November 9th, 2005

The Street Of Mystery

I live on a small street.

It's almost an alley.

On one end is one of the major commerical avenues. On the other end is Sweet Carolina's (If Fitzpatrick's is Harry Potter, Sweet Carolina's is Voldemort, the Bar That Must Not Be Named.)

Yet, an alley is a deserted place. My street is not.

There is one store that has 12 handmade hats in the window. It has had the same 12 handmade hats in the window for the two years I've been in this apartment.

"It's like the street in Emil Zola's Therese Racquin," Rome Girl said.

Another business sells antique books. The doors are always bolted or chained. Whenever I look in the windows there are two or three old men reading withered, yellowed pages. When they see me, they look away.

Last year, an Arab man opened up a store next door to me that sells antiques and other second hand goods. There is a child's abandoned bicycle that hangs over the door. Whenever I see it, I want to cry because I wonder how and why it ended up in this alley, without a child.

Below me is a laundrette. At least one machine is always broken, but no signs ever say which one. No matter what one I put my clothes into that day, it is always the broken one. This makes me laugh.

On the other side of my place is an Italian restaurant. They are kind and when I order food they send it up on deep ceramic plates and trust me to return them. I would not think of letting them down.

I don't get how this street came to exist. Certainly, by its location alone it should be filled with modern shops overflowing with yuppie bastards.

Yet, somehow I think it has remained the same street for a thousand years - and that it does not care that the souls who live here sometimes change.


The Bonfire Of The Vanities

I love how the French government thinks that declaring a state of emergency and putting in a curfew will stop angry poor people from burning shit.

I mean the point of rioting is that you no longer care about the law, so why would a curfew stop you from being out and being bad?

The French have three choices:

1. Go in and beat people up.

2. Give in to some of their demands.

3. Ignore it and let them run out of shit to burn.

We had our own scare last night after we went to bed. We could hear a bunch of angry arabs outside. Then a girl screaming that she was being raped. Then the cops showed up and busted some heads and the arabs ran for the hills.

My graphic designer and I were talking this morning and came up with our own solution:

Kill/deport all the french people and all the arabs and let this country be settled by civilized people with morals, a work ethic and language that does not feature random consonants. After all, they cut off the heads of all the intelligent creative types who build the pretty buildings and started the vinyards.

Hell, the current peasants run this country so poorly than everytime I waste 2 hours in the post office trying to mail a letter I want to riot. And don't get me started on the banking system...