Let me tell you about my summer. Imagine it as a restaurant, and me planning to come in, sit down, relax and have some soup, maybe stare at the fishes bubbling in a huge neglected fish tank or drift away from the tablecloth’s hypnotic pattern into the cheesy world of the bald piano player. No! Not La Vie En Rose again! That was the plan. But instead, I stepped into the restaurant, fell on my face, passed out and woke up with two semi-naked snake dancers dragging me by the arms into the kitchen where Brad Pitt waited for me with a huge sausage in his hand. The rest is history. And all I wanted was soup.
So yes, as you can see, I had a rock ‘n’ roll summer, real superstar business, so much it irritates all, including me. Noooooo, can you go to ALL main festivals, make a fool of yourself on stage for money and fun and then go back to your hotel while everyone has to sleep in tents on a muddy steep hill? It was so hard to sleep, alone in a hotel room, wondering if my mates slept with their heads pointing up or down. Just curious.
I managed to sleep every night only after creating this whole HD scene in my head where everybody slept with their heads up or down but the one lonely hot guy in the village who stayed awake, lying down vertically, across the steep hill, elegant, reading French philosophy. This man doesn’t exist, I hear you say. They are all drunk or unconscious, sleeping in all directions. I think you’re right.
But if they were all real, they would be listening to Bernard Fevre.
