I Just Went To A French Party

And it was wild.

I got kissed on the neck twice by a Frenchman with big hair named (I think) Bushie.

Turns out I crashed the place because I had given up my Swiss Army knife to someone (Bushie) who came to my door asking for a corkscrew. This is the knife my Dad gave me for my birthday years ago, and certain readers (Meredith, for example. Hi, Meredith!) will remember that I nearly didn't board a plane to San Francisco once because airport security wanted to incinerate it. I was horrified!

So I certainly wasn't going to lend my knife to a raucous party and then let it disappear forever. I HAD TO FOLLOW IT.

I did, in my gangly and unkempt American way. Everybody was very nice but I totally got that feeling you get when you don't really belong. But there was a nice girl who gave me some wine and a Scottish/French guy who I talked with for a while and before I knew it I was kind of hanging out in the midst of the people and nearly getting spilt on a lot. And of course I'm the guy who gets into a protracted conversation with a drunk Frenchman (also Bushie) regarding the potential French rejection of the European Constitution. That always happens to me.

You remember how great those college parties were? When you had all your friends together, even the ones from far away, and you just tore the place up for hours? It was like one of those Minnesota parties from the Madison days except I didn't know anybody.

I can hear them right now. They're singing. The French, I am happy to report, are totally hardcore.