"Paris is a team of clowns, dickheads, and basic fuckwits."
"Anyway, we're all for journalistic watch-dogging, and even trivial journalistic watch-dogging, but perhaps some perspective is in order - is there no room at all for a little good old-fashioned flim-flammery in today's journalism? In the old days, from what we've read, the press regularly took much grander liberties. For example, we're currently enjoying a book called "The Gossip Wars," which recounts the heyday of the Broadway gossip columnists. In it, we learned that Oleg Cassini (whom we always thought was a brand of perfume but as it happens was actually a gossip columnist) used to invent millionaire playboys like "Elliot Weems" and "Stuyvesant Pierrepont" and report on their wholly imaginary goings-on about town in his column. He did this, the book explains, because at the time he was one of the least important columnists, and thus last in line when it came to getting tips from press agents. So like Junod today, he had to resort to different means to keep his copy exciting. But here's where the past was different than the present. Instead of investigating Cassini's fantastic swells that no one else seemed to know about and thus exposing his fraud, his competitors, worried that they were out of the loop because they knew nothing about these dashing new gadflies, started fabricating items about them too!"
As the morning turned my way, seabirds flying through its hazy faze, and I came back here to replace your place in my life. And didn't you know that I'm not the world's strongest man? When it comes to you and your world I'm lost. Can't you see the towers of my naked shine like a dime? Take me back again to your warm design. And again, again, again longing for belongings here again, and I need your laugh, you know I can't pretend anymore. And didn't you know that I'm not the world's strongest man? When it comes to you and your world I'm lost. Can't you see the towers of my naked shine like a dime. Take me back again to your warm design.
I seen a hand, I seen a vision, it was reaching through the clouds to risk a dream. A shadow crossed the sky, and it crushed it to the ground just like a beast. The old man's back again. I seen a woman standing in the snow, she was silent as she watched them take her man. Teardrops burned her cheeks, for she thought she'd heard the shadow had left this land. The old man's back again. The crowds just gather, their faces turned away, and they queue all day like dragons of disgust. Older women whispering, wondering just what these young hotheads want of us. And 'entrez vie', he cries with eyes that ring like chimes, his anti-words go spinning through his head, he burns them in his dreams-for half awake, they may as well be dead. The old man's back again. I see he's back again. I see a soldier, he's standing in the rain, for him, there's no old man to walk behind. Devoured by his pain, bewildered by the faces who pass him by, he'd like another name-the one he's got's a curse, these people cry, why can't they understand, his mother called him Ivan, then she died. The old man's back again. The old man's back again.
