This past Saturday I went with a new friend Anna to a punk rock show on the outskirts of Paris proper. After winding our way through a flea market, where apparently I look like the kinda gal who could really use a pink studded belt, we came upon what looked to be a typical cafe, the A. Picolo. Yet, the denizens were hardly typical. It looked as the place were French punk rockers came to drink a noisette, a beer and then die. To me there is noting sadder than an aging punk rocker. I remember back when I held these people in the highest of esteem. I was clearly out of my mind. The music was fairly atrocious. The last band The Grannies were quite ok, but had that clearly Californian sound that has gone a bit stale for me, personally. Plus I don’t dig bands that have a gimmick, especially when it incorporates cross-dressing….who are you? Giuliani? He’s not cutting edge and neither are you.

Most of the evening was spent just people watching as they were mostly more interesting than the band. Some guy got beat up for taking a leak outside too close to someones home. It seems to me that that was Parsien tradition, but I suppose not in this hood. There was some guy lying in the gutter water playing with a dog who was constantly licking his face. This guy tried to lick me later, which was more disgusting than can really say. And I had just been getting used to the french cheek kissing thing. Which really cracked me up seeing all these very tough punk rock guys doing their traditional hellos.
We then proceeded to go to some bars in Menilmontant. I had to explain to one French guy that he was wearing a bowling shirt. He was confused because it had the name of a pharmacy the back. Then I had to explain sponsorship and leagues. Possible the longest conversation I’ve ever had about bowling. Eventually I’d had enough. I was tired as Friday night was spent at Idir’s and he wakes up insanely early for work and tends to accidentally wake me up as well. Plus that night had its share of tribulations only found in France. So anyhow I decided to taxi it back to my flat as by now the metro was clearly closed. The cabbie was nice and even made sure I made it to the door of my building before driving off. What he didn’t see was that I couldn’t get INTO my building. The door was closed and locked. This was a first and I had no idea how to get in. Everyone that might have had the code to the building was sound asleep with their telephones turned off. I guess these people don’t believe in the “But what if there’s an emergency?” thing. So the only person I got a hold of was Idir who seemed confused by my entire predicament and already thought I was paranoid. Eventually some old man came into the building and I followed him in, which seemed to dismay him a bit. But I was lucky I could because I had the sneaking suspicion that Idir would have left me there for the night.

Anyhow I think that will be my first and last punk rock show in Paris or anywhere in fact. I’m not quite sure what I use to find so entertaining about it all. Shit these means my parents were right when they said “She’ll grow out of it someday.”