Morning soon arrived, bringing with it
the inevitable wearing off of the buzz from the
night before. But wait! Today we were headed to Cannes!
O, happy day! Hey! How come Roger's not getting up?
After I "convinced" Roger to awaken with a little
judicial application of some precisely directed
ultra-violence, we headed out for
breakfast, including the required coffee. And by
coffee, I mean tasty espresso because those funky
Europeans like their coffee thick and tiny. No, really,
if you want what we call coffee, you have to order an
"american coffee." But then, of course, you'll feel
like a total pussy, and rightly so.
We rushed through breakfast because there were only
about a jillion trains we could catch to Cannes that day. Fortunately, the
train station was only a few blocks away. On the other
side of the Karma coin, we had to sit and listen to
a couple of fresh-from-college americans in the
seats across from us trying to practice their horrible
French and telling inane stories to each other about
how rough it was when they had to stay at the winter
home instead of the cool summer one. All the way to Cannes.
Thank God it was only a half-hour ride or so.
Once we arrived, we went directly to the local tourist
office, by way of crossing the street for no reason whatsoever
and then almost getting hit by a bus on the way back
after we'd realized our error, then
scored ourselves an official Map of Cannes. Then we headed down the hill from the train station towards the waterfront.
were people everywhere along the Promenade next to the
waterfront, that suspiciously resembled the waterfront
Promenade in Nice except for that whole sandy beach thing
and the people everywhere. Many of them turned
out to be celebrities, there for the festival, who for
some reason drew even more people to crowd around them.
We strolled slowly along the waterfront, mainly because
we couldn't go any faster without body-checking the
throngs out of our way. Almost immediately, we grew
to hate those crowds of tourists, waddling around looking
for famous people to molest for autographs. In fact,
I actually started to hate them before we even set
out for Cannes, because I'm like psychic about asshats
But I'm not psychic about celebrities! And I made sure
to tell Brad Pitt that after I ran smack into him, not
looking where I was going in favor of, I don't know,
some hot chick or something. She was probably looking
at Brad Pitt too, because she ran into a light pole.
We ignored her and I apologized and Brad Pitt shook our
hands and about fifty other women whacked into each other
like some huge human freeway pile-up. Brad took it all
in stride...long strides that quickly took him as far
from the commotion as possible in the shortest amount of
time. And he didn't even wave back.
Shortly after that, Quentin Tarantino happened by and we
accidentally shot him in the head. When we heard the
sirens, we figured we'd better high-tail it out of there.
read about this church on top of a hill called La Suquet,
which overlooks the town, and decided to make for there
to see if we could get ourselves a little sanctuary. Besides the
now rapidly-approaching sirens, we could hear rumbles from
the tourist crowd that sounded suspiciously anti-we.
"Be less conspicuous!" I yelled at Roger, gesticulating
way, we passed a "hotel" that seemed like a good place
to stop and hide under. After the pursuing posse thundered
past, we crawled back out into the open and snapped a
picture for posterity. Look! This was where we narrowly
escaped certain death and a pathetic, posthumous
VH-1 Behind the Music special! And it was only 12:20!