Hard Up in Gay Paris

I woke up about four AM yesterday morning backstage at the Paris Paris club in Paris a little out of sorts, and rightfully so. For one, I was backstage at the Paris Paris club in Paris, instead of in bed at our hotel. And then there was all this other shit: Yiannis, our Grecian Sound Technician, was repeatedly putting-on and peeling-off a sticker from my right cheek, a creepy tall French dude was pinching my left hand black and blue, and one of the club's DJs plopped herself on my lap and had, according to Nathaniel, been making out with my corpse for some time before I began to stir.

One's morning-after instinct when this sort of thing happens--and it happens more than we of the Blood Arm Posse would like to admit--is to blame it all on whatever township we happened to be in the night before. Oh, those Parisians/Londoners/Dusseldorfians/Orange Countians are just CRAZY, we say, pouring ourselves a third eye-opener. How they rejoice in forcing us to party all night, inject goofballs and have unprotected sex with farm animals! The monsters!

Then we go off in Paris/London/Dusseldorf/Orange County/whatever city we happen to be in and cross our fingers that its citizens will attempt to outparty wherever we were the previous evening. Funny thing, it seems that everyone we meet in every city is crazy.

But especially in Paris.

Upon entering the Paris Paris club, partygoers are greeted by a pink Mickey Mouse with a giant boner:


Then they walk downstairs, and there we are with bigger boners:





It was a good night, basically.

I love you so much it's making me crazy,

Ben Lee Handler