...Continued from page 1

What begins on Wednesday will turn into chaotic skies on Thursday, with a forecast high of 30, followed by a mostly sunny Friday with a high of 31 degrees, maybe 90–91 F, a bit less than the prediction for LA.

The slightly crummy outlook for Thursday is no surprise because it's the day that Paris–Plages opens this year. But before we get into it, note that plages is plural. The sign that sprung up around Boggleville says that there are beaches on both sides of the Seine. But alert readers already know this thanks to Metropole and its intrepid 'Ed' who was off traipsing around Saturday night, testing new jiggling bridges and spying out the new floating pool. Unless I'm mistaken it's still floating.

Mister Phil's Pal John Simms

Tonight the Rue Roger is resting after baking all day. Even though I am still cooking I have been called out by Mister Phil who sent an URGENTE via email to alert me to the fix John Simms got himself in by getting mugged. Yes, even in Boggleville these crummy things happen.

photo, john simms and soul crew John Simms sings despite being plastered.

Mister Phil's pal John Simms is a soul singer and now he's got a busted wrist. This is a bit of a handicap so the idea tonight was to have a bit of a sing–song at the Irish pub The Green Linnet, named after either a poem by Billy Wordsworth or a little finch of a bird, which may not be green but is more real than many saints.

And this wonderful happening was taking place in the Rue Victoria which is as downtown as you can get but is not the liveliest street although it has a view of the Place du Châtalet and the Hôtel de Ville. On this hot night John's friends and fans kept stepping out to the sidewalk because of the Death Valley temperatures inside – inside that was made hotter by the benefit group, perhaps including Barry Johnson, Romello and Shelley Fox Reed, funking with guitars while John tried out the microphone with an arm encased in plaster.

photo, sign, paris plages, 2006

I got reasonably close to the bar to get an orange juice and this woman starting hitting me. It was the only way for club member Claire to get my attention, and it was to tell me to go outside for a taste of air. Then, out there, she said she couldn't hear the singing, all of three metres away with all the doors and windows as open as Outer Mongolia.

Then a pleasant fellow standing there told me he was Mr. Heather but I didn't believe him. Everybody knows Mr. Heather is in Singapore. He said he had the dogs, but didn't, couldn't produce them. All this time these four big guys were shouting into microphones and the benefits were filling up the Champagne bucket being used for a pot.

The lesson of this meaningless story is that if you are a soulful blues singer in this town and get your wrist broken by a mean mugger, just call Mister Phil and he'll put out the word that you are hurting. Not only this but he'll arrange for it to be the hottest night of the year, maybe even more better hot than Hollywood. In any case, too hot to walk back. This is where the Bus 38 took up the slack, er, slacker.

Goodblognight from Paris
radio ric

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