Why You Are Here

"What's your blog about?" is a question that I usually avoid by not mentioning the existence of this website.

To be honest, I haven't known how to answer it. "It's about Paris" sounds plain. "It's about me" sounds vain. So recently I have turned to Sitemeter for a more detailed analysis of my content.

Sitemeter, alternately known among bloggers as "Psychometer," is a program that allows me to track the number and location of my visitors. And to see the search terms that have brought you to this site.

It turns out that visitors, despite my best efforts, are not coming here to see pictures of dogs on bikes.

What you want, and what I have given you, is the following:

1) Transvestites. French visitors searching for ladyboys make up the vast majority of my Google hits. Bienvenue! Your average visit length, upon discovering a post about shoes, is a disappointing 0.4 seconds.

2) Naked Snorkeling. Here come the southerners! A large number of you have arrived to see me swimming in my nuddie pants. Could someone please explain why you all hail from Mississippi?

3) Naked Opera. I had not realized that this was a fetish. But it is, and almost exclusively among the British. Llaaaahhh!! La lalala alalaa!

4) Vagina Party. Call me cocky, but I really thought I invented this concept. I see now from the search terms that there is a whole community waiting to welcome me. Does anyone else find this a wee bit frightening?

In sum, this exercise has reinforced my belief that the best way to build traffic, apart from landing a spot on Petite's blogroll, is to sprinkle my text with perversion.

And now I finally have a response - four of them - when someone asks about my blog. Whether or not this represents an improvement over previous descriptions is a "research question" for the next big social gathering...

Election Night

La crème de la crème

Ahh... french women.

I'm a little bit obsessed with them. We share the same sidewalks but seem to occupy two different planets. I feel foreign around them, like a cross-dresser in their midst.

And yet I find myself slowly migrating and starting to mimic their strange behavior. Just look at what I did to my face!

It occurred to me today that I could cream myself french - that culture may be a simple matter of conditioning.

This was following a conversation with some male victims on Gmail chat about the words that they use to for les françaises.

"Douceur" was the first response and an obvious effect of creaming.

The second description was "complicated," and can also be attributed to beauty products. To simplify the theory (Descartes, I believe it was) about local ladyplexity and the differentiation of creams: if the pharmacy in a given culture is selling two seperate creams for knee and thigh skin, than the women in said culture will be crazy.

The third adjective, "elusive," is also related to the regimen. A stong commitment to hair removal leaves little time to return phone calls. Is Delphine being coy... keeping you quivering with anticipation? Or did she just not have time to shave her legs?

The final word, "passionate," was used multiple times, and I gotta give the girls credit on this one. French women are without a doubt more sensual than their American counterparts.

Some say our prudishness is the by-product of Protestantism. But I think it's all about lubrication. Sensuality must increase with the number of hours spent self-lotioning. All that rubbing is bound to make a girl think about sex.

I pressed the same boys to give me some additional words for Americans. I heard "franche," "bold," "assertive," "confident," "strong," "busy," and "delurée."

At least half of those adjectives are directly related to alcohol. And french girls, after their 70€ breast cream, can rarely afford more than one drink. Americans may have an edge in the "strong" and "witty" department, but it would be wrong to say that French women aren't busy. The work of beautification is invisible to men, but the breasts, rest assured, are not lifting themselves.

"A few kilos, at least" is how Nabékor summed up our cultural differences. But this, too, I'm happy to report, has a cream-based solution.

84.5%

A cheer rang out around 8pm over the waters of the Bassin de la Villette.

We left the sun and found a wood-paneled café with a TV mounted above the jukebox. The space, empty when we arrived, was soon filled with young faces.

They were washed with relief upon hearing the broad outlines: Sarko and Ségo and defintely no Le Pen. But that (unbeatable?) 30% brought silence and worry - would Sarkozy really be the next president?

I remembered the anxiety that filled a similar bar seven years ago. We were gathered at Simon's to watch the map turn red. The same unbelieving questions were being asked about Bush. But not one among us had voted.

Stellar excuses abounded that night: I had gone to the wrong polling place. Many others had forgotten to register. And our votes weren't needed in Illinois...

For the French - who plan vacations around voting - this kind of apathy is incomprehensible. Nearly 85% cast a ballot yesterday, and turnout is expected to be even greater on May 6.

A mild depression has set in today among my lefty friends and colleagues. Not one of them is excited about their candidate. The "anyone but Sarko" ballot is not an inspiring one to cast. But they will do it anyway - and in huge numbers. Which is more than their US counterparts seem capable of.

Near miss in Montmartre

Wha--what??

The Shins were recently a few blocks from my apartment recording one of my favorite songs as a Concert à Emporter.

The tractor beam - the one that should have pulled me through the open window and deposited me within grabbing range of all that facial hair - was not working.

How could I not have known?

I suppose it's better this way. Had I been there, the "Gone for Good" video would have included a distant female backing vocal.

#44 - THE SHINS - PART1
Uploaded by lablogotheque

Spring Crush

Daniel Rose, the American chef, is being wooed. Every day his phone at Spring rings off the hook. "Are you free?" beg the callers, a little too desperate at times for his taste. The answer, short of ten days' notice, is no.

Hard-to-get is not just a pose for a man with sixteen seats. The diners know their luck in scoring a date. They have read the reviews and know all the rules: one seating and no substitutions. They arrive bursting with anticipation, walking billboards for the season.

The foodie faithful enter the 26 m2 chapel through a door that Rose designed. They are greeted by the acolyte, a lovely waitress who whispers the menu. She constitutes, aside from the occasional stagière, the entire staff of Spring. Rose himself shops and mops and does everything else in between.

The "clients," as he likes to call them, fall silent with the first course - a velouté sans crème (carotte). They ponder the secret (duck fat) behind his famous creamless soup, which is prettied by a foie gras throw pillow.

When presented with a whole dorade, stuffed with rosemary and red onion, every diner wears the young face of love. Round three, during which Rose wanders, looking worried and asking about salt, is spring lamb en croute à l'Italien .

One wonders, watching Rose with his clients, if perhaps he is wooing them, too. But as he builds the dessert, little towers of cake and cream, the object of his desire becomes clear. Is he touching a lover's face or arranging a garnish? This young chef has got it bad for his food.

Spring
28 rue de la Tour d'Auvergne, 75009
Tuesday - Friday nights only
Tel: 01 45 96 05 72

Dark Matter

We parked the car at 9pm outside a low slung cement block building. After knocking three times on a window, a man wordlessly opened the front door.

Adam appeared as my boss had descibed him: short and stocky, like a sports trainer. Not so different than the other men I'd met in Warsaw. What set Adam apart was his brow line - two hairy thickets that twisted upward toward the flourescent bulb.

A man in a suit hovered behind Adam, his function unknown. The suit motioned for me to sit down, and Joanne silently followed Adam into the bedroom. After a few minutes the suit mumbled something in French. "Not many people from Poland in Quebec," he said. Then he stood up and walked out of the apartment.

Alone now, I could examine my surroundings. In addition to the bare bulb, there were plenty of other "mood elements." A television, muted, showing rugby. A phone that rang off the hook and a cassette answering machine. Decorative knives.

I heard footsteps in the hallway and then the flimsy door was flung open. Joanne emerged looking woozy, but gestured for me to go in. I followed dumbly and the door was closed behind me.

"Stand here," he said in French. "Close your eyes."

I had agreed to see the energy healer because my boss had offered to pay. She had her own appointment during my visit, and I was "lucky enough" to be added on. Adam had been in the papers recently, and was very much in demand.

At the very least, I thought, as he stood behind me doing God-knows-what, there is a blog post in this. And I began to imagine the opening lines.

"You're very sad," Adam said, interrupting.

"Am I?" I replied, imagining a serious poker face.

"This here," he said, passing open hands near my sternum, "is your (something-or-other) channel. Immediate family. Boyfriend, husband. Very ......"

The last word was represented only by a gesture. An anguished face, like he had stepped on something sharp. Or eaten Marmite.

"I see."

"This here (moving southward) is your spirit channel." He spent some time pawing the air in front of my belly, and then moved on.

He started in about digestion and I had to call him back.

"Excuse me, Adam... my spirit channel? Did you, uh, find anything there?"

His impressive brow collapsed into itself. He started to say something and then thought better of it. He moved his hands down and continued to talk about intestines.

Parlor tricks followed, with Adam pointing to my physical ailments. He correctly named all the current ones (a bad cough, a sore back) and even forecast a few that "will follow."

He then told me to sit, and looked directly into my eyes. His face hung with the over-wrought sincerity of a high school guidance counselor.

"You're very sad," he repeated.

Isn't everyone? I thought. "But what about my spirit channel?"

He started again to explain, stopped, and then called for Joanne. He took her in the corner and spoke very quickly.

My mind wandered to various versions of this story - the sad expat learning that she has, after all, no soul. It could be done like Lost in Translation with good music, Polish art students, and sexy casting. Or in a Sci-Fi direction, with a vampire soul! Or...

"It's your third eye," someone interrupted.

Joanne was explaining to me that it's broken. My third eye. And that this is very, very bad. "It's the way you relate to the world. It's the interface between you and everybody else. Or something like that. We can Google it."

The good news, she assured me, is that Adam can fix it. Only 2-3 more visits, and only 15 euros a pop. I could be a much better person before the summer.

I came back to Paris last night, dropped my bags, and went to an Andrew Bird concert. And the dashing multi-instrumentalist peered out from beneath his hair-mop, looked right into my eyes (so I imagine), and sang:

Do you wonder where the self resides
Is it in the head or between your sides?

I decided this morning, after a proper night's rest and five cups of coffee, what this third eye business is really about.

It is not about me being soul-less. Or selfish. Or any other unflattering word that begins with S.

It is about grammar!

My interface with the world, like a radio dropped in water, has been cutting out. I am third eye blind mute as a result of speaking french like a six year-old.

My next trip to Warsaw is in May. This leaves me plenty of time to master the subjunctive and return triumphant to Adam's "office."

"All clear," he will say, brows twitching happily. My sternum will reveal that I am good.

One can hope...

Les Folies Vaginales

A barking need for attention is easily mistaken for dramatic flair.

And so last night I was asked for the 100th time in recent memory, "have you spent any time in the theater?"

The answer is no. Apart from weekly classes in amateur improv, I have never sullied a stage.

I do, on the other hand, love to put on a show. And for my birthday last week I went a bit overboard.

I searched high and settled low in selecting the motif. I wanted a theme that people could get into.

And while my dream of turning the entry hall into a giant Slip N' Slide did not come true, les Folies Vaginales afforded an impressive array of absurdity.

I spent a ridiculous amount of time in preparing this - feathering the apartment, slitting dates and stuffing them with marscapone, making labia garnish out of strawberries... all of the usual things that one does.

I sampled cocktail recipes while making my costume (above) and built a playlist of very nasty songs.

But nothing that I did (and I did a lot) could compare with what came out of the guests.

In the category of dress, the biggest surprise came from a pair of (gasp!) french boys. They donned homemade t-shirts labeled grandes and petites levres, and wore necklaces strung with bic razors.

Girls in every labial hue were monitored carefully by a British gynecologist. And there were more fur accents in that apartment than on a Croatian nudie beach.

But the audience participation was not limited to costume.

Some brought vaginal artwork. Others made labial folds out of ham. Music and videos, boxes of all shapes and sizes, pervy chocolates and candies, the list goes on and on...

But the best form of participation is always dance. And people got down for the vagina. There was blouse-popping, booty shaking action under the nightie light.

Take this Dan kid at left: a soft-spoken intellectual type by day. Get a couple of kir vaginales in him and he's suddenly spinning Nardac like a top.

At the end of the night, following much drunken singing, someone made a musical vagina out of a vaccuum tube. You'll have to click here to see what I mean.

Something about the evening seemed to have put people in the mood. At least six (however temporary) couples were formed, and that's not even counting Steve and his friends here. I myself retired alone and happy around 6:30 am.

A vulvatic thank you to everyone who came. You made me a very happy birthday girl, indeed.

32

Form a line to the throne comments box because today, dear readers, is my birthday.

The day began with bright sun streaming through my window and crisp blue surrounding the visible sliver of Sacre Coeur. Birds - I kid you not - were warbling on the balcony.

My roommate had left a pot of strong coffee waiting, along with a spot-on funny gift. I drank it in slowly while making a new mix tape CD, quite content to be hookey from work.

A date drew me out of musical solitude, and I set off to meet Catherine around 12:30.

A perfect assiette at the Cantine de Quentin, and then a walk along the shining canal.

Cath returned to work and I continued on to meet another girl. After four months apart, I wasn't sure what to expect from our reunion. My bike was waiting for me outside an Oberkampf pool hall, a little worse for wear but still beautiful. I hopped on for a wide-eyed ride through the city and then installed the bike at her new digs in Montmartre.

I later transferred my fesses to Nicole's scooter - a machine that always makes me feel like a teenager. There was much "wheeeee!!!" as we rode over for cocktails near Abbesses. And there was much gossip to accompany our kir.

I haven't even told you about the Vagina Party yet, have I? The one that spawned at least 5 (however temporary) couples? The one that left me exhausted at 6 am amid a pile of red feathers?

That'll have to wait.

After 5 consecutive nights of stuffing my gullet, I am calling it an early night. Perhaps tomorrow, after some digestion, I can be clever again. For tonight I'm just pleasantly stuffed. And quite grateful to friends for the filling.

I shall leave you with this hopeful message from the Onion:

Your Birthday Today

After days of grave and anxious discussion, the stars have decided that it's better you don't know.

Supermooch

As a downwardly mobile refugee from double income, I've been trying lately to improve my financial outlook.

Being disinclined toward sugardaddies, I've instead found a way to cut expenses. I have become, in the fullest sense of the word, a mooch.

Various dictionaries define a mooch as someone who "wanders aimlessly," "begs," "sponges," and "accepts gifts and favors."

I think that about covers it.

What's surprising to me (and baffling to my friends) is how well this has been working. I decided several months ago to try, just for the hell of it, requesting some free passes for exhibitions and music events. I was doing a calender for Expatica and couldn't afford to see everything I was writing about.

I'll never forget my surprise the first time someone said yes to me, and then how nervous I became at the prospect of approaching the ticket window. "Is it sur la liste?...or dans la liste?...or is list masculine??"

Eventually I got over it and got inspired to try for more. I started writing for Parisist and eventually editing their Events section. This is where began in earnest to build my kingdom of mooch. I started working with the editors and some fine staff writers to develop the FSS (free shit strategy). We banged out a request letter in two languages and I set about to begging.

Hundreds of emails have since gone out to clubs, promoters, labels, and the bands themselves. The result is that we have passes to a whole slate of concerts over the next few months.

There have been some let-downs (Clap Your Hands did not Say Yeah) and we're still waiting to hear about some big ones (Arcade Fire and the Shins), but overall it's been working surprisingly well.

All of this is good for Parisist, but more importantly it's great for me. I've been out having fun desipite a startling lack of funds.

Last night I had 2 passes for the sold-out Decemberists show (review here), and even scored a pre-concert dinner from Catherine. Not a bad deal, I say.

All this mooching can be exhausting. I turned down Guillemots tickets on Monday (reviewed by Alex here) and Rufus Wainwright tickets on Tuesday (reviewed by Lauren here). Tonight is another freebie, however, and Monday will bring a Tobias Fröberg show and interview (my first).

Holy crap!

Perhaps I can develop a whole series of indie rock interviews that incorporate my expertise in reproductive health...

The Vagina Dialogues, perhaps?

Climb Every Mountain

Last night a crack team of operatives set out for reconnaissance around Châtelet. We had a list of 5 karaoke establishments and no idea if any of them were good. "At the end of this night," I promised, "we will be the Karaoke Experts of Paris."

Our first address was showing a football game. The second had transformed into a Japanese restaurant. The third was now Lebanese. The fourth had simply given up, and the fifth required an hour wait before its opening.

We settled in at a lesbian bar to wait for karaoke and the arrival of a support squadron. Second lieutentant Samantha had promised to bring in some "professionals." When they arrived, we mounted our attack upon the joint across the street.

L'Annexe revealed itself to be a sad little basement with a 12 euro cover charge. As Rhino observed, karaoke in Paris is considerably more elusive than a club échangiste.

Crushed, we retreated from the karaoke battlefield and set out on foot for a party near the Canal. We pillaged along the way, unleashing our pent up musical energies upon the sleeping residents of the Marais. After working our way through several not-so-golden oldies, we made a big finish with this bit of artistry from the Sound of Music:



As the Reverend Mother from that blessed musical once said to Maria, "Whenever God closes a door, he somewhere opens a window." Last night's mission was not a defeat. If we hadn't been turned away from FIVE supposed karaoke establishments, the Roaming Club Karaoke (RoCK!) would never have been born.

*Note: the videos featuring my voice and facial distortions will remain carefully guarded. But the many others featuring Rhino and Christina are available for free and upon request.

My Valenthèque

I revealed in my last post that I had fallen in love with a dancer.

Sadly, however, the bouncing boy has not been in touch.

Perhaps he's very busy.

Or (unlikely) does not read my blog.

In any case, I am fickle and have fallen for a new toy. My heart this Wednesday belongs to La Blogothèque.

They say the best way to learn a language is between the sheets. But "they" haven't been practicing their french on this website.

In reality, la Blogothèque is much better than a boyfriend. He's always up for going out, I like his friends, he brings me new music, and I don't have to shower after visiting him.

Some places he has taken me:

(in Montmartre)

and...

(along the Canal St. Martin)


Not a bad couple of dates, right? And I didn't even have to shave my legs.

Happy VD, tout le monde.

I Have Found My Valentine

...and need only to make him mine.

What enthusiasm! What MOVES!!



This man is my destiny. I just know it.

The following greetings from Meish will remain on standby, however, just in case I can't manage to track him down before Wednesday:

The Twat Factor

I am having, dear reader, an identity crisis.

This isn't about my crumbled marriage...

Or about wondering what I'm doing in a foreign country where I can barely speak the language...

Or about deciding whether to write a dissertation or more concert reviews...

No, no, no. This is about my blog name.

I thought I was being clever when I named this thing. Blague (meaning: joke) sounds like blog - isn't that funny?

No?

It may not be funny, but it sure is annoying to the frenchies. I have been questioned in a surprising number of encounters and emails about why I would use the masculine form to describe myself. More properly, I am a blagueuse. But blagueuse sounds like something that's smearable. And what's more, it doesn't sound at all like 'blogger'.

A second problem with the title is correct spelling. Nobody (including me) seems capable of properly spelling blagueur. I go by Meg to avoid gaffes with Meagan. Should I similarly re-christen Le Blag?

These are minor considerations, however, in relation to The Twat Factor.

One of the other four nominees for Best European Blog is "My Boyfriend is a Twat," and her victory for two consecutive years has spawned a new blogging principle. A friend explained The Twat Factor to me last week, saying that there are certain words that make people smile, click, remember, return, vote, discuss, etc. 'Blagueur' is apparently not one of them.

She wants me to rename the blog "Paris without Pants" (in the British sense) for my failure, at times, to wear undergarments.

I think I'm stuck with the original name. But let me just say: I can't believe, with all my talk about vagina, that the nominee with the word twat in her title is not me.

I am seething with jealousy.

_____________________________________________________

Gratuitous crotch shot courtesy of Gustave Courbet.
See it in person at the Musée d'Orsay.

Brain Food

"Chicken or pork?" said the flight attendant, and I couldn't help thinking that she reminded me of someone.

"Pork," I replied, and then realized the connection. I saw Inland Empire last week, and it's been bubbling up like indigestion ever since.

The pretty girl with the Polish accent was, through the Lynch lens, now a prostitute. And the meal that she placed before me was suddenly sinister.

What exactly was it?

Spaghetti, ostensibly, drenched in red with fleshy bits. Bits that glistened beneath their blanket of melted cheese. I eyed the mass warily, poking at what were possibly the remains of some passenger. That woman, perhaps, who was protesting the new liquid regulations?

I closed my eyes, willed myself out of the labyrinth, and took a bite. It was, in reality, the most innocuous meal in the world. Here before me was the Midwestern culinary trinity: a mildly tangy tomato sauce, some delicately sweet browned meat, and melted cheese.

Various permutations of this had sustained me during childhood - a period in which I was "allergic" to nearly everything. Cheeseburgers, pizza, and enchiladas - these were the building blocks of my youth. I consumed more ground beef and defrosted cheddar in those years than have been seen in whole regions of China.

This continued until 1995, the year in which I moved to Arizona. At twenty I was running away from Kansas, leaving a burnt-out apartment and everything else behind. "Everything else" included the university, my family, and eventually my food phobias.

I got a job in a bookstore in the college town of Tempe. I spent lunch breaks behind the shop in an enclosed garden that tinkled with the sound of running water. I devoured books and, after some time, the exotic offerings of a Lebanese food cart.

This practice wasn't immediate. In my first few weeks on the job, I'd been trekking to Carl's Junior to retrieve my lunch. It turns out, though, that a sourdough bacon melt isn't the best thing to be eating in 120 degree heat. My co-workers seemed to be enjoying themselves in the garden, but that food?

I still remember, more vividly than my memory of first sex, sitting alone one afternoon and contemplating tabbouleh. "This is a bite of onion," I told myself. "This is what it feels like on your teeth. Is it really so disgusting?"

It took nearly an hour to work my way through that salad. There were so many elements that were foreign to my protected palate. Raw tomato (I know). Parsley and garlic. Lemon, for God's sake.

My orientation to food, following that tabboul-ephiphany, began to change. But the transformation was anything but rapid. I added new foods slowly, painfully, and because it was "good for me." It felt more like homework than pleasure.

It would be years before I'd eat my first fresh fish. A taste for sushi arrived only with the millenium. And my first brain, well, that was only last week.

I sampled brain recently at Le Midi-Vins in the 6th. Lamb's brain, to be precise, sautéed and sprinkled with toasted almonds. Andreia, whose dish it was, pointed perplexedly to a jiggly bit at the base. The lessons of high school anatomy came flooding back to me. "The cerebellum," I nodded, and described its role in motor functions. I avoided that nubbin, but was not disgusted to bite into the rest.

It's no big deal, I suppose, for a frenchman raised on offal. But for Le Meg, raised on Le Mac (and cheese), this is something of a triumph. Had I held to the bizarro food convictions of my youth, I would have missed out on the following pleasures in January:

Foie de Lotte

(raw monkfish liver)

sprinkled with sea salt

at Ploum.

_______________________________________________________________

Patta Negra Bellota

(Spanish ham)

whose fat and flesh melt sequentially

at La Crèmerie.

_________________________________________________________________

Perdreau rouge avec champignons à la forestière et chaîtagnes

(red partidge with wild forest mushrooms and chestnuts)

at Chez Michel.

_______________________________________________________________

Is this bragging? Vulgar boasting about my gastronomic triumphs? You bet your sweet oxtail it is. But it's also a call to all you food neurotics out there to please and finally get over yourselves.

You are strong enough to eat better than you do.

It's simply mind over (grey) matter.

Bon appétit!

On Fire

This morning's episode in nincompoopery unfolds with our heroine lighting her crown on fire.

A work colleague brought the ubiquitous galette des rois for breakfast, and suggested that I heat it up a bit.

My mastery of the microwave has been much-touted around this office. Feats such as "warming coffee" have been regarded - until today - as some sort of American birthright.

That's all over now. For I forgot, being unaccustomed to toys-in-food, to remove the foil crown from the box. That's right - a galette des rois comes complete with a party hat, one that's awarded to she (me) who finds the little toy hidden in her slice.

It's only fair, they said, that I should have to wear the blackened crown for the morning. A french tradition, they told me.

It wasn't an altogether unfitting uniform in which to discover that I'm up for a Bloggie. A diaper would have made the outfit complete, considering what nearly happened when I read the news.

(now behave, all you New Year's Baby fetishists out there...)

This is boggling news, given that I've only had the blog for six months and that the other four finalists have massive traffic, book deals and blog-themed coffee cups for sale on their sites.

If you feel like rooting for the underdog, you can vote here until February 02.

Le Travesti

"So, we're going to this club later, you should come," said Marcuse. "Good music, a nice bottle, really beautiful people..."

"And where is this club?" I asked with raised eyebrows.

"Right off the Champs Elysées," he answered, the street name falling like a gift from his mouth.

I burst out laughing. "Dude," I said, "do I look like I would hang out around the Champs Elysées?

"In fact, yes."

I looked down at myself and (dear God) it was true. To begin with, there were the heels.

Those who know me know I don't wear heels. They function in my life much like cigarettes - looking cool on other people but ridiculous whenever I try them. Through the mauvaise influence of friends, however, I am tottering into a new phase.

To continue, there was the dress - a black fitted thing and, well, strapless. Friends know that I don't wear dresses. Or if I do, they are wildly-colored 60s flares with the lingering scent of some Edna.

In trying to fit in for what I knew would be a fancy party, I'd transformed myself into a magnet for investment (bankers). Poor Marcuse was a victim of false advertising. He recoiled - as I was asserting the merits of dive bars - like I was showing him my penis.

Just two nights earlier, I was in a different sort of costume. I was reviewing a concert at La Maroquinerie, wearing filthy Converse and a ¡Forward, Russia! t-shirt. I had covered the tee with a cardigan at work, and changed shoes under my desk before leaving. My co-workers remain clueless about the indie rock Superhero in their midst.

Sunday night, before my first improv theater class, I stood baffled in front of the mirror. "White face paint?" I wondered. "Black turtleneck?"

Who am I kidding...

You Want a Piece of Me?

All morning long I've been having these fantasies.

I have them while I'm making coffee. In the bathroom. On the Métro.

I especially have them while I'm walking.

It's evening in the dream, and unseasonably warm. A tall stranger encircles me from behind, saying something in French that I cannot understand.

I turn around to face him, breathless, and realize that he's not alone.

Five men in total - all for me?

I smile to myself, step forward, and proceed to beat the EVER-LIVING CRAP out of them.




Hiiiiii-YAH!





I am flying through the air. Jaws are cracking. Noses shattering. I am wielding some kind of pipe. They are running. I am chasing.

THEY HAVE MESSED WITH THE WRONG GIRL!

(I got mugged last night)

In my dream it matters not that the expletives are in English. They know exactly what I mean when I ask if they're my bitch.

SAY IT!!

I am spent, at the end of it. I collect my things, smooth my skirt, and replace the earbuds on my iPod. I press play and step delicately over the bodies. And old man on a balcony nods approvingly. The night is cool on my cheeks - I am happy.

F the Pig

On December 31st, while ambling up the rue des Martyrs, I came across this little wagonful of pig.

Some children were gathered 'round, flanked of course by watchful parents.

I dove right in to feel the pig's short black bristles and smooth pink nose. This, to the dismay of those waiting for permission to touch.

Imagined conversation:

"Maman! Why does the giant lady get to do it?"

"Just look at her, Ludivine. She's wearing sweatpants. I think that answers your question."

(I was coming home from the gym...)

My pig-stroking made a challenge of the lebanese flatbread I later bought. It would have been terribly inconvenient, so few hours before New Year's Eve, to contract some sort of mouth disease. But I managed, while nudging through the frenzied fish shop spillover, to keep a napkin over my fingers at all times.

This neighborhood is perfect, I thought to myself, as I crested the butte near my home. Not only do I get to look at this during my morning walk, but there's a pig in the street for no reason.

It only dawned on me today that it might have something to do with astrology. 2006, remember, was the Year of the Dog.

(You didn't know?)

And 2007, which technically doesn't begin until February 18, is the Year of the Pig.

Because my knowledge of Chinese Astrology is limited to whatever was printed on the placemat of my hometown "oriental" restaurant, I turned to Google this morning to find out what it all means.

And what it means, according to this site, is that I'm screwed.

Some remarks about my coming year:

"It is actually a year of transition for the Rabbits"
...Hey - they're right on!

"They have chances to handle major issues or tasks"
...That's right. Watch me go.

"But Rabbits should not expect to have any achievement this year."
...Um, what?

"Otherwise, you are just going to be hugely disappointed at last."
...

"Because of your energy this year, you would fail to find support and assistance from others."
...This is a joke?

and finally...

"You would enjoy much satisfaction and happiness from 2008 onwards."
_________________________

After a full minute of staring with my jaw dropped, I went back to the search screen. And I Googled and Googled until I came up with something more to my liking:

"This is a good year for those who are born in the year of the Rabbit."
...Damn straight.

"There are signs of promotion and you will be given the power to be a leader in your career."
...I knew it!

"Do not push your luck by trying to reap profits through illegal means."
...But you just said...

"Put a scepter to your right on your office table. Place a lepidolite near you."
...
_________________________

To round things out and add a little occident to the mix, I paid a visit to the only horoscope that really matters.

And here is The Onion's prediction for Pisces in 2007:

"The New Year will start out with a bang for you. Unfortunately, it will also end with a bang for you."

I think I'm finished with astrology.

Lost (Happy New Year)

I spent the better part of yesterday on the sofa watching Lost.

I've never before been the serial type, but was grateful - upon rousing myself from the hangover bed - to find my roommate's DVD collection.

Television is such powerful escapism. I'd forgotten about it during my six weeks of squatting. It's even more effective than, say, drinking one's own body weight in champagne and pretending to be a libertine.

Another New Year's Eve, another attempt to wipe clean the temporal lobe slate. This wasn't the first year that I'd drank too much on NYE, but it was the first time I'd done so alone. Alright, okay, so I was hardly alone. But I wasn't in the bosom of my long-time friends, and it had me feeling a bit maudlin.

I looked around the party and couldn't ignore what was missing: Loretta dancing in a giant pajama sack...Roshen passing out the lyric sheets...Friese tossing his wig under a canopy of paper foliage...Jennifer not knowing when to stop with the jello shots...

What? That was me?

And, of course, Jayson. In their place were some strangers who were doing a miserable job of already knowing me. Several hours after midnight, with the party nowhere near dying down, I grabbed my coat and fled to the Pont des Arts.

I stood for some time staring blankly at the city, waiting for an epiphany to bubble up from the Seine. In its place came a text message from Yorkshire, reading:

"I'm in a bar with lots of rough people with non-ironic mullets..." followed by some unrepeatable instructions on lightening the hell up.

In lieu of further revelation, I went back to the party. And I had, against all odds, a very good time.

Reinvention seems to be a little easier on Lost. A plane crash strands them on a tropical island and these characters can be whoever they want to be. The criminal becomes a do-gooder. The wounded cripple is suddenly a hero.

So what exactly am I supposed to be? Your suggestions, particularly if accompanied by costume ideas, would be appreciated.

And seriously, are there really polar bears on that island?

Happy New Year.