Mam'selle Chloë and your humble narrator have had a fine Wednesday night in the Home of the (Provisionally) Brave and the Land of the (Periodically) Free. And, to that gentle soul who spiked our drinks with hallucinogens, THANK YOU!

Yes, dear friends, I’ve obtained a (rather goddamn pricey) fake ID for Chloë, and am presently teaching her how to scandalize this maddeningly provincial city of Seattle. Were we in Paris—or Barcelona, or Prague, or Casablanca, or anyplace but AmeriKKKA—this special education wouldn’t be necessary. However, since we’re trapped in the upper left hand corner of the most boring country on the planet, I must entertain Mam'selle Chloë in precisely the same way I educated Sable Dementia, my beloved daughter. For Chloë is also my daughter, in every goddamned sense of the word.

And now, since the acid (or whatever the hell it is) has begun to kick in, Mam'selle Chloë and I have some serious music to which we must listen, vivid memories of expert pole-dancing to discuss, and general smack to talk.

There’s no other way we can be.

Let me apologize for my previous entry. Delilah the Destructocat is, in fact, a fine beastie. She’s full of love and licks of the hand, and ranks highly among the best critters I’ve owned. That she’s inquisitive, and sometimes inadvertently destructive, is no fault of her own, but a testament to her incredible intelligence. Okay, so she trashed my printer; I’ve found a pretty dandy Hewlett-Packard printer for $100 at Office Depot, a tight little machine that prints, copies, and faxes. Not bad. And it’s several steps up from what I had. So, in a strange and quirky way, Delilah has done me a favor.

Fortunately, she was not harmed in any way when the accident happened—just a little scared. I do not hit animals, nor do I try to physically intimidate them. There was, of course, a little yelling—but we made nice within an hour, and all was well. In time, she was once again perched in her favorite place, e.g. atop my monitor. We then returned to the welter of mutual love that we share, and were playing like kids again. But she hasn’t been on the bookshelf since, so perhaps another good thing came out of this. One thing is certain: this cat is easily the brightest one who’s ever owned me.

Goddamnit! Delilah, this fucking cat of mine, has just destroyed my printer. Knocked it off the godforsaken shelf, where she knows she’s not supposed to be. Now, I cannot print out my homework for school, and will be forced to spend badly needed dollars on a new fucking printer. Like I really need this! My budget is already tighter than a Texas virgin, and cannot easily absorb this expense. In fact, this will force me to put off the purchase of my contact lenses until June—if, in fact, I can find a printer for less than $50 in this overpriced town. I’m so furious that’s she’s hiding as if her life depends upon it. And maybe it does. Maybe it does. Why did I get a cat anyway? Stupid little bitch.

Well, tonight saw my debut with the Moribund Writers Society at the Two Bells Bar & Grill. It was an equal complement of men and women, including my most beloved ex-girlfriend, Anne (not to be confused with Ana). I submitted my flash fiction tale, "Meet Me in the Dark," and received some truly excellent feedback. In addition, two of the guys submitted stories which charmed and astonished me. The women, on this particular occasion, submitted nothing—but we’ve designated our next meeting the X-Chromo Gathering, and I hope to see some wonderful tales by them at that time.

During the meeting, I stepped outside to have a Gauloise, and was quickly joined by Anne. We haven’t seen each other in nearly a year, but she’s one woman who remains precious to me. We caught up on recent events in each other’s lives, and had a wonderful time reminiscing about the mad passion of our brief, but genuinely rewarding, affair of some years back. I don’t like what she’s done with her hair, but she remains a singularly beautiful lady, and seems to be quite happy. Excellent! I want her to be happy, and am anxiously anticipating the pleasure of whatever story she presents for the X-Chromo Gathering, Moribund Writers Group Annex.

Tonight, having immersed myself in good fiction, I feel like a writer. And there’s no feeling that warms the cockles of my soul more. Furthermore, I’ve been avoiding the Two Bells—ground zero for Seattle’s literary community—too long. My excuse is that I live in Pioneer Square, while the Two Bells is in Belltown, but it’s a sincerely lame excuse. All I have to do is hop a bus and trek across downtown. Ten minutes tops. Having gone there this evening, I got to see my buddy Mark Harlowe, the best mystery writer in town. I also got to reconnect with my old friend Earl, Seattle’s finest guitarist, and Michelle, my female doppelgänger, and Grady West a.k.a Dina Martina and my daughter’s godfather.

A finer night was had by no one.

Mon Dieu! Allison has called 18 times today, between 3:30 PM and 10:30 PM. I haven’t answered any of the calls—thank goodness for caller ID—but this is starting to get creepy. Each message has been a litany of her saying how disappointed she was that I cancelled our date, how she wants to get together as soon as possible, and how much she looks forward to "face time" with me. And this from the woman who said she didn’t want me as a boyfriend! She’s supposed to be 43 years old, but she’s acting like she’s 15. Is this a game, or what? Fuck this noise! I’m going to go out of my way to avoid her from here on out.

Chloë is convinced that she’s a psycho. Catherine believes that she’s simply a middle-aged woman desperate to be pursued by "a quirkily handsome" man like me, yet falling back on adolescent games with the inaccurate belief that I’ll respond and somehow become her man-bitch. Sable tells me, "Stay away, pop. Stay far, far away from that one." Anastasia says, "You can sure pick them, can’t you?" True, my dear Ana, but then I once picked you, didn’t I? "Fuck," she retorts, "at least I was more creative with my sexy little manipulations." C’est vrai, ma mari. C’est vrai. And, having absorbed all these opinions, I’m now wondering what tomorrow will bring.

We French-Americans love you, Ségolène, and those of us who can will vote for you! (Even we curmudgeonly anarcho-syndicalists!) One day, I’ll return to Paris—or, if not, then close by in Barcelona—and revel in the new France you’ve created. Paris always has been, and will always remain, my true home. And France is still my motherland, the harbinger of my greatest dreams, the loving parent who inspires me to ecstasies of creative thought, and the center of my universe. She is the land that gave us the ineffable wisdom of Voltaire, the arresting artistry of Villon, and the inspired madness of Artaud. One day, I’ll alight at Orly and once again kiss Parisian soil. Until then Ségolène, I’m entrusting you with the enlightenment and freedom of les françaises everywhere.

Know what? Fuck it! I’m going to cancel tomorrow’s date with Allison. If she’s going to play this little hard-to-get game with me, she can just take a flying goddamn leap. I’ll call her up before I go to school and lay some lame-ass excuse on her. Whatever. I’d rather spend the money on a gift for Chloë—like, for example, the big boxed set of No Thanks! The 70s Punk Rebellion. It’s an absolutely incredible collection of seminal punk songs from the genre’s earliest days, and she’s mentioned that she’d like to have it. So, fuck Allison and her idiotic games; I’m going to take care of someone who really loves me instead, i.e. my delightful surrogate daughter. And if I have to be a dick to do that, so be it. Life is too short for this kind of crap.

Chere petite Catherine est arrivée—mon ange sombre, mon âme et mon obsession, le feu dans mon coeur, ma mort par le clair de lune. Tout est maintenant bien. Aller, et être heureux juste comme moi, mes paellas d'amour!

Here it is, a red balloon
I think of you and let it go

Well, today’s "pre-date" with Allison has taught me one thing: We have absolutely no future together. Despite her good qualities, which are readily apparent, she talked incessantly throughout the movie, which is probably my number one pet peeve. Then, just before the poetry slam, whilst smoking outside the bar on Second Avenue, she mentioned that she definitely does not want to "fall in love" with anyone, and that she’s just looking for friends. Well, I can take a hint, and said, "Fine. I won’t fall in love with you, then. I won’t lay a hand on you. Far be it from me to pressure someone into any relationship she doesn’t really want."

I’m not sure what she was playing at, but my answer clearly disturbed her although she said, "That’s good." Afterward, she said she was feeling tired and wanted to go home, ditching the poetry reading. However, she confirmed our "date" for Monday. In truth, I’m substantially less enthusiastic about that date than I was even this morning, but I’ve promised to take her for French food and a movie—so I’ll honor that commitment. However, it’s going to be a one-time thing, and I’ll never ask her out again. Whether or not she was serious about what she said—and I have the firm feeling that she’s just trying to play some sort of game with me—my interest in her has waned many, many degrees over the course of today.

Eh, bien. It’s only 7:45 PM, and I’m already home. But I’ve got my delightful little cat, some French cigarettes, a bit of wine, and a really good book to read: Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood. And Catherine will be coming over at ten strictly for the purpose of getting laid. Even though my arrangement with Catherine is extremely casual, and based almost entirely on sex, she doesn’t play silly little games with me, and seems to genuinely like me. She is also amazingly self-actualized, which places her head and shoulders above most of the women I presently know. I’d rather have a few hours of honest fun with her than even five minutes of game-playing with someone else.