Day 7

Went to Pere LaChaise cemetary and sang "My Own Prison" at Jim Morrison's grave:

In honor of the excellent band Scott Stapp.

             There are so many band stickers by Jim's grave, so obnoxious and disrespectful:

Then I went to Pop-in for my final show in Paris, possibly ever.

The door to the only toilet doesn't lock.

Pop in to poopin' at Pop-in.

             When I got there early and talked to the few people people in the bar, this French guy asked what kind of music I play. I told him "Je suis un chanteur Americain" which is French wordplay that basically means I'm an American crooner. His immediate response was "Oh, like Oasis?"
It was cool to meet someone whose grasp of geography is even worse than mine.

             I went down to the performing space and started the set for 2 French people (and the bartender) by doing "Why Aren't I a Singer" as translated into French by that guy last night.
When Jen's boyfriend arrived shortly after, he said no one in the main part of the bar knew the show had started. So I brought the 4 audience members up to the bar, announced to the packed room that the show had started (in French) and played "Beer" to rousing singing by the audience. Then I told them to come downstairs and watch the show and they gradually petered in.

             30 drunk French people sang along to Love of My Life, "Bullshit Model, & "Je T'Aime Beaucoup." I only spoke French to them, in between songs. And I made 40 Euros. I am officially a professional international singer. My life is basically complete. My only remaining new goal is to play bigger and bigger shows (and settle down with a wonderful woman).
             During my set, this really loud drunk Belgian whistled + sang along, then cornered me afterwards, so I couldn't get women to talk to me. He offered me a show in Brussels, claming that in Paris everyone just wants to drink and yell, but he did those things more than anyone. He kept asking me to kiss him on the cheek, and after a few very terse attempts, I finally got rid of him. He may have misinterpreted my statement during my set (in French): "I want to fuck everyone in the room."
             At the end of my set he yelled out "Death metal!", so I played "Why Aren't I Famous" (to thunderous applause) then said "sorry I don't know any Garcons Boucher songs" and one guy cheered. When I played "Duet" and no one laughed or cheered, I realized almost none of the audience understood English, even though all the bands at Pop-in sing in it.

             When I first arrived, I met the only employee working. She sold drinks from behind the bar, helped set up the sound, and probably cleaned for about 100 customers. Apparently, the economy in Paris is so terrible that understaffing is the only way the bar can make enough money, even though they were packed and seemingly made a fortune selling drinks. She was so busy with customers that I had to run the soundboard for Albert Fallen after I played, even though I had literally no idea how to, and basically just turned knobs at random until it stopped getting better.
             An attractive young woman talked to me after their set and told me she'd email me about a party she's going to tomorrow night. I talked her up a bit, hope she wants me romantically but it'll be okay if we end up as friends, too.
             This was written on the street somewhere:

"A butterfly sits on me,am I a flower?"