I'm still in Paris, my lovelies, and if I've been lax in my blogging duties (and I have been atrociously lax!), it's only because I've been busy practically losing bladder control to a surge of joie de vivre every time I step out of my apartment door. I fucking LOVE it here, dudes. Exhibit A: this sign on the bus:
"A domestic animal? Yes, if he is small and inside a bag."
Another sign that I didn't photograph read, "Large packets? Avoid them!"
Things- life, work, the apartment situation- have been grand, but this week they took a dramatic turn for the worser; therefore, I must make a dramatic turn to my Livejournal to air my grievances. Approximately 37 years ago, according to carbon-dating estimates on my last Livejournal entry, I was in New York with Marty. We parted ways at JFK airport, and I flew back to Paris. I arrived at 8:00 in the morning, decided I needed to go back home to the United States, proceeded directly to my agency to cancel all my jobs, then onward to a travel agency to get a plane ticket, further onward to my apartment to pack up all my shit and sleep for four hours, and onward to the airport again, and back to 'Merica less than 24 hours after I left it. Then I changed my mind again and came back to Paris. That was a near-nauseating amount of capriciousness on my part, but by far the lamest feature of my continent-hopping was the large number of times I lolled awake in my excruciatingly uncomfortable airplane seat to view fragments of Last Holiday starring Queen Latifah and Gerard Depardieu. So many Ambien-hazy minutes of the movie did I see, that after four transatlantic flights I finally pieced together a pretty solid understanding of the plot. And- spoiler alert!!!!!- now I'm'a ruin the ending for you: Queen Latifah is NOT dying after all! Mistaken diagnosis! But she learned a lot about life and a little bit about herself, too! And a whole lot about those juicy LL Cool J lips! Carpe diem!
Anyway. I had fun in my homeland while I was there. I bought stick deodorant and enjoyed my first Downy-fabric-softener-enhanced load of laundry in months. I was appalled at the atrocious fast-food innovations
Holy shit, an urgent aside about what just happened: there are two male models living in the apartment below mine, and some demon from hell has bestowed upon them two guitars, a small amplifier, and complete freedom from the shackles of self-consciousness. Thus liberated, they are able to open their windows, plug in their axes, and disturb the entire block by playing the wankiest noodling out-of-tune "riffs" and caterwauling along at the tops of their voices. First in the hair-raising jock-handjobbing style of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, then in the falsetto style of the Flaming Lips, this is what they are singing: "Freedom! Oh, whoa, hey, freedom! Whoa, whoa, oh, oh, my freedom! Freedom! FREEEEE-DUHM!"
Oh fucking goddammit, in the time it took me to write that fucking sentence, they have busted out a HARMONICA and a little dog has started yapping along furiously. I have never heard them with a harmonica until this moment. But that's not even the point! Get this: across the airshaft and one floor down lives a single man whom I and my roommates have observed stirring up dinner in his kitchen, butt-nekkid. Just one paragraph ago, when I was about to write a sentence about the gross new shit they have at Kentucky Fried Chicken, I glanced out the window and down across the airshaft at Monsieur Nude, who was standing nakedly in his kitchen and looking out his window just in time to make eye contact with me. Butt, but butt naked, Monsieur Nude looked into my eyes and made an extravagant, Italian-style hand gesture of "what the fuck?" in the direction of the guitar-blasting male models' apartment, clapped his hands to his ears dramatically, and, penis aswing-- penis aswing!!-- reached to his boom box and started blaring Li'l Kim. Li'l Kim! And now he's cooking! I am looking right at his naked ass RIGHT NOW.
Ohhhh, my FREE-DUHHHM!
Monsieur Nude has not looked back up here. And Li'l Kim has segued into Janet Jackson, and an unseen upstairs neighbor is now singing along. The harmonica and the yapping dog have stopped, but "Whooooo, freedom, freeedom! Oh, freeeeeduhm!" has continued.
By the way, I know you're thinking about it, and I regret to inform you that I will not be exhibiting photographic evidence of Monsieur Nude's nekkid existence. Oh, not that I haven't tried to capture him with the camera's eye. The first time I got an eyeful of le peen, it was really late at night and my roommate Nelly summoned me to the window with a terrified shriek. In that situation- after dark and alongside a freaked-out roommate- the sight of Monsieur Nude stirring his little potful of bachelor chow with his little white t-shirt and le petit semi-lob-on was repulsive and vaguely threatening, so I laughingly busted out my camera in an effort to demonstrate to Nelly my fearlessness in the face of strange genitalia. Didn't work. Monsieur Nude came out all blurry. But now that he and I have shared our across-the-airshaft moment of mutual misery in the throes of "FREEE-DUHHHM!", I know that I will never again attempt photographically to compromise his right to expose his nekkid nuts to his panfuls of boiling ratatouille in his own damn kitchen. Cook your bare little ass off, Monsieur Nude. Death to aprons! Destroy all toques!
Update: Monsieur Nude has turned off his stereo and left the kitchen, the male models' electric guit-wanking has stopped but an acoustic guit-wanking session has begun, the yapping dog has not resumed but a wailing baby has begun.
The subject matter of this Livejournal has deviated grossly from what I intended to write. It is stuck firmly in the rut of "all about bare asses." It has also become overlong. I know nobody ever reads the text anyway, and all of you slavering surfers are just paging through the internet scanning for bare asses, I'm going to give you what you want and teach you how enjoy a sweet sugary spoonful of bare ass any time you wish. This trick comes to you courtesy of my boyfriend Marty via Shins guitarist Dave Hernandez, who can be seen at all hours of the day and night gazing into a spoon, trying to satisfy his neverending cravings for bare ass.
"Spoonful of Buttcheek"
1.) Get a shiny spoon.
2.) Make a fist and press the second knuckles of your fist against the back of the spoon.
3.) Twitch your pinkie and pointer fingers.
4.) Gaze into the back of the spoon and you will see a man taking a shower, viewed from underneath. Your pinkie and pointer knuckles will form his elbows; your ring-finger and middle-finger knuckles will form the buttcheeks; and the twitching motion of your fingers will make the man "wash himself."
Dear reader, all the fabulous things I could have told you about what I've learned and seen and done in Paris (Dutch masters! french-fry sandwiches!), or about my freaky job today (two bare-chested chicks nipple-to-nipple! one of them stone-deaf and Serbian!), or about the interesting stories Marty's been telling me about the Shins' recording (banjo solo!), or about all the nice and/or shitty details about my nice and/or shitty roommates (Polish depressive! Latvian horse-woman!) that I intended to write about when I turned on my computer tonight. And instead I decided to spend an hour making an LJ entry about les penises en pleine aire, and creating an appallingly amateurish illustrated instruction manual about "bare ass in a spoon." And now I'm slouching triumphantly off to bed. With a fresh National Enquirer and a package of fucking imitation crab (krab) sticks! Oh, the squandered potential! Proletarian vileness incarnate! Happy Bastille Day!
FREEEEE-DUHHM! Oh, whoa, FREEEEEE-DUUUUHHHM!