Stopping by, on my way through Germany (the land of chocolate) to Cannes (the land of film festivals).

Lemme tell ya’: Lufthansa, which I always thought of as the “Goodfellas” airline and nothing more, is a pretty sweet ride. Great service, comfy seats, and the widest-ass bathroom I’ve ever seen on a plane (motherfucker even had a window in it, which – even though we were cruising at 30,000 feet or something – I still felt the need to close while I took a leak, ‘lest some passing birds get a peak at my teenie-weenie).

Spent a good four hours of the ten hour flight watching the last season of “Sex and the City”. Yes, fuck you – I like “Sex and the City”. Good writing is good writing. Spent the rest of the flight hoping my old lady would meet me in the can for a little mile-high action, being that it was so fucking roomy in there (she wasn’t having it). Spent about a half hour total sleeping. I’m cruising on fumes now – which is fucked, because once we get to Cannes, we’ve only got a few hours before the “Southland Tales” yacht party, closely followed by the flick’s debut. I’ve got three tuxes for the week that I’m at the fest, complete with black ties and cufflinks. I wisely tripled up on the fancy duds because I tend to sweat like a fucking hog whenever I… well, breathe, really. If you wanna see me squeezed like a sausage into a monkey suit, you can probably peep some images on WireImage.com tommorow around this time.

That’s all for now. I’ll check back in with a “Soutland Tales” report in the a.m.