Watching things bob down the Seine; grooming Black, my frizzy friend, at the park; looking for vermin in his hair (before le bete chien ran off out of sight chasing after some 10000f Pekinese); shambling around asking everyone if they seen my little Black; nice strangers who say they gave at the office; tipping these strangers before they tip me; taking bread from little children; finger foods but only sardines and tardines, stinky red herrings and egg salad, maybe sausage with a crust of bread in a real bind; napkin tricks; pouring wine on spilt salt; Or just spitting it up; rolling around on the table after a good meal; putting footwear on myself without someone sticking their tongue out at me; swinging from doorways; walking on all fours; laying on hard floors; swift kicks to the buttocks; speaking only when I want; left breast moles; imaginary bicycles from lottery winnings; leaving taps on; obscene maniacal laughing; grimacing, dragging feet, losing way, and general gesticulating; handstands; doing things ssa; goosing and pawing lovely birdbrains like my sweet Chloe Anne-Marie; shaving half my beard off for chicks; scratching the back of my neck in wonder; pleasuring Madame Lestingois come hell or highwater; blowing farts in people's faces; but mainly feeding goats on sunshiny days (not that bad in place of my lost Black). Physical discomfort. And the freedom to drown, float, roll, swim, spray water, or shake myself dry just like any other old dog when and if I want to. Stealing clothes off scarecrows and clotheslines. Being cross with damn near everything. Bearing up. And tossing all the crazy junk down by the Seine.
I'd like to meet:
Michel Simon and other jackasses people tell me I ought to meet, although I won't mind meeting the MacBeth fellow that rat's ass, Lestingois, told me about because of something he said about life. What the hell was it again? 'Right, a tale told by an idiot, full of sound & fury, signifying rrrien.' Was it Lestingois who told me? Anyways, I would also like to meet makers of chien-lit frock-coats. Also all the women and boys with toy yachts who run like hell whenever they come near me.
Music:
Blue Danube? Flute or horn? Growling out Sur Les Bords de la Riviera outside nightclubs; sometimes Les Fleurs de Jardin (Anne-Marie’s song); Or catching buskers and strange noises drifting along or while leaning against some wall near the Pont des Arts, around the Latin Quarters, along the Left Bank, or in the metro wherever free sounds float and barge into infected tone-dead eardrums.
Movies:
"Me Saved From Drowning" and almost all that bastard Renoir's movies cos the fool told this army of people with all sorts of machines to follow me around the city, including twice when I fell into the Seine, for no stupid reason.
Television:
What is it? Is it one of those new inventions? Do you need it to survive?
Books:
My old ami, Lestingois, had a lot of those. I remember one called The Physiology of Spit on Marriage by some guy named Balzac. It was very convenient. Also someone looking for a flower-shop once tried turning me on to The Flowers of Evil by another fellow called Baudelaire. I told him to scram. I read only big letters of the alphabet. Picked up tattered papers and notes strewn around the windswept boulevards and read those sometimes when bored. Once in a while, pretty interesting, even discarded grocery lists.
Heroes:
Not lifeguards. But Harpo Marx I like very much. My runaway dog, Black. All troglodytes. Water-lilies. Guys who don’t get the broad in the end. Gently coursing water (just like that bastard Renoir). We argued about the ending, but the fool helped me and I helped him aussi.
