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.

Shuffle

Christmas has come early in the form of a new MP3 player. My last one died two weeks into the breakup, thus separating me like a private from her marching orders.

I spent today filling the new one up with options - 240 moods in all.

The original playlist was perky, almost manaically encouraging. This new one - now that I've granted myself a small weekly allowance of emotion - is more diverse. Husker Du is still there to tell me that Love is All Around, but they've been joined by the Mountain Goats and a dose of reality.

The speed at which I shuffle through both songs and sentiments is scary. And this mutability, aside from other privacy concerns, is enough to keep me from "going personal." The very act of having a blog, as someone reminded me this week, is très indiscret. But there are levels, quand même, and a shallow end to this pool.

Others, of course, have no problem baring all on the internet. To show how very indiscreet some can be, I offer the following You Tube illustrations of my current shuffle...


The Futureheads "Hounds of Love" by three prep school boys known as BigSplitta: Love the gum chewing, homoeroticism and big guitar finish.


Neutral Milk Hotel "In the Aeroplane Over the Sea" as interpreted by Matteastin. A tender illustration of the song using by three dudes who drive pick-ups and light their furniture on fire.


The Mountain Goats "No Children" as illustrated through super-literal Japanese photomontage. A picture of a fence for a lyric about a fence. An underwater Barbie for a line about drowning. And a wholelotta punk-looking models...


The Killers "Mr Brightside" as danced by a spanish-speaking teenager in her bedroom. She scores major points with a spinning camera move reminiscent of In Between Days. But it's her flashy scrolling text that breaks my heart - "Destiny is calling me!!!" Indeed.

O.P.P.

"It's not you, it's me," I say to François, as I make my goodbye at the door. The phone is buzzing and I'm eager to answer, so I smile guiltily and rush out into the stairwell.

Could it have worked - a philospher in a sport coat on the rue du Louvre? I don't have much time to think as I race down into the Métro.

I'm late to meet Yann, tall and cute in the 10th. He welcomes me in but wants small talk before we get into it. And all I can think about is seeing the bedroom...

Looking for a roommate is a lot like whoring dating. Furtive textos, quickie drop-ins, and promises to call. It's sordid and exhausting, but there's a certain thrill to it all.

Getting down with O.P.P. is a new development for le Meg. It's been nearly a decade since I last dabbled in other people's property.

A whole lot has changed since then in the way that people look for one another. Simply finding eachother, nine years ago, was a word-of-mouth affair. We can now go online to fill our bedrooms. We can email, send pictures, google the hell out of eachother.

I myself was picked up through this blog. A tall Aussie sent a cautious first note. I replied and got another one with pictures and a link to her blog. The words "wine industry" and "Montmartre" were bandied about. "When can we meet?" I asked breathily on the phone.

Two anglophone girls unafraid of commitment - we jumped headlong into the affair. And even emailed eachother the next morning.

So while it was fun - my brief affairs with Yann, Julien, Mei, François, Leonard, dear Bennett and Franck - I'm pretty glad to be back in a relationship.

I know where I'm sleeping from now on, who I'm coming home to every night. I can stop running around and focus again on the important things in life.

You know, like fighting over the dirty dishes.

Super Stud(ette)

Last night I rode the train into unchartered territory, recalling Paris to the Moon and a syrupy passage about Métro stops imagined but never seen.

Adam Gopnik's heart of darkness was the Goutte d'Or, an area rarely visited by left-bankers like himself. Mine, on the other hand was the (more than one drop) 16th.

The author cooed as he trundled past the Château Rouge stop - imagining a storybook cottage waiting for his family outside. I, on the other hand, clenched as we rolled through Passy and I realized that for the first time in my life there were no brown faces on the Métro.

I admit it: I am scared to death of the 16th.

Out of the Métro and in unsafe open waters, I hurried head down to my destination. I held my bag close and made no eye contact with the nannies. I was very nearly running.

What was I even doing in that neighborhood, you ask?

Getting the best haircut of my life, that's what. A towering Scotswoman, a friend of a friend, cuts it for cheap out of her apartment. There was sipping and snipping and bagging on men while we waited for my hair to turn blond-ish. She told me tales about working the fashion shows and offered her chambre de bonne if I need it. It was another planet, but incredibly fun.

I left with a sashay and headed to my first apartment visit of the night. I was hopped up on adrenaline, feeling capable and adventurous. If I could visit the 16th, maybe I could also find an apartment.

I was not, before last night, familiar with the concept of the studette. I hadn't thought there was anything smaller than a studio until I visited this diminutive bed-box in the Marais.

A mattress on a mezzanine, a shower I had to crawl into, and no light from either window - was this really to be my new reality? An Italian girl ten years my junior explained that she only slept there after dancing.

It was raining when I left and headed back to my beloved 19th. "My email will be full of offers," I told myself as my heavily sprayed hair began to stick to my cheeks. I began to hum a little as I made my way along the Bassin - a snippet from the Magnetic Fields song Nothing Matters When We're Dancing, with lyrics altered to suit a newly-imagined stud(ette) lifestyle.

"I only sleep there after dancing..."

Save Le Meg!

Five months ago I read a headline on the Paris Blog inviting me to "Save Petite!"

Catherine, aka Petite Anglaise, had been fired for blogging and alarms were sounding all around the sphere. It wasn't clear what readers were meant to do - how exactly we were supposed to save her - but she ended up somehow with a two book deal from Penguin.

It's my turn now to summon the mighty power of the internet. My request, however, is more modest, and I have clear directions for my rescue:

Le Meg needs an apartment!

Some of you readers have discerned a shift - a bit of personal upheaval - between the lines of my recent posts. Thank you for the many encouraging comments regarding this new direction. My favorites include:

"You're only interesting when you mock yourself,"
"Your last three posts are dysentery," and
"Peeeeeee youuuuuuuuu"

Point taken: my soft underbelly is not in high demand. You want snark. Self-deprecation. More talk about vagina.

I can give you this. But I want something in return:

A studio or one bedroom apartment. Short-term, long-term, furnished, un-furnished, shared or solo, I'm a little bit pressé.

The gorgeous 40 m eden that I had arranged in Montmartre just fell through. The occupants, on the same day I was to sign, decided not to move. So I found myself yesterday looking at 10 m hovels and contemplating the potential of a hot plate.

To quote Peggy Lee, "is that all there is?"

Surely you must know of something. Make my dreams come true at leblagueur@gmail.com and I promise to write you daily missives depricating my own vagina. What more could you want?

Wait, don't answer that.

________________________________________________

A few specs, in answer to your questions:

1) The dog is not coming with me.
2) 750 for something beautiful and 500 for a dump.
3) North/east Paris preferred (9-11, 18-20), but I'm flexible.
4) ASAP or in January; temporary, shared and housesitting OK.
5) I can cook.

Mercy, beau coup!

Last night I celebrated Thanksgiving at a wine bar - a departure from my original idea to host 25 people for wild food acrobatics.

Plans change and spheres collide. Four women found themselves instead at le Verre Volé, upending tradition with oysters and foie gras.

It is no longer possible, after Sex and the City, for four women to gather chastely around a table. Perhaps this has always been true. Perhaps I am just getting older. But when a recent business dinner in Dublin included an assignment of the "Samantha" role, I began to sense that the times, in fact, are a-changin'.

Last night's conversation unfurled with the usual revelations about work. The curator from Boston explained her visit (Paris Photo). The reporter from Miami discussed a recent assignment (Castro). The Paris-based writer described her (completely awesome) book deal. And I don't discuss work on this blog.

This reasssurance of professionalism, this "go girl!" performance - this is what smart women do during the first drink. The devolution begins with the second, however, and can wind its way through any number of discursive gutters.

Our particular Thanksgiving path included the following:

1) The reporter's counsel that "sturdiness" is the most important quality in a dining table.
2) The curator's fist-in-the-air manifesto about every-day oral sex.
3) The writer's description of trans-Atlantic difference in circumcision.
4) My illustration of said difference with a wine bottle and baguette end.

In a contemplative moment, I asked my friends what they were thankful for. There was silence, glances cast toward the ceiling, and an immediate return to the sex talk.

I'm not entirely sure, was this a dismissal or a response?

Des jours et des vies

I got rid of my TV over the weekend, so my viewing is now limited to whatever Club Med Gym is showing above the treadmill.

This morning it was des Jours et des Vies. The long-running American soap opera has been airing (dubbed) in France since 1991, which is probably around the last time I would have seen it in the States.

Now, there may be subtleties that a truer devotee would discern - one not distracted by sweat and an Arcade Fire soundtrack - but it seems to me that nothing has changed. The same faces are there, and fifteen years of fake crying has not aged them a day.

I, however, am a different story. In 1991, I was a gangly 16-year old growing up in Kansas. I played basketball and spent my weekends driving around in cars. I had very big hair and no real sense of who I was.

There's no denying that, unlike Hope and Bo, I have changed a lot over fifteen years. My hair, barring any exceptional friction, is now flat. My driving days are over, both in sports and vehicular terms. And I haven't hung out in a Taco Bell parking lot in years.

Does that mean I've left adolescence behind? Some who know me behind the scenes would say no. I seem, in fact, to be going through a second adolescence these days, complete with note passing, mix tapes and hangovers.

But life is short, as the hourglass reminds us. And Paris is as good a sandbox as any.