I’m driving home from The Cheesecake Factory on Wednesday and talking on the phone to my friend when I said: “It’s only fifty in Paris”
I have no idea what we were talking about but then I went into a tangent about the ways in which that phrase could be used and what a superb lifetime film it would spawn:
A man, fueled by heartbreak and whiskey, embarks on a journey to Paris to write and do readings of his original works, hoping…praying to find his path in the City of Lights.
However, all he finds are his two new friends: absinthe and the Moulin Rouge. What he did not expect to find? In all of his lurking around the show, he was picked up and sat down in a prostitution ring, fifty euros a pop, all girls trying to make it big and needing hard cash fast.
Once our protagonist realizes Paris is the wrong place for him and wrenches himself out of his fast lifestyle, he moves home to Providence, Rhode Island, where his sister and nephew open their home to him.
The man works long days and nights, slaving over his writing and juggling two dead-end jobs to help his sister pay for their home. He remembers the nights he had in Paris…the beautiful women, the free-spirited dancers.
He turns to Craigslist for a taste of what he had in Paris, and when he was set to pay the girl, she asked for ninety dollars. He becomes frustrated and yells, “It was only fifty in Paris!” (he obviously does not understand the dollar-euro exchange rate), and clocks her in the head, killing her immediately.
This becomes his catchphrase as the man crosses the country, poet by day, killer by night.
And then I got home and I ate my Kahlua cheesecake and took a nap.
So, pretty productive. Wrote a slightly insane, homicidal plotline in my head, and then had a nap and cheesecake! My kind of day, really.