Touring the sewers of Paris, I came to realize that one man’s seepage is another rat’s dream – a simple dream for sure, but a dream nonetheless. Who is to say that my dreams of being the world’s best caber tosser, kilt-clad and tossing off at a frantic, frenetic, furious pace, while using an Anne Valérie Hash cummerbund as a weight belt, is any less meaningful than Jonas Salk’s quest to rid the world of polio? No one. Not even the kid down the block -- Rotisserie Mike, I call him – pinned inside his new fangled iron lung. You know: that new stainless model with the auto spin feature. If you ask me, stainless steel reeks of ostentation, not to mention pee. He should have opted for the clean simplicity of Lexan. To add a touch of glass and class, a tasteful string of Christmas tree lights, secured around the opening at his neck, would have been sufficient to show the world his true colors.

But I digress...

Sloshing my way south, the stench was incredible, and not in a good way. But what choice did I have? The long road home began with a drop down a manhole cover and was now being followed up by an inch by inch crawl against rank, slime covered walls. I can understand, in a National Geographic magainze sort of way, why French women don't always shave their armpits. But Christ! You'd think they'd flush out their sewer system once every hundred years or so.

As a dozen rats brushed passed by legs, scurrying in my same direction, I began to wonder if the job was really worth it.

Right or wrong, Reginald Boltry is no longer with Acton's.

The job came through the usual channels. A friend of a friend of a friend of some guy who was fairly pissed off about Mr. Boltry's entry into the Vespa maintenance repair market in Savigny-sur-Orge, just a bit outside of Paris.

I hate these European jobs, particularly in France. I have the usual complaints: Cramped seats on an overly long and tedious transcontinental flight, crowded airports where people refuse to speak English, and the inevitable dickering about payment that occurs over crappy French coffee with some savoir fare looking guy who smokes too much. These conversations usually take place in cafes that are owned by Frenchmen who are proud of their sophisticated tastes. How else can I explain the inevitable and never ending supply of Jerry Lewis posters that are plastered on the cafes' speckled walls?

A job is a job. Frankly, there are a lot of other jobs I'd prefer to pluck from the employment tree. I'd give my eyeteeth to work in Silicon Valley. The work is easy, the pay is great, and there is no arguing the fact that a lot of guys down there deserve what they get. After a job is done, there would be no time wasted mulling over some sloppy moral imperative. Instead of succumbing to the Frenchman's gig of "ennui", I'd be savoring the satisfaction of a job well done, and the taste of the beer I like. I'd be thinking about what I'm going to do with all that money.

But again I digress.....

By the time I checked my bags out of CDG and thence into the Paris Hilton, I was looking forward to my dealing with Mr. Boltry, even if his name didn't sound French. I freshened up a bit in my three hundred and fifty dollar a night (U.S.) tiny hotel room -- quarters that were no larger than your standard 1964 Citron. I tried taking a nap, but the Pigeons on the fire exit and the three guys in the room next door were having a raucously randy old time. Rather than suffer through the nauseating surround sound, I gave up on sleep, grabbed a taxi, and headed out of Paris.

It was time to meet Mr. Boltry.