Some Details

Some have commented on my lack of real detail. So:

• There is either a white/green delivery van that looks like a back to the future prop that sits outside of Café 17 every morning until approximately 5:00PM, then it is replaced by a BMW SUV until 9:00PM.
• In my apartement (flat), I prefer the left elevator due to its smudged, yet introspective glass mirror and attractive spiral plastic light covers. They remind me that were I to become comatose, I too could be an elevator interior designer.
• I saw my first Hummer today. It was ridiculous. It was a monster truck among micromachines.
• A woman with bleached blond hair (fake, because only Swedes or the Swiss have les cheveux blondes in la France) had a spirited discussion with a grey traffic barrier today. She stormed off in protest. She really ought to just be herself and make less superficial friends.
• A stream of a people, imitating the Tour de France, inundates my street every morning on their way to work. Their ability to survive depends on the graciousness of drivers, their use of honky horns, and their level of caffination or drug use that morning.
  Death is for the ill, or those who drive rue Pierre Sémard, the road directly in front of my residence. At any given time, cars rocketing off an “overpass” converge with cars coming from a tunnel into a single “lane” whose width is suited for exactly one stroller, two Olsen twins, and three wet Q-tips. But, for added danger, at precisely the convergence point of the two roadways, there is a pedestrian walkway. And a bicycle lane with colorful paint. In the US, this gauntlet would be spattered with blood, burning gasoline, and panting trial lawyers. However, all Euro-drivers have survived it, as I have seen. Few (marked) pedestrian graves exist, and bicycle-based maimings are quickly handled by the French universal health care system. All bikes are recycled, and turned into overpasses.
• A good way to lose something is to leave it in a public place such as a thief convention, or to ship it via Chronopost. More like chronic-losers-of-stuff-I-need-post. That was a good insult. This enterprise demanded a telephone number from me for a shipping alert so that I could be at home and waiting attentively for my shipment’s arrival. Only, see, they are shipping my French telephone. C’est une paradoxe, but I am not interested. I would inquire as to where my package actually is, but I know. It is in a splinter-filled crate laying in an unmarked tile-factory in Burma, labeled “Nuclear Testing Supplies.”
• I will certainly complain about Chronopost more, after taking a sedative. Perhaps, in the meantime, US driver’s license stations can advise Chronopost on matters of efficiency.
• A real, economically-oriented post will follow this one. And if you don't sleep through it, email me.
• I weight x.1x kg and am ?? m tall.