The footage of Paris was shot by my brother Dan Lipman. The rest was recorded live in my apartment with a webcam.This song is from my LP The Beginning
A song from my 2010 LP In Loving Memory Of All Things To Come.
The following morning I woke up feeling not to shabby, after getting more than a full nights rest, waking up early, feeling almost refreshed. In fact, I was one of the first people down stairs to receive the breakfast that Woodstock provided, which wasn‘t much. A pretty average French breakfast, a baguette, some butter and jam, orange juice, and of course, coffee and cigarettes. Regrettably though, that would be my last breakfast there, since I would not wake up in time again to receive it. That day would also be my only full day in Paris as a “typical” tourist, even though I spent a good six more days there.
Unfortunately, my other days were spent dying on park benches, too hungover for sightseeing, from late night romps out on the town. Where in the mornings an angry cleaning lady would find me, still passed out, long after “lock out” time, and she’d shake me awake, cursing at me, I could only assume, in a language I didn’t understand. Stumbling out of bed, I’d scurry to get dressed, and would hurry on down the stairs, still a bit drunk from the night before, as I walked out the door. The daylight always made me feel goofy, in a awkward sort of way, and I’d tumble to nearby café for some coffee, where I’d sit pondering my night before, while staring out at a bustling rue.
Being a man of routine, this quickly developed into my new one, which was not unlike the one I had back home, drinking all night, therefore, leaving me with a crippling hangover to deal with during the day. I started walking the same route too every day, circling Paris like clockwork, and every day I began to stop at McDonalds for lunch as well, and every day I felt guilty for it. McDonalds was the ass-hole of the world in my eyes, capitalist fucking pigs, and I wouldn’t get caught dead eating there back at home, but my hangovers weakened me so, causing me to be timid of the unknown, a coward, gutless, lily-livered, all those pathetic words, and the language barrier silenced me. Sadly, I knew how to say big mac, and sadly that word is universal, and sadly, I knew what I was getting.
After lunch I’d continue on with my walk, wandering down the glittery Avenue des Champs-Élysées, which was in route to the gated entrance of one of my favorite parks, Parc Monceau, where I’d curl up to die a little every day. My hangovers held me hostage there on a park bench, but it was a beautiful place to come to rest. I always spread out near the classical colonnade, where its ancient Corinthian pillars pursued the edge of a small pond in a semi-circle. Trees reflected off the water, where some fallen leaves had also come to rest, coloring parts of its surface a vibrant yellow and red. And although it was November, the weather was quite kind for autumn, unlike the weather in Wisconsin that had already felt like winter when I’d left. Here, the leaves had just begun to change, gradually making their colorful leap to the ground. What a beautiful time of year to be in Paris, I thought to myself, before my eyes closed shut, and the afternoons would dissolve into nothing more than a long nap.
Rush hour then became my alarm clock, after a good few hours on that bench, completely dead to the world. The car horns honking madly, stirring me awake, along with the maniac scooters buzzing by on the busy boulevard just behind the park wall where I slept. Upon opening my eyes, I’d find the park frenzied with people, all rushing home after long, full, seven hour work days, working that 35 hour French work week. Fuck 40 hours! Groggy, and obviously still a bit hungover, I’d get up and join the commuters making their way home, where continuing my walk, I’d finish my circle around gay Paree, back towards my hostel. The nap always proved itself quite worthy once I began to move again, ditching my hangover back on the park bench, and just as I would reach my district, before going back to Woodstock, I’d be ready for that first drink of the day. So I’d stop in at the neighborhood bar/restaurant, Café du Cœur, where in absolutely no time, they knew my name.