this isn’t really a blog.

 february twentieth, 2007

I just wanted to say that in exactly 94 days, I’ll be wandering around Charles De Gaulle airport in Paris, ready to embark on what will most certainly be the best week of my life to date.

Yes.

I’m going to Paris.

Here’s the plan:

I’m going to smoke and drink wine until I forget how to speak English.  And then maybe I’ll “accidentally” miss my flight back.  I’ll spend weeks wandering the streets alone… Most certainly amid torrential rain for added dramatic impact and heart-stirring pathos.  And then the Parti Communiste Francais will find me and take me under their wing and nurse me back to health from my bout with Consumption.  And, out of sheer gratitude, I’ll learn all the lyrics to “L’Internationale” and promise to further their cause by any means necessary and find shelter in the Clichy-sous-Bois ghetto where I can write furiously and smoke opium with artists and musicians and wear a beret tilted sideways and kiss people on both cheeks without it being the slightest bit pretentious.

Yes… Paris…