Young and Revolting: The Continental Journals of Nick Twisp by C. D. Payne

working on a solution for my suspect passport. He asked me if I had any strong objections to becoming a citizen of Estonia. I said not unless I was expected to speak Estonian. Then he drove us to the Prefecture of Police, where we filled out more forms and submitted our health certificates and other documents. Very nervous as the place was crawling with gendarmes. Kept my sunglasses on the entire time, arousing suspicions of harried bureaucrats. Good thing we were accompanied by our own high-priced lawyer. We have an appointment in two months for a final decision on our applications. Getting into France is certainly more complicated than entering the U.S. Back home you just have to be willing to swim the Rio Grande.
    As MTV seldom showcases my sort of music, I’m not a devotee of that channel. Therefore, I’m not entirely sure what being in a music video entails. All I can recall is Michael Jackson shuffling backwards in an oversized glove and grabbing his crotch. Call me Mr. Inhibited, but I think I’d be rather embarrassed doing that. I hope pre-camera anxiety does not cause massive facial eruptions. I’m sure Mr. Bonnet would not be thrilled to pay E3,000 to some wannabe teen heartthrob with a mugful of zits. Have been practicing some Sinatra hits just in case. Surgically altered voice prone to sudden eructations far off the musical scale. Rather distressing to my ear. Of course, these days an inability to sing is no hindrance to a meteoric ascent of the pop music charts.
    To celebrate my new career and the end of our marital estrangement, I took my loving wife out to dinner at a famous boulevard du Montparnasse restaurant that was once the haunt of Hemingway, Picasso, and other notables willing to pay tall francs for butter- laden cuisine. A vast, swanky place with grand chandeliers, velvet booths, and acres of polished brass trim. Very condescending waiter as you’d expect at those prices. Not taking any chances, I ordered a steak, while My Love had the petit-gris, which turned out to be a plate of disgusting snails. She claimed to enjoy them, but I say you have to be nuts to pay E35 to eat bugs out of the weed patch. No famous film stars in attendance, but Sheeni thought she spotted Roman Polanski, a fellow artist on the lam.
    10:45 p.m. Reina invited me in for a post-bird-lugging brandy, but I politely declined. I’m reminding myself now that I’m a married man, and there’s no point in associating heavily with attractive neighbors if it’s just going to drive my wife into the arms of the nearest dwarf. I know guys are genetically programmed to scatter their seeds widely, but François will just have to stifle those impulses— especially since we have one bun in the oven already.
     
    SATURDAY, June 5 — My fourth week as a wedded person.
    I’ve been successfully married for nearly a month! That’s considerably longer than many Hollywood celebrities manage, even with all their fame and money.
    Piroque, the director, dropped by this morning for wardrobe fittings. I’m not sure if that’s his first name or his last name. He was wearing burgundy silk pantaloons today and the same muddy combat boots. He must do a lot of slogging through bogs. Today he was packing his little cigars in a purse made from the spare tire of a Vespa scooter. It’s a good thing Piroque is a music video director, since, considering the way he dresses, he’d have a tough time landing a normal job.
    Yvette, the attractive wardrobe mistress, made me strip and proceeded to dress my near-naked torso without embarrassment. Thankfully, I’d had debilitating anniversary intercourse barely an hour before, which took the edge off my erectile response when she was doing up my pants buttons. Very stimulating as you can imagine. My costume was that of an old-time French sailor: striped shirt, bell bottoms, and squashed little cap that looks like someone stepped on it. The ponytail of my brown wig was tied with a gay red ribbon that matched my