See, titles like this will never let me get on the “100 bestest blogs of today as well as two days ago” list. Not that I want to, but then if I do make it past the age of 68 and I’m still sitting here, I really should consider making this a full time thing. Not really, I suppose.
Just because there is the coveted “f” word in the title, doesn’t mean all hell has broken loose and Sarkozy is looking for his soul in the depth of hell. It’s just because I decided to put up memorial grande photos from the summer on this post. I know, it’s a tear jerky hanky panky moment in your life, but I really could give two shits.
But then this blog without something funny is coffee without a good coffee.
Last night, I had this desperate and sexually healthy urge to talk to my friend BS in L.A. As is with 74% of all our conversation across the pond, we had to synchrnize our watches. The gap is 540 minutes forward my way. Which meant that HE will call me at 23:00 hours his time and I will receive the call at 08:00 hours my time. Simple as fixing a leak underneath your kitchen sink of your flat when your owner decides to send a man the next day.
But as not much of a surprise, our date has been missed. I have known this man for perhaps longer than God has claimed for the return of his son somewhere in the Middle East, but the man is a Jedi. Jedi don’t do time. Although I have to say, there has been marked improvements since he got married… saying that, here’s the twist.
I have met BS’s wife long gone ago when we were at university in the depth of New Jersey. They were not what we old folks call “an item” then. There was a disproportionately random encounter in the New York subway system few years after that, but that’s for another day. Unbeknownst to me, the love came from left field and through space and other time formats and bistro, they were married last year. Which elaborately means that I have never met her before BS was her bitch and the first time I have come face to face with her as his woman (nothing portraying male shovenism here, move on) was at their wedding. You know it’s true.
The plan was for him to call him and for me to spread my altruism by calling him back, thus saving me from more iPhone wrangles.
No phone calls from him at the synchrnized time, so I called him. His wife answered the phone and we did our, “How’s it goin’?” without the Dolly Parton. For some reason we just started talking and talking and talking and after 52 minutes and after putting the phone down, I realized this was the first time we have ever spoken. My conclusion is that a) BS is a lucky man b) she doesn’t cook c) it was unexpectedly a good thing that I had a chance to talk to her.*
*There is a d), but since it was highly inappropriate for a family oriented blog such as mine, I took liberty in taking it away, giving it a nice cuddle, and burnt it with liquid nitrogen.
You sometimes never get to really know your friend’s partner, husband, girlfriend, or the illegitimate child who’s been locked up in the cellar far too long, but moments like this does really put a face to the name of the person who your friend is truly happy with.
Completely changing and whipping it around, Bon bon finally got to get on the Velib. It is a rent-a-whore/bike initiative where you pay one euro and rent a bike and so on. There is a post about this somewhere in my blog. Moving swiftly more rapidly, we decided on a rarely sunny Saturday afternoon to do it. Non, not that but to get on the damn bike. The Velib Gods were about to tell her, “Non, ca suffit” but few moments later, we were on the bikes. Two separate ones, just in case your brain did take that non-paid holiday it asked 2 weeks ago.
As I ride, I like to be true to my style which is, “I’m the law”.
I ride on the left side, but the Frenchies like to ride on the right. Bon bon yells at me and painfully remind me who the brain in the family is. 49 metres later, I ran a red light. Everybody and their lawyers know that red means, “Go if you are the law”. Bon bon goes mental, as she beats me senseless with her love. Love hurts from time to time.
Wondering if her biological GPS could ever be trusted, I ask her rather sheepishly if we are going the right way. She crudely instructs me that she is in totalitarian control and goes straight into a one way street, dodging oncoming cars, pedestrians, and those highly annoying rat like dogs.
Voila.
Off to Frankfurt for few days and back and to Glasgow for few more and back and Glasgow and something sort of like that.
T’il next time.
