David Duchovny in that CA show has serious problems - even in French

Many things. Mostly, my new roommates have been good and I have been watching french tv and passing the Edith Piaf statue, rugged and un paris-like, that sits in the modest square in my house in the 20th, a more working-class neighborhood that noone seems to like except for me. She holds her hands up to the sky, and every few days or so, some parisian puts something in them: a bouquet of old flowers, a parking metal sign, a child's glove. I truly, truly love it, and when I walk home I imagine her holding me up to the grey and raining sky, and I feel as though this lack-of-livelihood malaise will pass.

Unplugging it

My mother recently sent me this article. This is true, I think. I will add some of my own trickery/being-tricked-by after the passage:

"You’ve got to go there with the intention of learning life lessons. If you go there with your dukes up hoping to win the argument, all you’ll gain is their scorn, and you’ll return to the states uninspired and unchanged. Do not imagine that you know more than Paris. Paris has been put on this earth to teach us all a little humility. You bow to it; you don’t even presume to salute it. Who are you to speak as an equal to Paris? Paris is the beginning and the end, the first and the last, the yesterday and tomorrow of beauty and refinement. In Paris you learn to toss your salad seventeen times, and to peel an orange with a knife in a curvy column of rind that’s several feet long if you take the time and care. A French mother doesn’t watch her daughter grow up wishing for her to be the captain of the girls’ soccer team. A French mother schools her daughter in the delicacies of boy-girl/man-woman politics. Above all, grace. Above all, elegance. Above all, knowledge. A French mother teaches her daughter how to be her own person within a relationship (how to hold her own), how to expect and how to cause beauty." - from "It's Worth the Trouble" by Barbara Waterston

Wow, that article pointed to some really true things. I have been doing what she says, I have been humbled again and again in Paris like it is a difficult country line dance, but you have already found yourself out on the dance floor and you have to at least try. Most recently, Chris and I went out to a café for him to read his theorists and for me to work on my translation, on a laptop computer. I plugged in my computer and after 20 minutes the owner came over and gave me a talking to about using their outlet for electricity. She was steaming and sassy. I knew just what to do. Instead of shrink inside and feel humiliated, I pouted my lips, raised my eyebrows, shrugged and said, "I'll unplug it then," in the same way that you would say, "You go make the sandwich." No skin off of my back. I left with my computer out of battery but my pride intact. I too can play their little game.

I give you a euro, you give me...

another garage sale in Paris. Zack is gone. I bundle up and head out in the rain this Saturday morning. A man out of the back of his packed car has things arranged in a heap on the table (yes, an arranged heap) and I paid him one euro for a pack of 80s looking male nudie cards (an early christmas gift for someone) that have been scribbled on in French girly handwriting. During this exchange he notices my Obama button, and says in French, "that Obama...great guy, we sure do need change over there, but I think his discourse comes off a bit stern." I nod and I put the cards in my bag. He continues while his wife listens in: "he promises so much, and he could turn right around after all that talk once he gets elected like our president did." He squints at me, in his garage sale clothes with his garage sale wife and garage sale table, and I nod wishing half of Americans had that much insight on the candidates as this French guy did. And then I saw a terrier in an orange polyester jumpsuit, both a shirt and pants element, get away from its owner among all the garage sale tables. He trotted along, right through a man's dvds he had laid out on a mat. "Ho! Hoh!" dvd man yells to dog on the loose man. Dog on the loose man grumbles after polyester jumpsuit dog on the loose, who seems happy to be at a garage sale.

Start Spreading the News :

Zack! Have a great trip -- Bring your scuba gear, cheri amour, you never know!

As I was waiting in Toulon to take my train, I sat in a cafe for close to 3 hours killing time. I kept sneaking up to the bathroom to steal toilet paper for tissues. The third time I finished upstairs, the cafe was pretty empty, and the guys working there in white suits and ties were singing loud French songs. I walked down the stairs and heard they had started a new one: "Starrr spreddeh zeh nooooose... I leeeeeaviiiing tudday....." Oh! My soul jumped in its skin and I don't know what came over me. I was at the top of the stairs, and by the time I got to the middle of the beautifully banistered staircase, I broke into song, my arms wide out: "I want to BEEEE a PARRRRT of it! NEW YORK, NEW YORRRRRRRRRRK!" The men behind the counter polishing glasses were dumbfounded, smiling. Bravo, they clapped, a lovely voice. I am sure they were equally impressed with my perfect Midwestern American diction.

My Last Night

I spent most of yesterday finger painting with the kids. Only with brushes. So...regular painting. No one understood my abstract art.

Then we played a French card game about driving or something. I won.

So then, the kids just up and left with their mom and went to Marseille. They have a lot of time off for All Saints week and won't be back before I leave. Very sad. Antonia pulled me aside and handed me all of her marbles. She told me that it would be my responsibility to give one to every WOOFer who leaves the house when she is gone.

Last night we went to the closest town and drank at the pub. For the first time in my life, I was able to drink all of the beer in a single bar. The four of us drank maybe four beers each and the place ran out! Ridic. So then a car pulls around the corner and it's Felipe (wearing a green trench coat and smoking his pipe, he looked like some latino detective on, like, CSI Columbia or something) with Jean-Mathieu and two new WOOFers, Cyrus and Rebecca. I got up to greet them, but Cyrus ran across the road and began violently throwing up from car sickness. See Julie, if you stayed you would have found a kindered spirit.

Today I took Cyrus and Rebecca for a tour of Lutina. We checked out the pigs and the drying house and saw a crew of guys sorting their chestnuts through a machine. They brought in 2400 kilograms of chestnuts today. When I told one of the guys that we were American, he asked me (please pardon my likely incorrect spelling) est cé Obama vè gagne? Will Obama win? I said absolutely he will, and the man cheered for Obama as we walked away.

This may be my last post from Corsica. I could use a thousand clichès to sum up my time here. I could talk about the 'breath-taking' 'rolling hills' and the overwhelming mountain and ocean views that render one 'speechless.' These things exist and are likely how these types of clichès get started, but the real beauty of this place is in the simplest things: afternoon clouds rolling into the valley and the ensuing fog, the taste of fresh figs and roasted chestnuts and the stillness--the space that finds its way into the gaps between your thoughts, should you choose to let it in. An interruption of incessant mental clatter. In a word: peace.

Until I return: bonna serra, Corsica.

I was seriously worried, you guys.

Well, dear readers, I have another Of-Corsica moment for you. I was sleeping on the ferry to Toulon at four in the morning on a long couch in the lounge when the loud turning of the motor slowed, stopped. Are we here already? Mmm, ten hours on a boat sure went by quickly--gasp. It was still dark outside, no lights on shore in sight. We were in the middle of the sea. The lights in the lounge dimmed and the boat (again, another giant cruise ship) rocked. Violently. The curtains swayed as the waves outside, untethered by the motor pushing the boat, crashed one side of the Titantic, then the other. I felt nauseous and said a Hail Mary. Seriously, people. I was 89% ready to call Zack and tell him to call the proverbial embassy to make the funeral arrangments.

Savin' a Little Lovin' for Tomorrow

Zack and I ended up in Bastia, a port town, spending the night with a Corsican administrator, named Michele, whose apaprtment is neslted near the ruins of a catheral-turned-apaprtment building. Laundry on lines was strung everywhere and pipes ran together on the outside of the buildings of exposed brick and old stone. We rushed the next morning to my boat, which was cancelled (surprising? not quite), and spent the day wandering. We stood on the main round-about by the sea as traffic passed us in all directions. After a particular period of egregious romantic affection, an old man, slow and knowing, canes himself past us and says, "On en laisse un peu pour demain alors?!" (You gonna save some of that (meat/lovin') for tomorrow or what?) He walked on, cane tapping, smiling and apparently so pleased with young love.

Why have a dog when you do all your own WOOFing?

My other titles: 'Too many WOOFchefs in the WOOFkitchen' and 'Too many WOOFs and not enough Corsicans' just weren't that catchy.

Yesterday was great. Felipe and Jean-Mathieu let me catch a couple of the pigs that needed to be mooved into the nurseries. This entailed creeping up behind the pig, grabbing her front leg and quickly tying a rope around the leg. Needless to say (though I'll say it anyway because I am verbose) there is a lot of thrashing involved. In the struggle, one fell down, taking me with her, and we were both covered in shit pudding.

Today was not as great, work-wise. We built a three meter fence. We built a three meter fence and it took three hours. I'm pretty sure an armless man would have given us a run for our money today. No matter where you go in the world: six people building a fence is two people building a fence and four people watching. And I got stabbed in the ass by a rusty nail when I jumped out of one of the nurseries. Shit pudding, indeed, dear reader.

Ok, enough complaining. Here are the things I meant to mention this week but failed to do:

• It rained too much yesterday for us to work so I sat inside drawing pictures with the kids. They asked me something like forty thousand questions in a language I barely understand. I drew a giant dolphin flying into a giant bear with regular houses below them. And a turtle aligator.
• Paul and I went to Cortè to get boots and he told me about a dream he had. It went generally like this: 'I fight three men. They bad men. Gangsters. They want to smash my face, but they don't know I can break their face. One is Tom Cruise. Tom Cruise? Tom Cruise. But I know I'm not really fighting them. I'm fighting something in me.'
  
• I swam in a 50 degree mountain river. SO COLD.
• I cinged my hair and eyelashes setting a brush fire.
  
• I told a super awkward joke that no one got. At Paul's house, Julie was talking about how at Christmas time at Spaggio they would play Christmas music and get more tips. I said, 'Oh, at Murky we didn't play Christmas music but I would get bigger tips by going shirtless and wearing a Santa hat. "Would you like a latte ma'am, because I work out a latte!' No one laughed and everyone at the table shuffled awkwardly while I continued my faux muscle flexing.

Goodbye Julie, Hello Pigs

I'm down at the Campana's house on the first rainy day since I arrived at Lutina. Unfortunately, I've come without my journal, so some things will surely fall through the cracks here.

I've been living out every ten-year-old's dream the past ten days: driving 4x4s, using heavy farm equipment, feeding and wrangling pigs. On Monday I helped Jean-Mathieu, Paul and Felipe put a handful of pregnant pigs into holding pens we built earlier in the day. Pigs are smarter than you'd think. Stronger too. It took all four of us to snare each pig by the snout, tie a rope around one leg, drag the pig into the pen (this took at least two people) and close and secure the make-shift gate. It was like 'Hey Dude' with more swearing and fewer boy problems.

Julie and I stayed over in Bastia (about an hour and a half from Lutina) two nights ago with a Corsican government official. We woke up at 6 am yesterday to make the ferry, only to learn that the Bastia-Nice ferry was cancelled. So we got Julie a ticket for a later ferry to Toulon and spent the rest of the day drinking coffee and eating cheese and dark chocolate. It's hard being me.

I got back to Lutina late last night after saying goodbye to Julie. And (surprise) without my interpreter, doing just about anything that involves speaking to anyone has become prohibitively difficult. There were about six words spoken in english at dinner last night. They were all Antonia learning colors. So...red, blue, green, pink, yellow and orange was just about all I understood at dinner. I understood 'are you sad that julie left?' because I picked up 'Julie' and 'sad' and at one point told the Campana's friend that Cincinnati was 100 kilometers from Columbus. Is that true?

CLIFFHANGER!

I don't know this guy, but I know this machine

This is what I used today, on the giant rolling mountains of Rapaggio, the land that we are clearing. We are hacking through bushes and the guy in this photo is doing nothing compared to the brush we are dealing with. In fact, don't even look at him. Wait for the real photos to be posted. We get geared up in heavy pants that can apparently withstand a chainsaw accident, knee pads and bright orange suspenders and helmets with ear coverers and a huge face screen to protect from all the flying debris. It is like pumelling through outer space but you are wacking bushes to pieces, not constellations in your space ship.

Men walk and the mountains don't move

Outside, a strange cowbell or wind chims late into this evening and a fog has settled almost to eye level on this stratified village. Life is vertical here, with the few houses stacked ontop of one another cut into the hills. I sat this evening on the couch with my French cross words and Antonia; the family's daughter, seven, crawling around acting like the dog. I made great kid jokes with her about Shir Khan, the boxer puppy, having suddnely grown long hair and looking like Antonia. Her brother, Francesco, 5, came in and they wanted to play a game they had invetned called La Reine - the Queen. Great, I thought, as I settled onto the couch. What are the rules? Who gets to be the Queen? I heard the living room doors slam by Francesco and the 2 dogs, Mascarella, a black herding dog, and Shir Kahn scramble in. Antionia tackles the black dog by the waist and Francesco runs around screaming at everyone. Oh, my subjects, I thought. Donc comment on joue à la Reine? I ask. So how do we play this Queen game? I am mostly igorned; they scream and keep running in cirlces with the dogs. Antonia pulls Mascarella down. A moment of linguistic clarity happens. This game is not La Reine - the Queen. It is L'Aréne, the Arena. As in gladiators. And dogs. Of course- ica.

Cliffhanger ends. Hubert departs. We go on vacation. Black Guy Heads?

We began work on the farm the morning following our arrival. Work isn't hard, but it's tiring. Right now and for the next week, we are clearing brush under the chestnut trees to make them easier to collect once they fall. So we make piles and set them on fire. It's the best!

The farm is run by Paul and his friend, Jean Mathieu. Paul is the marde. He's like Batman without the issues, Superman without the cape, or a less green not-so-ragey Incredible Hulk, only, you know, French. Jean Mathieu is reticent and, frankly, a kind of scary French guy. He has two kids who are, at the time of this writing, acting like puppies and rocking out to Gregorian chant.

Luch on the first day of work was amazing. Lasagna with homemade bread, olive oil, the freshest tomatoes I've ever eaten, ham from the pig's leg in the kitchen, and local cheese on figs picked earlier in the day. If I could choose between eating that meal again right now, or being punched in the face by celebrity chef, Wolfgang Puck, I'd choose the lunch. After lunch, we had chestnut liqour and a siesta...it's hard being me.

Friday was Hubert's (pronounced with a soft H and T) last night. Hubert was another WOOFer, a 60 year old Danish male nurse who lives on a 6 hectacre plot of farm land in Denmark. Hubert began dinner by announcing, as the wine was being poured, that he had never been drunk. Ohhhhh boy. My end of the table was like the premise for a culturally insensitive joke: an Italian, a Canadian, a Scot, a Dane, and an American. So what was the topic that united us? Fraser, our Scot, asked if we knew how to figure out our porn name (according to Fraser it is your first pets name and your mother's maiden name, making my porn name Mindie Milsom). This got us going; the wine did the rest. Pretty soon we learned that Hubert's porn name was 'Lookie Hyning.' Hubert kept repeating it, almost unintelligible through his laughter.

I thought porn names were middle name and street name (making mine Tyler Kingston, but our Canadien would be Kate State Route 55...so we went with Fraser's format). We asked Hubert what his middle name was and he said, 'Maria.' We laughed of course. Why Maria, Kate asked. 'When I was in circus' he said in his ESL, 'some time we...we do a...what do you call?' He said something in German to Natalia, our German.
'Performance,' she replied.
'Performance,' Hubert repeated.
'We do performance for the children. I wear woman's spandex with...' He is beginning to laugh uncontrollably. 'With sequence and stars,' he gestures a very low cut bust-line, now laughing and crying. 'And white gloves,' he blurts out through laughter, motioning that the gloves were elbow-length. Tears are now pouring down his face.
'But why MARIA?' Kates said.
'Oh,' said Hubert, regaining his composure, 'I don't know. It was a family name on my father's side.'

In the morning we said goodbye to Hubert as he left for Denmark and we left for Isle Rousse, a coastal town in Corsica. For almost two hours, we wound through mountain roads not wide enough for two bicycles to pass one another comfortably. It was like Mario Kart without cool stuff like mushrooms, stars and lightning, and with car sickness in their place.

We spent all day in Isle Rousse swimming and lying on the beach. I befriended some dogs, ate Corsican-style mussels, forgot to weigh my fruit at the grocery store and swam naked.

One thing that I'm not sure is ok is the Corsican symbol: a bodiless Black Guy Head. Paul told me during the week that the Black Guy Head represents the invading Moor tribes from super long ago. Apparently, unlike the rest of human history, the white Corsican dudes totally put the hurt on some black dudes and then named baseball teams after them or something. And made the region's symbol a conquered Black Guy Head. Not sure that's ok.

Ok, until next time, thanks for reading, and thank you to Justin, Rebekah, Casey, Luke, Michael and Jordan for posting! Au revoir!

Rings and things

We have the weekends off from working on the farm, so we took the winding roads the width of a bike lane up and down and around to a train stop, abandoned old stone homes everywhere, to a coast town called Isle Rousse. The photo is accurate, only not in the 70s as shown. There were two old dogs that slept on the beach, turned around and around in the sand like our dog Roxie at home and then flopped down in the sun and laid there for the whole day. Zack though the yellow one was dead at first, but whew it was not. At one point I set my towel next to the old dog, to feel a little closer to home. The waves just kept lapping softly, the mix of European tourists from everywhere filing by, sun burning strangely in October. Zack and I built a sand castle and as he dug way down to start a moat for the castling device, he found a silver ring. No telling how long it had been there. I used the occasion to ask everyone on the beach if they had lost one - a great ploy to talk to strangers when normally this isn't done. No one had. Our castle withstood the waves but not a toddler wearing nothing playing with his mother.

Beware Readers, A Cliffhanger Lies Ahead!

Ok, looks like for times sake, I'm going to write fast, make grammatical mistakes (what else is new?) and sum up our time in Nice very briefly before talking about Corsica.

Nice in a few observations:

One thing I noticed by looking out the train's window is that the French are still in to archery. So that's something.

I paid money--PAID MONEY--to use the bathroom in Nice. I could deal with that. What I expected was a toilet made out of pure G.D. gold. A throne indeed, dear readers. What I got was like Pakistan without the humidity. NO SEAT! Mandatory hovercraft? I don't play that.

OK, now to Corsica:

Julie and I got on the ferry with like 30 seconds to spare. After my third-world bathroom experience, I expected the ferry to be a real zizijet. Instead it was a freakin cruise liner! Needless to say, we went absolutely bizonkers. Two restaurants, a bar, a pool, game room, two levels of parking and ALL the Disney characters--EVEN FIGMENT! I thought we were freakin stowaways, so we hid in the engine room. Some of all of that is true.

We got off the ferry in Bastia after an incredible trip. I panned the crowd, wondering how we would recognize our contact, Felipe. My eyes moved from left to right: I saw regular guy, regular guy, regular guy, ZORRO, regular guy--wait, WAS THAT ZORRO? Felipe greeted us wearing a pancho and a Croccodile Dundee hat, smoking a pipe and scanning the crowd. The car was a hatchback, two-seater Pugeot. Julie and I rode in the back while Felipe and Chevon (another WOOFer) sat up front.

HERE IS THE CLIFFHANGER!!

Corsica on the Rocks

Oh, and you might want to book it, said our friend of a friend in Nice; who let us crash on her origami French hide a bed; we were two tired lead pots in a hammock last night in Rebekahs apartment that overlooked hills sutdded with lights and laundry on the line, stars studded with sky. The landscape is 3D in Nice, with rocky pebble beaches with waves that smack your ankles with rocks. The ferry was leaving at 215 and at 201 we went to the ticket coutner; through surprised looks bought tickets and boarded the most giant boat I have ever seen. It was the Titanic, with an escalator. For 17 euros we sat on the sundeck and watched Nice slide away. I even stood near the edge and said, I'm flying, Zack! - get it? jack? zack? Our woof host Felipe greeted us in Corsica with a pipe hanging out of his mouth. Oh, he said, you are tall, and we pakced into the back of his Dodge Rabbit-like trunk already piled with groceries and our bags. A long and nauseating ride into the mounta&ins of Corsica ensued and I fought off migraines by smiling at the cows neslted into the side of the road. We made it, Stepped out into night sky, the oldest stone; most worn into a hill farm house where everything criculates: language, food, bedrooms.

This has to be the best day of my life...

Ok, picture this: I'm wearing boxers and a sweatshirt. I'm eating a baguette and goat cheese and I'm drinking tea. Got a good mental picture of that? I've been doing it for like 8 hours! Boom. I got up, saw that the Buckeyes beat Wisconsin in the last 1:08 of the 4th quarter, watched funny videos of Palin being stupid/racist and ate my weight in baguette and crepes. That's it!

Ok, so they can't all be interesting updates.

We take a 5 hour train to Nice tomorrow morning. We're staying with some friends for the night and will be getting on the 5 hour ferry to Corsica on Tuesday. One things's for sure: They better have crepes and baguettes in Corsica.

Helen, Call The Embassy!

Bone Jurrrr, I said McCainly, feeling like the biggest jerk since jerks came to jerk town. I stumbled and asked for un baguette. Blah-son-dix, she replied. Son? I responded, quite jerkishly and poured a handful of change into her hands as if to say, "How much is this many?" The woman laughed at me and asked if I was English. Yes, I replied. A masterful play if I may say so myself. And with that, I had succeeded in my French experience: a real life French person mistook me for a Red Coat.

So, I've formed a pidgeon language that has treated me well. Tonight I got to showcase my throaty Rs and non-existent ings and ois at a restaurant called Afghani. As we got to our seats, it occured to me that if pictures of Barack Obama eating at this restaurant were to surface, he would have no chance of winning the election. Oh Jesus. As I write this, I'm reading an article about how Obama and some old guy who is still like thirty years younger than McCain, want to bomb everything, especially America.

Well, McCain is super old. Do you want this guy running the country? No, he'd probably ask for 700 billion dollars to bailout Long John Silver. Or make not pipe smoking illegal. Or mandate that everyone have single earrings and love seagulls. In summation, old people, fishermen, Alaskans, old people fishing in Alaska and single ear ringers shouldn't be allowed to be President.

Anyway, Afghan food is tres bien. Spicy and yogurty and legumey with sometimes beef. Another awesome food update is that baguettes are good. REALLY good. And the cheese. I ate maybe a quarter pound of cheese today.

Also, I got a cell phone today. The number is 0643018258. As my adoring fans, I beg you to not all call me all at once. To avoid this catastrophe, feel free to text me as often as possible. Seriously, any time you feel like it. It cost's me literally nothing. And I'm cheap as hell.

OK THE END. LEAVE COMMENTS PLEASE!!

And then THIS happened

While Zack was at the Louvre peeing in the Women's restroom, I was following Anne Marie, one of my tutoring students from Columbus, to the fashion show of her designer friend's new line for Guy Laroche. That's right, I just said "new line." I use words like that all the time now! Joking. The show lasted 12 minutes, had provocative bongo drum music pulsing, made you feel provactive just sitting there. Interesting details: the press crowded at the far of the small runway like a giant algae of flashing lights, a slew of 20 blonde models that all looked strikingly similar, the champagne backstage in the makeup room next to a MTV guy interviewing Anne Marie's friend. I wore blue jeans and cowboy boots, my friends. What a rodeo that runway was, quoi.

Palin in the middle of the Tuileries

It was 9 pm two days ago when Zack and I nestled in for a nap. A nap : we planned to wake up at 2 am and attempt to use the Velib' bikes that appear now all over Paris, to rent, to ride, to revel on. After ten tries at two different bike stations we unhooked two bikes. But imagine first, dear reader, the credit card not being read, the group of suspicious males huddling around the automated rental machine looking angry, to be avoided - or were they, too, just trying to figure out how to work the machines, hulking as they were in their leather, how to ride daintily around town with their tough racaille egos in their baskets?

We rode south from the 18th into the 1st, to an Irish pub where the Vice Presidential debates were going to be aired on CNN. We rode along, late, like witches in the streetlight, yelling, at times, "Joe Biden, we are coming!" We sat among Americans and other anglos and Zack clapped at Biden and I laughed at Palin, there were old men circulating the bar packed with people shhh-ing and straining to hear. A strange sense of being a part of something larger than me (the political scene, the election results) yet also feeling as if I were a strange appendage to the system, on the moon watching from so far away (Parisians were sleeping, the streets were quiet).

We met a crazy old American bat of a woman while she shuffled on her ritzy 1st arrondissement coat and adjusted her huge blue glasses. I gave her my card and my phone number, told her I wanted to help her write her life story. This in response to --"I would, you know, I would I just, I just, I just don't know how you to write it, you see." Caught in the 50s, perhaps the last time she lived in the US, trapped in French mannerisms and very expensive clothing. She insisted that "Zachariah" was a n----r name, crinkled her nose, tics to the left, looks around and then back at me. "Now where can I find a taxi at this hour?" It was 5:30 am. We rode back up north, our hands gripping handlebars, hearts light with Biden finally coming awake in the last half, Paris streaming along behind us in the rushing, cold air.

Palin/Biden...Hyper-Boom!

I woke up 5 minutes before our alarm went off. I sat there at almost two in the morning thinking about waking up Julie, which is like slap-boxing an angry barracuda. Real shitburger supreme. Je plesant, mon amor.

Then we walked around Americanly looking for the free bikes. After like four hours, we figured out how to get the bikes and then we looked sweet pedaling around the city. We got to this weird English bar full of Nazis and I had a ham sandwich. Every time Palin remained upright and didn't drool too much, all the McCain supporters went absolutely bizonkers. But I just enjoyed my awesome ham.

Then Biden ruled the fucking school while Palin got a new pillow to cry into. Clearly, sidekicking for John McCain would suck balls. Then this total Nazi blonde blazer-wearing gentleman told me that the real reason we had to bailout Wall Street is because of Clinton signing some 1993 bill letting Blacks, Gays and Women do stuff.

It was pretty sweet. During our bike ride home at 6am, Julie and I stole a giant French movie poster and celebrated our Vice Presidential candidate not being stupid.

Hey! Watch Brad Neely's Bible History and others!

The Louvre

I accidentally went into the women's room again. This time is was in the Histoire du Louvre exhibit, next to the entrance for Ancient Egypt. I don't know what my problem is, but this happens way too often. Frankly, once ever is too much, but I've now accidentally gone in the women's room three times in two years. This year it was the Louvre and the Columbus Sports Connection locker room and last year it was the ladies' room at Dulles International Airport.

So, this time, shortly after noticing a tampon depository next to the toilet paper, I knew I was in big trouble. Then I heard someone come into the bathroom. I had to make a break for it, so I waited until I heard the door close and bolted, no time for hand washing, allez allez! And the woman's husband was waiting for her at the door! SO EMBARRASSING!

And I did what any sane person would do given this situation: I put my chin up, looked the man square in the eye and with the talent of Lawrence Olivier, feigned as though I believed I had come from the men's room. The guy looked at me in disbelief, which quickly turned to indignation and then to dread. "Is my wife in the Men's room?" he may have been thinking. But I wouldn't know. By then I was hiding amongst the Sarcophagi, praying to Osiris that he spare me the shame of ever having to see that man again.