Bolus

The Desert Carnival Is Over

I can’t stop thinking about my desert carnival experience in late November. As The Seekers and Nick Cave so eloquently sang, the carnival is over, but man do I miss it. There’s nothing like all of those rigged games, scary cracked up rides, cheap stuffed animals, bright colors, and that whooshing sound of so many contraptions beckoning you in a methamphetamine haze. Smack in the middle of nowhere-ville, Yucca Valley, made the adventure even more surreal.  And I love the carnies. If there is ever a carnival in your area, go. Who cares if you're cheated or don't trust the rides or can't stand pot smoking teenagers (and really, you should get over that, because we all smoked pot out of coke cans at one point in our lives). Anyway, keep this world in business, no matter how crooked it is.

And the above charming, fascinating older fella (and prince) with the greatest rings I'd ever seen became my fast friend after we talked for nearly an hour. His name (for real) is Andy Hardy, and not only had he met Mickey Rooney ("nice man") but he voted for Obama (he didn't think he was a Muslim -- and he hoped he could turn the economy around, it's been hard on Carnies). An 80-year-old carny voted. No matter how you feel about our new president, see why Obama won?

Here's my experience, in under eight minutes. And yes, I missed that last ballon (hey, I'd taken a xanax that night) but I love that stuffed dog playing poker...

See all my Desert Carnival pictures here.

New Year On The Train

New Year's Eve is better on the train.

Forget parties. And Forget 2009. I'd rather be on the train, not knowing where I am or what time it is.

View all  New Year's Eve Train pictures here.  And Happy New Year, I guess.

Lazy Day Chicago, Part 1

Couple of Fridays ago Tammi Jo and I had some errands to run around Chicago, including checking out some colleges for 16-year old Hawkette. (yipes!). So we yanked her out of school and set about our city bidness with good buddy / artist Tim Anderson.

First stop: Ace Motorcycle and Scooter on Jackson Boulevard.  In addition to hot rods, the wife and I are also into old Italian scoots. Spare me the jokes, I've heard all of them; but I can tell you from experience that a sleek Vespa attracts a hotter class of woman than any full-dress Harley. More on that theory later. 

Anyhoo, we recently made scooter-for-painting swap with Tim. We loaded Tammi Jo's Vespa on the truck to drop at his studio. My '63 Lambretta Li 150 Special has been having magneto issues so Tim suggested bringing it along to drop off at Ace for a looksee and an electronic ignition upgrade. Glad we did because the shop was full of swanky old cycles and scoots like this Vespa SS.

My Lambo, ready for the doctor's examination.

One of my fave stock bikes of all time -- Bonneville T120.

Rad little moped, think it was a Puch.

This cool oddball little mutt with the tartan blanket, I couldn't ID. Sort of a cross between a Lark minibike, a Cushman, and a Tibetan Yak.

Outside: looks like a vintage 80s Vespa, but is actually a late model Indian-made 4-stroke Stella, base on the earlier Vespa design.

Moto Guzzi! Love them cool tranverse V-twins.

A BMW Allstate. Yup, Germany's "Ultimate Driving Machine" company made its U.S. beachhead by selling little motorcycles through the Sears catalog. Other makes that wore the Sears "Allstate" co-brand included Cushman, Vespa and Motobecane.

Lest you think motorscooters are for dandylads and shrinking violets, try this on for size: a Vespa GT250, which can hit 95 mph with ease. Consider what that feels like on 14" wheels.

Daylight's burning! On to our next stop... in Part 2.

Black Shabbat

Installment 3 of the iowahawk California vacation slide show

Saturday July 26

I woke up bright and early and roused Tammi Jo and the kids, excited to spring my special secret little vacation surprise on them.

"Remember how this was the day we were all going to drive to Anaheim and see Disneyland?" I asked.

"Uh huh," said the kids, warily.

"Well, guess what? That was just a cruel joke! We're actually going to...."

"whatwahatwhat??"

"Go on a murder tour of Pasadena with an evil clown!"

"Yaaaayyyy!!!"

We headed up on the Pasadena Freeway (California's oldest) and grabbed some breakfast before meeting Ruth Waytz and Gale Banks on the designated  pick up curb for the Pasadena Confidential tour run by Ruth's pals at Esotouric. Fun stuff, and only one of the many tours run by the group. Check 'em out for more macabre fun in LA. 

Soon we were introduced to our distinguished host, Crimebo the Crime Clown! We boarded our air conditioned coach for a slow driveby of crime sites that included the former homes of Sirhan Sirhan and "Charles Fuller," a nattily dressed pet chimp whose 1914 spree included a baby kidnapping and the tossing of a bulldog through a window. Lest you think Pasadena chimp crime is any better today, consider the recent case of Moe (warning, not for the faint of heart).

A charming bungalow complex, scene of several unspeakable crimes.

Swanky streamlined deco South Pasadena High. In 1940 drug-addled teacher Verlin Spencer went on a rampage here, slaying a Superintendent named George Bush.

Our first full stop was Millionaire's row and the stately Cravens mansion, once home to a well heeled family which now houses a branch of the Red Cross.

Crimebo bids you welcome. Wipe your feet please!

Greeting us in the marbled foyer: a rococo table piled high with adorable dolls with missing mandibles. Delightful!

The sumptuous state room, gaily strewn with faceless dismembered torsos.

While Tammi Jo, Ruth and Hawkette went upstairs with the tour group, Banks, Hawkspawn and I sneaked to the basement for some unauthorized exploration. After a few minutes of independent touring I ran into Hawkspawn who was staring contemplatively into space, next to a Hefty bag.

Even after a few jostles he remained silent, so I decided to see what was bugging him in the Hefty. Well whaddayaknow? It was a big bagful of faces that had just come out 0f cleaning.

We reboarded the bus and passed a few more sites, including the home of Jet Propulsion Lab founder / mad genius / L. Ron Hubbard scam victim Jack Parsons who died there in a mysterious 1952 explosion. Next stop: the dizzying heights of Pasadena's Suicide Bridge.

Before tromping out, Crimebo enlisted me and two fetching young women as thespians to re-enact his one act comedy of the despondent mother who leapt to her doom in 1937.

After our curtain calls, it was out onto the bridge. Vertigo, anyone?

Our last stop was the downtown Masonic temple, home of the grisly 1933 "Sphinx Murder" of a local dentist. Here young Hawkspawn delighted to the wacky antics of Crimebo as he cavorted about the once blood-soaked steps and Sphinx statue.

Tour over, we bid adieu to Ruth and Banks and made a quick stop at the dumpster of broken dreams for every Iowa Hawkeye football fan.

Back to LA where we checked into a new hotel. Seems our previous hotel, The It'll Do in Inglewood, wasn't good enough for Tammi Jo, even with its above-ground pool, ceiling fans, and free color TV.

 

Oh, no, not for our pampered princess Tammi Jo. Nosiree, she wants to stay in some fantasy over-$20-per-night palace with "less gunfire" and "fewer hobos" and blah-blah-blah. I finally got tired of the nagging. Thinking quickly, I rented a wig and hotel maid uniform and wrangled us room at the Avalon in Beverly Hills.

After we got settled in and put up the anthrax quarantine sign on the hotel room door, the kids and I headed over to Hollywood where we met Coop and Ruth for the late night horror show at the venerable Silent Movie Theater.

As luck would have it, the theater was at the climax of its weeklong Comedy Gore festival, and tonight's feature was the goriest, comedy-est movie ever produced: the 1991 Hong Kong bloody laff riot, "Ricky Oh" (a/k/a "The Story of Ricky")

The Coops, kids and I settled into our front row couches with anticipation and were not disappointed. Here's a little snippet of the cinematic fun:

A good time was had by all. The kids and I headed back to the hotel for restful dreams of evil clowns, torsos and exploding heads. Tomorrow is another big day!

Chicken & Waffles & Smog Monsters

Installment 2 in the iowahawk family L.A. Chronicles

July 24: First order of bidness is breakfast, and when we're in L.A. that means only one thing - Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles on Pico. After perusing the menu for 45 minutes, we opt for the chicken and waffles.

A postprandial photo op with Roscoe!

Re-energized, we decide to drop in at Coop's studio to annoy him at work.

Coop's huge collection of weird Japanese vinyls was a big hit with the ninos.

Aaiiieeee! It is Hedora!

Everybody's favorite smog monster was last seen battling Godzilla in the streets of Tokyo, circa 1971.

Thanks to volunteer shutterbug Coop, the family Christmas card photo. Thanks pal, you just saved us $29.95 at Olan Mills!

Coop's vivacious bride Ruth stopped by the studio and suggested a quick sightseeing trip through downtown L.A.'s Little Tokyo. There we met up with noted L.A. photography wiz Chris Haston and his daughter, who volunteered to lead the expedition. Did you know that pick-up-sticks was a major sport in Japan?

Just behind Ruth, the LAPD was taking some criminal horses in for booking.

Saw lots of awesome shops filled with ginchiest items of Japanese weirdness; Hawkspawn picked up a few Gundam models, and Hawkette a few Harajuku thingamabobs. But everybody's favorite seemed to be the Fugetsu-Do confection shop on 1st Street, which has been selling traditional Japanese candy for 105 years. We load up a few grocery sacks of mochi.

After saying farewell to Ruth and the Hastons we sauntered up to the Sunset Strip to see what was up. More Japanese weirdness!

The real occasion for the journey was for Hawkspawn to check out the vintage guitar room at Guitar Center Hollywood. The lad has been practicing his ass off, and we have a gentleman's agreement that when he reaches a certain level of proficiency he can get a big boy model. This is where we have a slight disagreement: to him, this means the solid gold 1957 Les Paul with moon rock inlays  that JFK was playing in the Dealey Plaza motorcade. I gently reminded him that it would be difficult to keep a guitar that cost 4 times more than our trailer home, and besides, he's really not that good anyway. He took it pretty well since I let him pluck on a few of those expensive jobbies when the store guys weren't looking, and we got to see some guitar god handprints out  front.

Battled through another late afternoon traffic jam to the Coop estate for cocktails, from where we all headed to Hollywood's oldest restaurant,  Musso & Frank Grill. Coop and Ruth have been holding court here every Thursday night for the last 10 years, from the same reserved booth that was once the purview of Orson Welles.

The insides ooze old Hollywood, and remains a low key hangout for movie and TV people. The only recognizable face we saw that night was former SNL guy Chris Parnell, but Sergio (the same waiter who has been serving the Coops for 10+ years) proudly showed us his photo album of himself and Johnny Depp.

M&F's old school fare is deliciously heavy on the meat 'n' taters. When in Rome, as they say, so I order the Chopped Steak a la Sergio and the Potatoes a la Coop (both actual menu items). Vegetarian Hawkette opts for the vegetable plate - with lima beans. How many restaurants still offer lima beans?

In the parking lot, Hawkspawn spots a Ferrari 430 and attempts a pantomime hotwiring. Coop leaves it with a lick mark. Back to the Coop estate for a nightcap, and adjourn to the hotel.

Friday, July 25: It's Long Beach Day! We wend our way down the 405 to "Iowa by the Sea" for a little exploring when we spot a familiar sight:

First LB stop was the Queen Mary, which seemed a bit down-at-the-heels for a such a regal name. What's that creeping up alongside?

What the... we're under attack from the Rooskies!

Holy shnikeys... my own kid, a Bolshevik traitor! I should have guessed it from her band name. Forgive me, America!

After turning her over to Homeland Security, we buzzed over to the Long Beach headquarters of West Coast Choppers and my Garage Magazine once-in-awhile-employer, Jesse James.

Jesse wasn't in town but we got a good peek at some of the shop's neater conversation pieces. This Chebby was a group effort of, among others, Bill Hines, Gene Winfield, and Norm Grabowski. 

This Humvee sports a blown rear engine BBC, can do wheelies all day long, and was mostly built in Iraq with help from US Army motor pool personnel.

Back north up the coast, through Palos Verdes, where we stopped at the Wayfarer's Chapel, a neat little piece of Modernist architecture overlooking the Pacific. We couldn't go in because a memorial service was taking place.

Taking this shot, we heard "Halt! Halt!"

Looked around and saw a security guard running after Hawkspawn, who was oblivious to the guard's orders due to the iPod glued to his ears. Hawkspawn had accidentally trespassed onto the funeral service and the rentacop was closing in fast. I snagged him and we hauled ass out of there, narrowly avoiding another conviction on his juvie rap sheet.   

Next stop was back in LA at Coco's, the delightful bicycle / vintage variety shop belonging to our friend Mister Jalopy. As luck would have it Mister Jalopy was in, in the back shop with Drew Peitsch (an acquaintance of ours from Bonneville Speed Week) and another fellow Jalopy introduced as "Rye." As always, Jalopy's inventory of awe-inspiring garage sale finds left me green with envy. Check out the Indian and Chinese bicycles, vintage Indianapolis wheels, and biker jacket. The book is the 1967 directory for Bakersfield. If you look close the red silk bookmark bears the logo of Mosrite Guitars (made in Bakersfield at the time) and open page lists under "HAGGARD":

MERLE (BONNIE M) ENTERTAINER H924 HIGHMOORE AV

A similar listing in there later for OWENS, BUCK. Pretty darn neato right there I say.

Unfortunately our time with Mister Jalopy was brief, as he was on his way to the Mojave Desert with his other guest Rye for some sort of project that they described as involving music. As he escorted us back upstairs Jalopy said, "oh, by the way, that's Ry Cooder."

Aspiring guitarist Hawkspawn was duly stunned. Perty darn neato again.

Afterwards we putted over to Burbank to browse the stacks at Autobooks, where we saw maybe the world's coolest vintage (mid-50's?) go-kart. Power was via an ironically English-made JAP engine, with a two speed trans, 8-bar torsion suspension, rack &  pinion, and real Hallibrand magnesiums on each corner. Not really a go-kart, prolly a quarter midget that once sported a mini sprint car body. Nonetheless pretty ginchy, and for sale.

Suppertime, and we headed over to Bob's Big Boy Toluca Lake to meet our buddy Gale Banks for double decker burgers and to take in some of the venerable Friday night cruise action.

Hot damn, it isn't everyday you spot a 300SL Gullwing at the local drive in.

Nor one of these -- a 427 Cobra true factory competition, one of 21.

Nice pair of '48 Fords: F-1 and coupe.

Banks strolls by the '57 Ford Fairlane, in my book superior to the '57 Chevy Bel Air. I'm a sucker for these, as my old man used to race his after the service.

Paint on this Chevybomb was about two miles deep.

Bellflower style '59 El Camino, with Supremes and flake roof. Mmmm, come to papa.

After dinner it was finally dark and we finally had our chance to see all those badass cars as God intended it -- under perfect neon.

Time for shuteye, tomorrow is big.

Porsches in Paris, Rocket Cars in Indy

Yipes! Long time-y, no posties. Here's a new May-June travelog to explain, including a buzz thru Paris and car shows around the midwest -- including a short jaunt in the Tobacco King rocket car.

Bonsoir de Paris, Part Deux

Random crappy cell phone pics from my brief sojourn to Paris last week: first stop, Aerogare de Charles De Gaulle, where I was unceremoniously buzzed by an Air France Concorde.  Zut alors!

After a few days of work related crap, I dropped in at the Lavinia wine shop (Europe's largest) near the Gare St. Lazare to sample some of their famous grape juices. Alas, not a bottle of Night Train or Boone's Farm in sight, so I picked up a bottle of local brew to bring home to Tammi Jo.

Check it out! Wine vending machine.

Another great place for wine: French Mickey D's. This one (also near Gare St Lazare) was built like a Alsatian cuckoo clock.

After victuals I hopped the Metro for St. Germaine to meet up with my pal Professor Jonathan. The good professor is an American ex-pat who once toiled as a vagabond sailor and rock journalist (editor of Circus and press agent for Frank Zappa), and who moved to Paris in the early 70's to become a poet & counterculture bon vivant. Today he teaches university English in Paris, and has graciously agreed to join Bolus as a contributor and editor of our European bureau. Bienvenue a Bolus, P.J.!

After marveling at pair of $1700 shoes (WTF?) in a shop window, our first stop in St. Germaine was "Comptoir de Canettes." This little alley dram shop is famous as a launching pad for French folk troubadors for 60 years. We enjoyed a few shots of calvados and lovely female scenery.

Case in point: outside Comptoir de Canettes we met this lovely jeune fille, a graduate student who didn't seem off-put by our crude American philisinisme. Franco-American relations restored! As you can see, PJ was fairly pixelated at this point.

At 10 pm the soltice sun was still out, so we rambled over to the square in St Germaine where an antiques fair was underway. Saw some cool stuff including strolling Brittany folk musicians, a fancy pissoir (paging Marcel Duchamp!), and some WWII-era baseball equipment apparently left here by liberating GIs.

Another cafe stop, where P.J. pointed out this interesting site -- the apartment home of the hottest babe who ever lived: Catherine Deneuve.  Alas, we did not see her emerge.

Penultimate stop of the evening was La Palette, another St Germaine stalwart hopping with a throng of cafeistes.

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Later we headed over to the famous Deux Magots ("two maggots") to close the joint down.  I had a flight the next day, so we decided to leave about 2am.  Still I had a nagging feeling that my Paris experience was somehow incomplete. But of course! A good old fashioned French car-b-q! Luckily there was Citroen nearby, so we flipped it over for an early morning bonfire.

Merci Paris, and a bientot!

Smoke 'Em if You Got 'Em

Ah, Spring; when a man's fancy turns to thoughts of... rocket-powered muscle cars.

It was that primordial biological urge that drove me to Indianapolis last weekend for the Mecum Muscle Cars & More Auction. Over 800 drool-inducing classics went up on the auction block, but only one really mattered -- the immortal Zach Reynolds "Tobacco King" 1964 Galaxie 500. You might say this is the ultimate hybrid car: up front, 427 cubic inches of Latham-supercharged Side Oiler. In back, 900 screaming horses of Thermolene-fueled Turbonique Rocket drag axle power. In the pantheon of automotive crazy this car is Zeus, Thor, Leviathan, and Shiva, a hydra-headed Destroyer of Worlds clad in Detroit sheet metal.

As some of you know, I set out with the confused intention of bringing it home with me. Alas, it was not to be. But the good news: I got to drive it across the auction stage. Come along with me for a little ride.

Those of you watching the proceedings on the High Definition Theater cable TV network this weekend might have caught a quick glimpse of Yours Truly struggling to keep the Tobacco King's drum brakes engaged against the irresistible force of the 427. Current Tobacco King owner Eddie Krusch unwisely invited me to pilot the car across the red carpet, and, without a doubt, it was the most awe-inspiring 5 mph ride I've ever had. As they say in North Carolina, day-um.

Here's how this bizarre turn of events went down. Friday I bombed downed to Indy with a quick stop for provisions at Krazy Kaplan's Fireworks in Gary. Oy vey, such kabooms!

Then a quick stop at the Brownsburg, IN shop of my ol' buddy and upholstery guru Dave Martinez.

Dave's shop is in an area lousy with race teams. A couple of the neighbors - John Force and Don "The Snake" Prudhomme.

After dinner at Steak N Shake, headed over to the Indiana State Fairgrounds to check out the auction action. Some amazing iron (like the ZL1 Camaro below that fetched $800,000) and equally amazing neon.

But nothing like the Tobacco King. Owner Eddie Krusch and I have been trading emails and phone calls for a while, so I thought I'd be prepared before I saw the car. My 30 minutes of uncontrolled mouthular frothing said different. Complete and unrestored, the car has only 3166 miles on the clock.

After catching 80 winks at Days Inn I headed back to the fair pavillion Saturday for the big auction doings. More great cars, more great neon.

As the designated hour, Eddie and his mechanic Ken cranked the Tobacco King's 427 to life, eased it out of its display area and back through to the auction staging lanes. Even among the jaded crowd of muscle car pros, jaws were dropping like anvils.

As the line of cars moved forward into the building, Eddie says: "can you do me a favor? I'm sort of conflicted about selling it, and don't want to be in the car during the bidding."

Hokay, says I, trying to control my bladder. I slide in the seat carefully, turn the key, and the side oiler  blap blaps to life. I stomp my right boot down on the brake, careful not to hit the rocket button with my knee (the fuel tank is empty but I ain't taking chances) and pull it down into drive.

30 yards later I'm on the red carpet and the bidding starts: $200,000. $300,000. $325,000. $350,000. $360,000. $375,000. Gavel bangs. Roll 'er off.

Driving it away, I struggled mightily with the urge to peel out of the building and head down 38th Street. While I was conconcting my getaway plan, Eddie sticks his head in the car. "Hey man, look who's here!"

I glance sideways, and it's "H.W."

H.W. is a former Turbonique engineer and machinist, a current mad-genius-farmer, and a key source for much of my research on the Turbonique story. This is the first time I've met him face-to-face; Eddie and he have just met for the first time despite living in the same area of North Carolina. Cooler still, HW was one of the small team that built the Tobacco King in Florida back in 1966, and this is the first time he has seen the car in over 40 years. He's brought along some spare impeller parts for the rocket motor. And, maybe coolest of all, he's driven all the way here in his crazy, crude-oil powered, air-cooled diesel 1970 Ford F-250 pickup. After parking the Tobacco King back in its display space, I go out to the parking lot for a gander.

Forget bio-diesel and recycled fryer fat, HW's pickemup actually runs on from-the-well crude oil  (tho it's happy to burn sunflower or other vegetable oil as well). Power is from an experimental air-cooled diesel that he obtained from GM in the early 70s, with modified injectors of his own design. It is to economy what the Tobacco King is to power; HW criss crosses the country in the truck, and whenever he needs fuel simply stops at an oil well, and, with the permission of the well owner, adds a few gallons of crude to the big 330 gallon tank in the bed. It's an astonishingly cheap way to go; HW once made a NC-to-California round trip spending $3.50(!) Yesterday he returned to North Carolina with the same $1.66 in his pocket he left with Saturday. After 500,000 miles on the engine, no major mechanical problems.

After the truck tour, HW and I got back together with Eddie for final goodbyes. Long (happy) story short, the Tobacco King is going back home to North Carolina, and Eddie still owns it. With luck I'll be going there before long to see it again. The legend of Turbonique continues!

More Pictures Here

Cross-posted at Iowahawk

April Globehopping

Scenes from a busy April: hot rodding in Texas, dancing in Iowa, partying in Paris.

Toujours, Philadelphie

Departed Paris at noon Friday destined for home. 31 hours later I am currently begging spare change at gate C25 of Philadelphia airport, thanks to a stiff breeze in Chicago and the world-class competence of US Airways. I am led to believe I actually might make it home before 1 am Sunday.

Oh, well. At least Paris was a hoot. Thursday I met up with two Iowahawk readers for an evening of sophisticated imbibing in the neighborhood of Montparnasse. Our host and sherpa: Prof. Jonathan, an American ex-pat who has taught university English in Paris for 30 years. Joining us was Dr. Carlos, an Australian medico currently enjoying a half-year sabbatical in France.

What Montmartre was to the Bohemian age, Montparnasse was to the early 20th century: a cafe-saturated neighborhood of famous auteurs and artists like Jean Cocteau, Ernest Hemingway, Salvador Dali, Henry Miller, Joan Miro, Man Ray, et al.

Mmm, smell the tragic artistic brilliance...

We'll see if that reputation survives my visit there.  First stop: La Select, a restaurant favored by manyof  Parisian literary set in the 1920s. Bordeaux for Jonathan and Carlos, tequila for me, and we toast Hemingway.

From there, across the avenue to La Coupole, another Montparnasse Jazz Age institution with an amazing interior dominated by a large cupola (hence La Coupole) and pillars decorated by many of the 20th Century's  most notable artists. Bordeaux all around. 

Last stop of the evening: La Something Something de Lilas (sorry, I had my swerve on by this point). Like the other stops Prof Jonathan is greeted with great deference by the wait-staff, who set us up at a heated outdoor table. Another round of drinks and Americanly-illegal Cuban cigars courtesy the fine Professor. Ha ha! Come and get me coppers! The joint is quite swank, and each table features a brass plate commemorating one of their famous regulars. Sorta like the Broadway Deli, for suicidal artistes.

You know what to do whenever somebody says the artist of the day, don't you? Scream real loud! Aaaaah!

In short order the heater at our table has attracted three comely jeune filles, with whom the resourceful Dr. Carlos strikes up a conversation en Francais. Fille un is a wisecracking Russian-French-Turkish Kung Fu expert / art gallery owner (I am not making this up); Fille deux is her accountant, an expatriate Welshwoman; Fille trois is a something or other. All seem quite infatuated with the good Doctor.

"So vhat are you doink here? Are you artist or writers or zomesink?" laughs Fille un.

The Doctor and the Professor point at me. "He's a writer."

"Really?" they ask, enthusiastically. "Novels? Screenplays? Have we heard of you?"

I'm still looking around trying to figure out who they were pointing at.

"He's a blogger," offers Professor Jonathan. "He's.. well, sort of known."

The three filles  react to this as if they had learned I wrote school lunch menus or lawnmower warning stickers. Despite his revealed association with blogospheric scum, the filles continue their flirtation with Dr. Carlos, who deftly extracts a party invite for Saturday night. It's getting late, so I head for the Metro and bid my drinking companions a bien tot, and Carlos bon chance with scoring that rare & elusive menage a quatre.

Arrivederci, Paris!