Tuesday, February 10, 2009


At 3 A.M. there was the banging again. They weren’t really thuds – it was more like they were carrying pianos up the stairs. Or maybe it was down them? But the pianos of course didn’t make any noise. They were probably coffins then. Were they coffins? Who carries a coffin down six flights of stairs only to drag it along cobblestones. Wet cobblestones. Slippery fucking stones that sit unevenly on la terre, asking you to twist an ankle or stub your toe. Maybe a trip here and there? These are the times that test men's souls, aren’t they. Or was it try? No, no – scratch that. Someone famous wrote that one.

I remember the night before as if it were the night before. Dirty whores, slutty men and equestrian shoes. What about the leather? Couldn’t it have been ruined by the drink-after-drink method of ingestion? Someone was drinking a concoction that night that wasn’t necessarily natural – there was a twist or a twinge to it. If anything was clear, it surely wasn’t.

Women wore crosses to help them feel sanctified, when in reality they wanted to remain pious to a different kind of sacrifice. If He died on a cross, maybe someone else would get nailed for the people. Spears, blood and a holy cloth to decorate the scene. All we needed was a Roman or a soldier. Is that what they call them nowadays? Galluses or Gauls, one of the two surely isn’t there any more. Excuse me dear; I’ll take another 10 EUR Corona. My dearest gal is waiting at the table.

In time I realized there was an art to the pole. I stepped up, literally, and stared her in the eyes. She sort of hesitated for a little bit then backed away. Maybe she wasn’t ready for what I had in store. However, store rhymed with whore so it seemed like an open door. Wasn’t she used to the A plus B equals C combination? Or was I incompetent? I opted not to go through with it because her face reminded me of a contorted Persian boxer covered in Sephora’s discount bin. I wanted to recommend a better place to shop but I just felt sorry her. After that I really had no desire to go on. I stepped down, removed myself and let her be. I think someone ended up stuffing a few bills in her G-String later that night. I hope they had a good time sweating it out.

During the waking hours I felt it was better to walk off whatever it is I had jammed into my body the previous day, night and morning before. I kept myself quite active but only for the reason of wanting to stay busy. Baguettes were a common form of fuel as well as alcohol. The combination didn’t make much sense to anyone, but at least it did to me. Somewhat. Every now and then I’d mix it up with a slice of gateaux or some other form of cadeau to entertain myself. MC Solaar or whatever else that guy’s name was - he definitely would’ve fit in with that one store. What did I call it? “The French Version of Kohl’s?” Once again, it rains all over this place.

It reminded me of my childhood. There were dark corridors and cold, cold tiles. I stared down for a second only to be reminded I had other things to do. The morning breeze came in through the window and turned the follicles of my skin into a pasture of my own kind of cobblestones. I fucking hated those cobblestones but at the same time I loved them. There’s something about the oddities and inconsistencies that satisfied me temporarily. I soon brushed them off and went on with my day. I guess you could say I went on – instead I sort of just sat there.

Already the characters were getting closer to their set destinations. Many were mingling while others were just getting ready. Indeed there are always a few who seem to avoid all this. More power to them, I guess. The only thing is that in the end, it probably won’t work out for them. While they’re off enjoying whatever it is they do to entertain themselves, others will be honing in on the right section or quadrant that they need to find themselves in. It’s like hopscotch or four-square: Miss a step or fall out of a beat and you get it right in the face. Hold on tight and keep your eyes focused, accidents tend to happen. Before you know it, you’re on the bottom while someone else gets on top.

The cycle went on, but I still felt that I needed a glimpse of nature. I wanted to avoid the usual and move on to the days in life where I could just hand over gold bullion and nothing else would matter. I imagined the days where I’d be able to just sit there and throw shit at them. While I ate my cake and scoffed at this and that. I didn’t want the court or any of its players – I wanted the whole goddamn arena. But did I ever get it? Of course not. That would require something as epic as Gladiator. Good thing life’s not like the movies – otherwise I’d be finding a dagger right in my side, unwilling to escape or even heal up. Excuse me while I take yet another doozy doze.

“However, self-styled travelers are also outsiders, engaging with the ‘Other’; they may better be labeled ‘anti-tourists,’ since the uniqueness and authenticity they claim for their own experiences direct opposite of what they reject in ‘tourism.’ Likewise, the claim to independence does not necessarily entail traveling independently. Even when traveling in groups, they may seek to separate themselves from the shared experience; and the tourist may momentarily assume the position of the traveler. The advertising for package tours today makes much of the possibility of the unique, ‘authentic’ experience that may be found just off the beaten track.”

2 Feb 09
Beer: George Killian’s, Biere Rousse, Bière Spéciale de Tradition Irlandaise, 6.5% ABV
Location: G20, Rue de Chaillot, 16é, Paris, FR
Price: 4,61€/6pk. 25cl
Grade: 5.7

Though I have surely had the American import of G. Killian’s, I was curious as to how they do it in Europe/France. Same creaminess, spunk and punchy cedar notes that are also ‘available’ in the U.S. version. Quite sweet though, as if they mixed in some honey for the French. I wouldn’t blame them though, all the other beers I’ve purchased here are on the ‘sweet side.’ Then again, all of the past couple of beers have been shit beers. Maybe I should change where I’m buying the beer? Nonetheless, it has baby hops and shallow taste, body and structure. Very simple-minded and straight forward: Minor flicker in the beginning, tickles the tongue then dies out into a boring wash. Some almond taste as well as clove, but as if it were haphazardly thrown into the brewing process. Sloppy brew with sloppy results.

3 Feb 09
Wine: Vin de Pays de la Vicomté d’Aumelas, Jules Vulcraud, 2007, 12.5% ABV
Location: G20, Rue de Chaillot, 16é, Paris, FR
Price: 5,60€/750mL
Grade: 3.1

Blackberries, raspberries and black currant immediately. Not very lively at all though, quite flat and boring. Faint aroma, mostly that of cheap alcohol. Body is very shallow with little to no bite with it at all. Goes down in a insipid manner, as if it had no desire to be noticed at all. Would be ideal for mass consumption and/or pouring for undesired house guests.


Morgan said...

you've proven that this isn't just about beer. only mostly.

Anonymous said...

Well written, and an enjoyable read overall. I think your travels are just missing one element: absynthe.