Drunken Expat Writer

Tonight with Miss Darling and over the past few days with Rome Girl, I've started to try to figure out what I want to do in February when I turn 40.

Rome Girl has said that as far as she's concerned all bets are off and as long as she doesn't have to witness bad behavior or be around me I can do anything I want.

"You only turn 40 once," she said. "I don't want to be near you when you go off the rails, but you do need to go mad and I won't fucking hold it against you."

So, Rome Girl, Miss Darling and I have been discussing some options.

1. My favorite brothel in Barcelona. Vodka and (safer sex) blow jobs for as long as my liver and penis can stand it. Miss Darling used to run a brothel and has offered to come with me and help pick out the best girls for the job. (She also points out that this would be relatively cheap since blow jobs are only 50 a shot and if I'm drinking I'd probably not be able to do more than three and two would honestly be more likely.)

2. Blackjack in Monte Carlo with me in a James Bond style tux with a high end escort on my side (not for sexual purposes, just for the sense of having a beautiful young babe totally pampering me while I play cards.)

3. Cocaine fueled tour of all the bars and clubs of Montpellier. ("I'll just sleep at a friend's place and let you go nuts," was Rome Girl's comment to this suggestion. "But, I won't let you get away with coke again until you are 50.")

4. Big sloppy drunken night with my friends at Vert Anglais with a bunch of strippers to entertain us all.

5. Snorting heroin for the one and only time in my life just to find out why the fuck people would ever do it.

6. Buying some completely overpriced and unnecessary toy like a vintage Centipede or Defender arcade game or Playstation 3 with Rock Band.

7. Attempt a heist to steal the Mona Lisa.

8. Harry's Bar in Paris all night where they are known to make the best Martinis in the world even though they charge 16 euros per Martini.

9. Solo one day pub crawl/stripper crawl/brothel crawl in some city/country I've never been to before and will never go back to again like Bulgaria or Prague.

Your thoughts?

Any other suggestions?

The Drunk Ex Pat Writer wants to know... on the QT and very, very hush hush...

So, like me, my stepmom does freelance work - except she calls is a "consultancy" but whatever. She does what I do, except it doesn't involve porn and she makes 50 times what I do.

Anyway, a week ago she contacted me because she'd gotten some sort of contract to edit a 200 page art magazine and translate it into French, even though she doesn't know a word of French. It had to be done by Oct. 6.

She contacted me in an attempt to hire me to do it but I said "no" because:

1. I'm not a native French speaker and translating into French should really be done by a native.

2. There is no way anyone can reasonably translate 200 pages in nine days.

She went ahead with the contract anyway and hired an old family friend to do the translation part.

Then my dad emailed me last night for help because the dude she hired "has been let go from the Globe and is apparently manic and fell asleep at the wheel because of diabetes and is in rehab and can only type with one hand. Plus, he is a bit crazy."

I swear to fucking god I'm not making that quote up.

My dad has been trying to translate the thing himself, but as of last night only had 60 percent of it done and now wants Rome Girl and I on-call because my stepmom "sees big bucks in the future books and is driving me a bit nuts. She insists we can do the french translation."

So, now, of course, I'm going to have to sit around and do emergency translation even though my written French sucks and it's Sunday for christ sakes.

And, I've screwed myself, because if I'd just taken the fucking job last week and farmed it out I'd at least be getting some money out of the deal. At this point, I'm doing it just as a parental guilt induced favor.

Plus, if I get anything wrong - which is very likely, particularly if it's like 2 a.m. my time when they send me stuff - and the client notices I know that I'll be the one who ends up looking like an asshole.

I'm keeping the Xanax box on my person at all times today.

Hippy IT Boy's take on the Wall Street bailout.

"The reason," I said to my mom, "Why you don't want to use a computer translator is that 'a fork in the road' is not an 'eating utensil on the street.'"

The Vert Anglais is holding an "80's Night" party on Wednesday.

I'm trying to figure out what to wear. Here are my initial two ideas:

1. Dye my hair gray, rent a walker and talk about Roosevelt all night.

2. Put brown shoe polish on my face, bring a voodoo doll and say "Wait, this wasn't "Haiti's night?"

Dione Warwick covering Mister Mister.

Seriously.

It's beyond.