oh, good god. let's see here...
eurotrash. euro... pleather? disney? pants? club kids?
do I believe in eurotrash?
do i believe in life after love?
Once upon a time there was a monkey. Who was a monkey. Who was a gazelle. Who was green. And also, a lizard.
One day the lizard decided to walk down the street.
"Say, what a lovely day it is!" the lizard said, "thank heavens I'm not in Europe!"
The band struck an ominous chord, to which the lizard was oblivious.
The lizard wandered on down the street, savoring the fairly temperate atmosphere and old-town charm of the old town he was in.
"I must say," remarked the lizard, "if I didn't know better, I'd say I was in San Diego."
"OLD TOWN San Diego," he added with a wink.
Do lizards have friends? I suppose they do. What kind of friends would they have? Funny friends? Naughty friends? Dare I say... non-lizard friends?
It was at about this time that the lizard stumbled across a friend of his, Pierre, the alcoholic burnt-out poet.
"Hello, Pierre, how goes it?" piped up the lizard.
"Sacre bleu!" moaned Pierre, "mon dieu, c'est is terrib-lay! My life, she is an endless hellscape of the obscene!" And then Pierre drank his sixth glass of wine that morning. Pierre was too poor to drink any faster than that.
"Oh Pierre, you so crazy!" laughed the lizard. "Sometimes you make me want to cry with existential laughter."
"That is exactly it!" cried Pierre, "I am a cosmic clown! A buffoon!" And back he went to contemplating suicide.
The lizard walked on, and thought to himself, Boy, I sure was happy to see Pierre. He always lifts my spirits. And thank heavens I'm not in Europe.
"And how would you know that?" asked a woman.
The lizard gasped! "I wasn't saying that with my mouth -- I was saying it in my brain! My lizard brain!"
"I know," replied the raven-haired, black-clad beauty. "I know many things about you. But what do you know, little lizard?"
"I know that it's a beautiful day, sort of. And I know that my friend Pierre is never gonna get up the guts to go through with it, 'cuz he craves the imagined attention suicide affords him far more than any release it could possibly provide. And I know that I'm not in Europe."
"Do you now? I suspect you do not know as much as you would like to think." she replied tartly.
The lizard glared at the woman, but already doubts were beginning to form in his mind. Terrible thoughts. Horrible, inconceivable thoughts.
"Nooooooo," cried the lizard, and ran back to the cafe.
"Pierre, Pierre! Are you dead?" the little lizard exclaimed.
Pierre gazed sadly back at the lizard through red-stained glass. "Yes, my petite friend. My soul died long ago, taken by a woman named... Carnita!"
"Uh... Oh." replied the lizard. "Well then, I... guess everything's okay. And stop referring to me in the feminine gender."
His fears unfounded, the lizard wandered along the street. Then suddenly, he heard a voice.
"And what did you learn, little lizard?"
"I learned that you're kind of a bitch," the lizard retorted, "and that my friend is still alive, such as life is for him."
"Ah, but perhaps there is one thing you overlook... Europe."
The lizard was perplexed by this. "Yeah, that's pretty much by choice, actually. So what?"
The woman laughed evilly.
"Have you ever seen Europe?"
"Well, gee, I should hope not."
Her lips curled into a thin, sadistic line for a long moment before she replied, "If you don't know what it looks like, then how would you know... that you're... not... there?"
And suddenly, a lifetime of fears and doubt and suspicions came over the lizard as if a wave of ennui, and the lizard cried out, "Yeah, well if I AM there, at least I know they have to deal with assholes like you, too!"
And then the lizard ran off, crying to the cafe, where he proceeded to drink himself into bohemian roadblock with his friend, Pierre. And so the lizard aged and died on the vine of continental art, leaving behind him little more than a scattered stack of papers whose writings wandered the hinterlands of despair and disappointment, panicked laughter and tears, and the crushing pain of a paradise denied with a superhuman mundanity that spoke to the soul. And it would be those same papers that would come to fetch his estate millions at Southerby's, and drive his surviving friend, Pierre, to finally actualize a lifetime of words. In cosmic contrast, Pierre's pages were burnt the very next day by a handful of street waifs seeking the warmth he could not provide them in life. Not that this was any great loss.
It is perhaps worth noting at this point that the story took place in Berkeley. Thank you.