The Week that Was, Part One

I realize that my last blog post was AGES ago, and even then, it was only really a preview post. I know you are all sitting out there in non-Paris, aching to hear about my amazing life, and seeking a way to kill time on the internet without doing the same sporcle quiz three times while you wait for the newest Gossip Girl episode to load.

WELL GOOD NEWS THEN.
The new Gossip Girl is phe-nom-en-al!

Also, I HAVE A SLAMMING NEW BLOG POST TO KNOCK YOUR DAMN SOCKS OFF.

As promised I delivered on an epic weekend, filled with ethnic food, drunk wandering, encounters with minor celebrities, and tons of sightseeing.

Right now, you're probably like, SHIT, BRENDAN, YOU MET (minor)CELEBRITIES?!?!?

To which I'm like, chill  down maaan. All in due time. Let me start where everything should start . . . with a miracle:

Last Wednesday night, one week ago, I spent a relaxing evening eating tart and drinking Kronenbourg at my friend's apartment. The hours slipped away thanks to good conversation and I ended up getting home much later than I had intended.

So when I went to sleep, I decided it would be a wise move to "forget" to set my alarm. I woke up around noon, feeling a tad guilty, but well rested. When I got to my 2 o' clock class, though, I found out that our morning class had been cancelled, presumably because they couldn't face the fact that I wouldn't be there.

I MAKE IT RAIN

Anyways, I made it through that class and headed straight to The Highlander pub to celebrate the end of the intensive french semester. I got a couple pints of Pelforth, served up by the maybe-Scottish, maybe-male, maybe neither bartender, and then it was time to pick up my roommate from back home, Max, at the airport.

Thursday night ended up being rather uneventful, as we spent some time at a bar on Rue Mouffetard, getting buzzed and getting Shawarma, but it was to be only a prelude to the epicocity that was Friday night.

BUT that story cannot yet be told, for it must be preceded by the story of Friday afternoon, a day which saw me take Max to Notre Dame and Pere Lachaise, the macabre, maze-like, mausoleum filled, monstrous creep-trap of a cemetery, where we saw Oscar Wilde's and Jim Morrison's graves.

NOW that I've told that story, we can move onto Friday night, which started innocently enough with me and Max sitting in a crowded, rustic, authentically Parisian bar sipping sangria by the ceramic pitcher and waiting for my two friends to arrive. We were squashed in the corner seat of the rectangular bar area, and needed another table to accommodate our newcomers. As one opened up, we rushed to claim it. Unfortunately, at that moment, another group walked in. Standing my ground, I told the interlopers to take their fancy gray blazers and GET THE FUCK OUTTA DODGE.

This was followed by a several minute long stare down and a few primeval grunts before a whole bank of tables opened up (presumably because of our guttural wails) and we all sat down, sandwiched by this new, bigger group. After I apologized for being so aggressive with the tables we got to talking. Turns out the guys were with a semi-well-known band called the Airborne Toxic Event, of whom I had actually heard. As I was talking to their manager, who spouted literally the same story as the ATE wikipedia page, he mentioned that he also managed The Bravery (and Andrew WK) who were in Paris and would be stopping by. NOW I was excited because the Bravery are actually well known. When they arrived, we shot the shit and got friendly with the bassist. After I got invited to a party, I let them know about it AND THEY FOLLOWED US THERE. I INVITED A FAMOUS ROCK AND ROLL BAND TO A BARPARTY. Whatever else happened that night, it was all eclipsed by meeting and gaining the trust of the Bravery. Although the cab ride back home listening to reggae was pretty sweet.

Coming tomorrow, Part Two of the Week that Was.