It is only fitting that the Best Tour Ever ended with the Best Plane Ride Ever, but I'm getting ahead of myself... we went to Paris first.
Paris is awesome. I swoon for just about every type of accent--especially that of our favorite Scouser
Crazy Pete--but I fall down and die
la petite mort just about every time a French person speaks to me in English. Be it basso, alto, or soprano, the accent has just the perfect balance of of sexy and approachability to fall in love with a thousand times over. Compound this with the fact that the worst meal in Paris is better than the best meal anywhere else, that their idea of water is wine, and that their idea of "hello" is kisses on
both cheeks, and you'll understand why I was dying little deaths all over that great city. It's grand to be drunk and in love in gay Paris.
There was goodwill to be spread on the Blood Arm's side as well, and hopefully we succeeded in the form of acoustic radio sessions, interviews and a showcase at
L'fleche d'or.
(A brief explanation of the photos above: The first is from the RTL2 radio session; the second is of Zebastian with his new law and life partner, Sebastian; the third is the painful au revoir with William, our ever-impeccably dressed driver.)
Of course, what the photos above do not accurately capture is how intoxicated we were by the time William dropped us off at the airport. We were lovedrunk with Paris to begin with, but then around six o'clock Tuesday morning Nathaniel and I invented the French Russian--which is French coffee mixed with French milk and Russian vodka--and the French Greyhound, which is French grapefruit juice mixed with Russian vodka and a French Russian. We drank all of these, then the rest of our Russian vodka on the way to the airport. So by the time we arrived for check-in at eight am, I had no idea how to answer the questions, "are you monsieur Handler?" And, "what is your country of residence?" Fortunately, Dyan had avoided all the earlier Franco-Russo hub-bub and stealthily guided us through security, expertly avoiding any possibility of a diplomatic crisis.
Usually the party ends by the time one boards an American Airlines flight--they charge for drinks and the entertainment options always feature Adam Sandler--but we were sitting by the superfun Ken, Sheran, Nancy, and the superhuman BALTHAZAR. (That's Ken and Sheran next to Zachary and I.)
Ken is a ex-SAS sniper who is currently teaching Frenchmen to be coal miners and alcoholics. He insisted on buying us drinks the entirety of the flight. He helped Zachary and I overcome our fear of military men, and we helped him overcome his fear of Jews.
Sheran was life coach to Jim Morrison (that one didn't turn out too well, whoops!) and Buddy Rich. She now parties with Bob Dylan and Tom Jones. She helped Zachary and I to set short and long term goals in our lives outside of partying on airplanes. (My short term goal: brushing teeth. Zach's long term: growing hair.)
Nancy is the superstar stewardess who continued to let Ken buy us drinks long after it was probably illegal. She helped us to realize that her aunt was the mean secretary at our high school.
BALTHAZAR is the craziest, realest motherfucker we have ever met. BALTHAZAR is less of a two year-old than a hurricane of happiness, honesty, and toy cars. BALTHAZAR refuses to sit down. BALTHAZAR knows that if a society says people can't run up to strangers, hug them and throw their toys at them, then that society deserves to be violently fucked in the ass. BALTHAZAR is zero pretence, all action, and packaged in the cutest red jumper I've ever seen. BALTHAZAR's name is twice as big as he is. We should all aspire to be more like BALTHAZAR.
I am going to get my hair cut like BALTHAZAR's because it is so fucking adorable.
Super-long plane flights should always be so full of awesome.
Now we are home, and had better see you at the show Friday.
I love you,
Ben Lee Handler
Labels: BALTHAZAR, Crazy Pete, Paris
