In The Gutter

Mes enfants! I am suffering of blogger's withdrawal but contrary to my assumptions, it has been virtually impossible to blog from Cannes. Not for lack of technology but for the simple reason of party interference. So many parties, so little time.
I have much to tell you, but first let me rant, brag and kvetch a little.
The taxi situation requires a lengthy and vehement rant, if not an outright revolution. Basically, you can't flag 'em and there aren't that many. They disappear after 3 am and we've had to hoof it all the way to our exclusive accomodations after leaving the dregs of humanity at the Gutter Bar at the witching hour, of which I promise to tell more later. The drivers charge whatever they see fit according to some inscrutable logic devised by Richelieu 3 centuries ago, when cabs had horses. And I may be the only person who thinks Cannes is a hellhole for the rich.
Anyway. Allow me to brag: not that I have anything shortlisted or anything. It's more that I am emerging victorious of this endurance contest that is the party life in this festival. I have a brilliant strategy: a compulsory nap sometime in the evening, drinking anything made with grapes and nothing else. So far, no hangovers and no benders either. I'm very proud.
Plus, it's kind of interesting to observe the zombified revelers after a full day of drinking. It's like being stuck in a George A Romero movie.
It's a hard life, all this parties you HAVE to go to. Pool parties, beach parties, drinks at the Carlton, gutter bar to end the night...
All in the name of sound business.
As my clients say: I'm loving it.