carmen sandiego is hot.

i'm a bit tipsy in a café i dont recognize with some people i dont recognize. they're talking about films i don't recognize and making esoteric references that end in a hearty, echoing laughter i can barely stomach. the lighting is sick and yellowish, reflecting off brass banisters and in huge, brass-framed mirrors. the dull bright has me feeling trapped in one of those going-crazy van goghs, so i grab the girlie by the wrist and we ditch these fucking potato-eaters for a starry night. but what to do?

thankfully, my folks are in town for some reason, staying at some ritzy hotel in a neighborhood full of post-game celebrating spaniards. we run up the spiral staircase to the hotel room. knock. no dice. but there's some free tour bus about to leave from the lobby, so we hop on in and move to the side-by-side twin beds in the back of this triple-wide monster. i lay on my back and watch basketball on the giant ceiling-mounted plasma screen. she gives me head as i watch the playoffs, all the while trying to hide my mounting anxiety that the tour is about to end as a robot-voice announces all our stops: "république...châtelet...grands boulevards." crazy fucking trajectory but whatever. my tour, orgasm, and basketball game end in a well-synchronized fashion, and as we make out way out the double doors i get a phone call.

it's jason, who is apparently now working out of his apartment in paris as some kind of state-sponsored rocket scientist. his parents are in town also, supposedly to help him clean up his room, which had blown up like a chemistry lab in a high-school comedy because his alpha-phase rocket detonated while he was lighting a cigarette. we headed over to his apartment to meet his parents. the place was all gray and in shambles and his marvin-the-martian-looking rocket was on the floor behind his computer chair, peeled like a banana. his parents offered to take us to dinner, and we graciously accepted. however, their car couldn't fit five people, so, naturally, we had to follow them on top of a train.

the top of the train is made of chicken wire, so it sort of hurts to hold on, but we manage. as we crawl along it like trench warfare we find a little glass box like a carrying case for a small pet. we look inside. it's a tiny french restaurant with little people inside!

so, we decide to say fuck it to dinner with jason's parents and find a way to make ourselves small enough to go to the baby resto. we hop off the train and start watching the little waiters serve the little breads. when the train passes, there is a police car waiting on the other side of the tracks (the wrong side). apparently it's illegal to have in your possession a tiny glass restaurant box. so the fuckers take us into custody. fucking pigs, man.