THE TREE WAS ZAPPED

Paris is for wannabes.

Alright alright. alright alrite allrite.

So I've been in the dirty pigeon city, the city of lights, the city of love, the city of art (call it what you will) for 5 days now riding on this steep roller-coaster of emotion which started gently with overall satisfaction and confidence. When I began to see the first peak of insanity on the horizon I jump-started my search for work and studio on the second night. I e-mailed this man named Sergio whom I was in contact with in Jan. about possibly being his assistant for a free studio space. I sent the french version of a resume and a photo (which are required in France, because they like to know what they are getting into visually i guess) where I look much more well-endowed than I am. I've gotten no response, maybe he likes flat chests.

Bra sizes aside. Today I went to an horlogerie (translation: gaudy as fuck clock shop) to try to get an apprenticeship. Imagine me working in here:

Of course they wouldn't let me out of the back during store hours. I'd be like the hunchback of notredame, befriending the rats and roaches.

But anyway. They said non, and i said merde. But I told them that I was teaching little kids english and drawing because i didn't want them to think that I was completely unemployable. One of the ladies told me that she would e-mail me because she might know some kids whose parents want to make them speak english. I may have landed some sort of little gig there, by getting rejected from another.

I've been biking around on these really cheap rentable bikes that are supposed to boost the rep of Sarkozy while maintaining a greener Paris. However they prove to do neither- a) today on my excursion to the art store I saw a man with a surgical mask on smoking a cigarette. I was tempted to ask him what the point was and how he did it and if the cause was really greater than the hassle, but I decided to leave to it because he seemed to have other things on his mind.

b) this is what the french do with the bikes:
Tomorrow I must go to the south of france for the mother's 60th, but when I return I am going to whore myself out like i would if I lived anywhere near the molin rouge.

But for now I will leave you with little treasures inspiration for my own little bouts in un-origonal
tagging. <-- says 'draw me an asshole': Sarkozy. and the bottom one is my fave. When in doubt use silly string.

Its time for the big gunz. You wanna fuck with me Wolfy... bring it bitch.

So... I'm pumped to leave in less than 48 hours. I'm all set. Health insurance -check, credit cards- check, passport- check, phone company contacted- check. Everything is locked and loaded


There is only one small set back: I cannot pack.











This fuckin crazy eye killah decided to lay her wet steamy ass eggs in my clean laundry. Bitch won't leave! She WILL NOT LEAVE!!


I have been waiting for 17 hours for her to pack up the family and leave the sweet haven that is the pocket flap of my jeans where i am guessing 1 million little "charlotte's" will soon emerge and infest the rest of my laundry. I've come at her with a glass for a clean capture. She jumps like 3 feet onto another pile of laundry, at which point i have already run up the stairs and outside to hyperventilate and jump around screaming like jiffy-pop.

So, after half an hour i go back down and she is right back where she was all flat and threatened so i come at her with a vacuume cleaner and the entire process starts over again.

Her crazy eyes glow at me and i know this is a battle of the prides, which i lost on that first sprint out the door.

I really don't know what to do. I've survived an non-refundable plane ticket, a warrent for my arrest, and a slew of other potentially threatening set backs... but i really was not expecting this.

Life has a funny way of fucking with you.