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.

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 and stuff.

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.