weekend update

Well, this weekend was like all the other weekends: I went out, I saw beautiful people, I drank myself silly, I talked shite on the shinola, and then I stumbled home at some obscene hour, with small regrets and a secret vow to give up all things toxic to my body... a vow broken at some unappointed hour sometime in the following week.

This time, the Saturday started at Baumet Sultana, a gallery in the Marais. They were showing the work of up and coming drawer Charles Anastase. Reviews were mixed. Some people gushed, others pouted and shrugged. Not an unqualified but moderate success. The unqualified success was the party, though. So many of the sweetness and fashionably wispy-looking-pretty-somethings who could be in some Dutch magazine somewhere, coupled with crisp white wine, a setting sun, and the profane idea that somehow you could talk about the Royal Wedding for over 20 minutes, and still be gorgeously funny and insane.

I think I actually talked about art, and quite coherently to boot! That's a first for these opening things, where usually we blubber pithy nonsense, slip happily into our fizzy heads and jump around in pretty outfits. People were impressed. Some crazy Bulgarian guy named Angel asked me if I was married to my Muffin... and we both simultaneously answered... me-NO, he-YES.

Then wandered like idiots trying to find Stefan's for dinner. Voin, Thibault, that Angel-guy and me... trekking in damp cold up and down the Fauberg Saint-Martin, then the Fauberg Saint-Denis, searching for cheap wine, and chocolate to bring. Get there and Kim let's us in... she's this incredibly stunning Korean girl.... like she could be in Twin Peaks, that girl. Classy. (Turns out she wants to play badminton and watch horror films, so looks like I have a new ladyfriend)

We all crowd round the bar in her designer friend's kitchen... slurping Bordeaux, rolling smoke and gushing like morons on the incredibly well-placed low ceiling. Dinner was a very simple and tasty pasta (creamy mushrooms topped with slivered almonds which had been roasted with garlic, honey and hot chillis). Night wore deep on. Then the Bulgarian guy fell off his chair. He then tried to sleep at Stefan's, but that wasn't happening. Then he asked to sleep at my place, repeatedly, and wouldn't stop pushing me about it...and I asked him why he didn't just go home? He said it was in Vincennes. Vincennes is right on the Peripherique... he could just take a taxi home, or walk...

We walked all the way to Republique, at which point I took advantage of his gawking at a bus schedule, to walk quickly away. The rest of the walk was lovely, by myself, late late Saturday night. People were clustered around on Republique, in drunken groups as taken cabs sailed past like a flood of bloated rats. Then, moving up Oberkampf, pass the usual faded tulips dripping around the security at Cafe Charbon, the lineups for kebabs and hamburger crepes, men, boys, girls, women, looking red-eyed and suitably blank-faced. The climbing of the mountain, where passers-by became rarer and rarer. And then the familiar corner, the Art Nouveau grilling on the front door, my fire hydrant red door, and entry...

...where I discovered, much to my shock, that Dacnar was not at home! He was at another party! But, never fear, as soon as I crawled under the covers, I heard the clicking and lock moving... and he was home. Sometimes he jumps around too...

Today: woke up sick and exhausted, again. Got quickly dressed, stuffed some mirabelle cake in my mouth with lemonade, then popped out to go to Nicolas's place. He's a friend of Dacnar's... more precisely, he's a fan of his blog, and they are mutual fans of cycling. Actually, Nicolas has his own blog on cycling and literature, that's apparently quite good... très pointu et erudite, in the husband's own words. I haven't read it yet, but perhaps you will!

Anyways, so we go over to his place near the Gare de l'Est, and spend a very pleasant afternoon eating meat and tuna tarts, olives, pickled octopus, white wine and clafouti. It was all kind of strange and rubbishy in my stomach, but my stomach wasn't in the mood to play nice. Luckily, the tea solved all these problems.

The race was excellent, Paris-Roubaix, despite the lack of rain. I didn't know it, but this race is older than the Tour de France by one year, and is often called the Queen of the Classics. Anyways, 24-year phenom Tom Boonen kicked ass, and dominated the race, like the future and current champion he is. Really, I assure you, it's a new guard in the sports world. The older generation, the plus 30s, they're going dinosaur faster than a baguette goes stale.

Was incredibly beat, and feeling woozy but chugged along to the Porte de Clichy to see Leo and the Lacombite at the Atelier Oblik. Leo didn't perform, as was promised, but did manage to drink incredibly cheap red wine, eat Mafé (african peanut and chicken curry), and chit the chat with the double Ls, whom I haven't seen in a bit. The place was very squat hippy from the early 90s, and I object to hearing old techno at 6pm on a Sunday evening, especially if it's coupled with acid graphics, but I survived.

Somewhere on the way home, I realized I desperately had to pee, but still had another 45 minutes left before my foot would be through the door. Concentration, determination, walking like a penguin... that helped. But what really helped was Dacnar sprinting ahead to ring the elevator for me, then racing up the stairs so that the moment I left the elevator, I was in direct sight of the toilet. That, my friends, is true love.