Busted cork in Quincampoix, waitin’ for the heat / Feelin’ near as faded as my jeans…

Bon soir, mon chers! Day deux in Paris was fun. After flooding my bathroom and fighting back a militant indoor pigeon at the cafe I set out for an exhibit of 1919-1929 fashion at the Musée Galliera. Which I did not find. I ended up at the Louvre, happy as a pig in poop. I saw Mona Lisa, who is tiny (on account of being cut out of her frame by art thieves through the years) and behind glass and quarantined from the masses. Seeing The Young Martyr was fantastic. She may be my favorite painting of all time, on that list of favorite paintings with 20 works tied for the No. 1 slot. I hear she looks like me.

After a few hours at the Louvre I deftly avoided getting museum-head and set out for more adventure. I walked along the Seine River, then I crossed it. I pondered the beheading of Marie Antoinette and stood frozen when I saw the golden statues on the Pont de Alexandre III. I ducked into a cafe to get out of the rain and ate some dee-vine oysters. Oh my stars, they were so delicious and unlike the kind we have in Northern California. And my waiter, he loves San Francisco — or as he said, “Freeeesco!”

My apartment is tres mignon. It’s in a 16th century building which explains why the light switches are in the most nonsensical places. They just didn’t think things through back then. Looking to turn off the light in over the couch? The switch is in the foyer. The switch near the couch? That turns on the light in the kitchen. The apartment is on the fifth floor so thank dog there is an elevator. Just don’t try to turn around in there because you will get stuck. And speaking of the common areas of this building, the lights are usually off. There are lit switches in the hallways but don’t press those — they’re doorbells. If you ring one you’ll find yourself hurtling down the stairs like Helen Keller trying to get away from possible angry neighbors. If you’re looking for light try the switches that do not light up. And the stairs, lawsy, the stairs. I will take photos for you because you will not believe me. They were designed by Picasso during his Cubist period.

Things I have learned about myself:
* My body does not register hunger when I’m jet-lagged.
* I lose all ability to speak any semblance of French when I’m hungry (”Je voudrais uhhhh table for one please, merci duh”).
* The riot police in France look like models. There was some sort of protest today, it made me feel like I was home.
* Blood sausage is not that bad; it’s kind of good if you don’t look at it when you chew.
* I sure am glad the restaurant ran out of the deer mousse before I arrived; I thought I was ordering fish. Praise Jesus for that food shortage.
* If you think you’re going to break the cork off into the wine bottle when you’re unscrewing it, you will. Guar-an-tee.

And special big thanks to the guard at the Louvre who let me stand off to the side and take the self-portrait with my girl Mona Lisa. He denied a bunch of peeps but let me by. Thanks, bro!