of John Walker Lindh.â€￾

“You mean that American kid they found in Afghanistan?â€￾

“Yeah. He was indicted by a federal grand jury on ten charges, including conspiring to support terrorist organizations and conspiring to murder Americans. The charges carried three life terms and 90 additional years in prison. At least they didn't execute him. You better hope your ass that smuggling cheese isn't perceived as a conspiracy to blow up an airplane.â€￾

“No way.â€￾ Now the panic runs cold blood through my veins.

“Like grandpa said, 'we live in stupid times'. But in times when all precautions need to be made.â€￾

I feel sick to my stomach.

“Mike?â€￾

“Yeah?â€￾

“You have any more valium?â€￾

“I'll give you some at the airport. Don't take it until you are on the plane.â€￾

“Yeah.â€￾

I take out half of the clothes I've packed. I only bring the shoes I'm wearing. Mike inspects the suitcase. We decide the plan is to be obvious. To pack the cheese in festive wrapper and carry it as though it is no big deal. If I'm stopped I'll plead ignorance.

Mike leaves but doesn't say where he is going. He promises to be back to drive me to the airport. I talk to grandpa.

“Well, I'm all packed.â€￾

“Good my boy. Come sit down next to me.â€￾

I walk over to grandpa and take a well-worn seat next to him. He puts his arm around me and looks me in the eye.

“I want you to know that I think you are doing a good thing here. I understand what Mike is worried about, he acts like an older brother figure and is concerned you might do something stupid and end up in jail. But I have faith in you. You are a bright kid.â€￾

“Thanks, grandpa.â€￾

“Remember, it is only cheese.â€￾

“Yeah.â€￾

“And don't forget my girlie postcards. In color,â€￾ he adds.

“I won't.â€￾

“Good, my boy.â€￾

This was the most fun I've had at Kettle of Fish. Pack 34- Miami 24

“The biggest mistake would be to not pass things over to the Iraqis, create a dependency on their part, instead of developing strength and capacity and competence,â€￾ said Rumsfeld. “It's their country, they're going to have to govern it, they're going to have to provide security for it, and they're going to have to do it sooner rather than later. And that means they've got to take pieces of it as we go along.â€￾

The Bush administration didn't think, “It's their countryâ€￾ when we invaded! Oh no. And it was “mission accomplishedâ€￾ years ago according to the president. But now Bush says, “it's tough.â€￾

Seventy-four American troops have died in Iraq in October, likely to become the deadliest month for U.S. forces in nearly two years. U.S. deaths have surpassed 2,780.

In recent weeks, the security situation in Iraq has continued to spiral out of control. Shiite militia stormed police stations in Amarah Friday, seizing that southern Iraqi city. Bush noted he was scheduled to speak with U.S. commanders to determine if a change in tactics is necessary to combat the escalating violence.

love you buddy boy!

hey I have some Dylan stuff to tell you.

This isn't wee or twee or buzzing bee. This is like goddamn Beethoven. With anal sex. Made by a Canadian. Of course.

I went all over goddamn Gotham looking for this piece of shit?

marky poos shit out of his mouth.

no, it is okay. if you like fecal matter.

when you buy one asshole!

email me at mccutcheon@nycscribbles.com with your address. I still need to send one to Borgy. I'm bad that way.

Martino is in town. we have been hitting it.

Thanks. I'll check them out.

PART TWO

Paris: Late Nights in the City of Light.

1!

I park outside my house. Mike is sitting with grandpa on the couch. They are talking. When I enter Mike gets up to leave. He doesn't have to worry. I won't punch him.

“Hey, hold on.â€￾

“What?â€￾

“I'm going to Paris,â€￾ I blurt out. If I start with a shocker I'll get their attention. It works better than I imagined. They both turn to look at me.

“When?â€￾ Mike asks.

“Tomorrow.â€￾

“You'll miss Christmas,â€￾ says grandpa.

“I'm only going for two days. I'll be back on Christmas Eve.â€￾

“Is this for your cheese job?â€￾

“Yeah, it's a trial run.â€￾

“You have a trial cheese run? What the hell is that?â€￾ Mike asks.

“I met a rich lady from Manhattan. I told you I might get a job, anyway the job is to fly to Paris to buy cheese.â€￾

“Why don't they fly you to Wisconsin?â€￾

“I get to stay in an expensive hotel. In Paris.â€￾

“That's the stupidest thing I ever heard,â€￾ says Mike. “You can get anything you want in New York City.

“Special cheese,â€￾ I say. “High class cheese.â€￾

“Wait here,â€￾ says Mike. He runs downstairs.

I sit down next to grandpa.

“There are some beautiful women in Paris,â€￾ he says with a wink. “And the French know how to have sex. Will you bring me back a sexy postcard? When Ernie Frazier went over to Paris in the fifties he brought back a whole suitcase of sexy postcards. I'm sure things haven't changed that much.â€￾

“Uh sure, I'll bring you back a postcard.â€￾ I say. “They are probably in color now.â€￾

“What?â€￾

“The postcards. The postcards are in color now.â€￾

“Oh yeah,â€￾ he says rubbing his hands together.

Mike returns, theatrically waving a sheet of paper.

“What's that?â€￾

“I just printed it out from the internet.â€￾

“What is it?â€￾

“Fromages.com,â€￾ He says and drops it on my lap.

The printout states that you can have traditional French cheese delivered to your doorstop within twenty-four hours.

“So,â€￾ I say. “These are probably the legal cheeses. They want the true delicacies, cheeses that aren't approved by the FDA. Ever since 9/11 US customs officials have been destroying most of the cheese trying to get into the country.â€￾

“Why?â€￾

“In the fight against terrorism.â€￾

“That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard,â€￾ says Mike.

“We live in stupid times,â€￾ says grandpa.

“What you are doing is illegal,â€￾ says Mike. “You are going to smuggle cheese onto an airplane?â€￾

“Um, yeah.â€￾ Put like that the job doesn't seem that appealing.

“And what if you get caught,â€￾ asks Mike “Then what?â€￾

“I don't know. I mean it is only cheese.â€￾

“Fuck the bastards,â€￾ says grandpa. “If these rich folks want to pay Trevor to go to France and bring back smelly cheese I think he should do it. Who knows why, if money is no object maybe they want a good story to tell their party guests. Rich folks have always been crazy.â€￾

“But its smuggling shit onto an airplaneâ€￾ protests Mike. “The fuckin' airport authorities are gonna kill anyone who fucks with them. And they should do it too.â€￾

“Pffft,â€￾ snorts grandpa with his hands in the air. “It is only cheese. They will just take it away.â€￾

What's legal and illegal doesn't go far in defining what should and shouldn't be done. We are a household more suited to doing things our own way. With grandpa on my side Mike doesn't have much of an argument.

“Mike can I ask you a favor?â€￾

“What?â€￾

“Did you ditch the car?â€￾

“Yeah.â€￾

That's what I thought, a car thief protesting cheese smuggling.

“Will you drive me to JFK tomorrow in the Dick's truck and then drop it off for Ricardo?â€￾

“Yeah.â€￾

“Thanks, Mike. I need to get ready.â€￾

Downstairs I look at my new passport. I am ready to finally use it. I do two loads of laundry. I pack one suitcase. Tomorrow I'm going to France. I can barely maintain my excitement. Then I remember I have completely forgotten about finals.

2!

I call a few of my professors. None of them answer. I leave messages saying I have an emergency and have to leave the country. I don't know how I'm gonna get my art supplies back from Janis.

I have a sick stomach thinking about school and Mike and Janis, and then Mike comes downstairs and gives me a pill.

“What is this?â€￾

“10mg of Valium.â€￾

“Thanks.â€￾

We drink a few beers and listen to the Brian Jonestown Massacre and it isn't long before the pill washes away all anxiety and the music floats around my head. I look over at Mike.

“I'm excited about Paris.â€￾

“I know you are,â€￾ he says.

“I know about Janis.â€￾ I admit.

“I know.â€￾

“I'm not mad.â€￾

“We will talk about it when you get back,â€￾ Mike says. “I love you brother.â€￾

“I love you too.â€￾

We listen to the music until we drift off to sleep.

The gem cannot be polished without friction, nor man perfected without trials.
- -- Chinese proverb


twistin the happy ending man

No I never read it, but Adam Davies, the guy who did the Frog King, has a new book out called Goodbye Lemon. You turned me on to him. But I'm still not sure if he turns me on. I think he is very good at prose, but I can't get into his dialouge. It makes me cringe at times.