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April 30, 2008
It's a cliche, I know, to want to live in Paris; to sit on the Champs Elysee and sip Louise Jadot's Beaujolais-Villages, to lament the tacky and loud American tourists, to smoke the cigarettes and not get cancer (or at least get the sexy variant of cancer, but not until you're ninety, watching your grandchildren play on the rolling green hills of Versaille, smoking a pipe that you have graduated to in your old age.)

It's cliche, I know, to want to go to Paris to be a pretentious dick when I'm so good at being one here in America.