French Lesson

You know the evening I’m talking about…blurry and boozy. Said all the things you wish you hadn’t - didn’t say all the things that…well, you kind of said those too. The checkered cab just dropped you off and your standing out in the pitch black bitter of 4:44 A.M. Chicago trying to figure out which of the 200 keys on your ring fits the front door. And then that thought slams your head with a thousand tiny fists at once: I should try and do things more in moderation…YEAH RIGHT! What you’re really thinking is: GOT TO GET MY ASS TO BED RIGHT NOW…BUT FIRST, ONWARD TO THE HARD COLD TILE OF THE BATHROOM FLOOR WHERE I CAN REST AFTER PUKING A BIT AND THEN WHEN I WAKE UP… I CAN GET MY ASS TO BED! Moderation is the most remote, far away planet from your consciousness, where it will remain - unvisited - even as you head out later on today in search of Gina - the girl whose Celtic lower back tattoo you just spent the last hour slurping tequila off of and who makes you want to be a better man.

That’s the kind of evening I’ve been having. So while I’m fumbling and faltering, trying to get into my apartment, my cell is vibrating a hole through my pant’s pocket. But no, it’s not Gina, it’s…Well, I have a little confession to make…

Paris Hilton keeps sending me text messages. She doesn’t know my cell phone company charges me $1.10 per message and she doesn’t care. It’s just as well - I’m already on the bathroom floor as I read the first one: PARTYING WITH PINK IN PARIS - CIAO.

She is not even fazed by her geographical faux pas. Nor does she find it vaguely odd to spend so much time in the city of her namesake. “Paris is for everyone” she’s fond of saying. She’s so hot. I read her next message and she gets it right this time: BON JOUR PRETTY BOY - WISH YOU WERE HERE.

She is so vapid. It’s oddly attractive. I remember when we first met - knee deep in sadness and guilt and all touch-feely like new lovers. It was right after her “private encounter” went public and was vying for all the internet attention previously reserved for Pamela and Tommy Lee. Guess I was right on time.

Paris is the kind of girl you don’t take home to mother. However, last time we were in New York, mother was desperate for a brunch and Paris was happy to oblige. Paris is all about brunch. Of course we met at the Hilton, and after exchanging pleasantries with mother and a brisk round of Perrier and O.J., Paris requested a small plate of dirt, which she rubbed on her lips. She felt bloated shortly after and left for the bathroom without excusing herself. Mother was appalled, but I found it quite cute. Oh, so Paris. She’s hot.

I think enough of the poison is out of my body now. I fall onto the bed as the sun begins to stream through the curtains. It’s 6:32 and Paris is texting me again. Last time. I read it before my body is completely obliterated: LILO IS HERE AND SHE’S EATING A CHEESEBURGER - IT’S HOT
Yes it is, my love. Au Revoir, Paris. You exhaust me. And Gina…wherever you are…I’ll catch you later.