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March 27, 2006
Pucker up, buttercup ... in search of the Great Dead, part I.
[Insert quip about wall decor and mortality]
No visit to Paris is complete without a tromp around the famous cemetary, in honor of Richard Cecil.
We're just wilde about Oscar! His grave at Père Lachaise is smothered in lipstick kisses and messages from adoring fans (does that say NIGEL?!), despite the plaque urging us to please not deface items of historical importance, s'il vous plaît et merci beaucoup, y'know.
At least there's only a frosty plaque, unlike Jim Morrison's grave which has a metal fence and its own guard, who, as it turns out, would very much not like my mother to photograph him as part of her aging hippie pilgrimage. When I pointed out that he probably had to commit a police force fuckup of epic proportions to be assigned to Morrison Grave Duty where the only action one sees all day is hauling desecrating trustafarians up by their stinking dreadlocks and the scruff of their hempy necks and profiling middle-aged women with long hair and Indian-print blouses, she seemed to understand. I imagine the only detail more humiliating is pulling apart screwing gothkids in the Catacombs. Patchouli or clown white? Nowhere to go from there but up.
Posted by eek at March 27, 2006 10:11 PM