It's a museum for Sunday morning garage sales. A 1980's garage sale. This is what the pickers and the vintage stores didn't want. There's a shrine for Coming to America. The bartender kinda looks like Prince Akeem, but without the smile or charisma. Actually, he has zero fucks...and no change...or bottled beer. Just flat draft beer in a plastic cup, also from the garage sale. There's a Tiki bar that belongs at a run down restaurant in St. Thomas. Spaced around the room are oil drums with unbussed cocktail glasses from 3 hours ago collected atop. Across the floor a pale leg bounces...Reebox socks and Velcro Adidas cover her feet. Tom Cruise is starring at me. Cocktails & Dreams. Two guys sit behind a Polynesian minibar, bamboo partition to their backs. The fan overhead is louder than the depressing music. This place is great. Terrible great. Someone left a full beer where I sat down. Kinda wanna drink it, I'm broke. But roofies are a real. Above a door reads "Office", I step in. It's an enclosed smoking room. There's no cigarette shame in Paris, everyone smokes. Yet you should feel ashamed smoking in here. It looks like a fry station at an abandoned restaurant. Stainless steel lines the bottom half of the room....old tile floor and a drain in the center. You could chop up dead bodies here, no problem. Behind mismatched brown doors are stacks of old grade school chairs. A portable wash sink from the 70's sits on a stand, it's filled with cigarette ash and four butts. Back into the bar, there's a Goonies exhibit. La Petite Boutique Des Horrreurs too. I don't see Seymour. Someone's selling vintage stuff by the dance floor with a disco ball. A bald guy takes a twirl. Horns, trombone slides, and an accordion would have you believe your in a comedy of errors flick...it's the perfect soundtrack. There's nowhere to sit. Some people walk aimlessly around. I can justify staying longer, but I'm out of small bills and my credit cards are maxed out...the bartender doesn't have change, remember...so I'm forced to leave, or buy 20€ worth of alcohol for myself. The struggle. There's old popcorn in an old popcorn machine. I want it, badly, but I'm sweating now and I'm out of lukewarm beer so I leave. A few eyes tempt me to stay, but I pay my respects to the Coming to America shrine, and step back out to Canal St Martin. It doesn't feel right to be alone in Paris. No one should be a alone in Paris.