CHARISMATIC MEGAFAUNA |
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By Quiconque |
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2004-07-14Allons, Enfants!Happy Bastille Day! Two hundred and fifteen years ago, a group of Parisians who�d just about had enough of the king broke into a local prison, looking for weapons with which to fight The Man. They found none, and, as a "va te faire foutre" to The Man, liberated the prisoners instead. This marked the beginning of the French Revolution, and established the model of French political protest. To this day, whenever Parisians feel the heavy foot of The Man on their necks, they take to the streets. (That they are less likely to go to the voting booth is why Jean-Marie LePen made it to the presidential elections in 2002.) I, too, celebrated my freedom on Bastille Day, 2003. Not freedom from The Man, but freedom from The Husband and The Wife, an awful couple with whom I�d lived during the first part of my stay in Paris. The Husband wasn�t so bad. He was childish and foolish and regularly cooked a dish that smelled like roasted dirty underpants, but his heart was good. The Wife, however, was a combination Aunt Greater Evil, Omarosa, and Robin Wright Penn�s character from White Oleander. The Wife was responsible for many petty annoyances and major fights. She routinely hit the husband. She threw his prayer rug out the window and called the cops on him. She stole money from him. She was the most uptight Buddhist I�d ever met: she made Edina Monsoon look like the Venerable Ajahn Chaah. Every night, despite her proclamation that she did not marry The Husband �just because she likes big black d�k,� she would loudly order him to have sex with her, and threaten to throw him out on the street if he didn�t comply. The walls in the apartment were paper thin. Every evening I heard the same sad dialogue, �Baise-moi!� from her and �Laisse-moi tranquille!� from him. He always gave in, and she always ended up yelping like a purse dog. I reached my limit the night The Wife pretended to commit suicide. The Husband went out with friends and she was feeling neglected. So, she threw some sleeping pills on the floor of the kitchen and lay in the bed with the empty bottle. The Husband came home, saw her �asleep� and went back out, happy for once that he wouldn�t have to service her. She called his cousin and asked her to call an ambulance. (Why didn�t she call the ambulance herself? Because it was a lie. She wanted to involve as many people as possible in the drama.) The ambulance came, took her away, and brought her back the next morning. So much for the suicide attempt. The hospital didn�t even keep her for observation. I was sick of observing it, too. It was all too much drama for me. I immediately got a copy of FUSAC and found a new place, which La Belle Helene graciously funded. (Merci bien!) Two hundred and fourteen years after the storming of the Bastille, I found myself drinking white beer in the park outside the Hotel de Ville in Vincennes, watching fireworks and listening to an awful Johnny Hallyday cover band. People were breaking it down in the dance floor in the middle of the square. Sullen teens skateboarded around me. The party lasted all night, and most of it took place right outside my door. Despite the noise, it was one of the most peaceful nights I�d spent in Paris. |
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