A little Freddie

Take two people who each have a strong connection to a third but don't really like or understand each other. Then take those three people and put them in a studio apartment the size of an ATM vestibule for two weeks. Snoring, snarky comments, weird sleep and smoking habits. A holocaust, it seemed, was closing in fast. In dreams I envisioned my brother putting knives in his shoes while Becca chiseled the sides of her laptop to create a decapitating frisby (Wifi enabled).

But fun prevailed. The potential risks of allowing booze and video equipment to collide are similar to mixing Paris Hilton with MTV (or, for that matter, Paris Hilton, video equipment, and a hotel room); It could be a fucking catastrophe. But Apple technology--which can border on cheap hey-Im-an-individual gimmicks--ensured that we had some medium in which to direct our psychotic energies. And to answer the inevitable question: Because Becca and clothes are like Mike Tyson and virgin sheep. They just don't get along. That bra, after all, is just a prop.



When we weren't discrediting ourselves from future job offers, we moseyed on down to The Clash on a night when the name of the place actually did itself justice. It was a Saturday and Becca and I were ready for a decent night on the town after using and abusing Macbook gizmos. Apparently, Saturday night at The Clash is Gothfest, replete of any normativity. The DJ must have played two full CDs of Joy Division, but the dance floor remained empty for most of the evening, with a guy in his 40s who crept around the the square like a predator stalking invisible prey as the lone exception. Besides our uninformed garb, every person in the bar was dressed fully in black. Marylin Mansons and Courtney Loves flooded the place. I don't have a picture but this city is swarming with shit like that. There's little doubt I'll run into it again.



Well, now that I'm a rock star, it's time to go off and trudge around Paris and Amsterdam for a week. Shroomed out of my gourde and recovering from the wallet-fuck that encompasses Parisian culture, zany thoughts will ensue.